#sorry i just keep thinking about how nothing about this war will ever be impersonal to them

[peace-hunter]

i do have to wonder how much of tfone megatron's mentality during the civil war is going to be just him falling victim to the sunk cost fallacy.

how much of everything that he does is going to be him thinking "it has to be worth it. everything that i'm doing, it has to be worth it" because he's already lost too much to ever go back.

he has to commit because there's nothing left for him to return to.

because he shot his best friend.

because he killed his best friend.

because he told sentinel he had nothing left to lose and he was wrong and it was because of sentinel that he lost the person he cared the most about in the world. so it has to be worth it. losing orion to kill sentinel has to be worth it.

he already paid the highest price possible in his eyes, so nothing that comes after that can be too much. it has to be worth it because he has nothing left otherwise.

optimus can never be right, the autbots can never win, he can never lose the war because otherwise he killed his best friend for nothing and that's not something he can allow.

so. it has to be worth it.

[radioactive-mouse]

i keep thinking about like. how the brutality levels vary between seasons and how secret life is the natural culmination of everything these people have been through and the watchers pushing everything to extremes. i’m going to try to articulate how crazy this makes me

3rd Life: god. 3rd life was a clear cut war. we haven’t seen a season since where nearly everyone has such an intense devotion to their chosen faction. the fact that there’s no precedent that they’re coming back next season, the fact that as far as they know, dying means staying dead, makes just how much they’re willing to go down with the ship that much more heartbreaking. grian ended the season exactly how it was played by damn near everyone else— i love you, i would do anything for you, i would rather die than keep going without you. the season of widows.

Last Life: and then they come back. and then ending things isn’t an option. and all of a sudden it’s not a war, it’s a death match, and damn is the competition is vicious. deaths are more often than not a vague, impersonal thing— not get away from my king, my husband, my charge— just the flash of a knife and a quick sorry, just playing the game! if 3rd life told you to hold the ones you love close, defend them to your last breath, last life urges you to burn that love out of your chest entirely.

Double Life: but everything slows down eventually. no more dying for the one you love— just learning to live with them. double life is about knowing that when you die, you will go together, hand and hand into the dark. a soap opera, the players joke. a small kindness, the universe replies. again, pearl wins the same way everyone else lost— no, not yet, please, just give us a little longer together, i’m not ready, i’m so sorry—

Limited Life: but the clock, unyielding, ticks ever onward. and god, everyone is starting to feel it. that sick, nauseating feeling of dread creeping up on them: what if it never ends? what if this is it, this is all that’s left for us— tearing each other apart over and over and over again, and for what? for a show? to feed those hungry things lurking in the dark? we’ll give them a show. bombs rain from the sky, the world shaking under the weight of it. there isn’t a thing left by the end that’s not rubble. we’re all doomed! the players cry, laughing with nothing but nihilistic, unrestrained joy. none of it matters! we come back again, and again, and again, have a little fun with it! light the fuse, collateral be damned. when death means so little, what’s the point in pretending they don’t take a little joy in it? we settle this like grian and scar before us, scott jokes, armor and weapons tossed to the side. are you insane? martyn thinks, remembering the hollow look that would wash over grian’s face when he thought no one was watching. it ruined him. it will not ruin me. this is a death match for a reason.

Secret Life: and here it is. the natural conclusion. this season is candy colored, the map dotted with cute pink houses and silly builds, the players all running around doing these ridiculous tasks. it’s so easy to forget how bloody this season was. unclosing wounds, bruises that don’t fade, the sting of fire or falling from a simple misstep. the hurt never goes away, but it gets easier to ignore— distract yourself with something silly to pass the time: spyglasses and frogs and the ugliest house you’ve ever seen and matching leather jackets and the doghouse and the relationSHIP and a weird tunnel full of doors and secret soulmates and god it’s almost, almost, enough to forget how much it all aches, how much the grief weighs on you, how many times someone you love has died, sometimes to your own blade. almost none of the grudges you hold are real by now, not really. not when you’re going to live and die with these people for as long as the hungry, many-eyed things delight in your suffering. you love each other, in the strangest way— sure you’ve all killed and betrayed each other in a thousand different ways, but at the end of the day, they’re all you have. clinging to each other in the face of the vast, unknowable horrors that drive you to slash each other to pieces. it’s still a game, after all. they’ve gotta figure out how to be good sports about it eventually.

[shattered-catalyst]

No ryouta was wrong.

He had to be.

But why did he carry around a bloody arena poster in his jacket everyday like some sick token? Catalysts stomach dropped and he swallow down his growing discomfort.

Why did he stock pile and hide away his food? Wasn't he safe now and capable of getting it whenever he wanted? Ryouta was opening his eyes to the very harsh truths of his life style and it was blindingly obvious now that he cast his own gaze around his dwelling.

There was posters here and there. Pictures taped up. His plants. The scrabble game he played against himself and occasionally Gabby. He was trying. But why was it so barren?

But if he was trying why- Why did he keep going back to Arcade over and over and over again? Was he living a double life, going out and pretending to be human but upon his return he sank right back into being what Mojo wanted him to be?

It was meaningless.

" what am I supposed to do Ryouta?! What am I supposed to do? I should not be here I wasn't made with consent or lust or anything note worthy. I'm not even a footnote." Fuck he wouldn't even make experiment number one. He'd die a prototype and that'd be it. Garbage dump for him. He was trash and Mojo made sure he knew it.

"My entire existence was to be a disposable part in a war machine and guess what? I played it and damn was I played down to the bones of my being. "

Catalyst snorts dryly" I sound like a young adult novel protagonist.. oh my life.is nothing but angst and misery how will I ever go on.I am nothing then and now but a passive mechanism to cause pain to others. "

"This shit is so fucked up I can't talk to anyone about it because it is too ugly!! It's too fucked up.on multiple levels fucked up! " trying so hard not to.move because he knows if he moves something else is going to get vibes clear off a wall. Last thing he needs is to continue redecorating. But he just wants to throw hands to the ceiling and scream, instead he reigns in a calm demeanor even though it's killing him.

"But it's Mojoworld so.everyone is just like- "

He puts on a falsetto to impersonate someone else and makes robot arms. " 'oh don't touch that it's too much to touch that I can't handle that much'. "

He throws his hands in frustration and sends a vibe blast into a wall knocking down a cabinet filled with dishes- exactly what he was trying to.avoid only moments earlier. " fuck."

"I make people uncomfortable ! Sorry you didn't get your throat cut daily as a kid! Can't relate! I'll work on being open and empathetic to you. But you can't handle my shit? Okay guess ill rot away from the inside out because im too far gone for someone to actually give a shit about! "

His face sours as he talks to an invisible assumed third party to get his point across about his isolation and inability to connect with others.

"That's the whole thing isn't it? I'm too ugly and not what people want."

And at this he laughs dryly clapping his hands together and sighing in defeat. Pausing in order to summarize the whole break down he was having in a somewhat calm tone.

"They want Julio. They don't want my ugly existence. They want a good boy that they can put on their wall and be proud of and I'm not. I'm angry and alone and I'm alive out of spite and I can't reach the differences I do want.  I can't always be Gabbys perfect best friend because I am too busy tearing myself into shreds to be everyone else's little stabby golden retriever version of Julio"

His gaze returns to Ryouta with hints of anger and sadness flitting at the edges. " even you. We are alike you and I. The first thing you do is treat me like a weapon. You ever think maybe just maybe I could use a fucking hug??"

ㅤㅤThat fuck gives Ryouta pause, his blue eyes flicker with surprise, he has a feeling it doesn't have anything to do with their conversation about Tropes. Or his comments about fun. He'll have to figure out a way to bring those up later. They'd be nothing but a misdirection to the teen in the moment.

ㅤㅤHe could do it, shift it where it's something easily believed, he's played the role for years he could work it & make it believable that he's just messing with Catalyst's mind just for his own amusement. It's a comfortable place, he enjoys playing that part. But he's not going to, it's defensive for him, to want to pull on that side of himself. It wouldn't help & playing that part would hurt Cat along with Gabby.

ㅤㅤ" I don't do well with loud emotions. " He admits with a shrug, it pulls at that darker side of him, he's gotten to a habit of calming people down. Something he's holding in check. It won't be of help. His head tilts as Cat moves loser, his eyes flashing at that look in the teen's eyes. " I wanted to see how easily it would be to pull it out. That type of rage, oh it's fun to use. " Those blue eyes take on a predatory glint. " & I was giving you a target. "

ㅤㅤ" I can feel that rage, it feels like you want a target. " Ryouta's head dips down, his blue eyes peering up at him with that predatory glint. " Need is probably a better word for it. You don't have that connection with me, it could work. Do you want to let it out? I'm here & I heal. "

ㅤㅤPulling back his head just a little he clicks his tongue at the teen lightly, showing that glint of challenge at the word happy. " Are you? Sure you're not lying to yourself? It doesn't feel like a home, does it? Is it the familiarity? Trying to trick yourself into believing you're still there? "

ㅤㅤHis blue eyes look away from Cat at that next question, now that was a good one. Why? Why does anyone do anything. Turning his head he looks down at that cupboard door. " Isn't that your question to answer? Why do it? Why want it. Should I want it? People often live out their abuse, stay trapped in the ease of it. I did it for years. Do you still want to? "

[greyeyedmonster-18]

the best present

“Knitting,” Sirius repeated, his mouth around the cigarette before inhaling once more, “You can’t complain if you receive a sweater every year for Christmas for the rest of your life.”

“I’ll take 100 sweaters if it means my kid can grow up with you there.”

(a gift that keeps giving; inspired by the posts on sirius knitting and how i think that came to be...)

--

Sirius had stepped away from his friends, leaving them inside with the music and laughter and fleeting happiness, pulling out a cigarette from his leather jacket. The weather had turned, November wind biting at his cheeks, but it was nothing a warming charm and a smoke couldn’t fix. He had only gotten a few drags in when he heard footsteps behind him. He assumed it was Remus, coming to join him as he usually did, holding out the cigarette for his boyfriend to take. 

“I don’t want that,” James’ voice came instead and Sirius reflexively pulled it away, switching hands so it was on the opposite side of where James was, holding it at arms length.

“Sorry, I thought you’d be Moony.”

“’Fraid not,” James said

“I’ll be back in a second, you don’t need to check on me. Just...needed a break. I’m alright.”

“I know you are,” he replied, and Sirius raised an eyebrow at his best friend who was standing there with his hands in his own denim jacket. “What? I’m not allowed to keep you company.”

Sirius cleared his throat, launching into his best impersonation of James, “I’m an athlete. I only get one set of lungs. Do you know how many chemicals those things have in them? Second hand smoke is just as harmful as smoking,” Sirius stopped, James grinning softly at the ground, “Need I go on?”

“Okay, okay....point made...are you sure you don’t want to go into politics?”

“There’s a war, Prongs.”

“I mean, after.”

“After this is all over, assuming I’m still alive, I’m going to sit in my tiny flat and do nothing. Learn a good bakalava recipe maybe...take a vacation to sea.”

“Oh, can I come? Sounds nice. Blow through our vaults”

“Don’t even need to ask,” Sirius grinned, “I’m going to smoke, love, so if you--”

“It’s fine.” James told him and Sirius took it at face value, bringing his cigarette up to his mouth for a long drag, blowing smoke into the air, “You know once the baby’s here you won’t be able to...right?”

“Go on vacation? They can come too.”

“Smoke.”

“I...have thought about that.”

“I don’t really want it around Lily right now either.”

Realization of why James had come outside in the first place struck him and Sirius turned to face his friend fully, “I see.”

“But I want you around, so there’s a bit of a problem here,” James started, “And I...don’t...I’m not trying to be your Mum, but you’ve been doing it more lately.”

Sirius had. He knew he had. More than he could ever remember since he started. Every spare moment he had alone was spent smoking, and stressing, and trying to keep too much darkness from making itself at home in his body. A task that was made difficult by a war that was never-ending and missions for the Order that had Sirius wondering if Remus was going to return alive. Or if Sirius himself would get to return at all.

“Is this a swan song of sorts?”

“A bad one. Terribly off-key.”

“Prongs, you know I am nothing more than...bad habits. I’m a bad habit too, Remus just hasn’t figured that out--”

“Shh.” James cut him off, “You’re not.”

“I can’t drink.”

“Cleaning? You do that. You can come clean our house once Lily can’t move because she’s so pregnant and has hippopotamus ankles.”

Sirius laughed shortly, “Our flat is impossibly clean, and I think if I organized anymore, Remus would toss me out into traffic. And I don’t know how well received it would be if I started polishing the table in the middle of Order meetings...”

“I mean, someone probably should clean.” James shrugged, “I want you around my kid, Sirius. So...I dunno, knitting?”

“Knitting.”

“Yeah. Learn to knit, give us some baby clothes. Keeps you busy and...you never know if you don’t try. Make yourself a hat for the winter now that your hair is gone,” James commented reaching up to ruffle the small amount of hair left on Sirius’ head. Long black curls had been cut and shaved off months ago, Sirius’ keeping it short, and the tattoo on his skull being slowly filled in. 

“Knitting,” Sirius repeated, his mouth around the cigarette before inhaling once more, “You can’t complain if you receive a sweater every year for Christmas for the rest of your life.”

“I’ll take 100 sweaters if it means my kid can grow up with you there.”

“Alright.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll start today. This is my last one.”

“That was so much easier than I thought it would be.”

Sirius laughed louder this time, “Love, you already know there is very little I wouldn’t do for you. And Lily. And your kid.” 

--

December 1980

“One more present, for all of you,” Sirius said, sitting on the floor of Godric’s Hollow with James and Harry--their infant son, who was currently in his lap. The second Christmas in hiding, but the first one with a new member to the family, Remus sitting on the couch next to Lily, the two of them less than thrilled to be up before 10am. Sirius levitated the large box over to James. 

“All of us?”

“You, Lily, Harry, all of you. Remus already got his.” Sirius grinned, his fingers index fingers caught in Harry’s grasp and he gestured with them, the baby squealing with the movement. “See? Harry says hurry up.”

James tore into the box gracelessly, tossing the paper to the side, and opening the lid to reveal a box full of knits. James laughed loudly, reaching in and pulling out a never-ending lumpy scarf, that got progressively better by the end, switching yarn colors every so often. “Habibi, this ones for you!”  He smiled widely, handing Lily one end over his shoulder, that she pulled, the scarf trailing onto the table.

“How long do you think my neck is, Sirius?”

“Hey, pregnancy is wild. I didn’t know if your neck would change sizes and wanted to be prepared,” Sirius shrugged, watching as James pulled out a dark green and blue knit sweater that wasn’t full of lumps, the steady improvement in the knitting visible, “That one is for you actually, Lils. It matches your eyes, and there should be one...”

“For me!?” James gasped, pulling out a brown and orange one, and putting over his head immediately, “I’m very impressed, sweetheart. Wait--Lily--”

“James, baby, I’m right behind you, you don’t need to shout--is that a baby sweater, Sirius?!”

“Ow.” Remus said, rubbing his ear at the volume of Lily’s excitement, Harry immediately mimicking his Mum’s noise and screeching as well. Sirius started laughing, waving Harry’s arms around wildly, the baby still clutching his fingers firmly, and Harry’s noises continued. 

“When did you have time to learn and do all this?” Lily asked, wrapping the ridiculous scarf around her neck several times, throwing the other end in Remus’ face. 

“Turns out...I used to smoke a lot.” Sirius offered as an explanation, taking a tiny knit had from James and pulling it on top of Harry’s head gently. 

James gave Sirius a smile, holding a tiny baby sweater in his hands, “Best present ever,” he said, taking care not to squish Harry as he wrapped his arms around Sirius tightly, kissing him on the cheek. “Love you so much.”

--

December 1991

“Last box,” Sirius said, putting it onto Harry’s lap.

“Sirius, I’m eleven now. Practically, twelve. Don’t you think I’m a bit old for matching sweaters?”

Sirius furrowed his brow, exchanging a confused look with Remus, “Did you hear that?”

“I didn’t hear a thing. Harry, you should speak up. You know, we’re getting old too.”

Harry rolled his eyes but opened the box anyway, wrapping paper torn and cast aside, Sirius seeing James in the littlest things. “This...isn’t a Christmas sweater?” The boy pulled out a sweater that was made of fine knit. Simple and a deep burgundy to match the boys House colors. It wasn’t the usual Christmas spectacle Sirius knitted every year for the three of them. Harry also pulled out a matching knit hat, equally soft and warm, alongside simple black gloves, “Hey! I needed gloves! How’d you know?”

“When I saw you only came home with one,” Sirius grinned, “And it never hurts to have more sweaters in Gryffindor colors, now that you’re official.”

Harry smiled slowly, “Thank you! Your sweaters are the best and I’ll actually wear this--oh, you still made the Christmas one...reindeer? Again?.”

“It’s not Christmas otherwise.” Sirius said and Harry rolled his eyes, but still placed the black knit hat over his head. 

--

December 1996

“Accio, knitting needles!” Sirius said, standing up from the kitchen table after receiving post Christmas Eve that he should’ve bloody waited to open. He always did this. He always ruined holidays and birthdays and days that otherwise should’ve been good by opening post or going through boxes. A self-destructive tendency he still had from sixteen. He ran his hand over his hair, nothing appearing in the kitchen, “Fucking hell, where are they?”

“Where are what?” Harry asked, walking bleary eyes into the kitchen, rubbing his face sleepily. His beige hooded sweatshirt was pulled up over his messy hair, pajama bottoms with snowflakes on them sagging off his hips. Harry wore his jeans that way too and Sirius had to resist the parental urge to tell him to pull them up, tired of seeing Harry’s underwear

“Pretend you didn’t hear that,” Sirius said quickly, “You haven’t seen my knitting needles have you? I’ve a terrible thought I left them at my desk at work...”

He had thought a few times to get another set. But after all these years, Sirius still treated his knitting needles like a pack of cigarettes. Never leaving home without them tucked away. As exciting and vindicating the world of politics and legal procedures was proving to be, that didn’t mean certain policies didn’t set Sirius’ teeth on edge. He had been known to start sweaters in the middle of hearings, needles clacking together from the defense’s table.

“Can’t say I have.” Harry started, “I’m more concerned with the fact that you can’t find something. Have you considered and organizational system?” Harry teased and Sirius hooked his godson around the shoulders quickly, jostling him playfully and Harry laughed “Oi, quit it.”

“Nothing but cheek.” Sirius gave Harry another playful shove, “Are you going to be alright if I pop away quickly?”

“Sirius, I’m sixteen. You’ve left me alone for hours before. I think I can manage the two seconds it takes you to get to the ministry.”

Sirius grabbed his wand off the table quickly, shaking his head again at Harry’s remark, “Eat something, cheeky.” He said, “And can you let Remus--”

“I’ll make up a wild explanation and tell him you’ve run off and we’re on our own for Christmas Eve!” Harry called back as Sirius walked down the hallway towards the floo, grinning. 

--

Sirius knitted for most of the day, explaining to Remus with the post that had came. 

Do we need to put wards on the house for holiday’s so you’re not tempted to open post? Make’s you so out of sorts all day, baby

I might let you.

By the end of Christmas Eve dinner, Sirius had an exorbitantly long, striped, knitted scarf. He had stopped for dinner, and after as guests were gathered, opting for a glass of firewhiskey and Remus’ hand instead. Opting for kisses after guest had left and it was just the three of them in the quiet of the living room. Remus was in bed reading when Sirius walked out of the bedroom to go find his needles once more, wanting to see if he could get another one done, Harry still awake in the sitting room, reading a book about Quidditch Hermione had given him. He was sixteen and no longer had a mandated bedtime, as long as it was before midnight, and his godson looked peaceful by the glow of the fire, a blanket over his lap and a cup of hot cocoa next to him. 

Like mother like son. Like Remus like Harry.

“Goodnight, my love,” Sirius said from the doorway as he passed by knitting needles in hand, “The fire should go out by midnight, so you don’t need to worry about it.”

“I wasn’t going to worry, but thanks,” Harry said looking up from his book, his eyes going down to the needles in Sirius’ hand, “You know, I never noticed until today...”

“Hm?”

“You knit at the weirdest times, Sirius. And some kind of knitting emergency this morning? I promise I’d be okay if you didn’t have time to knit me a sweater this year.”

“Your sweater has been done for months, Harry,” Sirius told him stepping past the threshold and going to take a seat on the couch next to his godson. “Did...you know I used to smoke?”

“You did? I’ve never seen you...”

“I started when I was sixteen..just after I ran away from my parent’s,” Sirius nodded, Harry now listening intently, “And I didn’t stop until...well your Mum was about three months pregnant? Your Dad hated it. Even when Remus and I were teenagers, he didn’t let us smoke around him. He was good like that. Didn’t smoke, didn’t drink...he had a bedtime even. One he gave himself.”

Harry made a face, “Sometimes I think my Dad was really cool....and then you say things like that.”

Sirius laughed, “You’d be right. He...was just good. Anyway, he told me he didn’t want smoke around your mum while she was pregnant or...you so, I quit and took up knitting.” He looked down at the silver needles and bright blue yarn in his hands, “And so every time now I feel like I want a cigarette...I knit instead. The first Christmas I quit, I gifted your Mum and Dad a massive collection of things. It was mostly all horrific too because I was still learning. But there were things for you in there too.”

“My hat right? The one in the baby box?”

“Only one you would wear,” Sirius smiled softly. 

“Still the only hats I wear...” Harry put down his book and looked at Sirius, “You quit smoking for me?”

“I’d do it again too. There’s very little I wouldn’t do for you, you know that right?”

--

December 2002

“One more, Sirius.” Harry said, dropping a box into Sirius’ lap from his standing position, “Well its for both of you, technically.” 

“And from us, technically,” Ginny said, from the couch, where she was watching Harry with amusement. 

Sirius carefully unwrapped the package, folding the wrapping paper to put int he pile beside him, and opening the box. He grinned as he saw a knitted sweater inside, pulling it out carefully. It wasn’t perfect by any means. The neck looked too big, parts of the sleeves were falling apart, but it was black and made of nice yarn. “This is great, Harry. Is this why you wanted me to teach you? To make me a sweater?” He asked, “Oh, look, love, theres one for you too! I’m assuming the black one is mine--”

Remus reached for the brown one in the box, “Of course you get the Black one--”

“Turn it around,” Harry said, “You need to see the front or else it’s just a shitty sweater.”

“I will proudly wear this shitty sweater,” Sirius started but followed the instructions, flipping the garment around to look at the front, “It says grandpa. Well that’s not nice--”

Remus looked at Harry and Ginny who were waiting for Sirius to catch on, quietly smiling, “Are you joking?”

“No.” Harry laughed, “You’re both grandpa’s.”

“I found one grey hair--”

“Sirius, baby,” Remus grabbed Sirius under the chin gently, “Grandpa.” he repeated, and Sirius stared for a moment before realizing what was happening. He was off of the couch quickly, rushing over to Harry and giving him a tight hug around his shoulders, Remus following suit, pulling Ginny into the small huddle. 

“I’m going to be a grandpa?! You? Both of you?!” Sirius asked loudly and Harry nodded, his eyes misting, “Best present ever.” He kissed his godson on the side of the face, “I love you so much.” 

“You think you’ll have time to make the baby a proper hat?”

I’ll do you one better, James. 100 sweaters later and your kid’s kid will grow up with me there. 

