#technically Crosshair X Reader but I don’t want to spoil

[a-lil-perspective]

Remember Me/Holding On (For Dear Life)

A/N: The Bad Batch X Reader. Playing around with a scenario where the Bad Batch removed their inhibitor chips with Echo, thus forfeiting executing Order: 66, and they go incognito in faking their deaths thereafter. Reader doesn’t know so it’s full of angst? All-around switching up my writing a bit with this one. Feedback is always appreciated. Technically is a Reader insert but I also switched up the pronouns a bit. [Warnings: Mourning over death of loved ones, subliminal implication of suicidal thought] @shadow-hyder @starflyer-104 @thegoodbatch @kriffingunlucky @karpasia @obiorbenkenobi @everyonehasanindividuality (Tag List is open.:))

{~***~}

Clone Force 99. The Bad Batch.

A Clone Force To Be Reckoned With.

A whirlwind of gray plastoid and flashing crimson accents. A brewing swirl of personalities and a tempest of skill, bleeding together seamlessly. Much like their bond. Brothers by blood, and brothers in arms. A camaraderie unprecedented, a stellar example of unorthodoxy. Their story begging, no—demanding to be told.

I’m not the right person to do so. You’d do well hearing it from the four warriors themselves.

But they aren’t here. They’re gone.

Not gone... I must correct. Merely marching far away.

No, marching is too straightforward and monotonous for them, too regulated and predictable; a disgrace and offense to their overall prowess—those insufferable, lovable di’kuts.

Not marching: Clone Force 99 is ‘charging-headfirst-into-no-doubt-a-suicidal-battle-comprised-of-an-equally-crazy-strategy’ far away.

Yeah. That’s more like it.

Accelerated aging. The untrained eye would’ve been none the wiser. The span of a decade accompanying, yet their demeanors depicted a thousand lifetimes. Fine lines etched into coarse and defined features, each one a new resolve for each man to fight for more than just existing.

They constantly challenged me to find a new angle. Something I couldn’t find solely through the scope of Crosshair’s rifle. They cut through and canceled stereotypes, combatant through even the thick resistance of daunt and demoralization: a resilience stronger than even the sharpest cut of Sergeant Hunter’s knife. Their oddities and wonderfully endearing peculiarities: fully embraced and secured in a grip stronger than even Wrecker’s large endow of muscle. The four men: definitively and unknowingly hacking into and through even the most incredulous beings by way of their efficiency and bond—an impressive capability that gave even the ingenious Tech a run for his credits.

Their aura of commandeering and confidence incited fear, evoked jealousy, or channeled respect. I’d like to point out from personal experience that it was absolutely possible to acknowledge the manifestation of all three reactions simultaneously. The Bad Batch had a peculiar way of affecting people; almost comical, when I think about it. Enough to nearly bring a smile to my face.

They say a person never leaves you. Maker, I’m hoping that might be true. What started so perfect was over too fast.

They boasted a ferocity, but a tenderness. Each member carried their armor a little differently, a little heavier than the other. When you unlatched and peeled away the protective encasing, therein was a raw vulnerability: humanity. A vulnerability, not a weakness. A strength. One of many the unique quartet possessed.

At their core: living, breathing, feeling, humans; ideal candidates concerning the way war tried to brutally strip them of that very individuality. But they protected as fiercely as they fought. They loved as passionately as they clung to their varieties of honed adeptness. Their loyalty and liberty was as explosive as the colorful destruction left incessantly imprinted throughout battlefields.

It’s borderline treasonous to say, that the Republic could’ve majorly benefitted from some propaganda courtesy of those four. Oh, how many times I tried to convince their stubborn and surprisingly bashful selves of the prospect—seriously, wouldn’t four handsome Commandos inspire you?

They seemed to think otherwise. Kriff. From the outside looking in, I would’ve enlisted in the militia the minute I saw those dark clad figures, shrouded in enigma and purpose, handsomely poised just above the text of some patriotic slogan that would’ve captivated me in a state of naivety and infatuation. Yes please. Sign me the hell up.

Not exactly how our first encounter went, but, not that far off, actually. The Sergeant of Clone Force 99 can could recall the story in great detail.

It hurts. I want to lift the pen and stop. But I press on.

On a more lighthearted notation: what you probably also didn’t know is that the boys kept a running bet. Gotta keep things lively when awaiting their next set of intel, right? Though more often than not, the four men each managed to singlehandedly work up the energy of a wild Loth-Cat, and of their own accord, impatiently and prematurely sprung into action; innately preferring to take charge whenever opportunities present. The indefinite cardholders, if you will: you play on their terms, or not at all—a subtle implication towards their fastidious and absolutely brilliant battle plans. Part of their aesthetic and reputation, you could say. I say with all affection: pure mischief, that bunch.

To their enemies: may you experience reverence and/or embarrassment in the 250+ fluent ways the Bad Batch could (or did) utterly kick your ass. In which case: may you rest in peace thereafter. Take that, shabuir.

Anyway, I digress; though not before the brief accredit of my improved fluency in the Mando’a dialect directed to the tutelage of Clone Force 99. Their methods define as unparalleled and most certainly, never present with redundancy.