[softschofield]

a guide to the secondary characters of 1917

inspired by @a-beautiful-struggle-of-life because saying “i wanna fall in love with all these characters too omg” is just such an open invitation and i couldn’t resist ♡♡♡

sergeant sanders: “yes, well, sorry to disrupt your crowded schedule, blake, but the brass hats didn’t fancy it in the snow.” the sergeant of blake and scho’s platoon. the one to first introduce us to our boys so we have to love him for it

lieutenant gordon: “a couple of little treats.” he’s soft. i love him. he’s just the hype man of erinmore, like does he want to agree with another one of his proverbs? another one of his quotes? another one of his shakespearean monologues that he learned off by heart at eton? no. he’s so tired. he doesn’t want to hear another fancy sentence in his life. “wouldn’t you say, lieutenant?” he wants to say i could not possibly give a smaller fuck, sir, but can he? no. let him sleep

sergeant: “YOU’RE GOING UP A DOWN TRENCH YOU BLOODY IDIOTS” he doesn’t have a name but MAN did he have a cultural impact. like he changed my world with that line. the delivery? the poise? the hint of a snarl? no one else could ever and i’m afraid that’s just the facts. he was probably mad because he just had a tiff with leslie and he got the day of the week wrong. he thought he had it this time. he didn’t. he never does 

private kilgour: a bloody waste of space. THE softest boy. somehow managed a perfect :o in real life. how did he do it? no one knows. dermatologists HATE him. owns a cute scarf that he's managed to actually keep clean. probably has a blanket stashed somewhere. he’s just so, so gentle, he deserves nothing but good

lieutenant leslie: “for any sins thou hast committed.” you already know. you already KNOW. every time i saw this film there was someone who whispered “moriarty!” the first time it was me. he’s just so tired. a lieutenant shouldn’t be in command of a company. everyone is dead. his only friends are the orderlies he forces to hang out with him in his smelly dugout because all the other officers are in bits and pieces. the orderlies are trapped. they can’t escape him. gallows humour. he just needs a rest. we love him. was absolutely checking schofield out for the majority of their scene together. i've written about how they absolutely seem to have history and i'll say it again: they do. gay

the idiot who thought it was tuesday: one of the orderlies that leslie is holding prisoner solely to bully. when no one else is around they probably cuddle while leslie has a cry and the idiot who thought it was tuesday (TIWTIWT) comforts him and tells him he can do it

private atkins: “hey, it’s alright, it’s okay.” one of the two to find scho trying to haul blake’s body along. the gentlest giant. parry’s back-up, like he looks like he’d be in charge because he’s all big and tough-looking but then weedy, hot-headed little parry is the one doing the talking and atkins is just hovering behind him being soft. loves and supports his friends. they remind me so much of an iconic cartoon duo but i just can’t put my finger on it, but you just know they’d get into mischief because of parry and atkins is just “i don’t know about this” but of course he goes along with it

private parry: “you alright, mate?” he single-handedly made everyone in the cinema jump when some random english guy suddenly spoke when no one else was supposed to be around. he’s tiny but in charge and we truly do love to see it. lowkey feral vibes. you just know he’s a little bit chaotic and snarky and he’d challenge anyone twice his size to a fight, but he’s also gentle and worries about schofield so much when he doesn’t know him at all and i Love him the very most  

captain smith: “it doesn’t do to dwell on it.” the dad. the warmest, most calming dad. gives great hugs. he’s tired because he has to spend all his time trying to keep parry and cooke apart because if they ever met and conspired all hell would quite literally break out, like they’d be too powerful together and he knows it. has a cane for the aesthetic. he’s completely traumatised but he has to keep it together for personal pride and for his boys

colonel collins: “they at least could have retreated with a bit of grace, BASTARDS.” i quote him daily. he truly is just the stuff of legends. we love to see it 

colonel collins’ driver: “no, sir.” if he and lieutenant gordon ever met they wouldn’t even speak, they’d just fall asleep on each other. they’re both so exhausted by their superiors. when will they be free

private rossi: “welcome aboard the night bus to fuck knows where.” we love him!!!!!! we really do love him!!!!!!! scottish. soft. he and jondalar are best friends and jondalar teases him constantly. genuinely lovely, observant, empathetic. he talks about the pointlessness and bleakness of what they’re doing when no one else dares think on it too much in case they break down and i love him for it. probably goes home to become a war poet

private cooke: “HERE, DRIVER, HOW ABOUT YOU TRY TO KEEP IT ON THE BLOODY ROAD FOR A CHANGE” ABSOLUTE feral vibes. he’s just a public menace and we love him

private butler: “alright, alright, keep your ‘air on.” i really do just love him. he’s the one who tells the story about scott and beaufoy and eventually rallies everyone together to help scho push the truck, but to me he’s better known for being the scrawny little icon with the especially prominent red x on his sleeve and the moustache who’s just so GRUMPY all the time. like why is he so GRUMPY? i love him

sepoy jondalar: “i hope you get there.” it’s recognised in the script that he did the best impersonation of beaufoy, we love to see him excelling. gentle. loves schofield with his entire heart and he’s only just met him. there are a few iconic duos in this film - scho and blake, parry and atkins, bäumer and deserving more - and jondalar and rossi are one of them

private malky: “you could do with a new set.” my FAVOURITE!!!! the script says rossi says that line but i am CONVINCED it’s malky and i will stand by that. sounds like george harrison from the beatles. a soft lad who quietly teases cooke TWICE in one and a half pages with the most bashful kinda voice. he and cooke are another iconic duo. i love him so, so much. gay. they all are but malky especially. all the gays ride in that truck, that’s why smith, The Gay Dad, chose to put scho in with them

driver: “oh, piss off.” he and cooke have an iconic dynamic and it’s only one line long. you just know cooke is always giving him shit, it’s a running gag that’s famous throughout the whole company 

lauri: “chil-dren? you?” the queen of deserving more. she’s only something like 17 and she’s probably an orphan raising another orphan. if you’ve seen 1917 and don’t love her with your whole entire soul then you get shot on sight, like i literally do not make the rules. the softest, strongest girl. a lesbian

private bäumer: “ENGLÄNDER!” the king of not keeping his goddamn mouth shut. at least two people in this fandom ship him with kilgour and i am one of them. a soft twink. i love him. if he weren’t dying he would have loved being straddled by scho and i can’t blame him for that

private müller: “bäumer? BÄUMER!” the one who was throwing up. he’s like kat from all quiet on the western front, the older veteran who takes the fresh recruits under his wing. he did not deserve to lose bäumer like that and honestly the grief in his voice when he realises what’s happened HAUNTS me. i really do love him so much. he felt guilty about deserting. he had so much depth like every other character who was barely on screen for half a scene and i hope he made it out of the war and did okay

private seymour: “well he’s not one of ours.” i just love his accent, i’m sorry this one is purely selfish. but i do love him so much, he was instantly ready to LITERALLY pick scho up and just take him with them and that’s pretty iconic. like he was just going to adopt this random, half-drowned soldier who showed up out of nowhere with no rifle or helmet or pack. his now

lieutenant richards: “what the HELL are you doing, lance corporal?” my FAVOURITE secondary character. like i say that about all of them, but i love him, lauri, malky, rossi, and parry THE most. honestly has some of the most iconic moments in the whole film. that squint he does at scho after “what?”? the stuff of oscars. he loved scho so much. the fact that he so desperately wanted to believe that what he was saying was true breaks my heart. genuinely such a good person. i love him. he and captain smith are husbands and dads with a bunch of idiot children

major hepburn: “well done, lad.” he’s like, an actual disney character. like his face, his voice, they just scream disney side character. like a good version of the guy from the princess and the frog. i love him so much. he’s so kind

medical officer: “i have NO idea. move along, lance corporal” I JUST LOVE HIM!!!!! he’s so cranky!!!!! get him some scissors!!!!

[mediocrity-at-best]

Burning

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Warnings: allusions to rough past

Pairing: platonic dukexiety

Words: 1,988

Summary: Virgil needs a goddamn hug.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Virgil came from a rough and tumble kind of place. There wasn’t much physical contact with each other and what there was usually wasn’t affectionate. Virgil was used to not being touched or being hurt with almost no in-between. Hugs were rarer than a blue moon and cuddling? It’s safe to say that was an entirely alien concept.

But Virgil’s twenty-six now. He’s had plenty of time to outgrow his aversion to touch, plenty of time to get over it, plenty of time to make friends that wouldn’t punch him before they patted his shoulder. And, well, he had. Sort of.

Enter Patton and Roman, who were soft and kind and the touchiest of touchy-feely people that Virgil had ever met. They were always trying to dispense hugs and pleased smiles and pats and gifts and, if Virgil were being honest, he could not even imagine either of them throwing a punch. Then, enter Logan. He wasn’t the same kind of overbearingly physical person. He rarely initiated hugs, although he equally rarely turned them down when they were offered. He was much more reserved than Virgil’s other friends, much more like Virgil, and Virgil could imagine Logan getting into a scrape or two.

But nobody touched Virgil. That was by Virgil’s own design, had nothing to do with any particular feelings he held about his three friends. Hugs were just...a lot. And especially for someone with as little experience with them as Virgil had. He’d tried to explain it once, tried to put into words the expectations he had whenever someone moved toward him. He tried to make them understand that it wasn’t them, it was just that Virgil was used to a different kind of living where hugs had never been the norm. But Patton had looked ready to cry and Roman was affronted and even Logan, Logan who wanted almost just as much alone time as Virgil, had looked horrified. How was it possible, they wanted to know, that Virgil had gone so long without being treated with care?

He hated to see those looks on the others’ faces, hated a fraction more the looks they sent at him after that were barely to the left of pitying, so he took it back as best he could. It really hadn’t been that bad, don’t worry about it, all the usual phrases and eventually he persuaded them to drop it. So they stopped trying to touch Virgil all that much, and Virgil convinced himself that he wasn’t jealous of the casual affection they threw around like confetti. Virgil did his best to pretend his feigned indifference was real, and that he didn’t want touch just as much as he loathed the thought of it.

And then, one day, he met someone new. This person was a lot like him, rough around the edges like a ripped newspaper, but soft enough that he wouldn’t cut your fingers. He showed affection by punching others’ shoulders or throwing himself full-body on top of them. He wore the most ridiculous outfits that Virgil had ever seen, and he never seemed to care that he was the weirdest person in the room.

His name was Remus. He was Roman’s twin brother, although the similarities between them were almost impossible to find. He had a white streak in his hair that he denied ever putting there himself and, truthfully, nobody had ever seen it happen. He had no qualms about treating Virgil just the same as he treated every other person he came into contact with, and that’s about the time Virgil really started to realize he had a problem.

His skin burned whenever anyone touched it and he could feel an imprint of them on him long after they had left. There was an ache in his chest when he thought about getting a hug and despite having as many good, caring friends as he had now, Virgil felt more lonely than ever.

Remus, despite Roman’s misgivings about his brother, ended becoming an integral part of their group, and he continued to unknowingly supply Virgil with physical contact at their every interaction. It was equally wanted and unwanted, equally loved and hated, and Virgil kept coming back for more. And as much as the ache in Virgil’s chest intensified, as much as the burning on his skin kept him awake at night, Virgil never said a word about it to anyone.

Touch starved. It didn’t sound real, like something that could actually affect people. More than that, though, it was embarrassing. How could he even broach the subject? Hey, guys. So there’s this thing I found out about called touch starvation and it turns out I have it. And I could really use some pats on the back right about now, I swear I’m not making this up for attention. Yeah, that would go over great. Instead, Virgil took whatever he got when he bumped against a stranger on accident and mind his own business.

It was working out for him as well as you’d expect when something he had never planned on happened. He’d been having a panic attack, an occurrence that had been more common than Virgil liked, and he’d been entirely content to suffer through on his own and pretend everything was fine after, but then Remus walked into the room like a wrecking ball, all loud noises and erratic movement, and Virgil flinched. He flinched and tried not to cry because crying was the best way to make someone mad at you and also maybe the best way to expose yourself.

Remus, though? He stopped being loud and bouncing and sat down slowly in front of Virgil. Virgil couldn’t seem him too clearly through the tears in his eyes, but Remus might have been concerned. There was some movement, like he might have been talking, but Virgil could hear the static in his head and nothing else, could hear impending doom and forever alone like a war drum coming at him, could feel the vibrations running through his hands and shaking his very bones.

Suddenly, clear as day, he could hear Remus’s voice like a bell ringing, “Can I hug you?” Virgil gasped and hesitated. A hug? Would a hug just make things worse? It always seemed to but maybe not, can things even get worse from here? He nodded and Remus’s arms wrapped around him and held him so securely it almost felt like there were eight limbs keeping him safe.

The static changed frequency, changed color, changed channels and instead of the cold, impersonal, overwhelming static in his head like before it turned warm and encompassing but not altogether bad. Virgil choked on a sob and buried his face in Remus’s shoulder, shuddering, trying to figure out why he wanted to keep burning like this.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” Remus said. “I’ll skin whatever hurt you.” He kept a tight hold on Virgil, kept holding him until he stopped crying and pulled away. Virgil wiped his face off with a sleeve, thoroughly embarrassed. That was unnecessary and stupid and he really should be in better control of himself so that things like that didn’t happen.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sniffling.

“Nothing to be sorry for, Stormcloud. Are you hurt?” Virgil shook his head, unable to force himself to make eye contact with Remus after such an episode. Remus’s hand ghosted over Virgil’s cheek and he flinched away, feeling the streak of a burn where their skin had barely come into contact. Remus withdrew his hand quickly. Virgil was almost sad to see it go.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I just have panic attacks sometimes,” Virgil said, and that was true enough. In fact, he couldn’t even remember what the catalyst for this attack had been or if there was something he needed to go do now that he was back to functional. Virgil was totally spent and more than ready for a nap.

“Yikes,” said Remus. There was a few minutes of silence while Virgil swiped the last of the tears from his face and destroyed his eyeliner and steadied his breathing so that he wouldn’t be a total mess when he finally left whatever room his panic had holed him up in. What he wanted to do more than anything right then was gather himself, make his excuses, and go back to his own room where he could hold onto his body pillow and bury himself in enough blankets that it felt like another person was laying on top of him.

“Are you touch starved?” Remus asked, voice sudden and surprising and observational skills much better than Virgil had anticipated they would be. He jolted, glancing quickly to Remus’s face before looking away and fighting the urge to cower behind his hands. “You flinch whenever anybody reaches toward you and I’ve never seen anyone touch you and you’re freezing. Do you need another hug?”

“No,” Virgil said, shrinking away from the prospect. He was still burning like a star ready to implode but more than that no one was supposed to know because it was Virgil’s problem to figure out, Virgil’s issue to work out without having to involve other people like this.

“No to which?” Remus asked, but then he gently laid his hand on the ground between them, palm up, and hummed. “We can just hold hands if you want.” Hesitantly, Virgil reached out and took Remus’s hand. It was rough and warm and alive and human. Virgil felt a shiver run through his body at the contact but he forced himself to keep it. If Remus was offering, if Remus understood the situation, then as awkward as Virgil felt, this was okay. There was nothing wrong with this and Virgil...Virgil really didn’t think Remus was going to hurt him.

“How did you know?” Virgil whispered, voice cracking over the syllables. He might cry again if they weren’t careful.

“Been there, done that,” Remus said, squeezing Virgil’s hand. “Everything kinda sucks though, so I made myself start touching other people and then they started touching me back. Not great at it all the time, but,” he shrugged, “I’m not so cold anymore.” Virgil couldn’t look at him, couldn’t face whatever was happening right now, so he sat quietly and did his best to take it in. God knew when the next time he’d get something like this would be.

“If you want,” Remus said slowly, “I could help you. We could hold hands and slowly work up to bigger things like hugs until you’re not so skin-hungry anymore.” Virgil internally winced at the term, but externally he was finally looking at Remus, staring in total shock that he would offer something like that.

“Why?” Virgil blurted, confusion swirling and making him feel almost nauseous.

“Because you’re my friend,” Remus said, and he sounded just as confused as Virgil felt. “And I love you. And I may or may not have developed a squish on you. I want to help because I care.” He smiled slightly, and to Virgil it looked kind of sad but not in a way that made him feel bad.

“I...I…” Virgil didn’t know what to say, how to say yes to what Remus was offering or how to make sense of it all in his head.

“It’s okay,” Remus said, running his thumb over the back of Virgil’s hand and causing an involuntary shiver. “We can talk about it later. For now let’s just hang out. Do you want me to talk?” Virgil nodded, figuring that at least with some kind of non-touch stimulation he might be able to refocus. Remus started talking about something, Virgil couldn’t recall what later, and Virgil realized that maybe tackling this with Remus wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe he didn’t have to suffer through on his own like he thought.

Maybe, just maybe, Virgil could finally stop burning.

[vibe-spartan-nostalgia]

As Requested

1. Do you try to stay away from walkthroughs?

Generally, but if there’s a part that’s really fucking me about I’ll watch one

2. Company you’re always loyal to?

343 but they’re not immune to being critiqued either

3. Best game you’ve ever played?

Nothing will ever match the storytelling depth of Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic 2. Nothing

4. Worst game you’ve ever played?

Ghost Recon: Wildlands. What kind of fucking sandbox doesn’t have a jump button

5. A popular series/game you just can’t get into no matter how much you try? The Witcher. I’m sorry, I’ve heard it’s great but those three are gathering dust in my Steam library.

6. A game that’s changed you the most? Guild Wars 2. I feel like I physically lived there for a time.

7. A game you’ll never forget?

There’s a lot but probably Dark Souls 1. The sensation of beating that was pretty significant.

8. Best soundtrack?

Halo 5: Guardians. I’m not sorry. 

9. A game you turn your volume off every time you play it?

Minecraft

10. A game you’ve completely given up on?

Fallout 1. Uncontrollable.

11. Hardest game you’ve played?

Bloodborne. Still haven’t beaten the fucker

12. Shortest time you’ve beaten a game in?

I once beat Halo 3 in 3 hours

13. A game you were the most excited for when it wasn’t released yet?

Fallout 4. I lost my marbles when that trailer dropped.

14. A game you think would be cool if it had voice acting?

Uhhhhh shit that’s a good one. Probably Borderlands 2? You know, voice acting, instead of just continually electrocuting the Joss Whedon impersonator they have strapped to a chair.

15.  Which two games do you think would make an awesome crossover?

I’d like Skyrim a lot more if it had Dark Souls 3′s combat mechanics honestly

16. Character you’ve hated most? From what game?

Easily Jacob Seed from Far Cry 5. Scary bastard

17. What game do you never tell people you play?

Honestly? I don’t talk about my love of Star Wars Battlefront 2 (2017) much. Lots of opinions from people who have never played it

18. A game you wish your friends knew about?

Alchemilla. It’s the best half life mod ever made, and is a masterclass on horror ambience

19. Which game do you think deserves a revival?

Knights of the Old Republic 2. Obsidian had half the time and resources and still outdid Bioware at their own game. Deserves more recognition.

20. What was the first video game you ever played?

Croc: Legend of the Gobbos on Windows 98. Masterpiece.

21. How old were you when you first played a video game?

6, maybe 5

22. If you could immerse yourself in any game for one day, which game would it be? What would you do?

Skyrim just to use magic. That’d be so goddamn cool

23. Biggest disappointment you’ve had in gaming?

Halo 5′s story. I bought that as a gift to myself for finishing my final year of high school. After Halo 4 I was so incredibly excited to see where they were going to take it. We all know what happened there.

24. Casual, hardcore, or in the middle?

Middle. Depends on what I’m in the mood for 

25. Be honest; have you ever used cheats (like ActionReplay or Gameshark)? 

No because those sites were riddled with malware

26. Handheld or console?

Console because I’m not 13

27. Has there ever been a moment that has made you cry?

The whole “you were afraid” speech from KOTOR 2

28. Which character’s clothes do you wish you owned the most?

Just gimme a suit of MJOLNIR armour, I don’t care which

29. Which is more important, gameplay or story?

They’re equally important. You can have a great story but if you don’t have the gameplay loop to back it up, it doesn’t work as an interactive experience.

30. A game that hasn’t been localised in your country that you think should be localised?

Dude I don’t know, if I can’t play it I don’t keep bothering

@i-am-not-leaving-you-here do the thing

[jedi-order-apologist]

I finished reading Yoda: Dark Rendezvous, and I have to say, I really, really loved it! Everyone who recommended it to me was 100% right - this book is great, and especially great in its representation of the Jedi. I think I like it even more than Shatterpoint, and I really liked Shatterpoint.

There are some weak points - it was a little slow to pull me in, and there’s a couple of Weird Legends Things™ that, with me not being particularly immersed in that continuity, don’t quite fit in with my conception of Star Wars (Dooku apparently having had a Master that was not Yoda; the infamous 13-year-old age limit (though I was at least familiar with that one), the Jedi being so far in the public eye that there exists a famous Yoda impersonator, etc), and I was a little iffy on how it handled the “Jedi shouldn’t be in the war” angle (I’m fine with there being Jedi who think that the Jedi shouldn’t be in the war. I’m less fine with an author deciding that other Jedi can’t find the words to defend their involvement, because that’s a cheap way of framing the argument), and a small moment of the “everyone falls in love” stuff I dislike.

But those were very small aspects of the book, all things considered, and pretty much everything else about this book is really, really good, and very Star Warsy - a very healthy mix of the wacky as well as the philosophical sides of the franchise, which suited my tastes really well. This book is fun - Yoda is the grumpy grandpa that he deserves to be, and spends a good portion of the book disguised as an astromech that gets into all sorts of trouble. Obi-Wan and Anakin have peak sibling energy in the handful of scenes that they show up in - Anakin at one point insisting that a woman would have to be desperate to want Obi-Wan, and only a younger sibling could possibly say something like that with a straight face to a man as attractive as Obi-Wan, as well as Obi-Wan lying to Mace Windu’s face to cover for Anakin and then immediately grumbling about it to Anakin that he doesn’t know why he does these things for him is such an older sibling thing to do.

Where this book really shines, though, is the serious stuff - the philosophy and the dark side and especially grief. What absolutely sold me on this story, and what made me sit up and go “this is going to be one of my favorite Star Wars books”, was the part where Yoda speaks to the padawans and helps them address and work through their grief. It was phenomenal, and beautiful, and absolutely everything I want out of depicting the Jedi - especially in the context that only a chapter earlier, Ventress had been hurling those standard accusations of “the Jedi don’t let you feel”, and this book wonderfully, completely demolishes that nonsense. This section is absolutely amazing:

Yoda set his bowl of gumbo regretfully aside. “Hear it working, do you?”

“Hear what?” Whie snapped.

“The dark side. Always it speaks to us, from our pain. Our grief. It connects our pain to all pain, our hurt to all hurt.”

“Maybe it has a lot to say.” Whie stared at the starscape hovering over the projector table. “It’s so easy for you. What do you care? You are unattached, aren’t you? You’ll probably never die. What was Maks Leem to you? Another pupil. After all these centuries, who could blame you if you could hardly keep track of them? Well, she was more than that to me.” He looked up challengingly. Tear tracks were shining on his face, but his eyes were still hard and angry. “She was the closest thing I had to a mother, since you took me away from my real mother. She chose me to be her Padawan and I let her down, I let her die, and I’m not going to sit here and stuff myself and get over it!” He finished with a yell, sweeping the plate of crêpes off the projection table, so the platter went sailing toward the floor.

Yoda’s eyes, heavy-lidded and half closed like a drowsing dragon’s, gleamed, and one finger twitched. Food, platter, drinks, and all hung suspended in the air. The platter settled; the crêpes returned to it; Whie’s overturned cup righted itself, and rich purple liquid trickled back into it. All settled back onto the table.

Another twitch of Yoda’s fingers, the merest flicker, and Whie’s head jerked around as if on a string, until he found himself looking into the old Jedi’s eyes. They were green, green as swamp water. He had never quite realized before how terrifying those eyes could be. One could drown in them. One could be pulled under.

“Teach me about pain, think you can?” Yoda said softly. “Think the old Master cannot care, mmm? Forgotten who I am, have you? Old am I, yes. Mm. Loved more than you, have I, Padawan. Lost more. Hated more. Killed more.” The green eyes narrowed to gleaming slits under heavy lids. Dragon eyes, old and terrible. “Think wisdom comes at no cost? The dark side, yes - it is easier for them. The pain grows too great, and they eat the darkness to flee from it. Not Yoda. Yoda loves and suffers for it, loves and suffers.”

One could have heard a feather hit the floor.

“The price of Yoda’s wisdom, high it is, very high, and the cost goes on forever. But teach me about pain, will you?”

“I...” Whie’s mouth worked. “I am sorry, Master. I was angry. But...what if they’re right?” he cried out in anguish. “What if the galaxy is dark. What if it’s like Ventress says: we are born, we suffer, we die, and that is all. What if there is no plan, what if there is no ‘goodness’? What if we suffer blindly, trying to find a reason for the suffering, but we’re just fooling ourselves, looking for hope that isn’t there? What if there is nothing but stars and the black space between them and the galaxy does not care if we live or die?”

Yoda said, “It’s true.”

The Padawans looked at him in shock.

The Master’s short legs swung forth and back, forth and back. “Perhaps,” he added. He sighed. “Many days, feel certain of a greater hope, I do. Some days, not so.” He shrugged. “What difference does it make?”

“Ventress was right?” Whie said, shocked out of his anger.

“No! Wrong she is! As wrong as she can be!” Yoda snorted. “Grief in the galaxy, is there? Oh, yes. Oceans of it. Worlds. And darkness?” Yoda pointed to the starscape on the projection table. “There you see: darkness, darkness everywhere, and a few stars. A few points of light. If no plan there is, no fate, no destiny, no providence, no Force: then what is left?” He looked at each of them in turn. “Nothing but our choices, hmm?”

“Asajj eats the darkness, and the darkness eats her back. Do that if you wish, Whie. Do that if you wish.” The old Jedi looked deep into the starscape, suns and planets and nebulae dancing, tiny points of light blazing in the darkness. “To be Jedi is to face the truth, and choose. Give off light, or darkness, Padawan.” His matted eyebrows rose high over his swamp-colored eyes, and he poked Whie with the end of his stick. Poke, poke. “Be a candle, or the night, Padawan: but choose!”

Whie cried for what seemed like a long time. Scout ate. Fidelis served. Master Yoda told stories of Maks Leem and Jai Maruk: tales of their most exciting adventures, of course, but also comical anecdotes from the days when they were only children in the Temple. They drank together, many toasts.

Scout cried. Whie ate. Fidelis served.

Yoda told stories, and ate, and cried, and laughed: and the Padawans saw that life itself was a lightsaber in his hands; even in the face of treachery and death and hopes gone cold, he burned like a candle in the darkness. Like a star shining in the black eternity of space.

I want to show this passage to every hot-take Yoda-critical fan who’s ever leveled that kind of nonsense at him. I want every one of them to read this and still try to tell me that Yoda is detached and uncaring of the galaxy around him. I want every fan who thinks the Jedi are expected to be unfeeling to read this and understand what the Jedi actually say and do and why giving into these feelings is the issue, not the feelings themselves.

The confrontation with Dooku is also amazing. Yoda challenges him to explain why the dark side is so great, and Dooku only gets more and more frustrated as Yoda is unswayed by any of what he tempts him with. I especially love this bit where Yoda lays out exactly why what the dark side promises is false:

“Want something else. Want power.”

“Power have I.”

“Want wealth.”

“Wealth I need not.”

“Want to be safe,” Dooku said in frustration. “Want to be free from fear!”

“I will never be safe,” Yoda said. He turned away from Dooku, a shapeless bundle under a battered, acid-eaten cloak. “The universe is large and cold and very dark: that is the truth. What I love, taken from me will be, late or soon: and no power is there, dark or light, that can save me.”

That then leads into a bit where Dooku has a vision of what a dark!Yoda would look like, and realizes how utterly terrifying that would be.

Dooku also has abandonment issues on full display - lashing out at the lady who had given her son up to the Jedi, getting furious at her on the son’s behalf (but so clearly, his own, speaking of his own resentment towards his parents), and throwing an absolute hissy fit because he’s convinced Yoda likes Anakin more than him. I’m not kidding, he’s so offended by Anakin’s entire existence that just his mere presence in his house is enough for Dooku to stop feeling conflicted about the whole thing and jump right back into the dark side.

And there’s just so many good little moments throughout it all on top of all that. Whie’s dreams - and oh, I knew exactly what his dream of his own death was when he described it to Scout and it hurt at the end when he hugged Anakin while saying “I’m so glad you’re not coming to kill me!”. And Ventress, calling Dooku out on the fact that it’s so obvious that Sidious will end up replacing him (also for a more humorous bit - the fact that she apparently has some petty grudge against Anakin and Obi-Wan for stealing her ships so she goes out of her way to steal their ship at the end), and the droids, and Scout’s cleverness in winning the tournament despite her disadvantages, Jai Maruk’s last stand and refusal to fall when he was at the edge, and...so much, really.

And above all else, the book really latches onto the idea of Jedi as family, and you all know how much I really, really love the idea of the Jedi as a big found family. The idea that they consider each other to be family is driven home again and again, in their words and in their actions, and I absolutely adore this book for that emphasis.

[theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin]

I really like Tequila from Lee's world. What would that weird Tom/Ginny combination be like if Lee had never returned to the HP universe? Would they become more like October Tom? Or something else entirely? How would Tequila handle the mad creature their main soul has become?

Oh man, you give Tequila far more credit than I do.

For simplicity’s sake, I’ll refer to Tequila below as “he”, mostly because it’s really Wizard Trotsky at the wheel in “Minato Namikaze and the Destroyer of Worlds”. He just happens to rock Ginny Weasley’s adolescent body.

Tequila’s a hot mess, a dumpster fire, and it doesn’t matter if he’s pining after Tom Riddle’s childhood friend Ellie Potter, if Tom is stuck in a diary only to be released to confront Ellie/Harry Potter, or if he’s stuck in a diary and released only to find out Ellie Potter isn’t even there. Tequila will always be a mess.

Let’s say Lee never showed back up. Tequila’s life would be one of hilarity and woe.

Wizard Trotsky likely would have continued masquerading as Ginny, i.e. being Tequila, out of a sheer lack of ability to answer the question “what the hell do I do now?” That’s why he stuck around as Ginny in the first place. 

So Tequila goes to Hogwarts, milks “I’m an invalid, woe is me, I can’t go to class cough cough I am traumatized by snakes on planes” excuse for as long as he can get away with it (which is forever) and ends up with decent marks (having gone through Hogwarts twice now) but not nearly as good as he once had or, say, Hermione has because he’s gotten profoundly lazy. Sadly, this still puts him ahead of 50% of Hogwarts��� population.

Similarly, Tequila’s effort at impersonating Ginny Weasley is half-assed at best. However, because Ginny went through an incredibly traumatic experience, no one gives him shit for it or wonders “Hey, is this really Ginny?” Due to this, Tequila’s soul is dying inside even more than usual. He doesn’t even have to try around these assholes. He could walk up to the wall, spray paint “I am Voldemort, bitch!” and they’d probably just try to console him.

Lee showing back up out of the ether is the most exciting that has ever happened to Tequila possibly ever. It’d be better if Lee wanted to do epic ninja battle, so Tequila could prove how cool and not useless he is and defeat his prophesied enemy, but even Lee just being in the castle, insulting everybody, and lighting all of Hagrid’s pets on fire is amazing.

But anyways, Lee never shows up.

Tequila gets a pretty good idea of who the original Death Eaters were thanks to gossip but there’s not much he can do about it as all the Death Eaters (aside from the ones in prison) have disavowed Voldemort out of self preservation. His showing up as an adolescent schoolgirl just doesn’t have the same effect  and it’d be a little hard to prove who he is given that he doesn’t even really know these people.

Not to mention that Voldemort was this distant thing in the future for him and he has no idea how to actually go about doing any of that. The actual Voldemort has many years experience on him in recruiting, guerilla warfare, logistics, etc. 

Tom Riddle was in dueling club one time, it was great, he learned things.

So Tequila likely wiffle waffles a lot, telling himself, “One day, I’m going to run out on all these assholes, return as Voldemort, and then Granger will cry” only to sigh and realize it’s far more realistic to start from fresh. Besides, why just try to redo what his other half did, he wants to be his own person (a better more competent version! He won’t get blown up by any toddlers!) and that means finding his own cause. And if he can make Dumbledore’s Order his Order, then great.

Not to mention there’s the disturbing possibility that Voldemort’s not quite dead. Now, Tequila can give this credence as being the horcrux, he knows that Voldemort’s not really dead. He’s amazed Voldemort managed to blow himself up with a baby, amazed, embarrassed, and offended, but Tequila isn’t willing to completely throw out the idea that Voldemort’s this evil wraith who occasionally possesses muggle studies professors. Not exactly on Tom Riddle’s bucket list, but clearly, the original screwed up everything and doesn’t even deserve Tequila’s respect.

(Tequila went through a brief, extremely brief, period of wondering if he should seek out the main soul and help him return it to power. Being the horcrux, technically, he should probably serve the original soul.

Then he remembered that asshole had one job, only one job, and he ruined it. Tequila was shoved into a diary for nothing and look what happened. Now there’s a national Harry Potter Day. Clearly, the wrong half of Tom Riddle was put out of commission and if you want it done right you’ve got to do it yourself.)

So, in 1994 without Lee’s involvement, Voldemort returns from the grave. Because I’m realistic, Neville probably dies. Sorry, Neville, you lived a good if short life and I’m sure you gave it the college try. Dumbledore falls into despair and “THE WORLD IS DOOMED!” mode now that all his even remotely prophesied children are MIA and immediately gets the Order of the Phoenix together.

Ginny, being thirteen at the time, isn’t allowed because that would be ridiculous. Despite it being ridiculous to include thirteen year olds, Tequila is pissed that he’ll have to wait another god knows how many years before Molly lets him do what he wants.

Offscreen Dumbledore probably goes through varying levels of extremely horrifying solutions to the Tom Riddle problem.

First, he probably goes horcrux hunting. Unfortunately for Dumbledore, in “Lily and the Art of Being Sisyphus” and “Minato Namikaze and the Destroyer of Worlds” there are only two horcruxes and only one was intentional. Tom had originally planned to make seven but the hangover from the first one was so mind breakingly awful he went “New plan, I will make one horcrux, and then I will think of something else”. He never really got around to thinking of anything else.

Dumbledore, however, doesn’t know this. So he dutifully collects memories, banks on Tom’s ridiculously romantic nature, and starts going to places of importance. Not to reveal too much, but Tom actually laid several traps around for those poking their nose around looking for his horcrux. Dumbledore steps into several of these with not so good results.

Given that one of the horcruxes is Ginny and the other is still stuck in Konoha without any access to magic, Dumbledore is 0 for 2.

More, given that only Neville Longbottom was prophesied to have the ability to defeat the dark lord either Dumbledore has to somehow resurrect Neville or else get himself a new Neville. Because I love terrible, but funny, things let’s say he does both and we get a round of Pet Semetary (sometimes, dead is better, Albus) and pulling in Harry Potters/Neville Longbottoms from other dimensions (but miraculously not Eru Lee somehow, which is great for her because she’s busy having a terrible time in the third shinobi war). 

Back to Lee for a bit and why Dumbledore’s first solution isn’t just to desperately try and find her.

First, she is completely off the map and has been for years. She isn’t even registering as “dead” or “in mortal peril” she’s just gone. Somehow finding her and hoping, miraculously, for her blowing up Voldemort a second time just isn’t on the table.

Second, Lee’s involvement in the prophecy is... a bit wonky. This has been noted a bit in “Lily and the Art of Being Sisyphus” but the prophecy in “Lily and the Art of Being Sisyphus” and “Minato Namikaze and the Destroyer of Worlds” actually explicitly does not refer to her in that it specifies a male child born at the end of July. This is because the universe is falling apart and we’re all doomed, doomed, doomed, but that’s a different story. Point being, especially in this Lee-less version, Albus has no idea what’s up with Lee but he’s putting his money on Neville. Poor, dead, Neville.

Tequila meanwhile gets to read news of how everything’s going to hell in the dumbest way he can imagine. Voldemort clearly came back wrong and missing a lot of brain cells, even with a body he keeps not taking over the ministry even though they’re practically begging him to do it, and everything he does is not only a) very embarrassing but b) it prevents Tequila from rising into power and becoming amazing.

Clearly, he must be stopped, there can only be one Lord of the Rings.

Well, destroying him completely means destroying Tequila first, and we can’t have that. So Tequila comes up with the only reasonable solution: they have to seal Voldemort’s evil spirit away in some magical artifact.

Tequila drops out of Hogwarts, goes adventuring for a few years, finds some exorcism sword or something and learns how to use it. Comes back and anticlimactically defeats Voldemort while everyone else was busy panicking and Hogwarts was being invaded or some nonsense.

Nobody, not even Tequila, knows how to handle Voldemort’s sudden and very anticlimactic defeat.

Then Tequila recovers and shouts “Weasley is our king!”

Tequila, probably eighteen around this point, is voted the youngest Minister of Magic ever. With Dumbledore dead, Tequila strongarms his way into taking over the Order of the Phoenix, and everything’s coming up Tom Riddle. 

Only then Tom Riddle has that terrible sense of deja vu as the, “What now?” question hovers in his brain. Once again, he has absolutely no answer. Tom is the dog who has caught the car.

Congratulations, Tom.

TL;DR: Without Lee, Tequila would probably end up dealing with the original Voldemort himself/herself. He’s still a mess, he’s learned nothing, and at the end just finds out that actually, he didn’t want to be in power, being in power is stupid.

All he figures out is that he has no idea what he wants.

On the plus side, at least Dumbledore’s dead.

[oldtowrs]

MAYBE’S AND WILDFLOWERS - REMUS LUPIN

inspired by this song and a strong love for remus lupin

summary: a lonely, rainy night brings the reader to remus’s doorstep. remus, after loving the reader since their younger years at hogwarts, cares for her and wishes more than anything that she could be his. but doubts cloud his mind, what with the war at hand and his lycanthropy plaguing him every month. he could never be good enough for her. or maybe he could never be more wrong. maybe...

word count: ~3.5

sin speaks!      hey! harry potter imagines anyone? sorry i’ve been gone for so long. this school year is kicking my butt, and i’m most definitely not here for it. anyway, please enjoy this piece about remus lupin. and no-caps is intentional. i’m going for a more aesthetic look now.

     soft knocking pulled remus from the scent of old leather, yellowing pages, and worlds of inky black lettering come to life and into the land of the living. hazel eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. its old hands, lit only by the crackling flames of the dying fire in the fireplace, read a time later than even sirius would think to bother remus at. curiosity dogeared the delicate page while paranoia pulled the wand from his pocket and ran through his list of useful spells to use in duels. these were times of war, after all, and remus did not want the eyes of those he loved running over his name in the daily prophet, in the same simple, font as every other name on that list: the list of the dead. 

     but on the other side of the oaken slab was a sniffling woman, h/c hair soaked and hanging about her shoulders, which were covered by a navy jumper that looked slightly too big for her and oddly familiar. a smile found his lips along with a soft ‘y/n?’ as he realized the jumper was one of his. it had been a gift to her around their fifth year, when he had grown out of it and given it to her. he remembered how she pleaded with him, saying she couldn’t bear to part with the woolen article she had come to associate with the lovesick and bright-eyed boy he had been.

     but they were older know, their minds a little sharper, a little wiser, and their hearts a little more broken and wary: something that remus realized as her red-rimmed and tender eyes met his and he realized the glossy trails on her cheeks were from her tears, not the rain that had begun during remus’s escapades through the land of muggle fiction.  

     “o that this too too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew,” she recited meekly, voice cracking as she mumbled their “password” of sorts they had established one night by the fire months ago, when the war had really begun to pick up. anyone could impersonate anyone these days, foul intentions hiding behind a veil of love and familiarity. acts of soul-tainting murder of the innocent witches and wizards of the magic community were becoming quite frequent in the prophet. remus longed for the day he would be able to hug her close and spin her around, victory and laughter flowing through their young veins as the war came to an end. he might even kiss her. but to get there, they had to get through the war: together and alive. 

     okay, so maybe he was still a hopeless romantic irreversibly stuck in a sickness called love. it was just quieter now-more scared. 

     “beauty is terror,” he recited back, dark brows furrowing and shadowing his earthen, sunlit irises and his smile melting and washing off with the rain at the sight of her tears. “what’s the matter?” 

     “i don’t want to be alone right now is all.” she mumbled, sniffles worsening with every second she stayed in the rain. “i didn’t know who else to go to.”

     you’re the only one i want to go to. 

     “of course, of course.” remus said, a small garden of blushing roses blooming beneath the star-like freckles on his skin as he realized she must be freezing. a twinge of guilt spiked his heart for not letting her into the warmth of his small, run-down cottage the moment she found herself on his doorstep. 

     i wish i was the only one you wanted to go to. 

     his pinky finger found hers in the quiet darkness of the night, just as they used to on their rounds about hogwarts, the badges of prefect pinned to their robes proudly, and pulled her through the doorway. a soft, nostalgic smile crept onto the edges of his lip as he realized he had forgotten just how many stars seemed to bloom and burst in his heart whenever he touched her. 

     do you feel those stars too, budding like wild spring beneath your fingertips? 

     shivers ran along y/n’s spine, her form quivering with cold and her tears as she tried to rub some warmth into her arm with her free hand as remus lead her to the old, tweed covered couch, plopping her down onto the plump, old cushions. 

     “these wet clothes won’t do you any good, will they?” he hummed affectionately as he knelt before her to look into her downcast eyes and tuck a strand of h/c behind her ear. “what do you say, i’ll go grab you some dry ones and make you a nice cup of tea?”

     “i’d like that very much,” she sighed, trying to give him as much of a smile as she could. it made his heart soften warmly.

     even if its a mere ghost of you, i’m still happy i can make you smile. 

     “chamomile, please.” she murmured, as remus stood to fulfill her wishes and to care for her with only a minor fraction of the affection he held for her. 

     “‘with a spoonful of honey and a splash of milk,’” he chuckled, reciting the words she had used all those years ago to describe her favorite cup of tea warmly. “i remember.” 

     “of course you do,” she said, a hint of laughter and lovely familiarity in her tone. it made him smile. 

     yes, of course. how could i ever forget you? 

     he left her sitting on his couch, though it was silly, with regret in his heart, wishing he could be the one to warm her up, not the fire or one of his old, moth-eaten cashmere sweaters. his heart longed to hold her, if only for a moment, just as it always had; his affections for her had been a part of his lovesick heart for as long as he could remember. but just as he always had, he’d keep quiet about what he felt for her: the girl who deserved the world and more, who deserved to live a safe and happy life, who deserved every lovely thing he wanted to give her, but could not. 

     all these thoughts tumbled over and over in his mind, each thought adding a drop of bittersweet love to the ocean his heart harbored as he filled the tea kettle with water and placed it on the stove to boil. melancholy mingled with tender love in his soul as he then walked to his room and shuffled through his closet, deciding which of his jumpers would suit her best: rusty orange or forest green? 

     green, he decided, remembering the preferences she had whispered to him on late nights in the library or early mornings by the lake just beyond the castle walls of hogwarts, she loves green. green like the trees by the lake, like the fields of the english countryside. 

     so he slipped the jumper off its hanger and grabbed a pair of shorts she had left after one of her visits a little over a month ago. and just as he was about to leave the room, he decided she would look absolutely adorable wrapped up in the plush blanket on his bed, and grabbed it too. 

     she was shivering when he reentered the cozy little living room, his heart aching and his arms feeling heavy as he imagined gathering her against him and pressing kisses to her hands, her hair, her cheeks, anywhere, just to warm her up and to see a lovely blush spread across her features: the one that had always appeared whenever they would talk about nothing and everything as the stars shown above them, ancient deities of silver and gold stardust watching them from above. he always wondered if they were up there, observing the blossoming of wildflower love in his heart with every smile sent his way, with every laugh that hung in the air a moment after it stopped, with every tear that caressed her cheek and every shy brush of their hands and bodies against each other in pure, innocent companionship. 

     did they ever watch that love unfold in her heart? or are the flowers of lavender, crimson and gold confined to bloom in erratically lovely patterns in the ragged mountain valleys of my heart alone? 

     “here,” he said warmly, placing the little bundle of clothes in her delicate hands and the blanket around her shoulders. “i’ll go make some tea for the both of us, okay?” 

     she nodded, numbly, but there was a small hint of the familiar glint of lovely light in her eyes, growing warmer and brighter by the second. he admired it, that little glow, for maybe a moment longer than was friendly. but maybe she held his gaze a little longer and with a little bit more desperation than she would’ve if her love for him went only skin deep. 

     but he couldn’t think like that, couldn’t take advantage of her loving soul like that. he would just memorize the little upturn of her brows over her innocent eyes as they peered up at him thankfully, the way the corners of her lovely lips quirked upwards in a small little grin that he found adorable. he would admire her, memorize her, and tuck the little piece of her into his heart, to protect and regard with love until the day he died. 

     oh… she was so beautiful. 

     the kettle shrieked from somewhere in the kitchen, and remus tore his gaze from her e/c eyes and the edges of his finger tips from her own, and frantically ran to the kitchen, identical blushes blooming on both of their features, though that little piece of heavenly knowledge was unknown to him. 

     remus was a rather tall man, slightly toned and strong, with scars littering his body from his lycanthropy, giving him an edge that contrasted with the gentleness that radiated from his soul, lying just beneath the skin. it commanded his every movement to be one of genteel clemency. his kindness shown through the scars and the pain and prejudice, even as he did something as simple as removing the kettle from the burner and plopping two bags of heavenly mixes of spices, herbs and flowers into their mugs: one chamomile, one earl grey. 

     water followed, flowing gently from the kettle’s spout, steam rising to great remus’s skin in a cozy fashion. then the honey, melting like warm sunshine into the cups of brown and gold, bringing sweetness to every drop. then the cream, just cold enough to take the burning edge off the lovely drink, but not so much that it took the healing warmth out of the mugs remus worked so hard to perfect. 

     tidying the little counter space, he took the mugs and sauntered through the tiny hallways of the cottage and into the living room. warmth filled him as his eyes set themselves on y/n, finding her and only her-just as they always had. 

     the sweater, much too big for her, was bunched up around her lower waist while the sleeves were rolled up to her wrists, the fabric being much to long for her smaller arms. the blanket had been wrapped around her shoulders once more, although much of it pooled on the old carpet beneath her. she had moved from the couch to the floor, he realized, probably to be closer to the warmth of the fire. its orange glow shown on her exposed legs, as she had taken off her rain-soaked pants in favor of the shorts. she looked up at him with her starstruck eyes, a twinge of bewilderment in her irises that foretold of the way her mind wandered around in her thoughts. the fire had seemed to heighten the sparkle in them and the tears had begun to release their aggravated hold on her soft features. she was adorable and remus hoped to merlin that she couldn’t see his blush that had remained since leaving her the bundle of clothing. 

     “one order of chamomile tea, spoonful of honey and a splash of cream for a lovely ms. y/n,” he smiled, winking goofily as he carefully settled himself on the floor beside her, a hint of his old boyishness still lingering about his mannerisms. memories of many late nights by the fire in the library washed over the pair, the reverence for such treasured moments showing in their twin smiles; one was wide and toothy, parting scars in its wake, while one was more reserved, soft and plump and wonderfully shy. 

     “thank you,” she mumbled, soft voice calm and gentle as ever as she took the mug from him with delicate hands that brushed his ever so softly. he swore, her voice could calm the raging sea and bring the mountains bowing before her. if only her words could end the war that ravaged the wizarding world, then maybe he could gather some courage and… 

     “of course, y/n,” he replied happily, cutting his train of thought short. another radiant smile spread across his face like wildfire, as he felt the weight of her head and the slight dampness of her hair befall his shoulder as she snuggled up to him. an arm wrapped loosely around her waist and the weight of his chin on top of her head brought the same smile to her lips. she sipped her tea quietly, humming her pleasure as the warm, flowery taste of it slide down her throat, warming her from the inside out and softening her nerves. 

     but then melancholy sunk in again, like the rain’s chill into bone, and her voice became small again. “remus?” 

     “hmm?”

     “do you ever feel lonely?”

      the truth was that, ever since leaving hogwarts, remus had felt a sense of loneliness creep up on him, like a thick fog unwilling to let the light in. and while he and his mates, y/n and lily included,  always met up for dinner at least twice a week and joined up with the order, remus hated returning to his little countryside home only to find it dark and void of any life but him. 

     he often wondered what it would be like having someone else live with him, someone to share meals with, to wake up and admire the sunsets and the chirping of the birds with or to stay up late and admire the stars above, hands entwined. often, the someone remus longed for eventually took the shape of her, the soft-souled woman whose weight, he found, was pleasant and comforting; the solid feeling of her beside him, leaning against him, bodies accommodating the other’s, was a feeling so warm and homey that not even the feeling of returning to the house he grew up in could compare. 

     “yes.” the truth slipped from his lips. “often times, yes, i do.”

     “do you ever wish there was someone who you could just…i don’t know, share your life with?” 

     always. it's always been you. 

     “yeah, someone quite specific actually,” he said, slightly surprised at himself for saying such things. “do you?” 

     “yes,” she said. her eyes grew glassy and a far away look glazed over them, the flames dancing through the e/c of her irises. “he’s been that someone for so long now. and i’ve always thought there was a chance he loved me back, ya know? but even after all these years, my heart just keeps on loving him, but he’s still said nothing.”

     love? 

     her eyes turned to him then, almost pointedly. but as he lifted his chin to return her gaze, he saw the depth which they held, a depth that was so warm he felt he could’ve fallen into it, let it envelope him in a moment and swallow him whole. they were the depths of the ocean, screaming his name, and remus believed hers were the eyes he could drown in. maybe he already had. 

     leaning closer to her, his voice became a whisper, a shred of broken vulnerability wavering like a single flame in the wind of his tone. “maybe he’s scared.” 

     “of what, do you think?”

     “of the war,” remus said, truth spilling from his lips as if he had taken a vial of veritaserum. “of himself. of not being all that you deserve. maybe he just wants to give you the whole world, the universe even… maybe he’s just scared that he can’t.”

     “well, maybe i don’t need him to give me the world,” she said, almost knowingly, eyes dropping to his jawline, to his slight honeyed stubble, to his defined adam’s apple, to the tip of his collar bones that just peaked out from beneath the cotton t-shirt and cashmere sweater. tears brimmed and her eyes became pink with tender sadness again, supposions and maybes ready on her tongue and falling from her raw, worried lips. “maybe, i just want him to give himself a chance. to give me a chance to show him that while he is far from perfect, i love him, and have loved him for years… just the way he is. maybe i want to show him that i don’t need the world. i just need him.” 

     “maybe he's scared he’ll hurt you in ways you should never be hurt. maybe he’s scared of what he can’t control, and what it’ll do to you if you get ever closer.” he’s almost crying too, but those tears will never fall. not till much later in their lives, when he holds her ring-adorned hand with his own, golden circles of metal shining on both their fingers in the midday sun, words he’s spent every night, day and waking moment tailoring to show her just how deep the rivers of his love runs spilling from his sun-kissed lips.

     “maybe i don’t care that he could hurt me. maybe i would rather be hurt by him, than not have him at all,”  she said softly. “maybe i want to spend his most vulnerable moments cleaning his wounds and caring for him the way he deserves, even if it is me that has been hurt more than he has. maybe i want to spend my every moment showing him the same kindness and goodness that he shows that world, but cannot see himself.” 

     somehow, in the midst of their oceans of maybe’s, his hand had found her cheek, rough calluses meeting soft skin, galaxies rising to the surface, aching to blink through the veils and shields that had been built and sewn over time into a lovely light. 

     their lips had somehow gotten so close to one another, that they breathed the same air and the heat that radiated from the blooming crimson patches of bashful daisies and brilliant peonies on their cheeks was warmer than the fire which they sat in front of. 

     “maybe he wishes, more than anything, that he could kiss you,” remus said, lust and love mingling into something sweetly divine in the ragged baritone of his voice. 

     “maybe i  wish, more than anything, that he would.” 

     and in a moment, remus found himself sinking into those deep and lovely depths, the force of his love a rip current pulling him out to sea and away from the safety of his maybe’s and his assumptions. his lips found hers as his eyelashes fluttered closed, tickling his skin delicately  as they ghosted the curve of his flushed cheeks. it was soft, but soon remus found himself leaning into the kiss, the rip tide pulling him under into the soft gentle depths of the woman in his arms. 

     but after a moment, the petals of their lips drew farther away and their eyes fluttered open, irises glistening with tears in the firelight. 

     “y/n.” it was a moanful sigh, filled with years of longing. “my love, it’s always been you. you’ve always been my maybe’s.”

     “please, rem… please don’t let me just be a maybe. ”

     “oh y/n,” he sighed. “if you’ll have me, my love…. i’ll turn our every maybe into an always.”

[underatedcharactersunite]

A Tale Of Two Souls; A Tale Of A Life Before

Summary; As Geralt and Y/N get accustomed to being a trio, Jaskier proves to be more observant than they originally considered as Jaskier asks Y/N a question that will take her back to a time she would have preferred to forget.  Pairing; Jaskier X Female Reader WordCount; 3350 Warnings; Angst, Mentions of death, torture, past abuse, Strong Language  Read Part 1 here

Series Masterlist 

"Credit where credit is due. That whole reverse psychology thing you did on them was brilliant by the way. Kill me. I'm ready." Geralt turned back glaring at Jaskier's impersonation of him. 

"That's the conclusion. They just let us go, and you give all of Nettly's coin to the Elves." 

"We were lucky. Filavandrel chose to spare our lives. Despite everything, he chose the right path. The coin should help them survive for a little while at least." You felt for Filavandrel truly. Elven history's battle to live equally among humans had been arduous and troublesome. Geralt was right, the humans were better at adapting to chaos. You wished that the Elves would find a way to survive, and one day perhaps humans would one day learn to accept the Elves. 

"Filavandrel's lute not gift enough for you." 

"Yeah she is a bit sexy, isn't she?" Over many travels and many miles across a variety of different lands, not once had you heard a man speak so lovely about an instrument before. Jaskier was as passionate about music as he was embracing other people. While others could dispute that the man currently wandering beside you was as a total fool? Was he? In the tavern, he had already proven his musical ability. So the monster's in Jaskier's had never existed before, that could not take Jaskier's talent away from him. 

"I do have respect for Filvandrel they survived the great cleansing once you know this. Maybe he could do it again. Be reborn." The thought of a war breaking out due to people's inability to be accepting one another made you think about your situation. Being outraged at Geralt for volunteering to die so immediately, had broken your heart to smithereens. Fighting monsters alongside Geralt had always been a deadly path, and you had accepted that long ago. Geralt voicing his willingness to die only confirmed that it could happen to all three of you at any given moment.

"Will the Elf King heed, what the Witcher entreats. Is history a wheel doomed to repeat" Jaskier's voice broke out into a beautiful melody, one filled with truth and sincerity. Bringing peacefulness like a warm bath after a long day, you listened as he played every note flawlessly. 

"No, that's...that's shit."  

"This is where we part ways, Bard, for good." 

“Look, I promised to change the public's tune about you. At least allow me to try. Furthermore, I think Y/N would miss me too much if we were to part ways so early." 

"Is that so Jaskier? We only met a matter of hours ago. How can you know what I am thinking? Unless you're telepathic, that is." 

"I know you've been looking at me, all doe-eyed." You stopped Tarot halting to look at the Bard who had been so courageous to challenge what he believed to have witnessed in your eyes. Releasing the Tarot's reigns, you advanced forwards towards Jaskier, his eyes being unable to pick a viewing point on your body. One moment, he was focused on your eyes then on your shoulder, then your lips. 