Betting was limitless to the four, especially along the seemingly most insignificant points of interest: Who can find the best hiding spot for Hunter’s thieved bandana? Toss some credits in. How long will Tech go without sleep this time? Credits in the betting pool. How soon will Crosshair run out of his next batch of toothpicks? Bet.

As for me? I would’ve bet on us. We were untouchable. I always told them it’d take a whole damn army to drag me away.

Ironically, it took a half-dozen Clone Troopers to drag me away from the gravely man bearing news of their tragic fate.

I lost a part of me I’ll never find. But as sure as it is my obligation and desire to consistently—always— remember those men in everyday passing, it is more my duty to make certain their legacy is not lost. It’s my priority, the dedication of time and breath, to depict the breadth of their influence.

You should remember the skilled men donning a palette of gray and red. The men adorning variants of a skull insignia and two matching digits: 99. Distinct characteristics, delineate biographies demanding to not be cast aside nor torn from the pages of history.

Ramikadyc—a Commando state of mind. An adjective of the Bad Batch. An inherence that extended beyond their overt classification, one that outreached towards others, an absolute; an honorable invitation bridging the gap and instilling unification between fellow Clone brethren.

A minuscule sampling scratched within this piece as a broken illustration, of the life of the greatest Commando unit to ever exist, and of incredible men.

This is not the end. It’s just the beginning.

Be’Bes’Bavar Ashnar Olaror.

The Cavalry Has Arrived.

{~***~}

Her swollen wrists flexed to knot the crimson accessory around the piece of flimsiplast at last; a seal. It never got any easier to re-read her hastily scribbled Aurebesh requiem. It folds in on itself, the material crinkles, informing the woman that her hands are trembling as she performs the simple task involving dexterity. A dark splotch newly materialized on the worn fabric of bandana vaguely registers to her, of the salty tears now welling in her eyes. She inhales sharply and awkwardly bends to lay the rolled note to rest in the garden of stone and corpses. And with it, the remnants of her already fragmented composure.

Her throat was tight again. She struggled in swallowing deep anguish amidst the sharp winds that chapped at her soft facial features and stung against the dry sclera of her red-rimmed eyes. The buzz of the cold did little to counteract the hot flush rising in her cheeks. Time hung in stasis, yet the throb of her ankles indicated a semblance of how long she’d actually stood motionless at the foot of the weathering graves.

Or maybe the ache was from the extra weight carried purposefully around her newly swollen abdomen; she could no longer tell which. The deep pang in her chest robbed her of a breath, and she felt as empty as the four corpses now six feet under the stars. The thud of a heartbeat—now two—felt cruel and indignant within the graveyard and for a millisecond, a sickly enticing one, the DC series cinched at her hip was, obscurely, the most alluring décor amid the melancholy earth.

She startled at the fleeting thought; gone as quick as it began, giving way to the flood of despair. Agony was quickly sinking it’s teeth, despondency was bearing it’s full weight on her shoulders, and respite has abandoned her. A strangled cry scraped from her dry throat, a familiar sound she’s produced a dozen times in the wake of his disappearance. Six months.

It felt like a lifetime.

She remembers in total recollection the last night she saw him. It replays like a broken holorecord every time her eyelids shut. A moment that robbed her of more time; a cruelty.

His dark eyes harbored solemnity. She gazed up in anticipation at him, a nauseating knot twisting deep in her belly. At the time, she didn’t register the feeling of dread. He told her not to worry, that everything will be alright. She should’ve been more intuitive, should’ve known those words were accursed in their own right; a distinct diction almost always bestowing a finality or goodbye.

But he was gentle and soothing with his words, albeit deliberate in presentation. In the quietude, she associates him with serenity. The man’s adoration for her transcended. His fingers curled around her own in emphasis as he pushed the newly gifted DC blaster pistol to her chest.

“From me to you.” A raised hand quickly cuts off her stubborn reiteration of her full capability and independence without the weapon in tow. “It’ll make me feel better for you to have this. Never know when you’ll need it.”

Times are changing. He desperately wanted to tell her, about everything.

“I just need you.” Her declaration is faint. The spindly man briefly clamps his tongue in quelling his own dire reciprocation threatening to spew. The faint ticking of a chronometer in the corner warns him not to break down and unravel here, it’s not the time. Not right now. Not yet.

Only when he departs.

“What you need is to be strong. For me. Okay?”

For the baby. She quickly extinguishes her pained cries. Her hand splays reflexively across her midsection in stoked remembrance, and the calloused pads of her fingers rub soothing circles in the stirring, where there was now pressure from the child‘s restlessness. Mando’a serenaded habitually from between her lips, along with a promise.

“Ner cyare ad’ika... I promise that you will know all about your family. Your Buir. Your wild Bavodu’e.” A strained chuckle unbridles, leaving a bitter taste, short and succinct before disappearing. A forlornly glance to the headstones. Her voice cadences. “They would’ve loved you. Someday, you’ll be able to feel them.”

“Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.”

Not gone, merely marching far away.