"Doe-eyed? At least I can make eye contact with you Jaskier. Perhaps it's you who becomes nervous around me. Tell me Jaskier, do I have that effect on, you all ready? If that's the case than travelling with us could be found tricky. Last chance to back out."

"Not a chance. I like the challenge I see set out in front of me." Sauntering backwards towards Tarot, you mounted her, giving her a gentle pet as you did so. The day had been long you anxiously anticipated the three of you finding a camp for the night. Hearing Geralt grunt, you knew he was conscious of the game that Jaskier had chosen to play. 

"You'll lose Bard."

"Not a chance." 

"We'll see Jaskier we'll see."With a gentle strum of his lute, Jaskier began to play a new song. Jaskier's nimble fingers worked effortlessly, as the song wrote itself. You wouldn't deny that the song was beautifully sung, however, the historical accuracy of the song appeared lacking. 

‘When a humble bard, graced the ride along with Geralt of Rivia and Y/N the enchanting Shieldmaiden Y/N. Along came this...song. From when the white wolf fought a silver-tongued devil, his army of elves at his hooves did they travel.  

They came after me, with masterful deceit. Brooke down my lute and they kicked in my teeth. While the Devil's horns, minced our tender meat and so cried the witcher he can't be bleat.’

"That's not how it happened. Where's your new-found respect?" 

"Respect doesn't make history." 

The three of you continued to ride onwards with no location in mind. The time in Posada had unquestionably been eventful. Never in your wildest dreams could you had fantasised of any of today's events. Especially Jaskier's introduction into your journey, previously you had been content with you and Geralt travelling the world alone.  

However, in a few short hours, Jaskier had successfully fought his way into our lives.  Despite the punch to his abdomen and Geralt and yourself warning Jaskier that the travelling life was not glamorous or simple. He preserved and never succumbed to persuasion. You and Geralt were officially stuck with the Bard. 

"I'm sorry." Your face creased as you Geralt apologise. In the past, whenever the two of you disputed, the two of you would give each other time until the other had calmed down and the two of you were able to discuss it calmly. Geralt approaching you first was unfamiliar. 

"You have nothing to apologise for Geralt. I was overreacting, that's all." 

"Y/N, I've never seen you overreact. Your thought process is always valid. I know I am not the best when it comes to emotions Witchers do not feel."

"Bullshit, I know you better than that. Besides, we both know you don't enjoy others knowing that you feel. I just did not appreciate how prepared and waiting you were to die. You are aware of how much I lost before I discovered you and Roach. While I've learnt how Witchers are, it does not mean I do not fear for your life every time we're in danger." 

Geralt inclined his head to look at you, riding side by side as Jaskier proceeded to play his new song ahead of you. Geralt appreciated your ability in reading his body language and mind. Many occasions, people had expected some variety of reasoning behind his actions, apart from you. You backed his decisions, and when you believed the situation ahead of you could be dealt with differently, you voiced those opinions. You didn't yell, or attempt to start an argument, you spoke gently and with conviction. 

"You know me too thoroughly. I didn't tell Filavandrel to kill me to harm you. If he was going to kill anyone, I would have rather it had been me. You and Jaskier have lives to live."

"As you do dear friend, fancy placing a friendly bet?" 

"Go on?" Your eyes twinkled in mischief, you adjusted your gaze to look over at Jaskier. 

"How long do you think it's going to be before he grows tired and asks one of us if he can ride on either Tarot or Roach? I say to the end of the dirt road when the path will become even more treacherous."

"Three Silver pieces says he cannot get to that large tree just in the distance." Shaking hands with Geralt, the three of you continue your journey as a brand new triage.  

                                                        ***

"I believe you owe me three silver pieces." Geralt's voice grumbled behind you. That was the last time you ever get Jaskier the benefit of the doubt. You had considered Jaskier would have been so immersed in his song that he would forget about his aching feet. Oh, how wrong you had been. The moment the luscious green tree had come into view, Jaskier had redirected back to you both. 

"Would any of you fancy allowing me to ride along with you...it's just my feet are extremely tired?" 

"Don't touch Roach!" 

"Okay, we're still overly possessive. What about you, my beautiful enchantress? You'll let me ride with you, will you not?" Sighing you looked down at Jaskier. You couldn't understand what was happening. You had precisely lost a bet to Geralt of Rivia. A bet that you had produced. The slight tug on Geralt's face knew that he was never going to let this go. 

"I don't know Jaskier. I'm sure we'll stop for camp soon. Perhaps you could walk for a little longer." Jaskier placed his hand over his heart, acting to be wounded while he paced backwards. In the few hours you had known Jaskier, you come to realise a lot about him. While he was confident and flirtatious, brilliant and creative, Jaskier could also be a total idiot. With his attention solely on you, Jaskier had forgotten on the rugged road that he currently stepped on. Unbeknownst to Jaskier in his path was a large and rough rock. Stepping onto the rock, Jaskier slipped onto the rock, tumbling over.

"Shit, Ow!" 

"Jaskier!" Jumping down from Tarot, you ran to his aid crouching beside him. Meanwhile, Geralt halted Roach remaining where he was. This was the second time in a matter of hours that Jaskier had injured himself. You were beginning to contemplate covering him up in some variety of guarding material. 

"What is it with you and rocks? Earlier, you had one thrown at your head, and now you've landed on one." 

"It's not my fault. If you would stop being so mesmerizing, then I would not keep distracted so easily. You smell good by the way. What is that?-Shit Y/N!" While Jaskier had been entirely oblivious to the situation before him, it had given you the perfect time to check him for any injuries. Unfortunately, the rock's edge was pretty sharp and sliced through Jaskier's overcoat and his undershirt. The wound appeared pretty deep. It wasn't something you could attend to on the side of the road. 

"How bad is it?" Geralt questioned, looking up at him, you slightly shook your head side to side, proving Geralt with all the information he needed to know. 

"What's going on? What's wrong with my back? Am I going to die? Dying in your arms Y/N, would not be the worst way to die, I suppose." 

"Jaskier, you are not going to die. Lesson two of being a Witcher's companion; you will, unfortunately, get the occasional injuries. We're going to get you on Tarot, and we will find a place to camp for the night." 

                                                         ***

That is how you ended up with a smug Witcher and an injured Bard. Withdrawing the money from the pouch, you placed the three silver pieces in his hand. Standing in front of him, you smirked. 

"The next time you will not be so lucky Geralt. Jaskier overcoat and undershirt off."

"Well, that didn't take as long as I thought it would." 

"Really? Do you want me to make this hurt way more than it has too." Jaskier suddenly became quiet as you approached him with the salve and the all of the bandages you currently had in your disposal. 

"Y/N, who are you?" Jaskier questioned, leaving you puzzled? It had been very apparent early on that Jaskier had heard of your adventures early on with Geralt. So why was he asking about your identity?

"You know who I am, the enchanting Shieldmaiden Y/N." As Jaskier hunched over sitting on a tree stump, you lightly cleaned the wound with some freshly boiled water off of the fire. Trying to clean the wound as painlessly as possible, Jaskier did not deserve to feel pain. 

"I heard what Geralt said to Filavandrel earlier, one human, the other's complicated. What did he mean by that?" 

"Enough Bard!" You stopped cleansing Jaskier's wound pulling away from him entirely. Your history before Geralt had been one you had desired to forget. While you knew it allowed you to become the person you aspired to become in the end, it was far from pleasant.  

"Geralt, he has a right to know. You desired to get rid of him, understanding who I am is enough to make him run a mile."

"The Bard is not my concern right now you are." 

"Geralt, it's better if he knows-" 

"As much as I enjoy the little back and forth you have going on right now. Am I not allowed to come up with my own judgement?" 

"This is going to hurt a little. If it gets too much, tell me to stop okay?" Dipping your fingertip into the salve that you made whenever you could find the right ingredients. Slowly, you began to spread the salve over Jaskier's wound, simultaneously hearing Jaskier wither in pain, your spare hand laid tenderly on his shoulder. 

"So before Geralt, so rudely interrupted, who are you exactly?" Gently rubbing the salve over the wound, you halted briefly. Repeating your history for Geralt had been challenging enough. He had understood the difficulties that the world often brought. Jaskier witnessed the world being light and merry the darkness happened elsewhere. 

"My name is Y/N, however before I encountered Geralt and Roach, my name was Princess Y/N of Autumndale. My Father had just learnt that he was about to become King when he met my Mother. You see my Mother was an intimidating, and powerful Sorceress. Everywhere she went, she frightened people to achieve her goals. There was no limit to my Mother's powers. 

Upon hearing my Father being an eligible bachelor, my Mother conducted a love potion, so there's no way she would lose the other potential candidates. As she expected the moment my Father laid eyes on her, he was put into a trance. No one could compare to her. Not long after that, they were married, and my Mother's plan began to unfold.

My Mother wanted to create an unstoppable creature. She had been using various creatures' blood and combining it with her own. However, what she didn't know was she was already pregnant with me. So instead of the spell serving on her. It was myself the spell worked on.” Finishing applying the salve onto Jaskier's back, you began to slowly wrap the bandage around his torso, when you wandered around him, Jaskier took ahold of your hand, running his thumb over your knuckles softly. 

"What happened when she found out?" 

“She wanted me to become like her. Cold and calculated. Heartless. She placed a mirage for the people they were never able to witness the reality of the situation they were in. 

From an early age, it was clear I was unlike my Mother in any way. I was always too kind, too diplomatic. Rather than destroying people, I used my powers for good. There was a farmer's boy whose shoes were rotten, without even realising what I was doing a new pair appeared in front of him. For punishment, I was locked away for a month. 

For years she attempted to turn me into her. I was forced to watch her experiments. I watched her kill people in front of me. She endeavoured to get me to kill people and conduct her tests. Time and time again I refused, getting thrown back into the same cell, left alone for months on end. She knew then she could not break me.”

"So, what happened?" 

"She exploited the situation to her advantage, or so she thought. She told everyone it had been me who was conducting the experiments, that I was a fraud. The person I allowed them to see was not my true self. The people believed her every word of course; however, my Mother had forgotten the only way a love potion could be broken." 

"How?"

"If the drinker of the love potion had fallen in love absolutely with someone. My Mother assumed that meant romantic love between two lovers. What she failed to release, it meant any form of true love. From the moment I was born, my Father had gradually begun to break a hold from her grasp. When he heard what she had done, he began to plan my escape. 

That night, my Father sent me off on foot, afraid the galloping of hooves would alert the town. I've never run so hard. Nowhere was safe.However, the people were not foolish and were on high alert. They came at me with stones and rocks, throwing anything they could at me. I continued to run as painful as it was. Every time something hit my body, it was more than a physical injury. It impacted me mentally. I failed them. Despite my powers, I didn't attempt to stop my Mother.  I fled from them. I wasn't the enemy, I wanted to help them and did so as frequently as I could. No matter the consequences.

In a state of desperation, I stole a horse and rode as hard as fast as I could. As soon as I got further away, I allowed the horse to go free. He was not mine, someone loved him, you could tell by the condition he was in.” 

"How did you meet Geralt?" 

"Now that's the lighter side of the story. I had been on my own for a little over a year, teaching myself to hunt and which plants and mushrooms were good to eat. I had been accustomed to being alone, in fact I quite enjoyed it. 

One day I was staggering through the forest when I came across a horse. She was sweet and didn't mind me talking to her. Being alone for a long time you don't get to be sociable. I stood with her for a while until I felt someone's blade on my neck. Geralt thought I was trying to steal Roach, which was far from the truth. However, back then, Geralt was encountering the same problem I was. We both were dealing with trust issues humans hated us because they are unable to deal with uniqueness. 

After everything that I'd been through, I was not willing to die. I and Geralt fought, at the time he was better at combat. He won easily. However, I pleaded to him for my life. I told him who I was, albeit with a blade on my throat. I never expected Geralt to offer me to become his companion. I never expected Geralt to teach me everything about surviving on my own. Geralt saved my life." Sending Geralt a tender smile, you witnessed his lips tug up ever so slightly. You owed him everything, and nothing nor anybody would ever stop you from protecting him as he had done you. Jaskier's reaction was peculiar he was dead silent. Fearing the worst, you attempted to remove your hand out of his grasp however, his only tightened. 

"Why did you think I would believe you're a monster? Do I come across like some variety of a judgemental Prick?" 

"Of course not Jaskier. I dreaded deeper than anything that you would fear me. That is the last thing I've wanted. It's not even been a day, and yet you've already grown on me. If you decide to stay-" 

"I promised Geralt that I would change the public's tune about him, and now it appears that I've got to prove to you that I'm not like those people who threw stones and rocks at you. Frankly, I do not mind in the slightest whether your entire human or a mixture of whatever creatures your mother was cruel enough to experiment on."

"I was not implying that you were like my previous subjects, but we have only known each other for a day, and you deserve to know who your travelling with." 

"I do not care if that's not what you were implying. I am going to prove to you that I am not like them, my enchanting beauty. I will prove it to you." 

[sarifel-corrisafid-ilxhel]

Hey, idk if this is just a mobile problem but the only little button appearing at the bottom of your posts is the share button for links and stuff, not hearts or reblogs. Also, if you don’t mind, I have a what-if idea: if the country was under lockdown as it is now during the Animorphs books, how do you think it would affect their missions? Thanks :)

Weird. I haven’t adjusted any settings on my end, so I’m not sure what’s happening there, but I will try looking into it!

As for the lockdown… hmmm. I can’t see much triggering a lockdown in the late 1990s other than the return of Smallpox or a sudden outbreak of a novel and potentially fatal virus. So whatever the threat is, it’s going to be something serious. We’ll go with the Prion Virus.

Let’s say that months after Book 38, an unknown pathogen begins sweeping through the global population. People who are afflicted by the virus begin to show signs of lethargy, agitation, lack of coordination, and decreasing motor skills. Some just disappear entirely. Others become confused. Then delirium and dementia set in, and the victims begin screaming about “Yeerks”. When the victims are pulled into ambulances or taken to the hospital, they die.

The incubation time of the disease is unknown. Transmission method is unknown. Symptom progression occurs over several weeks. The fatality rate appears to be close to a hundred percent. Outbreaks seem to occur near-simultaneously in major metropolitan areas around the globe. The disease becomes known as “Affluenza”, as it predominantely strikes at the upper crust of society. Rumors that the disease spreads through bottled water dominate the Internet and nightly news cycles. Lockdowns, Stay-At-Home orders, and Martial Law are declared in many areas. Madagascar closes its borders.

Day One of the Lockdown: Jake, Cassie, Marco, and Rachel are unable to leave their houses. It’s not that they can’t leave- They could easily morph and leave their houses, no problem. No, the problem is that their families are paying attention to them now. Jake’s mother habitually knocks on his door every twenty minutes to make sure he’s okay. Peter and Nora insist on keeping Marco in the same room as them because Nora wants Family Bonding Time. Cassie can’t even go to the barn without her mother or father following her. And Rachel has a nervous wreck of a mother and two younger sisters to keep entertained.

It’s Ax, perched outside of Jake’s window in Harrier morph, who explains what’s going on. The Prion Virus that Arbat dropped into the Yeerk Pool before he died must have finally kicked in. The Animorphs had suspected the disease had something to do with the Yeerks, even before the lockdown started, but the lockdown helped Ax and Tobias confirm that it was only Controllers who were being affected. Everyone who is dying in the hospitals? The Yeerks are silencing them with assassination cylinders, just like when the Animorphs destroyed the Kandrona generator.

Jake opnely wonders why it took this long for the virus to take effect. Ax briefly wonders about the state of Human medical knowledge before he explains that a prion is a misfolded protein that inhibits normal function of an organism’s brain. The Prion Virus works by infiltrating healthy cells and forcing them to create these misfolded proteins, and prion diseases are hard to detect early on because just a few misfolded proteins won’t do any real damage. However, as the cells continue to create more and more misfolded proteins, the damage begins to accumulate and become visible. It can take months for a disease like this to become apparent. It can take up to a year for a disease like this to kill. And the Yeerks never knew. They’ve been spreading the virus around with every personnel transfer. By now, the virus could be present in every single Yeerk Pool in the galaxy.

Jake wonders if he should feel bad when Ax reminds him the Prion Virus could mutate inside of Human-Controllers and begin to affect Humans. And now that the Yeerks are aware of the virus, there is a chance they could develop a counter. Ax starts to go on about virophages which could disable the Prion Virus and protein repair mechanisms that might limit or undo the damage when Jake tells him to go let the others know what’s going on.

Day Two of the Lockdown: Ax and Tobias are scouting the situation out and keeping everybody informed. Tobias hates the comparison to “Courier Pigeons” that Marco keeps making, but there is a certain truth to it. Most of the Animorphs are effectively grounded, leaving the two without families to do all of the spy work. It almost reminds everyone of the first few weeks of the war.

Marco has been following the whole situation on the news very carefully for over a month. Known Controller-celebrities are playing the virus up, feeding the hysteria. Marco reasons the Stay-At-Home orders are something the Yeerks came up with. Having all the Yeerks stay away from the Yeerk Pools will keep any uninfected Yeerks safe, with the added benefit of limiting the public exposure to people breaking free of their Yeerks to beg for help. What is notable, however, is that the Yeerks aren’t alone in investigating the disease. Human medical organizations are also investigating the disease, and they have already determined the disease is a novel neurological disorder spread by a virus. One doctor explains that the sudden screaming of “Yeerk” is because as motor function shuts down, people may begin to shout single loud syllables at random. Marco figures out that doctor is a Controller pretty quickly. However, another doctor wonders if this might be a prion disease, similar to Hoof-and-Mouth or Creutzfeldt–Jakob, because his team have noticed there are unusual proteins in the cerebrospinal fluids of the people they tested. Marco thinks that the entire invasion is about to be exposed.

Jake has been watching Tom like a hawk. Not literally as a hawk, not today, but it’s about the same. The early symptoms of the disease are easy enough to miss, but the more Jake thinks about it, the more it looks like Tom’s Yeerk is already suffering. But that’s not the only thing that has Jake’s attention right now. That morning, Tom got a phonecall from The Sharing, and ever since he’s been pacing anxiously in the living room. Jake knows the Yeerks have to do something about all the Controllers now trapped at home, but he can only guess at what. Eventually, the doorbell rings. The Sharing, with the blessing of the local authorities, is now delivering food and bottled water door to door in windowless vans. Tom volunteers to go out to the van and help unload things. He comes back in thirty minutes later, much less anxious and with very little to show for the time he was out there. He claims he was “Just talking with the guys about the deliveries”. Jake, however, suspects the Yeerks are using the food deliveries as a cover for giving Yeerks a chance to recharge with Portable Kandronas. Tom struggles to open a bottled water before reluctantly asking Jake to help him open it.

Day Three of the Lockdown: Erek shows up. Jake figures it out before Erek reveals himself, because even though Erek does a spot-on impersonation of a coat rack, Jake’s family don’t own a coat rack. They have a coat closet, thank you very much. And even if they did own a coat rack, it wouldn’t be in Jake’s room.

Erek tells Jake the primary Yeerk Pool is being cleaned out. The Yeerks have begun hoarding spray disinfectants and bleach out of a misguided belief the disease could be an Earth virus that has mutated to attack Yeerks. All the Yeerks in the pool have been transferred to holding tanks while the main pool is being disinfected. However, it’s all for nothing- The Yeerks still don’t know what they’re dealing with, and prion diseases are especially tough- They aren’t destroyed by conventional disinfectants.

Jake wonders briefly if he should feel bad for the Yeerks or not. That’s when Erek drops the bombshell of the day- The Chee are working on a countervirus. One that could save all the Yeerks. It should be ready in just a few days, and if it’s deployed quickly enough it could save millions. Jake is appalled. The Yeerks have been killing Humans by the thousands, they’ve enslaved hundreds of millions of good innocent people across the Galaxy. They took his brother. Why the hell would anyone want to save them?

Erek counters that he doesn’t believe in genocide under any circumstances. The Chee have directives from the Pemalites not just to be pacifists, but to love life, to want to perserve it and see it flourish. If it weren’t for those directives, the Chee would have never intervened to stop the Black Death. And, Erek reminds Jake, the Chee don’t answer to the Animorphs. They’ll save the Yeerks whether Jake wants them to or not. The reason Erek is here is that the Animorphs have an opportunity to end the war. Offer the cure in exchange for peace.

Tobias, perched in the tree outside, says that Erek stole the idea from Deep Space Nine. Erek unabashedly says that one of Humanity’s strongpoints is using stories to predict the kinds of problems they might face in the future. Jake, for his part, is extremely concerned. Even if he could put his severe distaste in Yeerks aside, he isn’t sure how they could prevent the Yeerks from simply coming back later or blowing up the planet as they leave. That’s when Erek suggests asking the others. He’ll cover for Jake here.

Reluctantly, Jake opens a window and begins to morph into a falcon.

____________________________________________________...Sorry I might have gotten carried away. You were probably looking for “What do they do to relieve boredom”. Sorry! n.n;;

[softestvirgil]

A crappy review of Selfishness v. Selflessness

Reminder, this is called a crappy review because, it is really crappy. It only tells you things that I enjoyed in the episode and nothing more.

Virgil and Thomas in the same frame at the start made me geek out. It looks so cool!

Virgil is mad about Thomas not having purple hair, and to be fair I am too.

Alfrenhitchcova- what now?

Upon my first viewing, I was checking Patton's sweater and it threw me off so much that Deceit was pretending to be Logan this time and not him. Didn't think he'd do that.

“Lies!” “Yes definitely,” Deceit sucks at acting.

“Well your face ruined my day so we'll call it even,” That was very juvenile but it made me laugh so I'll give it a pass.

Roman unknowingly teaching Dee how to do his job better is so funny.

He's taking notes oh my god gET OUT-

“Bad Deceit! Oh, sorry Deceit!” He talks to himself what is he why is he such a dork I am yelling.

The bar is on the floor, man. It's on the floor.

“Deceit standing in the spot of one of my four best friends!” Patton, I love you.

Deceit is so sassy and gay what the-

“Wow, guys it's so cool how you never listen to Roman” Okay, you know what he has a point.

Psycho-Godfather-Wars sounds terrifying.

“I'm too emotionally unstable for jury duty can I be excused?” Mood.

Why is Patton full of Butterfingers?

“What does the Judge even do?” “His best!” Patton, I love you.

"I'm rubber you're glue, so whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you” “Curses…” “That was brutal, dude” What kind of court is this?

“Ahhh-ffidavit” Oh hello, Logan. I totally didn't miss you at all.

“Well maybe you shouldn't have been impersonated... did you ever think about that?” I missed that on my first time around and I just screamed.

“I don't feel anything,” “Oh, of course, you don’t” That… that was… that was a… wow okay cool.

Why does Logan operate the right arm and Roman the left? Is this how it actually works in a real brain?

I love when Logan started counting the seconds since Thomas heard about the callback and then just “TODAY”

“Objection! That is… bad for my case?” Patton should never be a lawyer ever in any situation.

“Wow, Thomas. It seems these days your moral compass is pointed south… towards hell!” Why are you so funny?

“Would you let Patton make his case?” I love best friends.

Smart move, not making Logan a bigger part of the trial. He would take the snake down so quick.

Virgil making a fart noise once again shows how juvenile he is, but it still made me laugh so I'll allow it.

“Objection! He's weaselling the witness!” “THE CORRECT TERM IS BADGERING!” Patton, you should know this, you're a Hufflepuff.

“Hi, Virgil!” They are best friends and that's all that matters in the whole world.

“The one and lonely!” Why are you lonely?

“REALLY OBVIOUSLY MUSCULAR AND NICE” Roman, can you not remember your name without that?

“No further questions… smirk,” “He just… said smirk…” They are all such dorks oh my GOD.

“Roman, imagine if you will-” “Done,” Best line in the episode do not argue with me.

Patton called Roman the most handsome prince. My royality heart.

“Sssssuck up” Oh, you.

Patton is really smart. I just wanna say that.

“Everything has a purpose and sometimes fulfilling your purpose means keeping things, close to the chest,” THAT WAS FORESHADOWING BECAUSE HIS LOGO IS ON HIS CHEST

Sanders Sides: We live in a society.

Virgil smiled at Patton's joke. They are best friends. Thank you.

Logan acting like a little kid in class raising his hand is so cute.

“You get it? He gets it!” Virgil smiled at Patton AGAIN. BEST FRIENDS. I LIVE!

The whole egoism thing really makes me think. How much do we do things simply because we feel that makes us a good person, rather than actually doing them because we want to?

“YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!” “PLEASE STOP YELLING AT ME!” I know this series is literally Thomas talking to himself, but this is a whole new level.

Every time Logan shouts from the back I'm like, oh yeah! He's here, and he's adorable.

“Roman wants me to win,” Well… I guess?

“This isn't even a real courtroom, you're sitting on the couch with your eyes closed!” This is so funny.

The wedding being Thomas’ punishment made my jaw drop. It's so smart.

“Why don't you just leave the teaching to me,” Finally.

These split screen effects are amazing. Holy crap.

“Oooh look at the little tongues!” Patton is us, once again.

“I would have been a more than worthy foil,” That's what I said.

I love how “freaking” is strong language to Virgil, yet he is one of the three who have canonically sworn before.

“Do not allow him or any of his friends to stick around that long ever again!” “I-” “Ever again! Cool?” “Cool,” This. This is the best part of the episode. I was wrong before.

“Saying something is a fact when you don't have the fact straight is dishonest,” More people need to hear that.

“Here's the thing, kiddo. People hurt all the time, by going to the wedding you are making sure two of your friends aren't hurt by the absence of someone they really care about, do you know why you're doing that? Because you can't help but put yourself in other people's shoes,” I love this message a lot. As someone who puts themself in other people's shoes all the time.

[missmarquin]

Wide of the Mark,

Felix never misses his mark. It's not usually a mistake, until it is. And then it's the biggest mistake of his life. Post-Time Skip, Oneshot. Sylvix. Explicit.

Read on A03 for better quality! 

....

Lightning crackles through the air, striking the ground not far from his feet. Sylvain stops dead, his grip tightening around his axe as he glances around frantically. Navigating the battlefield is hard without his horse, but it saves his life in that moment. It doesn't change the fact that he can barely see shit in the din around him, though.

A scream rips through the air, followed by another bolt. This time, the ground ten paces to his right lights up, and he turns to find the soil burnt black. Sylvain can't believe his luck. Twice a bolt has flown, and twice it's missed him. 

The Goddess must love him, he thinks. His eyes dart around frantically, looking for who is possibly the world's worst mage. The Goddess must-- 

He's so surprised by the sight of Felix, that he actually falters in his step, tripping in the mud and slick of the ground below him. The other man, his once closest friend, glares back, his face rigid. His fingers crackle with electricity as his other hand rests on the pommel of his blade, and Sylvain knows intent when he sees it. Felix isn't one to sugar coat things. No, he's precise and to the point, and the man’s resolve is incredibly clear in that moment.

The Goddess hates him, Sylvain realizes bitterly.

Five years has always seemed like a long time, but as they stand there on the bleak field and stare at each other, Sylvain is surprised by how familiar it is. Like nothing has changed, like it’s still the old days. 

Those moments in the training grounds with meager wooden spears and training blades between them. 

But this isn't a training ground, and the magic that gathers at Felix's fingertips isn't for show. He has a sword of Zoltan at his hip, and Sylvain is suddenly conscious of the Lance of Ruin laying across his own back. 

Still, Sylvain lets a smile slide across his face. It isn't full; it doesn't fill out his cheeks, or even look genuine, but it's familiar. And he can tell that it rattles Felix to the core. 

"Hey Felix," he calls out, trying to keep his tone neutral. He can't stop the waver in his timbre though, or the slight hitch in his breath. His voice doesn't hide the way that his hands shake though, tightening around the grip of his weapon. 

"Don't," Felix immediately hisses. 

They stand about twenty paces from each other, and Sylvain barely hears the snap of his voice. 

But Sylvain tries. He wants, he's always wanted, and maybe it's too late for that. But he's going to try anyway, because there wasn't a point in not doing so. 

Sylvain knows with crushing certainty that Felix will not let him live. Either his old friend feels the same, or he will strike him down were he stands. 

He can think of worse ways to die.

"Felix--" he starts again, but the other man snaps his arm out.

Sylvain can smell the bolt through the air before it snaps down and sets fire to the ground beside him. But… it has missed again, and it dawns on Sylvain that Felix actually has the best aim of any mage he's ever seen. Thoron is a bitch of a spell, and its wild nature was notoriously difficult to control. He could have killed him the moment that he saw him. 

The spell lands right where Felix wants it though, barely missing Sylvain, heat searing the side of his face.

It must mean something, Sylvain reasons. Felix wasn't the kind to hold back, to hesitate. There must be something there, buried deep in this cold, hardened version of himself. 

Sylvain risks a step closer. He doesn't let his guard down, the leather of his axe grip squeaking under his sweaty palms, but he takes the risk. "Remember when we were kids?" he asks. "Remember the promise that we made?"

Felix has already started the sequence of the spell again, but stops dead. Hesitating. It's odd, seeing the man so unsure, so torn. His posture is rigid and he's ready, but something holds him back.

"We were children, Sylvain!" Felix finally yells back. His tone is berating.

"We promised to die together," Sylvain reminds him. The fighting continues around them, but it's like they are the only ones there, frozen in the middle of the battlefield and trained on each other.

"We were young and stupid!" Felix snaps. 

"Stupid, huh?" Sylvain laughs. Its bitter and foul tasting as it bubbles up through him. "Any stupider than we are now? We're on opposite sides, Fe." 

Felix bristles at the familiar nickname. "You were the one who left. You were supposed to be loyal." 

And like most times, Felix is right. And like most times, the words sting. He should have been loyal to Dimitri. He should be fighting along Felix's side to bring the kingdom back, but-- 

That isn't what he wants. Sylvain dreams of a future without crests and the weight of his bloodline pressing down on him. He wants a future where no one will ever suffer like Miklan did, all because he was born wrong. 

Sylvain dreams of many things, actually, and those things will never be found in Faerghus, or with Dimitri. Claude has promised the moon and back, if they manage to pull a victory in this bleak and bitter war. And Sylvain isn’t stupid, he knows it will be a miracle to change the world-- but he’s willing to risk it. 

For them. For Felix. Really, it's always been for Felix. 

"For all your bravado, you truly don't hate the Boar as much as you claim," Sylvain finally says, his tone cool, knowing that it’ll anger Felix. 

“Sylvain--” the other man snaps, his fingers crackling with lightning once more.

“Really Fe, magic?” Sylvain taunts. “Can’t we settle this like old friends?”

Felix pauses again and the spell dissipates. “Shut up--”

“Don’t I deserve at least that?” Sylvain asks, eyeing the sword at Felix’s waist. He motions to it casually. “Just like old times?” It's a stupid bluff. Sylvain can hold his own when it came to spells, but it seems so impersonal.

Felix huffs, but drops his hand to his sword. It slides from the sheath effortlessly, the metal singing through the air. “I expect the same courtesy,” he finally says, and Sylvain knows what he means. He drops his axe and shield to the ground, before reaching for the Lance of Ruin. 

It’s heavy in his hands and it thirsts for blood. He hopes desperately that he won’t have to use it. 

Felix makes the first move and Sylvain expects it. He pushes back against the solid weight, swinging the lance in a high arc, but ultimately misses. Felix is too quick on his feet, dancing around Sylvain’s side and slicing toward a weak spot in his armor. Sylvain drops his stance a fraction, the blade meeting the metal of his armor before glancing off. 

It hurts though, and he grimaces at the dull pain that thrums through his ribs. 

Felix pulls back again, flicking his sword around with deft ease, as he slides back into a stance. Sylvan follows suit, gripping the lance like it's a lifeline. Not that he wants to. 

"Seems like we're about to kill each other," Sylvain says, and this time he can't stop the slight choke to his words. He watches as Felix tightens his sword grip, as his stance tenses-- and then as his lips turn downwards into a familiar frown. 

Felix is uncomfortable, and Sylvain's gaze softens. 

"Fe, I don't want to do this," he tries. 

"Shut up--" Felix starts, but he can't finish the sentence. He shakes with rage, his sword rattling in his hand. He shakes with rage, and frustration and feeling. And Sylvain knows how much this hurts. "Fuck," Felix snaps bitterly. "I don't want to do this either, I don't want to--"

Sylvain lets him have a moment to compose himself, and before long Felix is rigid again, his stance reset and his sword balanced at the ready. 

"I'm sorry Sylvain," he says, his voice quiet with regret. "You'll die first."

"I'm sorry, old friend. I won't allow it."

They meet in the middle again, Felix's sword scraping along the grip of the lance. Sylvain barely has a moment to let go and avoid losing his knuckles to the graze. His weapon is too heavy for one hand though, so he swings it in a wild arc to recover his stance. 

Felix takes advantage, sliding close, pushing at him. Sylvain loses his grip, and Felix clocks him hard in the ribs with an elbow. The impact is immediate and he drops the Lance of Ruin. 

But Felix pauses again, his sword grip uncertain and his gaze annoyed. 

"We don't have to do this," Sylvain says. 

"You've forced my hand," Felix bites back. "You've got no one to blame but yourself." There's a dangerous edge to his voice that Sylvain doesn't like, and he worries that Dimitri has rubbed off more than anticipated.

Sylvain makes no move to retrieve the lance, instead pulling his fists up. "Let's go back then," he says. "To all those years ago, before swords and lances. To when were stupid kids fighting in the mud."

Felix considers this for a moment, and then sheathes his blade. His fingers make quick work of the fastenings of his sword belt, and soon it's tossed to the ground. "This won't give you an edge," he taunts. "I won't let you leave here alive." 

"I don't doubt it," Sylvain chuckles darkly. 

Sylvain isn't as good at hand-to-hand as Felix, but if he's going to die, he'd rather it be up close and personal. He tries to remember the grappling techniques that Raphael has taught him. He mentally lists off the forms and drills that the Professor runs them through. 

He likely won't win this, but he can at least put on a good show. He wants Felix to remember this day forever. 

As expected Felix moves first. He's light and quick on his feet, throwing himself at Sylvain. He's heavier though, grappling onto Felix easily, throwing him to the side. There's no finesse to it, it's not like Felix's calculated steps, but it manages to topple him. 

Felix recovers quickly, striking out again, hand held firm and his arm snapping out like a snake. Sylvain grabs him by the arm and twists, throwing him again. There's a crunch under his fingertips, and Felix's lets out a snarl in pain. A grimace is thrown across his face, but Sylvain holds firm. 

Neither of them move, and Felix manages to say, "I won't yield."

"I don't want you to," Sylvain replies. This is the closest they've been in years, and he can see the tiredness that stretches across the other man's face. Dark lines etched into his skin, and gray circles that line the underside of his eyes. He’s more handsome than ever.

Felix is tired of the fighting too. He's exhausted, and he wants everything to end. And still he struggles against him despite his pain, scrambling in Sylvain's grip.

"Fe," Sylvain says, holding firm. "Stop," he pleads. "It doesn't have to end this way."

But the smaller man slips from his grasp and the tables are quickly turned. Felix throws his weight into Sylvain, causing his feet to slip. The rain ended hours ago, but the mud hasn't dried yet, and he falls heavily to the ground with a thud. 

Felix holds him down firmly, his legs slotted around Sylvain's hips. One arm hangs limply at his side, broken and useless, but in true Felix fashion, he ignores it. “You--” Felix starts, but stops. 

Sylvain gets it; he understands. There’s a million things that he wants to say, and not enough time. Felix has always been apathetic at his best, but there’s none of that here. Instead, he looks tortured, like he doesn’t know what to do. 

Sylvain moves to push him off, and it’s as if the spell that had fallen over Felix has lifted. He’s faster, despite his injury, and his hand whisks to his hip. And then there’s the press of cold metal against Sylvain’s gut, settled carefully between the plates of his armor.

Sylvain’s breath catches. He is stupid, he’s so stupid. He shouldn’t have let his guard down, but-- 

But this is Felix. 

At this point, Sylvain doesn’t care if it’s ill placed romanticism or not, he holds out that Felix might still change his mind. Even if he’s holding a sharp blade to the fleshy part of his stomach. 

They each wait for the other to make a move. Sylvain is stock still, just looking, and that pisses Felix off. “What,” he snaps, but his words have less bite than his pinched expression does. 

“I’m…” He’s what? They’re in the middle of a battlefield and Sylvain is about to die. It doesn’t matter if there's a war raging around them, they are solely trained on each other, and the cold steel that Felix presses harder and harder against him. 

But still not hard enough. 

Finally, Sylvain settles on, “I’m just trying to remember it.”

“Sylvain--”

But it’s already too late and he’s babbling, ignoring Felix’s plea. “Your face, I mean. Commit it to memory, or something stupid and sappy like that--”

Felix shifts above him and the blade moves, this time slipped between the plates at his chest. At his heart. Sylvain falls silent. Felix breathes heavily, his chest heaving, like he’s one shred away from hyperventilating. Sylvain knows that it isn’t the rush of battle. Felix’s hand shakes, the knife knocking against his plate armor with a soft tinkle. 

Stupid, Sylvain thinks. His hands never shake. Felix is always sure of everything. 

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Felix asks, cutting into the tense moment. 

Sylvain wants to think of something witty, but there isn’t enough time.

“Any last words, for a man as pathetic as yourself?” Felix continues. Instead, Sylvain just looks at him, which pisses Felix off. There’s a crinkle to the man’s mouth, as his lips press flat into a thin line. Sylvain is silent for a moment too long, because the blade digs deeper, pricking his skin and he winces.

“Say something!” Felix screams at him, and his voice cracks. 

Finally. There it is, the chip in his carefully maintained facade. 

“Fe,” Sylvain says quietly. He finally moves, his hand sliding up Felix’s good arm. 

Felix can sense the words about to come. His reaction is instant and he tenses, his shoulders stiffening. His arm already pulling away. “Don’t--” he starts.

“You know, I’ve always been pretty late to the party but--”

“Don’t you dare Sylvain,” Felix begs him. His face is red and tortured looking, as he shakes above him. Trying to decide whether or not to plunge the knife in. 

“Felix.” Sylvain’s hand finds his face, resting there gently. Felix’s cheek is dirty and caked in mud, and he thumbs at it softly.

“You can’t,” Felix snaps, his eyes welling up. Felix has always been able to read him well, and this moment isn’t any different, it seems. Sylvain can’t remember the last time he saw the man cry though, and he can’t stand to see the tears that slip down Felix’s cheeks. 

“Felix, I love you. But you’ve always known that, haven’t you?”

Felix answers him by plunging the knife deep into his chest. 

…

Felix panics. 

He’s bad at people. He’s even worse with those he actually cares about. Sylvain finally says the words that he’s wanted to hear for longer than he’d ever care to admit, and he responds by killing him. Let it be known that Felix still lives up to his reputation. 

He panics because he wasn’t planning on actually doing it-- not really. But with the shaking of his limbs, unable to catch his breath and then-- He’d spared a glance upwards during Sylvain’s idiotic diatribe, only to see Dimitri thirty paces away with a bland look of expectation. 

Felix knows that the Boar would have killed Sylvain without a second glance, before moving on to the next head to crack. Felix also knows that it wouldn’t have been pleasant. Really, he'd meant protect him. 

Sylvain doesn’t even look angry, the bastard. His breath hitches as the knife slides into his flesh, and he lets out a groan of pain. He has this stupid placid look on his face, like he’s pleased with himself, like he’s finally done something right his life. Felix hates him in that moment. 

And he’s about to tell him that, when Sylvain’s eyes grow glassy.

Felix panics again. “No,” he snaps, throwing his knife to the side.  “No, no, no.” He buries his fingers between the plates of his armor, trying to find the fastenings, but this suit isn’t like the ones Sylvain wore when they were younger. He yells in frustration, as his gaze snaps back up to look around them. 

Dimitri is gone, having watched Felix take care of the problem. 

He’s made a mistake, Felix has made the mother of all mistakes. 

“Stop,” Sylvain groans from underneath him. 

“Shut up,” Felix demands.

Sylvain opens his mouth to laugh at his predictable response, but he coughs instead, blood bubbling up over his lips. 

It’s too late, Felix realizes, it’s too fucking late and it’s all his fault. He’s killed the only person he’s ever really cared about.

“At least…” Sylvain manages weakly, but then his eyes droop slowly, before closing. And then Sylvain goes slack underneath him. 

The blood in his veins turns ice cold, as Felix regards him for a second. And then he grips him by the shoulders hard, shaking him harder, begging him to wake up. Cursing him when he won’t. His screams are lost in the battle and the water in his eyes blur everything in front of him. He can’t see Sylvain’s face anymore, he’ll never see his face again and--

There’s a hand at his shoulder and he jumps a foot in the air. It’s so unlike him, all of this. He’s a pathetic and sobbing mess, and he really doesn’t want anyone to see that. 

It’s Mercedes at his side, covered head to toe in mud and blood, circles under her eyes and her breath ragged from exhaustion. “Dimitri is looking for you,” she says quietly. 

“To hell with that Boar,” he snaps, and she sighs. Her face is caught in a look somewhere between pity and sorrow. She’s about to open her mouth to say something else, when a pitiful sob wracks through him. “Please,” he pleads.

He watches her stiffen with the request. Felix has seen her perform miracles before. He’s heard of the time she brought someone back from the dead. It’s an impressive tale, that even years later, he hasn’t forgotten. 

And Sylvain is still laying there, fresh in his arms. 

“Felix I--” But her words cut short as her lip trembles. It’s a cruel thing to ask her, he knows. Mercedes has a bleeding heart, and she and Sylvain had been close. His betrayal to Dimitri had cut her deep. 

“Mercedes, please,” he tries again. “I shouldn’t have-- Dimitri--” Words fail him though, and he can’t articulate what he means.

Mercedes reaches out again, pressing gentle fingers against his forehead to push back his sweaty bangs. “I know,” she says. “I know, Felix.” She saw him do this, he realizes-- she saw him kill Sylvain. And yet, instead of being by Dimitri’s side on the front lines, she’s here, comforting him. 

The boar might have been a violent shell of who he once was, but Mercedes cares. She loves. 

“Mercie,” he sobs, and he knows he looks and sounds so fucking pathetic. “I can’t do this anymore,” he finishes. “I thought I could, I thought I’d just move on-- I thought that I had. But then there he was and now he’s gone. I’ve fucked this up, I always fuck it up.”

He knows he’s babbling about things he’s never really shared before, but she nods, smoothing out his hair gently. 

“Fix it,” he pleads. “Mercie, fix it.”

Something comes across her face in that moment. He knows what he asks her is a lot. He knows that Dimitri wouldn’t be pleased if he found out. Felix watches Mercedes weigh her options. He knows though, that she’s tired of all of this, just like he is. He was born with a sword in his hand, but he’s tired of the death and despair. He’s tired of blindly following the Boar. 

And she is too.

Mercedes manages a small smile, tucking a bang behind his ear and patting his cheek lightly. Her fingers are cold and clammy against his skin, but her smile is as warm as the sun. “Of course,” she finally says, “But I’ll need your help moving him.”

…

Felix has never realized how big Sylvain really was in comparison to himself, until trying to move his dead weight. Mercedes notices his wrecked arm, but he brushes it off. He sees her frown, but she doesn’t push him. She knows it’s pointless. 

“We have to move quick,” he tells her and he isn’t sure why-- Mercedes knows that better than anyone. 

He kneels in the mud, his feet slipping slightly as she helps him shoulder Sylvain. It’s awkward, but she does her best, as she arranges his body across his back. Sylvain is heavy and lifeless against him, as Felix readjusts his grip the best he can with only one good arm. 

Mercedes holds him up from the other side. “Our forces are to the north,” she says, glancing that direction. “Dimitri will be holed up there.”

“So Southward,” Felix grunts softly. 

“More Westward,” Mercedes says instead. “Dimitri will expect us to go south, but if we head towards the Empire--”

“That’s suicide,” Felix snaps. 

Mercedes is quiet, and then says, “What we’re doing now is suicide.” 

Felix snaps his mouth shut and heaves a heavy sigh. “Southwest it is,” he begrudgingly agrees, as he heaves a heavy breath. They manage an awkward shuffle towards the tree cover, and the confusion of battle works in their favor. 

A half hour later, Felix can’t hold him anymore. Mercedes says nothing as his knees buckle, and he throws Sylvain to the ground with little grace. Felix tumbles down beside him, laying across the ground, not caring how dirty it gets him. He’s already coated in mud and blood, what’s a little more?

Mercedes checks Sylvain first, throwing a concerned glance around them. “It can’t wait any longer,” she says quietly. “It isn’t safe here, but--”

“Then get on with it,” Felix replies harshly, but immediately grimaces at his tone. Mercedes has thrown herself into this with him, and therefore her future. He should treat her with far more respect. Sitting up, he wipes his brow with his sleeve, trying to get the sweat out of his eyes. “I’m sorry Mercedes--”

He’s cut off by gentle fingers on his bad arm. His mouth snaps shut, as Mercedes wordlessly pulls at his tunic closure, pulling it half off. His arm is purple and swollen near the elbow, and it’s clear that it’s broken clean through. Felix barely spares the injury a glance. “Sylvain managed to--” he starts, but Mercedes interrupts him. 

“I know,” she says, pulling his arm into a certain position. It’s a searing pain, and he yelps.

“I don’t deserve it,” he murmurs. He doesn’t deserve his arm to be fixed. It would serve him right, for his arm to be mangled the rest of his life, for what he’s done.

The healer tuts at him. “Don’t be ridiculous.” 

“But Sylvain--” he tries instead.

“One moment won’t make a difference. Yours is a simple matter.”

It isn’t often that Mercedes is firm with her words, but he hears the finality of her tone. She won’t take no for an answer, no matter how he tries to persuade her. Instead, Felix finally looks at her, and then at her hands. He watches as her fingertips glow warm, caressing over his skin. He grimaces as his bones knit back together, but she soothes the irritation with soft words. Kind words. Words that he doesn’t deserve. 

“You must think me a fool,” he finally says. 

She lets out a soft hum and then, “You are a man with very clear values.”

“He left us, Mercedes.” He can’t hide the pain in his words. 

She doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, she pokes and prods at his arm, carefully making sure that she’s repaired most of the damage. His arm aches bone deep, but he can still feel the warmth of her magic as she checks for leftover cracks. 

“Why did you stay with Dimitri?” she finally asks. 

Felix blinks at the unrelated question. “What does that--”

“You hate him,” she says simply. “You love him as well. You admire him and he’s your friend, but you also hate him. Despite everything, you care for him. And so you did for Sylvain as well.” She deems her work done, motioning to his tunic once more. She helps him slip it back on and refasten it. “What was the one thing in the world that Sylvain wanted?”

“The be free of his responsibility,” Felix snorts. He shakes out his arm and then rotates it, seeing his range of motion. 

The look that Mercedes wears is a strangely calculating one, like she’s disappointed with him. “Perhaps you didn’t pay enough attention then,” she surmises. 

Felix stills, his heart pounding. It wasn’t that he never paid attention, it’s that he ignored it. He ignored the closeness they had. He ignored Sylvain quite entirely, because of all the things that he thinks about himself, it’s his glaring inadequacy that stands out the most.

And now he regrets it. 

He’s about to reply, when she stands up carefully, moving to sit beside Sylvain. “There was only one thing Sylvain ever wanted, Felix, and that was you. He knew that wasn’t a possibility if the Kingdom won.”

Felix stares at her back, his lip trembling slightly. He’s underestimated Sylvain, it seems. The man probably bemoaned his woes to the woman, and Mercedes had probably listened with an open ear. 

Part of him is jealous, and part of him is relieved. 

He moves to her side, helping slip off his armor without a word. And as she works, he protects. He will protect them with his life, if he has to. 

It’s the least that he can do.

…

It’s been a long time coming, Mercedes thinks. 

Sylvain is cold to the touch, but there’s a little color still clinging to his skin, so it’s not too late. She hopes. 

She is perhaps the only person who was not surprised by Sylvain’s departure, but honestly, Felix should have known better. Felix isn’t stupid, he’s just fucking blind, and yes, she means the swear. 

Really, these boys. 

The wound that Felix left is messy, so unlike his usual precision. It’s a testament to his shaking hands and barely contained rage. Bringing someone back from the dead isn’t an easy ordeal, and even if she’s been successful before… Well, she’s almost positive that it was a fluke. Felix at the time had only been mostly dead, not entirely dead.

And Sylvain was definitely entirely dead. 

Felix is off to the side, cradling his arm, his fingers wrapped around his elbow gingerly. She knows that it hurts. Resetting a bone isn’t hard, but knitting it back together is a painful process. Despite Felix holding a strong face and barely flinching, she knows that there’s a residual ache that is hard to ignore. 

And still, he sits there on a rock. Ever vigilant. The tree cover around them is thick, but they aren’t safe. If Dimitri realizes that they’ve deserted and comes looking for them this way… Well, she tries not to think about it. He sits with a knee up, his sword across his lap and ready for a quick draw, and his eyes dart around frantically. High alert. 

She turns back to Sylvain and smiles weakly. He’s grown so much, she thinks, her fingers sinking into his grimy hair. Handsome as ever of course, but his face is relaxed in a way she only saw when he was in the presence of a certain someone. 

Mercedes remembers a certain night suddenly. Sylvain drunk beyond compare, bemoaning his family and general existence. 

I don’t know what to do, Mercie. They want me to marry off, and then there’s crest babies, and I just don’t care much for that.

It hadn’t been anything new to her, she remembered thinking, but she had listened all the same. And then Sylvain had uttered words that surprised her. 

I’m a fool aren’t I? To love him so much.

Him?

Felix, of course. Who else?

Mercedes has nowhere to go, so she follows Dimitri with blind faith. And Dimitri has led to Sylvain’s death and his cold body before her. The anguish on Felix’s face, as he shoved the knife between the armor plates, his scream when Sylvain fell limp in his arms.

Fix it, Felix sobbed, tears streaming down his cheeks. 

Another memory had struck her in that moment. A different man, red hair and blood-stained armor, cradling someone close to his chest. Felix had looked so small in his arms, broken and mostly dead. 

Fix him, Sylvain had begged, barely able to stand in the medical tent. “I don’t care how, just find a way, Mercie.”

Of course she will. Her heart aches for these two, her precious boys. They always seem to do things backwards.

Dimitri was so lost that she wasn’t sure that she could find him again. He was beyond healing. 

But there was still hope for Sylvain.

…

Everything hurts. 

Everything really fucking hurts. 

He feels like he’s been put through a mortar and pestle, ground to a fine dust and then somehow put back together. The groan that rips out of his mouth is barely a sound. His throat is dry and parched, and he feels like he hasn’t had a sip of water in a year. 

It feels like he-- 

Suddenly he remembers. Felix’s handsome face, dark circles cut deep under his eyes and his signature sneer replaced by red-hot frustration. The glint of metal and the sharp prick against his skin, just before Felix goes rigid and--

Sylvain throws himself into a sitting position and immediately regrets it. There’s a lancing pain across his chest and it’s almost as though the breath has been kicked out of him. He presses a hand to his chest and tries to suck in air. 

He remembers floating through the dark and cold. He remembers the feeling of nothing.

He should be dead. 

Felix stabbed him and he should be dead. Really, really dead. 

There’s a gentle hand on his thigh and he jumps. It’s Mercedes, all serene smile and soft fingers. She squeezes his leg softly. “Shh,” she soothes, guiding him back against the pillows.

He wants to ask, but he can’t find the words. His throat feels like the grinding papers that Felix-- 

Felix.

“He’s right over there,” she says quietly, jerking her head in a direction past him. Sylvain turns, barely able to make out a person shaped lump on another bed, wrapped tightly in blankets. “He needed rest, so I cast sleep on him. He won’t be happy about it when he wakes.”

That makes him laugh, but it comes out like an awkward squawk. Still, how very like the both of them. Mercedes pats his knee gently, before she lets go and leans closer. She presses her fingers against his forehead, testing the temperature. 

“Warm. Good.”

Which implies that he had been cold. Which implies that he had been dead. 

Why wasn’t he dead anymore?

“Mercie,” he manages finally. The words are dusty, but understandable. 

She smiles in return. “It was a close call,” she admits. Sylvain realizes that her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“I’m pretty sure that it was past close.” It’s the first full sentence he’s managed, and it’s difficult to articulate. It’s kind of like his mouth doesn’t want to move, and he has to really work at it. 

He wants to ask about Felix, but he can't. Not yet. Not when his head is still spinning, and he has to think to make his body work. So instead, he asks, "Where--?"

"Nowhere safe," she murmurs. "But we've left the company."

The implication of her words isn't lost on him. If they aren't on the battlefield any longer, then that means that they've deserted. And as far Dimitri was concerned, he probably views that particular complication as a death sentence. 

“Felix--” Sylvain finally manages, but the question remains lodged in his throat. 

There a sudden dip in her expression, a slight furrow in her brow. “Sylvain,” she starts, and moves to interrupt her, but he stops when she grabs his hand gently. Her fingers are soft, and her skin is warm against his palm. “Don’t hate Felix.” 

"How bold of you to assume," he says with light humor. His voice cracks slightly as he chuckles. “Mercie,” he continues, unable to hide the fondness in his tone, “I could never hate him.”

It’s a long moment as she watches him, but finally she smiles. She reaches out, straightening the collar of his his dirty and torn shirt. “It’s not that I doubted you,” she says lightly. Her laugh is a balm across the tense moment. 

“I’m angry,” he admits. “I’m so angry but…  I love him, so it’ll be okay.” And then Sylvain paused, a pained grimace coming across his face. He wasn’t sure if it was wound, or Mercedes’ kindness, or the idea that maybe things won’t actually be okay, despite it all. 

Then he realized exactly what he had said, and while it’s not like Mercedes doesn’t know, it’s still pretty embarrassing. But the crook of her mouth in response lights up the room, and for the first time since he’s woken up, there’s a small sense of peace. 

“He’ll need time,” she finally says. 

If there’s one thing about Felix, it’s that everything he does is wholeheartedly, but he doesn’t know how to articulate those feelings. Sylvain would bet the rest of his life that Felix will avoid him for as long as possible, so he doesn’t have to come to terms with things. 

Still, it’s endearing, if anything, and Sylvain’s expression softens. “Yeah well, I would say that he’s worth the wait, you know? I’ve been to death and back at this point, what’s a little longer?”

Mercedes laughs quietly, before telling him to rest. 

…

Sylvain sleeps for nearly three days straight and the next time he wakes, it’s not Felix by his bedside. 

Not that he really expects him to be, if he were to be honest. What he doesn’t expect however, is a hearty slap on his leg and the charming laugh of Claude.

“You look like death warmed up,” the man says with humor, pulling away when Sylvain hitches slightly in pain. The ache is still there, but it’s better. He thinks. 

“Well, I mean--”

“No need to explain,” Claude cuts him off, holding up a hand. “Mercedes already did.” Then something somber falls across his face, and he continues with, “When the battle was over and we couldn’t find you, we thought the worst.”

“Ah well, you know me,” Sylvain jokes, “Spurned lovers and all of that. Figures it’d be Felix to finally do me in.”

“Felix?” Claude asks, and Sylvain realizes that he’s made a mistake. While Mercedes had filled him in, as it were, she hadn’t given him specific particulars. Such as Felix being the one to do him in. When Sylvain doesn’t answer immediately, Claude presses his fingers to his chin in thought. “I suppose it’s not surprising,” he says carefully. 

“It’s… complicated,” Sylvain replies. 

Claude taps his chin. “Is it though? Or is that an excuse?”

It isn’t the first time that Claude has imparted his surprising and unwanted wisdom. Sylvain sighs, pressing back into his pillow and staring at the ceiling. “Claude, why are you even here?” he asks, desperate to change the topic. 

Claude regards him carefully, but obliges. “Who do you think I am?” he asks, affronted. “You’re one of my men Sylvain. We looked for you in that blasted field for more than a day. I was expecting to have to bury you in pieces.”

“Claude I--”

“You split off on your own,” the other man admonishes. “You ignored Teach--”

“I was thrown from my horse,” Sylvain interrupted. “A bolt of Thoron spooked her, and with all the mud and fog, I got lost. And then there was--” He pauses, swallowing thickly. “There was Felix. It wasn’t that I didn’t think he wouldn’t… It was more that hoped that he wouldn’t… well, you know.”

Sylvain watches Claude think. He watches as his eyebrows draw tightly, and as he takes a deep breath. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Claude says, “but the two of you have always read like an open book. I mean, have you seen the both of you in a room together? Whatever it is between the two of you… you could literally choke each other with it.”

Sylvain turns his gaze towards the golden-skinned man who sat at his bedside, his arms crossed smugly. “Honestly,” Claude continues. “It’s about fucking time for the two you to start talking about feelings.” 

“Claude, he murdered me in cold blood.” 

“I mean, yeah, that’s pretty bad as far as arguments go. Makes for a good story to tell the grandchildren, though.” 

Sylvain groans at first, but he can’t help the smile that spreads across his lips. “I think that we both know there aren’t going to be grandchildren.”

Claude hums thoughtfully. “Do you remember what you told me a while back, when we met at Garreg Mach again?” Sylvain blinks, because no, he doesn’t quite. That was months ago, and time seems to drag on forever when war was involved. Things are lost and easily forgotten, when you’re so distracted. “You told me that you wanted to forge a world who didn’t give a crap about who you are. You maintain that your motivation is entirely selfish, but it isn’t. Everything that you’ve done, has been so no one will have to suffer like your brother did. Like you still do. And that’s my goal, you know? I want people to live the life that they want to, not that is expected.”

“Claude, if this is another one of your unwanted snippets of advice--”

“You’ve been given another chance, and you really shouldn’t waste it.” 

Sylvain looks to Claude, whose green eyes glimmer back at him. He’s amused. And slightly annoyed, but mostly amused. He slaps at his knee again, and then says, “Now then. When are you cleared for field duty? It’s high time we get back to base.”

Claude stands up, stretching his arms high above his head, prompting Sylvain to lean forward in the bed. “You can’t expect me to leave him here,” he says, his voice wavering just a tiny bit. Not when they’ve just found each other again. Not when they haven’t even properly talked about it all. 

And Claude blinks back at him, baffled. “What? Of course not. He’ll come with us, of course. I won’t take no for an answer.”

…

The trip back to Garreg Mach takes longer than expected, and it’s mostly Sylvain’s fault. 

Mercedes imparts her delight whenever she can, as to how well he’s recovered thus far. Not that he feels any useful. He can barely stand, let alone walk on his own, and he’s quarantined to the supply cart under the guise of easy transport. 

Even if he’s doing better than expected, he’s not happy to be sleeping next to wheels of sharp cheese and eggs that are slightly past their prime. 

Felix still keeps to himself. Sylvain still expects it, and he tries to tell himself that it doesn’t really hurt, but it does. It stings, and that burn gets worse every day. It’s because he misses that man’s stupid face, even if he can imagine the expression that he’ll carry. 

But Dimitri is dead, he’s learned, and until very recently, he was too. Felix’s mind must be reeling with emotions that he really doesn’t want to deal with. 

Shame and embarrassment, Sylvain thinks. Claude banks on utter disregard instead, touting that Felix was a prime example of someone who internalizes everything. He isn’t wrong, per se. Regardless, Sylvain aches, and he’s not sure if it’s because he’s recovering from being very dead, or a severely broken heart. 

“It isn’t broken,” Mercedes hums. It’s their last night on the road, and they should see the monastery cresting the horizon sooner than later. 

“Yet.” 

It isn’t often she frowns, but she directs one right at him, pulling his bandages just a smidge tighter than usual. He yelps slightly in return. “I told you to give him time,” she reprimands softly. 

“It’s been over a week,” he says morosely. “I really am a fool,” he sighs. “Muttering such stupid things in the haze of death. He probably thinks the worst of me.”

Her fingers pause momentarily and she sighs. “He thinks worse of himself,” she says, and the moment the words leave her mouth, Slyvain knows them to be true. 

“He should know me better than that,” he replies. 

“Whatever does that mean?”

“It means that he should know that I forgive him.”

She finishes the rest of her mending in silence, before helping his shirt back on. It’s a spare from Claude, and it’s a little tight, but he makes do. Once he settles back into the cot, she fusses over his hair, brushing back his bangs. “It’s not you that he’s worried about,” she finally says, “And you know that. He won’t come to you until he’s forgiven himself.”

“Fantastic,” Sylvain groans. “I’m to be single forever, then. Spend the rest of my life in lonesome misery.”

Mercedes gives him a gentle smile, before slapping his shoulder hard. “Oh don’t be so dramatic.”

He doesn’t say anything back though, just smiles at her as he rubs at his bruised shoulder.

…

It’s been two weeks, three days and about four hours, since the last time Sylvain has seen Felix. He’s been bored enough to count, and worried enough to think that the time actually means something. It doesn’t, really. He knows this. Claude knows this, Mercedes knows this, the entire Golden Deer house knows this. And everyone knows by now. No one really talks about it and they’re careful about what they say around him, but their encouragement lingers. Their kind words mean something at least. 

And then Hilda says something that actually tips the scale. “All this time you spend complaining about his dumb ass,” she says to him one night, “when you could have easily just gone to him instead. Your legs aren’t broken as well, are they?”

Yeah, he was pretty stupid to not think of that, but he’s also distracted. He still hurts and he still feels off sometimes, and he spends most of his time trying to be normal again. It’s harder than he would care to admit.

Felix is predictably at his usual haunt. The training grounds are hot and humid, and smell like day-old sweat. Felix has his back to him. He throws around a blade in familiar arcs near the center of the room, but his footwork his sloppy and his efforts seem half-hearted. 

Something about him looks broken. 

“Go away,” Felix calls out, not even bothering to look. “I’m tired of your pity and pep talks. I don’t care who it is, just leave me be.” 

Sylvain sighs, stepping closer. His footsteps seem loud in the room, but Felix ignores him. Instead, he slices at the training dummy. The blade slaps flat against it with a dull thud. There isn’t any heat to his strike, and it’s so unlike Felix that it damn near breaks Sylvain’s heart. 

“Felix,” he finally says, and the other man stops dead. Sylvain can see him trembling, he can see him about to run away, like a startled deer. “No,” he says before Felix can do so. “Don’t--”

“I said to leave me be,” Felix snaps, still not looking at him. 

“We need to talk,” Sylvain replies.

“Go away!” Felix says once more, his voice heated.

A swell of emotion falls over Sylvain, and he snaps as well, a rare moment of anger. “You owe me that much,” he yells back, and even though Felix is looking away, he can see the way that his jaw clenches. “I said some things,” Sylvain continues, his voice falling quiet. He’s close enough now to see the tired sag of Felix’s shoulders. “And it wasn’t easy, Fe. None of that was easy for me.”

“Fuck off,” Felix replies, moving to hone on on the dummy once more. His voice lacks bite though, and it wavers with frustration. 

“Stop,” Sylvain asks, but the other man makes no move to do so. When he strikes this time, it’s harder, with intent, and the blade cuts into the wicker of the trainer viciously. “Felix--”

“I won’t warn you again,” Felix cuts in with. There’s another thwap and his blade slices clean through the arm on the dummy. 

“You’ve already killed me once,” Sylvain jokes, but the words taste sour in his mouth. This isn’t how this conversation is supposed to go. “What could you possibly do to me now?”

Felix hesitates, his sword dropping an inch. Then he tenses again. “Then you should know better than anyone that I follow through on my threats.”

“You don’t mean that--”

“I’ve killed you once, I can absolutely kill you again.” The other arm falls from the dummy, Felix’s blade slicing through like butter. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. You lasted like two minutes before you changed your mind. Admit it, you love me.” 

Felix lets out a growl, and Sylvain winces. Yeah, he doesn’t like his tone either, but he wasn’t good with things like feelings-- neither of them were. He masks his discomfort with badly timed humor, and that rarely actually works for him.

Felix pushes harder, sword swinging faster and sweat dripping from his brow. His form is sloppy again, his footwork slipping and--

“Felix,” Sylvain says, reaching out to grab at his wrist. “Stop, you’ll hurt yourself.”

Felix yells out in frustration, but drops his blade. It clatters to the ground, metal scraping across the stone floor. And then he pushes at Sylvain. His hands are hard against his chest, and Sylvain grunts slightly. The area is still tender and aches, but he holds his ground. 

It annoys Felix. “You had to ruin things,” he finally snaps. “With your fucking feelings. Why couldn’t you--” He growls and pushes at Sylvain again. “You should have just-- I don’t know why--” Felix lets out a groan of frustration. “You left. You promised me, and then you just left.”

Oh. That’s what this is about. Sylvain catches his forearms before he can push at him again. Felix’s face is red, contorted in anger, like a feral beast. He tries to pull away, but Sylvain is bigger and stronger. 

“You’re so stupid,” Felix hisses. “So fucking stupid. So-- so--”

Sylvain shifts, pulling Felix in close. Felix fights the grip, prompting Sylvain to quiet him. “Hey, it’s okay.” One hand threads through Felix’s hair. It’s thick and oily because it hasn’t been washed, but he doesn’t care. Felix crumples under the touch, allowing himself to fall into his chest. 

“You trusted me,” he says against Sylvain’s shirt, his voice hoarse. “You shouldn’t have trusted me. You know that I don’t bluff.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sylvain murmurs, pressing his cheek to the crown of Felix’s head. His fingers dig into his scalp, and Felix sighs. 

“You really are stupid,” he repeats. 

“Yeah,” Sylvain says. “But I meant them, you know?” His voice is quieter this time around. “All those things that I said at the end.”

“Sylvain--”

“And I mean, if I’m going to die, I’d rather it be by your hand you know--”

“Sylvain--”

“It wasn’t so bad. I mean, it fucking hurt, but it really wasn’t--”

“For the love of the Goddess, stop.” 

Sylvain does. Felix is gripping shirt tightly in his fingers now, and they just stand there. And then Felix tenses under his hands and then he’s shaking, and suddenly his shirt is wet, and Oh God no, please don’t do that. 

“Mercie told me you begged her,” Sylvain says. He rubs his hand along Felix’s back, trying to soothe him with the gentle circling of his fingers. “That’s something I’m trying to imagine, you begging.”

Felix snorts, but Sylvain feels a chuckle shudder through the man. Well, that’s an improvement at least. 

“I get it though,” he continues. His cheek still rests against Felix’s head, and there’s hair in his mouth, and it’s kind of gross, but it’s also what he needs. It’s what Felix needs. “I did the same, all those years ago. I literally couldn’t think of living without you.”

“I panicked,” Felix finally says. 

Sylvain blinks at that, and then he laughs. It’s short and curt, half amused, half insulted. “That’s one hell of a way to panic.”

“I wasn’t going to, of course. As if I wanted to-- but then there was Dimitri, and he gave me this look. And I knew that if I didn’t, he would…” His voice trails off, and they both know exactly what he means. 

“So you understand then, why I left,” Sylvain asks him. 

“You didn’t ask me to go with you,” Felix accuses. “All this talk about how you didn’t want to live without me, but you left me behind.” 

Sylvain pulls away to look at him, but Felix refuses to meet his gaze. He’s not surprised; Felix has always been bad with eye contact. Instead, the man wipes at his nose, his face ruddy and tear-stricken. Sylvain takes his cheeks into hand, wiping at them with his thumbs. Felix snorts, somewhat annoyed, but he doesn’t pull away. 

“Yeah, that wasn’t very smart of me,” he says. There’s a moment between them, and Sylvain watches Felix fidget under his touch. “Hey Fe,” he finally says. “Look at me?”

To his surprise, Felix does. He looks tired, and heavy bags under his eyes show that he hasn’t slept in days. Red-faced, with wet cheeks and a stern scowl that tugs his lips downward. But he’s gorgeous, Sylvain thinks as he rubs at his cheeks again, thumbing over the soft skin. 

And Goddess, he wants to kiss him. But the moment is tense, and they still have more talking to do, and he thinks that it needs to wait. 

“I love you,” he says, and something flashes across Felix’s face, as he makes a move to say something. But Sylvain holds his face firm. “And I forgive you,” he finishes, and then he leans forward and kisses his forehead. 

Felix doesn’t say it back, but he doesn’t need to. Sylvain pulls him close again, and Felix just hangs on. He hangs on for dear life, like he’s afraid that he’s just going to disappear from under his fingertips. 

…

Things are weird, for Felix. 

There's a part of him-- a very large part-- that craves for Sylvain's constant attention. And there's this other part that just wants to run away and never see him again. That's a small part of him, minuscule even, but it's enough to give him pause. 

The crux of it is pretty simple. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see him, it’s that he has no idea how to approach the man. It’s stupid really. He’s waited years to see him again, and yeah, he’d hoped it would be under better circumstances. He’d hoped that it would be off the field, Sylvain coming to Dimitri’s aid, like a knight coming home. 

Instead, they’d met as enemies on the battlefield and Felix had killed him. His hand still shakes at the thought, at the memory of the biggest fucking mistake he’s ever made in his life. He swallows thickly. What if Mercie hadn’t found him? What if she hadn’t been able to save him? What if--

No. What-if’s won’t change anything. 

Sylvain has forgiven him, but how can he? Were it Felix killed and Sylvain at fault, he’d never--

Well no, that’s a lie as well. Felix will forgive the man for literally anything-- and really he already has. Why else would he consign himself to a life of misery by loving the most well-known philanderer of their school days? Even now, Sylvain still flirts with anything on legs. Provided he doesn’t sneak them back to his room anymore but…

Well, once a duck, always a duck, Felix supposes.

Felix is sitting in the courtyard, polishing a blade, when Sylvain appears and drops a satchel before him. Felix blinks at it momentarily, before turning his gaze upwards. Really, it was ridiculous how tall the man was. 

“What’s this?” he asks, nudging with the hand holding an oil cloth. 

“Tea,” Sylvain says simply. “It’s high time I take you on a date.”

Felix is almost positive this is a dream, because there was absolutely no way in seven hells that Sylvain just offers something like that. But the man waits, his gaze lit by excitement and expectation and-- 

Felix drops the cloth and settles the sword across his lap, moving to open the gift. His gaze narrows as he regards the other man shrewdly. “You don’t even like this brew.”

“Well, no, but you do.” 

“Sylvain, I’m not sharing tea with you.”

“Felix--”

“I have other things to attend to.”

“If it weren’t a date, would you?” The question is quiet and while Sylvain doesn’t seem angry, there is a slight strain to his tone. Things have been… weird since their moment of bonding the training hall the week before, but Felix prefers to not think about it. In fact, he prefers to just ignore anything regarding Sylvain. 

Clearly the other man is taking the opposite approach. 

Felix sighs. “That’s not-- no,” he finally manages. “It’s not the date that’s the problem.”

“Perfect. One hour--”

“Sylvain--” Felix starts, standing up from his seat. 

“By the docks.” Then a cheeky smile spreads across his face. “Unless you’d prefer my room--”

“Two hours,” Felix snaps, resting a hand on his hip. “At the training hall.” He can’t meet Sylvain’s face because he’s embarrassed by how easily he’s given in, as well as the other man’s bold insinuation. Even if he’s not wrong, that doesn’t mean he’ll give him the satisfaction of knowing it.

“Outside the training hall then,” Sylvain amends. “That little bench off to the corner. There’s a nice view.” He pauses and blinks. “Then again, anywhere you are is a nice view--”

“I swear to the Goddess Sylvain, never say something like that again, otherwise I will gut you.”

“Well, it’s not as though you haven’t before.” He snatches the satchel back up, leaning forward to press a kiss against Felix’s cheek. It’s a quick peck but Felix turns red and blubbers, and before he can push him off, Sylvain is already gone. 

His tone had been teasing, amused even, but his words cut deep. 

It’s not as though you haven’t before. 

Ridiculous, to joke about such a thing, but isn’t that what Sylvain has always done? He’s always been a master at hiding his true feelings, manipulating people to think what they want. Felix is mildly annoyed that he’s used the tactic on him, of all people. 

The words settle deep into the pit of his stomach, souring his entire mood. 

…

Felix doesn’t show up for their date. 

It’s a shitty thing, he knows. At first it’s because he loses track of time. When he glances at the clock, he cringes. He’s always thrown himself into his training, but it’s been different lately. He looks at the dummy next to him and cringes again. 

Shamir wasn’t one to get annoyed, but if he keeps up with his current rate of destruction, she will. 

He’s sweaty and gross, hair sticking to the back of his neck. There’s a mirror that he glances in before he moves to leave the grounds, and Goddess above, he’s a mess. He can’t see Sylvain like this, so… unkempt. 

Besides, he’d overstayed his promised session by nearly two hours. There was no way that Sylvain was still--

He is absolutely still there, sitting on that bench. A tray with a teapot and cups sitting by his side. He’s not angry, he’s jittery, bouncing his leg up and down, running his hands along the fabric of his pants. This is an emotion that Felix knows, but rarely sees on the man. 

Sylvain is nervous. 

Felix pulls back into the grounds, closing the door behind him. No, no, no, he definitely can’t see him like this. He owes the redhead that much at least. 

Climbing isn’t his specialty, but he manages to scale the wall and pull himself through a window. He shimmies along the ledge and around the corner to the side of the building opposite Sylvain. 

Yeah, he’ll go freshen up in the bath. Rinse off, put some fresh clothes on and then he’ll meet his doom. 

But even after his bath, he doesn’t go to him. 

Nor does Felix show up for dinner. 

He wants to, Goddess knows that there actually isn’t anything more that he wants. Just-- the problem is-- Anxiety is a pesky devil. Felix can’t forget. He can’t forget what he’s done, and even if Sylvain has forgiven him, it digs deeper and deeper and deeper and--

So he sits in his room, a fidgeting mess. He’s like Sylvain earlier, but for an entirely different reason. At least he’s clean. His shirt is a little large on him, hanging loosely on his frame. His hair is wet and heavy, limp around his face. At least he’s not stinking of sweat any longer. He can finally try to relax, to think, to try and sort things out. 

He’ll figure out an excuse to feed Sylvain. 

A knock at his door snaps him from his thoughts.

“Felix.”

Of course. Felix’s fingers tighten, twisting his pants leg.

“I know you’re in there,” Slyvain says quietly, his voice muffled by the door. 

Despite everything, Felix cannot refuse him. He’s tried over the years, and it’s left him a miserable heap of shit, but he’s always drawn back to Sylvain. And the one time he held his ground, the one time he followed his own path-- Well. It was a path that didn’t end so well. 

And like always, he immediately regretted it.

He stands wearily, shuffling over and pulling open the thick oak door. Felix tries to find the judgement on the other man’s face, but Sylvain has the gall to not be angry. He just stands there, that stupid goofy smile stretching wide across his face, looking at Felix like he’s some sort of fucking treasure. 

Felix immediately scowls, falling into his familiar habits. “Look, I--”

“It’s okay Felix,” Sylvain says easily. 

Felix can’t do this, he can’t. He moves to shut the door, but Sylvain is quicker. He wedges his boot between the door and the jam. “Felix,” he says again, reaching out to grasp at his hand. Felix let’s him, calloused thumbs smoothing over his knuckles. He can’t stop the shaking of his fingers. “Felix-- hey, will you look at me? It’s okay.”

Felix does look at him. There’s a furrow in Sylvain’s brow, and that smile is suddenly pulled tightly at one corner. The squeeze around his hand, anchoring him and-- 

Oh. 

It’s odd, Felix thinks, for Sylvain to be worried. “Can we talk?” he finds himself asking before he can stop himself. “I mean-- what I mean is that I want to try--”

“Whatever you want, Fe,” Sylvain cuts in, still rubbing his thumb across the back of his hand. His tone is so earnest that it warms Felix down to the core. He pulls his hand away and steps back from the door, motioning him in. 

Sylvain does as he’s told, and Felix shuts the door behind them. 

“It’s been years since I’ve been in here.” There’s amusement in his voice, but it’s underlined by a tight sadness. “It looks the same.”

“It’s not like I’ve had time to redecorate,” Felix snaps.

“Yeah, I suppose that’s right,” Sylvain says quietly, and Felix immediately regrets his words. 

Sylvain stretches his arms high over his head, before falling onto the bed unceremoniously. Felix starts at that but-- but what’s he going to do? Kick him out? Sylvain won’t budge, he’s certain of that. The man is stretched out across the mattress, already snuggled into the blankets. 

Felix swallows thickly. He’s imagined this scenario more times than he can count, and in varying degrees. 

“Mercie told me to give you time,” Sylvain suddenly says, his voice muffled slightly by Felix’s pillow. He turns slightly, pulling himself up from the mattress, and moving to sit across the bed proper. “But Felix, you can’t hide from me forever.”

He can, Felix thinks. He can absolutely try. He’d been fairly successful the entire day, in fact, until Sylvain had come right to his door and-- Oh. Felix is still standing there, trying to find something to do with hands in the awkward silence, but fails miserably. There’s nothing natural about randomly dusting things in a messy room, or moving to pick up errant and dirty laundry. 

Sylvain watches him. It’s without judgement. It’s with patience, something that Felix isn’t aware that Sylvain even possessed. Finally the other man decides that he’s had enough of Felix’s fidgeting. He reaches out and grabs his hand, only for Felix to yank it back quite suddenly. And Sylvain isn’t offended, but there’s a cloudy expression of something there and--

Oh, there it is, Felix thinks. This is that moment, the one where Sylvain realizes what a mistake everything is. Felix can’t do this, he can’t, he can’t and--

“Felix, talk to me,” Sylvain pleads, interrupting his thoughts. 

“None of that was easy,” Felix finally says, unable to meet his gaze. “That’s what you said the other day about-- well, when you said some things. That’s how you described it.” Felix lip curls slightly at that. “As if you’re the only one who has suffered through this. Do you think it was easy for me? Sylvain, I was the one who-- I--” 

His hands find his hair, yanking at it, as he lets out a frustrated yell. “I never wanted to, I fucking swear it. But I did. I did, Sylvain. I killed you, and it’s my hands that is stained with your blood. It doesn’t matter how much I wash them, or scrub at them, they will never come clean.”

He’s breathing heavy when he pauses, his words just bubbling forth. He can’t stop them, he won’t stop them, but it doesn’t make it feel better. All the pain, the regret, the guilt. He’s at a tipping point, and it’s only a matter of time before he falls right over that cliff. 

“Oh, Fe,” Sylvain whispers. He stands and before Felix can push him away, he pulls the smaller man to him, hugging him close. “I didn’t know,” he says. “The burden that you’re carrying, I had no idea.”

Felix thumps his chest with his hand, but then his head falls forward, his brow resting against Sylvain’s collarbone. “How can you love me?” It’s a question that’s been burning in him for weeks now. Sylvain is such a wondrous man, with his smiles and his feelings, and this new-found intimacy. 

It’s too perfect and Felix is still waiting for the dream to end, and for him to wake up. For Sylvain to be dead and bloody in his lap. “How can you possibly bear the sight of me?” he continues with. “I called his Highness a Boar, but I’m no better, I’m worse, you should hate--”

“Don’t tell me how to feel about you.” Sylvain’s polite tone practically cracks Felix’s heart in two. He pulls away from the other man, intent on putting as much space between the two of them that he can.

“Felix--”

“Don’t--”

“No, you’re going to listen,” Sylvain cuts in firmly. 

Felix blinks, but falls onto his bed without question. It’s Sylvain’s turn to fidget. He paces across the room, trying to gather his thoughts. 

“I was a dumb kid,” he finally says. Felix resists the urge to agree. “I was really dumb. I thought that if did what my father asked, flirted with whatever girl came my way, losing myself in late-night trysts and--” He sighs, the hand he’d been gesturing with falling to his side. “It was hopeless though,” he admits, a wry smile falling across his lips. “I was already in so deep, when it came to you.”

Felix shifts on the bed, opening his mouth to reply, but Sylvain shot him a warning look. 

“I couldn’t fool anyone, really. I mean, Mercie knew, and if you think she was the only one…” Sylvain slides a hand through his hair, tugging at the red locks. “My father knew,” he says next, and Felix felt his blood run cold. 

Finally, Sylvain looks at Felix, his brown eyes simmering with old hatred and barely contained anger. “I knew that the Kingdom would never allow us to be… Dimitri is--” He pauses, winces. “Was a good man, but even he wouldn’t be able to change things. If the Kingdom survived, I’d have to go back home and do my so-called divine duty.”

Felix’s throat is dry. This is something he knows well, being a Duke. 

“So I left.”

“You abandoned Faerghus--”

“There’s no future for me, without you in it, Fe. Which means there’s no future in a bitter-cold Kingdom, who won’t allow people to love.” Felix snaps his mouth shut at that. “Claude proposed a united front,” Sylvain says next. “He promised change. He promised a place, for everyone.” He pauses. “He promised freedom.”

“Sylvain--”

“I should have told you,” Sylvain cuts in. He goes to Felix, dropping to his knees before him. Sylvain is shorter this way, but they're on a closer level. “I should have asked you to come, but for all I knew, you didn’t feel the same. I thought-- Well, I thought if I had a plan at first, maybe you’d actually listen. But it was wrong of me to leave and not tell you.”

“I was angry,” Felix starts, “when I saw you on that battlefield, but it wasn’t--” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “The Boar-- Dimitri changed, and when he did, I felt that I had made the wrong choice. We were marching through the mud and the rain for what seemed like the thousandth time. Battle after battle, and it wasn’t ever getting better.

“And then there was you. You looked good, and I just wanted to go back to when we were young, to turn back that clock and just forget.”

“I would have asked you to come, but you never gave me the chance.”

Felix laughs at that, at the bitter irony. “Sylvain, I-- You must know that I care for you.”

Sylvain is still on his knees before him, and the floor cannot feel good against his bones. But the other man looks at him fondly, his hands pressed against Felix’s legs, squeezing them. “I mean, not exactly what I want to hear, but I suppose it’s as good as I’ll get, coming from you.” 

“He would have killed you,” Felix whispers. Sylvain cocks his head to the side, waiting to hear more. “Dimitri. I was about to stop, about to throw the knife to the side but-- there he was, and I knew if I didn’t do it, then he would have. And it would have been worse.”

Sylvain hums at that, stroking his thumb along Felix’s thigh. “I was prepared to die by your hand. I mean, I didn’t want to, but if it had to be someone… Well, I wasn’t lying about that part.”

“We’re pretty dumb, aren’t we?”

“That’s what Mercie says. Even five years ago, when I was in my cups and crying to her about you.” 

Felix reaches out, pressing his hand into Sylvain’s hair. It’s coarse and thick, so unlike his own silky strands. He curls his fingers into the tresses, pulling at them lightly. He loves this man, truly he does. More than anything. 

And he believes Sylvain, when he says that he left to carve a future where they could be together. 

“I love you,” Sylvain says, as Felix’s hand ghosts down his cheek bone. 

“I… am rather fond of you,” he replies, and Sylvain laughs, turning to press his lips against Felix’s hand. 

Eventually, they both find their way into his bed. It’s a tiny double, not meant for two full grown men, but they roll onto their sides and Sylvain pulls Felix close. It’s too warm under the covers, but Sylvain smells good, like his sandalwood soap and saddle leather. Felix smoothes a hand over the other man’s chest, and opens his mouth to say something else but--

Sylvain is already asleep, his face relaxed and peaceful. 

Felix decides to let it be. 

…

Sylvain’s lips are moving, but there’s no sound. His eyes are wide as he suddenly winces in pain, blood bubbling over his lips. Felix feels the panic swell in him. No, no, no, this isn’t supposed to happen, this was never his intention. Sylvain isn’t supposed too-- What on earth has he done?

This was a mistake, Felix thinks, shaking Sylvain. The other man struggles to keep his eyes open, and Felix shakes him harder. A mistake, a mistake, a mistake. Felix is so fucking stupid, but it’s too late. It’s too late, as Sylvain falls limp in his arms. Felix cries out, he screams, tears streaming down his face.

When he looks down at his hands, all he sees is blood, Sylvain’s blood, running red. They can’t die without each other, they can’t. And so Felix pulls the knife from Sylvain, turning it towards himself, plunging it in without a second thought. The blade rips through him, through skin and muscle and sinew, straight into his--

Felix jerks awake, his hand flying to his chest. It hurts, everything hurts. This is wrong, this is wrong, Sylvain is dead and he’s supposed to follow. He cannot live alone, he cannot do this, how can he live with himself, he promised--

There’s shuffling on the mattress next to him, as it dips under someone’s weight. “Felix--” Sylvain starts, his voice tired and full of sleep, but he doesn’t quite register it. 

Felix’s stomach recoils and he heaves, but nothing comes up. His sweaty bangs are stuck to his forehead. Such pain, he thinks. Goddess above, such pain and-- 

Sylvain surely must have felt more. He’s--

“Felix,” Sylvain says again, this time more awake. His hands move to cradle his face, large and warm and comforting and--

Sylvain is alive, Felix remembers. Sylvain is alive, alive, alive. He can’t help that sob that rips up through him, his throat tight, his breath catching. Soon he’ll be a snotting mess, like when they were children, and Felix would come running to Sylvain to cry just about anything. 

Sylvain thumbs his cheeks softly, pressing their foreheads together, offering sweet words. Felix focuses on them, on his comforting voice and the warmth of his being. 

Sylvain is alive. 

“Shh,” Sylvain says, “It’s okay, Felix. I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah,” Felix finally says, his voice cracking. “You’re here.” He says it, like he’s trying to convince himself. His fingers find purchase in Sylvain’s shirt, gripping it tightly, pulling him closer. 

Sylvain hugs him close, running his fingers through his long hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. “Felix, talk to me,” he whispers into the crown of his head. 

“This is-- the dreams,” he finally says. “Every night. It comes back-- the blood on my hands, Sylvain. Your blood on my hands. It’s all I can think about.”

“Felix, look at me.” Sylvain pulls away, gripping his cheeks again, forcing Felix to do so. His brown eyes are inviting and so full of love, and Felix wants to crawl into them, and never leave. 

Felix was a fool to never ask for this. He was a fool to wait so long. Even stupider to pick a fight on the battlefield, to think that he could actually live without Sylvain. “I don’t deserve this,” he manages. 

Sylvain doesn’t pull away. He caresses his cheek with a soft thumb, his lips spreading into a smile. “Felix, you deserve the world. That’s why I left-- the entire reason. You refused to carve a path for us, so I did instead.”

Felix throws all caution out the window, pressing a hand to the back of Sylvain’s head and pulling him closer. He presses their lips together, his other hand tightening its grip on the other man’s shirt. It’s their real first kiss, not a peck on the cheek or head, but an honest to Goddess kiss. Sylvain is surprised, but he falls into it, a hand slipping to the back of Felix’s neck.

“Stupid,” Felix whispers against his lips. “You should have said something.” 

“Yeah, I can be pretty dumb,” Sylvain admits. “But you can be as well. How long Felix? You said that you were angry that I left you behind but--”

“Forever, you dolt." Felix, for once, isn't embarrassed by the words. Sylvain looks at him like he’s just given him the entire world, and his chest just fills with this warmth. Felix presses his hands against Sylvain’s chest, pushing him back. Sylvain follows, resting against the headboard, his pillow propped against his lower back.

“For as long as I can remember,” Felix continues, sliding up along Sylvain’s body, arranging his legs on either side of the other man’s thighs. This is dangerous territory now, Felix can tell. Sylvain’s breathing has caught, his hands finding Felix’s hips, squeezing gently. Wanting to pull his hips forwards, just a little bit closer. He doesn’t though, settling for gripping at Felix tightly.

Felix drags his hand up to the linen shirt Sylvain wears. It’s open around the neck, falling loose and showing off his collarbone. His fingers run the length of it gently. “I’ve dreamt of this,” he says to Sylvain, “of you below me like this.” He’s dreamt about this man underneath him, in the throes of passion, wanting him. It’s been a pathetic five years for him, with only his memories and his hand to accompany him.

Sylvain looks like he’s on fire, like he wants to eat him alive, and Felix thrives on it. 

“Felix, you don’t have to--”

“I want to,” Felix interrupts, pulling back slightly to catch the edge of his own shirt in his fingers. “Idiot,” he adds as a punctuation. But then there’s that fear again, that hesitation, and he can’t stop the words before they leave his mouth. “Unless you don’t--”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Sylvain cuts in. “Goddess, Felix, as if I couldn’t want you.”

Felix hesitates, before pulling his shirt over his head, throwing it to the side. Sylvain follows suit, but then pauses, his hands halting. “I can-- I can keep the shirt on,” he says quietly. “If you’d prefer.” 

Felix’s gaze falls to his chest, confused, as his hand slides along Sylvain’s abs. 

“There’s a scar,” Sylvain murmurs. “It’s healed well enough, but it’s uh… It’s not exactly handsome.”

“Sylvain, I have terrible scars as well. It doesn’t--”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Sylvain sighs, thumbing at Felix’s hip bone. “I mean from… you.”

Oh. Oh. It hits him at once, that Sylvian's worried about him. It's evident there, in his concerned gaze, the way that his thumb runs circles into the skin near his waist. 

"I cannot run--" Felix cuts himself off. "I will not run away," he finishes. He rucks the shirt up Sylvain's chest, ghosting his fingers over his golden skin and old scars. Up his chest to his heart and--

It's a nasty scar, still pink with freshly healed skin. Puckered and jagged at the edge, showing how Felix had stabbed him with shaking hands and immediate regret. His fingertips smooth over it. "This is a part of you know," Felix says, his voice suddenly hoarse. Then he leans over, pressing his lips to it in a gentle kiss. "It's a part of me as well."

And then his tongue snaked out, licking over the ridges of the scar. He felt Sylvain shift under him, his breath hitching as his hands found his hair, yanking-- 

Felix smirked against his skin, pressing one more kiss to it, before leaning back to pull off the shirt entirely. Sylvain helps, pulling away from the headboard, frantically trying to pull the linen away. 

"Easy," Felix tells him, running his hands back down Sylvain's sides, taking in the hard muscles there. "I'm not going anywhere." A pause. “You aren’t going anywhere. We have plenty of time.”

“Felix,” Sylvain says, sliding his hands from his hips, dragging them down his thighs, squeezing and-- “You’re killing me here.”

“I’ve already done that.” The joke feels strange on his tongue, but Sylvain cracks a smile. 

“Yeah, well, at least I’ll die happy this time.”

Felix hums. “That depends on what you’re expecting.” His fingers drag along the waistband of Slyvain’s sleeping pants, hooking just barely into it. “Come on Sylvain, use your words.”

Sylvain’s moves to grab him by the hips once more, pulling them down, forwards, closer and oh-- He’s already hard against him, and Felix’s cheeks burn at the idea, but he can’t pull his hips away from that delicious friction. 

Felix rolls his hips forwards again, but stops just short of where they both really want him. “Felix--” Sylvain starts, but his words come out strangled when he feels Felix lean over to press his lips against his throat. 

“Better,” he whispers against the skin there. “But not enough.”

“Felix.” 

Felix smiles against him, kissing the length of his neck, his tongue snaking out along the softness there. His hand is bolder though. “Tell me,” Felix says. He pulls his hips back, his fingers brushing across the top of the bulge in Sylvain’s pants. “Beg for it.”

“Fe, please.” 

It’s delicious, Felix thinks, that broken tone of his. It’s better than anything dreamt up, more so than he has ever imagined. Sylvain, pink in the cheeks and breaths already heavy, hard under his hand and--

If Felix has any doubts whether or not Sylvain actually wants him, they’ve flown right out the window. He knows that Sylvain won’t bare himself like this for anyone else. 

He palms Sylvain’s cock through his pants and the man keens under his touch, his head falling back against the headboard with a thud. Felix presses harder, his fingers cupping him, squeezing lightly and--

Sylvain’s already grabbing him, already pulling his hand away. 

“So soon,” Felix chides. 

“No, no, but Goddess get these pants off of me.” Felix doesn’t move, only squeezes him again, and Sylvain bucks against his hand. “Fuck-- Please,” the man grits out, and Felix smiles at him. 

He pulls off of him, and Sylvain manages to get his pants to his knees, before Felix has his hands on him. Thick and long, perfect against his hand-- Felix drags a finger along the side of Sylvain’s cock. The sound that rips from the man flows through Felix, settling low in the pit of his stomach. 

He grips him tighter, fingers wrapped around him. Up and down, pulling at his skin, twisting around the crown and spreading the moisture there. Sylvain’s eyes are closed and his face red, as he surrenders to the touch. His hips buck into his grip and Felix let’s go. 

Sylvain is immediately alert, eyes open and frantic when he meets Felix’s gaze. And then they see where Felix’s fingers are hooked into his own pants. 

Felix pauses, slipping his fingers just under the waistband, trailing along the dusting of hair underneath his bellybutton. Sylvain just stares dumbly, his eyes wide and bright. “What is it?” Felix asks, teasing him. 

“That’s… that’s my shirt,” Sylvain replies dumbly. 

Felix looks down at the garment, a grey cotton shirt that’s far too big on him. He scalped it from Sylvain in their school days. “Oh this old thing?” Felix finally replies, bringing a sleeve to his face, rubbing it along his cheek. “You know, the things I used to do with it-- It’s kept me a lot of company, over the years. Rutting into it was sometimes a better alternative to my hand-- but it was always with you on my mind--”

“I must be in Heaven,” Sylvain murmurs. “Or actually, this is hell. There’s no way you’d actually admit to something like that.”

Felix decides to leave the shirt on. He slides his pants off smoothly, throwing them to the side, and then he’s over Sylvain again, slotting their hips together. Sylvain’s cock is hard and heavy against him, and Felix can’t resist a slow grind, skin already slick with sweat. 

Then he reaches between them, only for Sylvain to bat his hand away. “I want to,” he says, his fingers pressing against the base of Felix. “Goddess, please I--” But Felix only laughs, pulling his own hand away. 

Sylvain swallows and licks his hand indelicately, before pressing their lengths together. It’s Felix’s turn to moan. Sylvain’s hand wraps around the both of them, wide and warm, and calloused and fucking perfect and-- 

“Sylvain,” he moans, rutting into the grip, trying to get more friction. 

The other man tightens his grip, sliding his hand up and down, squeezing at their bases. Rolling his wrist near the top, collecting the precome, spreading it wide with his palms. Felix’s hand joins him, squeezing tighter, moving faster, trying to set a more frantic pace.

Sylvain thrusts into the tight grip, his thighs tensing underneath Felix. The moan that rips from his throat is worth one thousand deaths, Felix thinks. Sylvain is worth one thousand deaths. He would die for this man, and he would do so over and over and over again because--

“I love you.” 

Sylvain pauses the motion, staring back up at him with wonder, and it takes Felix a moment to realize what exactly had slipped from his mouth. 

“Fe--”"

"Goddess, I love you," Felix repeats. He grips Sylvain's hand around their cocks again, his other threading their fingers together. "And look at you under me, perfect and all mine. Always mine. Forever mine." 

Sylvain works a slower rhythm and Felix chases his hand with his hips, pressing into his fingers frantically. 

"Again, please," Sylvain begs.

Felix says it again, because he can't deny this stupid man anything. Sylvain's hips thrust faster, his hand gripping tighter as Felix holds on. Their other hands are clenched and finally, Sylvain throws his head back, tumbling over that edge. 

His come is warm and slick, and Felix ruts into the grip several more times before following, pressing his sweaty forehead into the crook of Sylvain's neck.

Sylvain's stomach is a mess. Felix pulls away long enough to pull his shirt off, wiping him clean.

"That…" Sylvain pauses, breathing like he's run the length of a battlefield. "Felix, there aren't words to describe that."

"Are you saying that I've fucked you speechless?" 

Felix is only teasing, but then Sylvain smirks. "Oh darling, you haven't fucked me yet. That was just a teaser."

Felix turns into a red and sputtering mess, pushing away from the other man. Sylvain laughs, pulling him back closer. "I'm only teasing." Felix allows himself to be pulled flesh with him, Sylvain pressed against his back. "Except for the fucking me part. That can happily be arranged."

"Insatiable," Felix half-snarls, but it lacks heat. 

Sylvain hums in response, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. "Only for you."

"Idiot."

"Right back at you." The banter is so… primary school, but it brings immense comfort. Sylvain can tell that he's thinking though, because he asks, "Feel better?" 

"I--" Well, anyone would, after a performance like that. There's no use in denying it. "Yes." Sylvain hums at that, noting along the soft skin of his neck. 

"It will take… awhile, for things to get better," Felix says into the quiet room. 

"I know Fe. But I'm not going anywhere. I'm here to stay." 

Felix tries not to cry at his words, really he does. He's done a lot of terrible things in his life he doesn't deserve this but-- Well, Sylvain does, at least. 

Felix turns around, pressing his cheek against Sylvains chest. The other man runs soothing circles into his back, murmuring words of endearment. 

Yeah, he doesn't deserve this, but maybe one day he will. 

…

It’s weird to think that her bloodline will end with her. 

It’s not a bother. It doesn’t keep her up at night. She doesn’t need her own children, she already has plenty. She keeps a watchful eye over dozens of them, and her orphanage is a refuge for an ever growing number of bedraggled  bodies that roam in off of the street. 

But still, it’s a weird thought. 

It’s also weird to think that it will be the same for the houses of Gautier and Fraldarius. Felix has never cared much for his own blood, but Sylvain was raised to do so. And even if he still brushes it off to this day, he cares, he will always care-- just a little bit. That part of his life has brought him too much pain and loss. 

It’s impossible to separate from it. 

But-- But-- The fire is warm, and the room is cozy, and there she sits with a soothing pot of tea--

“Ugh, Bergamot?” Felix sounds positively offended. His voice is quiet, but still holds the sharpness he’s so well known for. Even if it’s been softened around the edges a little bit. He looks older, the circles under his eyes cut deeper. His hair is long enough to hang over one shoulder, loosely braided. The silver that streaks through it, sparkles in the firelight.  

“What did you expect?” Sylvain scoffs. “Holiday tree needles?” Time has been better to him. There are wrinkles and crow's feet, but he looks largely the same, aside from his short-cropped hair and generally tired disposition. 

“Almyra Pine Needles are a perfect brew, and--” 

“The only places those leaves belong, are on a Yule tree. Preferably with presents underneath it--” 

Felix launches himself from the other end of the settee, swatting at Sylvain. The red-head yelps with supreme exaggeration. “Mercie,” he cries. “Tell him-- tell him that he’s wrong.” The words come out in a rush, because he’s laughing as Felix swats at him again.

Mercedes feels the smile spread that spreads across her lips, deep in her bones. “Now, now, the both of you know that I prefer fruity blends-- which is precisely what I’m brewing. Behave, or I’ll leave before we even get to enjoy our visit.”

Both of the men pause their teasing, but Felix is the first to sit back down. Business as always; some things never change. It’s not far to their estate in the north, but it’s far enough to be inconvenient. Mercedes doesn’t get the chance to visit nearly enough.

Sylvain tugs at his collar slightly, but he practically glows. “Behave is my middle name.”

At that, Felix scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. But then he leans against the arm of the furniture, pressing one his feet into Sylvain’s side, and the red-head yelps, jumping. “Fucking Goddess-- your feet are like ice.”

“‘Behave is your middle name’,” Felix taunts, but his voice is smooth and amused. Endearing. It’s an amazing look for him, a brilliant way that he holds himself and Mercedes feels blessed to watch it. And despite the decades that have passed, he looks younger than she’s ever seen him.

Sylvain laughs though, pulling that foot into his lap, kneading the arch of it. Felix relaxes, practically melting against the soft fabric of the couch. Mercedes has never seen him relax, she’s never seen him just drop his guard like that and--

Really, these boys. Time has done them well, and she cannot believe that she’s privy to seeing them like this. Content. Happy. In love. 

It’s hard to think that there was a time that Sylvain was dead, and that there was a choice that had to be made. Often she thinks of what might have happened if she had refused. Where would Felix be then?

Dead as well. He would have never left that battlefield, and that’s a fact, not an opinion. 

No, this is far better; it’s everything that she could have ever hoped for. 

They fall into a comfortable silence, as she pours out a cup for each of them. Sylvain likes fruit blends, even if he pretends not to. Felix despises them, but will drink it without complaint. He doesn’t disappoint, sipping at the cup with little issue. 

“And so,” she says quietly. 

“And so,” Sylvain parrots. 

“I think I might have found a match.”

Felix drops the cup in his hand almost immediately. It hits the parlor table, smashing into dozens of pieces. He doesn’t even care about the spilled tea. “What--”

“I know it’s not what I came here for, but--”

“A match,” Sylvain repeats quietly. Felix is sitting up straight again, both feet flat on the cold stone floor of their sitting room. He reaches out, pressing a hand to his husband’s leg, trying to ground him. 

“I know it’s sudden,” Mercedes says. “I know that you just wrote to me about this barely a few months ago but--”

“What makes you think that we’re suited?” Felix asks. Sylvain is still quiet, his adam’s apple bobbing as his disposition turns severe. It’s rare to see him look so serious, but it’s a sight to behold. And probably something he picked up from Felix. 

“He’s older than the others. Rough around the edges, but educated. He can read and write. He’s run away from home. Something about expectations and bloodlines and crests. I think you know why.” 

Despite a United Fodlan front, under the careful guise of Byleth, there were still traditionalists. They clung to those old ideals, the ones that most saw as long-lost and outdated. The ones that Sylvain and Felix stand against, just by their relationship alone, and the combination of their lands. They’ve worked so hard to get to where they are.

Mercedes wonders if it’s cruel, to bring it up.

She watches Sylvain swallow thickly. “He.” 

She nods. “He’s ten. Good kid though. He’s been settling in well, and he helps the younger ones--”

But she already sees the look on his face, lit up with wonder. Felix sees it too, because he’s already leaning forward, a warning already tumbling from his lips. “Sylvain--”

“Felix,” Sylvain practically croaks. And he reaches out and takes Felix’s hands, and that’s all it takes for the man to crumble. 

The Felix of a war-time gone past would absolutely hate himself at such a pitiful display. Mercedes loves it, she loves them. She loves to watch them, it will never get old, knowing that she’s given them this chance. 

And now, there is this boy. 

“What’s the boy’s name,” Felix asks. There’s a scowl on his face, but Mercedes has learned over the years that every scowl is in fact, different. Loving. Annoyed. Exasperated. This one is Tender, and he fingers at Sylvain’s palms with a nervousness usually found in someone like Annette. 

“Spero,” Mercedes says. “He’s of a minor house I believe, but he won’t tell me which one--”

She doesn’t even finish, when Sylvain interrupts. “Spero Fraldarius-Gautier,” he tests. 

“We haven’t even met the kid yet, and you’re already dreaming,” Felix hisses. But he’s hopeful too. This is something they both want. They’ve discussed it at length with her, even if it’s taken them a long time to get to the point of seriously considering it. 

“Well he wants to meet you,” she says. Both men freeze, looking toward her. “He’s got the beginnings of sword training,” she continues. And then she turns to Felix alone. “And of course he’s heard of you, everyone’s heard of you. You’re somewhat his hero.” 

“He’s perfect,” Felix immediately says, and that causes Sylvain to finally gather himself, bursting into laughter. Felix levels him with a half-hearted glare. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Sylvain swears. “You just never disappoint you know. You’re always so… you.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Why would you think that it is?

Felix shifts on the settee, turning towards his husband. “Because you’re so--”

“Hey remember that time that you killed me?” 

“Fuck off, Sylvain,” Felix hisses. “I’ve done it once, I’ll do it again--”

“How convenient. Mercie is right there to fix your mistake then, Goddess knows you make enough of them.”

They’re arguing again, they always argue, but it’s not like the old days where it was nothing but hard jabs and heated words of anger. This is lighthearted and teasing. It’s entertaining. It’s love. 

“Do you think this is a mistake?” Felix asks quietly. “Thinking about raising a kid?”

“Of course not,” Sylvain says, squeezing the other man’s hands. Sylvain leans forward, pressing a kiss against Felix’s forehead, before resting his own against it. “Nothing has ever been a mistake with you.”

It’s almost like they’ve forgotten she’s there, the moment is so tender. 

Felix struggles with this, even now. Even with all their joking and everything they’ve overcome-- he will always struggle with this. And she’ll always see him, on the muddy battlefield and a very dead Sylvain, begging for her to fix it, to fix his mistake. 

She’s never told him this, or Sylvain, but she almost didn’t. 

There was a very small moment, where she remembered her loyalty to Dimitri and their cause, and she very nearly turned on her heel and walked away. 

She’s ever so glad she didn’t, because she would forever have hated herself. She’s absolutely convinced that she chose the Goddess’ will. 

“Well arrange something then,” she finally says. “But I’m sure that it will all work out. It always has for the two of you.”

Sylvain starts at that. “Mercie--”

But she holds her hand out and he stops. “None of that,” she says happily. 

Her bloodline will end with her. And Sylvain’s with his. And Felix’s as well. But they aren’t losing, they’re winning-- they can forge a new future, with new blood. A family that is truly of their own making. This wasn’t a future that could have ever been realized, with a mad boar on the throne. She likes to think that the real Dimitri, the one that Sylvain and Felix had grown up with-- would have preferred this. 

She wonders if fate exists. No, she knows that it does.

Mercedes watches as Sylvain leans forward, trying to press a kiss to Felix. The shorter man shoves his hand out against his face, pushing at his cheek, using what could be seen as excessive force. But his cheeks burn red, and it’s only that he’s too embarrassed to indulge around her. Sylvain retaliates by leaning his entire weight on the man instead. 

Mercedes leaves her seat to pick up the broken shards of the teacup from earlier. She blots at the wet floor with her shawl. 

She’s tried again, over the years. She’s tried to bring other people back from the dead, but she could never manage it. Only twice, only with these two stupid, dearly beloved boys. After that, her miracles faded away into obscurity. 

Both of the men have fallen silent, and she turns, only to find that Felix has finally accepted the kiss. He’s muttering what sounds like stupid, and idiot and oaf against Sylvain’s lips, and the red-head laughs. There isn’t a more perfect picture, she thinks. Not a single more perfect moment.

That is, until Felix smiles.

[geeky-introvert]

Heathens Touch . Hvitserk X OC

Summary: Heahmund wasn’t the only Christian taken prisoner; his daughter was the second alongside him, another great warrior that Hvitserk took an interest in....One-shot.

Word count: 4000

Warning: Violence, light swearing, slight dub-con with smut.

Tag List: @lisinfleur @mdlady @didiintheblog @alicedopey @lupy22 @rekdreams247 @mblaqgi @oddsnendsfanfics @aphnxrising​ @happydaysandersen​ @therealcalicali​ @naaladareia​ @inforapound​ @captstefanbrandt​ @waiting4inspiration @tabalugax @p8tn0lish

If anyone else wants to be added to the tag list let me know please.

Maria knew very well that the women back home didn’t fight. It wasn’t god’s way, it was spoken so highly that women like her were dishonored and abandoned by god. Her father, Heahmund, was the bishop that people all admired and he was the only one that accepted his own daughter wanted to fight like a warrior.

Heahmund fell on love with a woman impersonating a man. He had discovered her secret when she was bathing in a river. He promised to keep her secret because she fought just as well as he did. No one ever found out. They married and had their beautiful daughter, Maria, which unfortunately cost the life of her mother’s.

She loved her father more than anything; he was her inspiration to become what she was now. He sacrificed so much to raise her and achieved more over the years. Even though so many people disapproved of a woman fighting among men, her father was always at her side supporting and training her to become what no one could believe in. A miracle, he would call it.

On that day they had planned in taking back York that the Heathen’s had invaded but it was sighted by a scout that they had left. It was too good to be true but once they had arrived the town was cleared out with what looked like bodies had been burned and everyone thought it was over. Her father looked concerned because of the rats; so many rats were running around their feet like something had frightened them. She tried not to worry too much like him and celebrate with everyone else.

She told herself from the start that something wasn’t right, and she should’ve listened.

It was a trap. The heathen’s climbed out from the tunnels below created by the romans and attacked them by surprise. She fought against them with force and brutality, slashing and blocking at their attacks against her before she overpowered them. It had been a while since she had a good fight and let out a yell as she ran towards another.

He was quick, and well trained against her attacks. She watched him stumble back after she threw her fist at his face and took a good look at her with everyone else fighting around them.

Hvitserk was a little surprised. She was the first Christian woman he had seen in battle and wanted to know her story. A wide grin plastered over his face and charged at her with a predatory growl.

It felt like hours as they fought one another and she felt herself growing weaker while he seemed to be fine like the fight had been nothing for him. She hated losing and feeling her tiredness only made her angrier. He continued to grin at her as she knelt in the mud trying to catch her breathe. With as much strength she could pull she launched at him with a solid swing from her sword. He was caught off guard by her sudden strength but knocked her back once more on the mud and kicked her sword aside, which prevented her from defending herself.

The heathen’s had won the battle that day.

Since the two started fighting she knew he wasn’t going to kill her, but that didn’t stop her from fighting against his vice grip as he dragged her to where the heathen’s were gathered. She saw her father was captured just like her. Hvitserk dragged her to the front and presented her to their leader, Ivar. She only spat at him which made everyone laugh, including Ivar.

Her father was given the worst treatment since he was a prisoner and was left chained up outside in the rain and mud with nothing to eat or drink. Ivar wanted him at his weakest. She expected the same treatment, however that never happened.

She didn’t understand their language but knew Hvitserk had argued with Ivar about something, and she suspected it was about her. She was tied up on the floor but she was where the heathen’s were feasting. Ivar crawled towards her with Hvitserk behind him, both with playful smiles lingering.

“Now, what is your name?” Ivar spoke the language well she thought.

“Maria.” She answered lowly.

“Pretty name.” He licked his lips and she recoiled back. “You are the first Christian women we have seen fighting. You fight well, according to my brother. Tell me, what’s the bishop to you? He seems rather concerned about you.”

“He’s my father, Heathen.” She spat what he was but he only found it amusing.

“I think you’ll fit right in with us, Christian.” He then crawled away back where he came from.

Hvitserk knelt down at her side and observed her like some sort of trophy, which she was. He brushed the back of his finger along her cheek and she flinched away from his touch. She glared at him while he gave a strangle smile.

“Maria.” That was the first thing he said to her.

She could only narrow her eyes at him before he stood up and left her alone. It wouldn’t be the last time she saw him. So, in her own time, she prayed.

Being in the strange new land was a different experience, and oddly Maria was intrigued. The women in their lands held so much more power and found it fascinating. She tried not to let it distract her, because there were far more important things, like being a prisoner.

Ivar had brought them back to a king’s home. Harald Fairhair they called him. No one else spoke the Saxon’s language besides Ivar and Hvitserk.

She was left under Hvitserk’s wing which at first she found to be a horrible punishment. She despised him for as long as she could and ignored all his bothering questions, however in the end she caved, for reasons she wasn’t even sure herself.

He wanted to know everything about her and not just for information to keep against her but he was genially interested. She found it a little amusing since he acted like a little boy again and felt a small smile appear on her. Then she asked him things, about himself and their culture, and eventually she asked about their gods which did surprise her wanting to know, but she felt it would be interesting.

It didn’t change her belief. But she did learn a lot from him.

Ivar had allowed her to speak with her father a few times during their capture and he thanked the lord that she was unharmed. He told her about Ivar’s offer and she said to agree to it, because that meant it was a better chance for them going home. He said he’d need to think about it, but told her to be strong and that he loved her.

When the time came, her father proved himself by killing another heathen which Ivar highly approved. They were to go to war against other heathen’s, and when that was over they could maybe find a way back home.

When the day came though, Ivar wouldn’t allow her to come.

“Why not? I can fight, probably better than most of your men.” She argued.

“Oh, Hvitserk has already made that clear to me, but I do not trust you. I can’t have you running off now during battle, can I? You’ll remain behind and that’s the end of it.”

She hated it. But there was nothing she could do.

“I’m sorry, Maria.” Her father came up from behind and brought her in for a hug, the only comfort she’s had in a long time. “I will return.”

“I’ll pray for your safe return. May god be with you, father.”

“And you, my fierce warrior.” She managed a smirk at his comment.

Days went by.

When she heard the horns she knew the ships had returned. She had squeezed passed people to meet her father on the docks only to be met with a dreadful scene. People were screaming in pain, limps missing and bloodied all over. Families waited for their loved ones but many didn’t return from the battle they lost. Looking around her she frantically looked for her farther but couldn’t see him, then tried looking for a familiar face and ask what happened. When this failed she went to the only place she could think of where Hvitserk would be, if he survived.

She entered the great hall and felt a strange relief when she saw Hvitserk without a scratch on him. He saw her enter and stood up like he expected a welcome back embrace.

“Where’s my father?”

Ivar laid down on a bench staring up at the ceiling like he was lost in thought. He didn’t answer her at first, like he was pondering on how to answer her question.

“He is dead.”

The shock made her numb. “You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie? He died in battle, it’s that simple.” He didn’t care.

It was hard to believe that someone so important to her wasn’t coming back. She felt like she lost her place and purpose in life, it was just something she thought not possible. Her father was one of the best warriors, and suddenly he was gone.

She only continued to stare at him in fear and anger, conflicted between hating him and crying out of grief. When she didn’t answer he looked over at her with a smirk.

“We live and we die, it happens. In the next battle you’ll fight for me in honour of your father.”

“What makes you think I’ll fight for you?” She was angry, both the brothers knew that.

“Anger is a completely natural emotion. Death may seem cruel and unfair, but you’ll come around eventually. Besides, you don’t have a choice. You’re still my prisoner and you’ll do as I say.”

“Fuck you.” The insult surprised them until Ivar let out a humours chuckle. Ivar then sat up straight from the bench.

“Such bold word’s from a Christian. Maria, your father is dead and you won’t be returning to you lands anytime soon. What do you have left to lose?”

With the dagger she had hidden she lunged forward letting out a growl and prepared to stab him. Hvitserk was too quick for her and managed to hold her back away from his brother as she struggled in his tight grip. She could only kick her legs furiously and struggle more until he squeezed her hand so tight that she was forced to let go of the dagger. The tears finally came and felt herself sag against Hvitserk’s chest as her emotions finally caved. Behind her she heard the soft hushing coming from him and it sent another strange comforting feel through her.

“That wasn’t a smart move.” Ivar’s words were toxic. “Perhaps I should invite the remaining of my warriors in here and let everyone of them have a good rut around with you. Would you like that? Hmm?” She knew his threat was real and only shook her head silently. “No? I suggest you start behaving now that your daddy isn’t here. Hvitserk, keep her under control. You’re the reason she’s still alive so she’s your responsibility. Now get her out of my sight.”

Hvitserk had taken her back to his room where he left her alone until the night fall upon them. She remained on the bed the entire time, curled up in a ball and cried hard until there was nothing left. Prayer after prayer she asked god for the safe return of her father but it turned out god didn’t want him returning.

She felt like she was being punished for what she was, that perhaps being a warrior wasn’t the way to go, and to be a lady like everyone had always wanted. There was nothing else in life that mattered anymore to her. She felt empty, lonely, the grief only hurt more to longer she was alone in the room.

Hvitserk entered with a plate of food and ale for her and set it beside the bed for her. She only glanced at him as he strolled over to the small basin full of water before she dug into the food and downed the ale.

She glanced up once more only to freeze her chewing when he removed his tunic and shirt and she got a good view of his toned back. Maria cursed herself for thinking such sins, it was wrong.

For a moment she didn’t realise that she had been staring until he turned to face her with his braids out. She quickly looked back down at her plate of food and finished the remaining left overs, but she knew he was smirking.

“Like what you see?” She ignored him. “Not talking now?” He took the plate and cup from her and set it aside before he sat down on the furs covering the bed. “It was a stupid move to attack Ivar like that. He could’ve killed you right there. Ivar isn’t one to be taunted, you’re just lucky I stopped you.” It was like he was sculling her like a child and felt her face heat up in embarrassment.

“What did Ivar mean? When he said you’re the reason I’m still alive, what did he mean?” She had to know.

“It means how it sounds. I asked Ivar to not have you killed back in York, and he said only if I kept you out of trouble.” He explained but it made no sense to her still.

“Why? I thought I was alive because of my father.” To mention of him still hurt her broken hurt.

“No, Ivar didn’t care about that.” He scooted closer, too close for her liking but remained in the same spot. “When we fought I admired your strength, and your beauty, all of that was memorising.” She furrowed her brows at him.

“I don’t understand why you’re saying this.”

He didn’t answer her. Instead he touched her face with his hand. The first time he did that she flinched, and other times he tried she would either bat his hand and move out from his reach. This time she didn’t flinch or move and let his coarse hand touch her smooth cheek. What she then realised was he was leaning closer to her and she tried keeping the distance. All she only managed to do was lie down against the furs and have him straddle over her trembling body.

“What are you doing?” She started to panic a little as his face grew closer to her. The sudden realisation of what he wanted hit her.

“What I’ve wanted to do since the moment I saw you.”

He kissed her forcefully, moaning at the contact, and had her pinned against the bed as she struggled against him.

“Hvitserk stop!” She tried to push him off and when that failed she tried pleading him out of fear or thinking clearly. “Please I’ve never….” The shame lingered too long and he noticed, but he wasn’t surprised, her being a Christian with their beliefs.

“I know.” He showed no motives to stop and continued to kiss and nip her neck while listening to her frustrated sounds.

She hated how her body was reacting to his kisses. ‘Lord, forgive me.’

She hated the moan she made which made him smirk against her skin.

She hated how weak she felt against his hold and felt like a mouse trapped under the claws of a cat.

His hand travelled down and started to carefully lift the shift of her dress up over her knee and thigh. Maria jerked under the foreign touch and a weak whimper left her over how helpless she felt.

“Why are you doing this?” It was her final plea.

“Because it’s meant to happen, don’t be afraid.”

He didn’t stop his motives but he did kiss her lips again, more tenderly, and even managed to invade his tongue in her own mouth, tasting each other. It was strangely pleasant to her, the taste of him wasn’t what she expected and found herself kissing back.

‘Lord, forgive me.’ She gave one final silent prayer before falling under his spell.

Hvitserk let go of her wrists and smirked when she wrapped them over his back with hesitance, the feeling of her accepting his touch almost drove him over the edge. He broke the deep kiss and looked down at her out of breath before he gave a quick peak and scooted his way down. She looked down hesitantly and watched his head disappear under her skirts.

Maria had never felt something as sensational as she threw her head back against the furs as she felt his warm tongue rolling over her folds. It should’ve been wrong, but couldn’t bring herself to think like that anymore, being way too distracted by Hvitserk kissing her womanhood.

The pleasure was slowly building and couldn’t figure out how it was so sinful. The growing pleasure rose as she started to move her hips against his moving tongue against her whiling a small pleasure gasps escaped her. His tongue dipped into her tight entrance and she reached down to grasp at his loose hair followed by a surprised moan. He did it again, and again, lapping at her juices before he pulled away fully. She winced at the loss.

He stood up and helped her stand with him. Her legs felt weak under her weight and looked at him unsure what he was doing. It was answered when he started to slip the dress off from her shoulders and pull them down until it pooled at her feet. She reacted by covering herself and avoided his gaze, but that meant nothing to him.

“Don’t be shy. I want to see your beauty.” He moved her hands away and admired her breasts with his lingering gaze.

He bit his lips at the sight of her and touched her mounds with a gentle grasp.

Maria tried telling herself that she was a fighter and should be stronger than she already felt. Even the loss of her father wasn’t enough to distract her. It was like it had to happen. They had to have sex.

He gently pushed her back on the bed and kept their eyes together as he tugged his trousers off and kicked them aside. Her face burned knowing he was fully naked in her view but didn’t look at his already hardened cock.

Slowly he crawled over her once more and pulled her up more along the bed so they weren’t hanging over the edge. A small whimper left her when his hand once again travelled down between them and rubbed her wet folds. She closed her eyes and tried to relax under his touch before she felt another pressure of his finger being inserted into her tight entrance.

“Shhhh,” he cooed her softly when she winced a little under his probing.

She didn’t know what to do but he did, and so she allowed it to happen, knowing she wouldn’t be able to stop it now they had come this far. A second finger joined the first and she hissed as she felt herself being stretched by his thick fingers. It was strange, and hurt a little, but when he started to finger fuck her entrance she welcomed the new sensation building up in her belly.

His lips suckled at her nipples for a bit, teasing them with small tugs and biting her softly earning surprised moans from her.

“How does it feel?” He asked knowingly.

“I-it feels different.” She didn’t know how to answer him.

“Are you in pain?”

“Not really?” Again, she wasn’t sure how to answer.

His fingers were gone and he kissed her passionately as he shifted himself between her thighs. She felt his hardness and prepared herself mentality for what was to come. The kiss was a good distraction which allowed him to tease her opening before thrusting himself into her, taking her virtue and burring himself into her depths.

The burning pain lingered and she couldn’t stop herself from crying out softly while she dug her nails into his back. It was done. There was no going back. His growling vibrated against her ear which made her shiver under him. He remained still, allowing her to adjust to his size to planted tender kisses over her face and neck. The jester was comforting and she wanted to feel the same pleasure not long ago again.

After a moment he moved his hips a little against her to see her reaction. There was another low hiss but after he did the same motion again she let out a low moan as she felt herself clench around his throbbing cock.

He started off slow with gentle thrusts and burring himself deep letting out low groans into her ear. The pain dulled into numbness as the tingles of pleasure started to spark. She couldn’t deny it anymore, it was too much, and she let out a pleasured moan loudly into the room.

“Fuck…Maria, oh fuck.” His words were snarled almost deadly as he started to build up his thrusting, grunting at each thrust he gave from his hips.

“Hvitserk…” She moaned his name and wrapped herself around his rocking body.

His cock brushed against her tender walls and bottomed out making her groan at the contact. Their sweaty bodies entwined together as his thrusts grew heavier, so much so the bed creaked under them which oddly added the sensation.

The grip he had over her hips grew tighter and slammed himself into her repeatedly showing no mercy, and she didn’t want it. She craved every moment of their wild coupling. His balls slapped her rear over and over again and she dug her finger nails into his rear earning a low hiss from him. No more talk was needed, but it was about to come to an end for them.

Hvitserk roared out as he came and gave jerky thrusts in her as he filled her while she milked him. Soon she followed with a startled gasp and tightened her grip around him, enjoying it while it lasted.

It was later that both laid side by side against the furs catching their breaths while their bodies glittered in the candle lights. Maria honestly didn’t know how to feel, but knew everything changed. The moment she lost that fight against him she knew it would, it just took her so long to realise that. She stared at the ceiling lost in deep thought over what was going to happen after what had happened. There weren’t many choices for her, and felt safest with Hvitserk.

The whole time he had been with her he had made sure she was fed and left alone by others. Perhaps he cared, and deep down he had somehow found a small spot to settle for good within her.

She had made her mind up.

‘Lord, forgive me, Father, forgive me, I have sinned. But I loved every moment of it.’

“What are you thinking about?” His question brought her back from her thoughts.

“I don’t want to think anymore.” She rolled herself until she laid her head against his chest and welcomed the warmth from him.

He brought his arms around her and pulled her closer against him. It was everything he wanted, to have a beautiful strong shield-maiden in his arms and he never wanted to let her go.

She was his and he was hers.

[the-descension-inks]

Sojourn (Zutara Week 2020)

Summary: It's a strange fate that they have crafted for themselves; lines that don't quite meet, stars that circle each other, and stories that are almost written. (Or, glimpses into Zuko and Katara's lives, told in reverse, from the very end to the very beginning.)

[8/9] Affirm

The other woman lowers her eyes, lashes downcast, and oh. This isn’t about mind games, not at all. This is about something much simpler, much more basic, much more human.

Zuko, the man Nyh is about to marry, the man Nyh doesn’t even call by name, had been willing to sacrifice his life for Katara; a woman from the opposite end of the world, a woman who doesn’t even belong in this city, in this nation.

Her heart feels heavy again, as that realization washes over her. She understands what it must look like on the outside, like there’s some unspoken profundity to it all.

And the worst part is, there is, but also there isn’t.

Otherwise, why would she be where she is right now? Trying to quantify and measure out what their relationship is to an outsider who is going to become his wife.

Read the entire series here, and this chapter under the cut, or on AO3, or on FF.net.

115 AG

While Katara has always known the Fire Nation Royal Palace to be extraordinarily adorned, the way it lights up for the Fire Lord’s wedding still manages to knock all the air out of her lungs.

She strolls through the palace corridors, soaks in the red and the golden and the black, breathes in the scent of fire lilies that are being hung up on the walls, listens to the excited chattering of the maids as they gush about the Fire Lady to be, and wonders why her heart feels so heavy.

It’s a wedding for Tui’s sake, she tells herself. She shouldn’t be feeling like this.  

She rounds a corner, her own chamber barely ten steps away, when she sees her, right outside her own door.

Really, it could be anyone, but Katara knows. Knows it from the way her black hair flows down to her hips, the way the red robe sits on her, the way she holds herself; upright and proud.

Katara hasn’t even spoken to her, and yet she can feel the quiet trepidation seeping into her bones. The woman in front of her – Nyh, she’s heard – looks like royalty; in a way that she knows she never can.

“Master Katara?”  

It’s posed as a question, and Katara knows she has to reply, but all she can do is fumble. “That’s me,” she finally finds the right words, and plasters a smile on her face. “Lady Nyh, I presume.”

The woman – Nyh – laughs, and it’s a lovely kind of laugh. It’s measured, and reined in, of course, but it’s also somehow real; not superficial like those of most other noblewomen Katara has encountered before. It’s lovely, but only adds on to the inexplicable weight bearing her down.

“Just Nyh, please,” she beams.

Katara gives her another smile because she doesn’t know what else to do, and then: “Would you like to come in?”

“Thank you, that would be lovely.”

Katara pushes open the heavy wooden door, wonders if Nyh only talks in pleases and thank yous, if that is what a Fire Lady is supposed to do, and if that is what Zuko likes; wants.

And then she wonders why her heart feels heavier at that thought.

They make the low table that furnishes the room their own. Nyh sits perfectly, because of course she does, with hands clasped on the table, back held straight, and a smile on her lips.

“I hope this doesn’t feel odd, me turning up at your door the night before my wedding. I only thought it would be proper to introduce myself to the Fire Lord’s closest friends before it gets too busy with the festivities.”

It’s the words Fire Lord that make Katara shrivel. It sounds impersonal, horribly so, and confirms what she has known all along on some subconscious level. She dispels that thought, tries not to think of what Zuko is being pushed into.

“Absolutely not.” She manages her brightest smile, and maybe because she’s petty that way, or because she really wants to know: “I’d love to get to know the woman who has chosen to put up with Zuko for her entire life.”

And, that does it.

Nyh’s perfect persona finally cracks; the smile slips off her face, her hands fidget on the table, and there’s unrest across her otherwise measured features.

Something changes in Nyh’s voice, something that Katara can’t quite identify: “I don’t know how much he has told you but—”

Nothing because the war ended and suddenly we were fighting separate battles, sometimes against each other.

“—this isn’t really about my choice.”

She gets it, but she needs to know, full and proper: “I’m sorry?”

Nyh’s eyes narrow, and it’s almost condescending, and Katara wants to take offense but there’s a lot more at play here. “The Fire Nation needs heirs. I’m from a noble family. You just have to put two and two together, Master Katara.”

Oh, she has. And she hates it. She wonders what she can say to that, flounders and flails, and Nyh looks at her like she pities her, and that makes her blood boil, but—

“All of this is awful talk.” The horrible perfect smile is back on her face. There’s a pause, and then: “I’ve always thought waterbending is the most powerful bending form.”

Katara blinks, the sudden deviation unsettling her. “Oh?”

Nyh’s eyes gleam. “Why, yes, of course. I mean, I’m no bender but I’ve seen enough of them in my life. I think it’s quite magical that you can heal others with your powers.”

Katara considers her words, and finds a smile spreading across her lips. “It truly is. There’s nothing more important than that.”

Something flashes across Nyh’s eyes at that, and Katara wonders what’s coming next when: “You saved the Fire Lord’s life after he took a lightning bolt to his heart for you.”

The world seems to stop spinning for a second. Katara’s breath hitches, and she physically recoils, and has to do everything in her power to keep the expression on her face steady; unperturbed. Is this— is this why she was really here?

If she closes her eyes, she knows what she’ll see, and she’s too afraid.

Nyh looks at her with enough meaning in her eyes, and Katara begins to realize that the facade of perfection has slipped again. There’s a lot more to this woman than what meets the eye, a lot more than lovely laughs, or begrudging responses about choice.

Maybe she is not the only one who is trying to play games here, trying to get into the other’s mind.

“I did.”

The other woman lowers her eyes, lashes downcast, and oh. This isn’t about mind games, not at all. This is about something much simpler, much more basic, much more human.

Zuko, the man Nyh is about to marry, the man Nyh doesn’t even call by name, had been willing to sacrifice his life for Katara; a woman from the opposite end of the world, a woman who doesn’t even belong in this city, in this nation.

Her heart feels heavy again, as that realization washes over her. She understands what it must look like on the outside, like there’s some unspoken profundity to it all.

And the worst part is, there is, but also there isn’t.

Otherwise, why would she be where she is right now? Trying to quantify and measure out what their relationship is to an outsider who is going to become his wife.

“Zuko is a good man,” Katara finally wills herself to say.

Nyh’s eyes jerk up to meet hers, and she ignores the weight that keeps threatening to bury her. But this is important; if this is the woman who’s going to be by his side for the rest of his life, then she needs to know: “He is... brave and strong and kind. Sometimes impossibly so.” She shakes her head, a laugh bubbling out of her. “And, he just... he sees people. In a way nobody else wants to. In a way nobody else can.”

Nyh looks at her like she’s talking too much, and maybe she is, but she doesn’t particularly care. Her heart’s beating too fast in her chest, and she’s trying not to think of words exchanged in one corner of this palace years ago.

Katara blinks back the tears that prick at her eyes, worries her voice will break, but tells the other woman nevertheless, “I know you don’t know him very well now, but when you do, you’ll understand how lucky you are.”

Nyh meets her gaze, a strange sincerity in her voice: “I know he is a good man.” Something plummets deep inside Katara, and threatens to pull her down with it; she hates it. The other woman continues though, “I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t know he was. I care about my country, and I want things to change. For the better. And I want to be by the man who has done everything right ever since he was crowned.”

A sob threatens to escape her, but she holds it back.

She can picture it now. Nyh standing beside Zuko, leaders of their country, smiling at their people, people who adore them and admire them, and taking them towards a new world; a better world.

It’s perfect, it’s what she wants for him, and them, and yet all it does is bury her deeper and deeper underneath her own damn weight.

She breathes, tries to let it all go, but finds that it’s easier to hold on.

And, so she says instead: “I think you’re going to make an exceptional Fire Lady.”

.

.

.

A/N: I always meant for this to be as canon-compliant as possible, and that meant taking the comics into consideration (Mai leaving Zuko, the conflict at Yu Dao which kind of pitched Zuko against the others, amongst many other things.)

So yes, Zuko's wife was pretty much an OC, and I really liked writing her interaction with Katara.

Thank you for reading, and all the likes/reblogs!

@zutaraweek