Something hopeful and inspiriting flits deep in her soul. Her lashes flutter upward and the stars are in a particular array of brilliance. It zips across the expanse of sky, like a ship jumping to hyperspace nearby.

“Ret’urcye mhi, ner cyare.”

Somewhere not so far beyond, she can feel his warmth; the tangibility of his deft fingertips resting assuringly at her shoulders, the wind now encasing her in a mimicry of his lanky but sturdy arms. She holds tight in his absence, and the wind resonates vivid echoes of his sultry voice just past the shell of her ear and bristles the stray strands matted to her tear streaked face.

He’s not here.

The sun remains persistent in rising and combating the dark, so she wills herself to stand amidst the devastation. An abrupt halt to her story—their story—left without a full narrative or plot to flesh out, now leaves her dubious over the already shrouded future.

A fond realization, no longer destined to be a memory—for memories are manifested from events already taken place—nevertheless flickers to the surface. The fondness remains just as palpable.

A memory never allowed to transpire, aggrievedly reminding her, a memory simply not meant to be. But she wills the strength to dream, anyway. She decidedly reaches for an alternate cover to write a new story in. It starts as a rough draft, but the growing bump of her abdomen is living proof of new beginnings, of continuing legacies and a beautiful piece that wholesomely envelops and accounts for the aching, missing one.

Not a memory; no. An assurance, a promising devotion to his origins inscribed on the delicate surface of her heart, and one day, sewed and etched into her child’s. Their child.

“Little Ram’ser: a sniper, just like your Buir.”

[lailannajacobs]

A Polished Party and a Jagged Attendee (Handmade Thieves pt. IV)

Pairing: Loki x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reader unwittingly finds her way onto Asgard and has to deal with all the attention that follows being a mortal in the extravagant realm. To his surprise, Loki finds himself having just as much trouble if not more than reader in dealing with it. 

Warnings: None! 

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: Hey guys! Had a little less time this weeks so it’s a slightly shorter chapter, but I think pretty decent anyways! Love to hear what you think, always makes my day when you do! <3 

You turned your head to look at the Prince, your faces now mere inches apart, the scent of lemon and pine impossible not to notice. Looking into his eyes, you tried to focus on the cunning amusement you found in them rather than the discomfort of every pair of eyes boring into you. “Are you sure it’s not your terrifying mug that stunned them all into silence?”

His jaw twitched in what might have been an attempt to hide a smile. “It’s never had that effect before.”

You shrugged, “How can you be so sure?”

He shook his head slightly, the ghost of a smirk on his lips, “It seems you’ll do just fine here Midgardian.”

He broke eye contact and turned to the crowd. His words did nothing to reassure you as you stared down the small group of about about fifty, all mingling with flutes of what appeared to be champagne in their hands. It looked like the two of you had crashed a party and neither you or the guests seemed too pleased about it. As irritating as the prince was, arguing with him was hands down more preferable than whatever you were about to go through.

“My dear people,” he announced with a dramatic sweep of his hands, “I don’t know what rumours you may have heard, but this Midgardian is not dangerous in any way. She is our ambassador and is here to answer any question you may have about Midgard or its beings.”

The crowd began to whisper and strange looks were thrown in your direction as they took you in. Glazing over the faces as to not get intimidated by any, you pulled at your jacket, realizing why the Prince had been hoping you would have been wearing the Asgardian clothes. Without them, you felt more like a pariah than a spectacle - not that either were great options. The monstrous dresses they had given you didn’t seem like such a bad option any more.

“And more importantly,” he continued, a harder edge to his voice, despite the false aristocracy, “She is under Odin’s protection.”

The crowd immediately quieted, ogling you with renewed interest and something like a mix of fear and awe. You kept your face impassive, not wanting to spoil the bald faced lies coming out of the prince’s mouth. It didn’t matter that it made sense for an ambassador to be protected by the king; you knew you wouldn’t have had to sneak around for the past couple weeks if you had truly been under Odin’s protection. But then again, announcing your presence in such a public manner had to mean that the king was aware you were no longer in the dungeon and that he wasn’t about to kill you for it. Right? You told yourself that your little deal with the god of Mischief had made sure that you wouldn’t be in the crosshairs of such obvious danger.

You fiddled with the hem of your sweatshirt, unsure what to believe. Trying to unravel the sly god’s plans only served to make your head hurt. You could try and figure them out when it didn’t feel like you were staring down the barrels of about fifty guns. The only thing you knew for sure was that you were a prisoner all the same, regardless of whether it was publicly in a dungeon or privately in the eyes of the king and his son.

“Midgaridan? I was correct in thinking you could hear, no?”

Your attention snapped to the mocking voice and you shot the prince a confused look. Snickers filled the air. You glared at him. This party obviously wasn’t going to be easy. The least he could do was not make it any harder. But you took in a deep breath, not wanting to show these people, or the prince, any sign of emotion.

“I asked if you wanted to say a few words to this lovely crowd.” He repeated, daring you to prove to him and the crowd that you were more than the meek, pathetic being you were rumoured to be.

Still, you hesitated anyways. Sure if you didn’t say anything you would prove them right but what did you have to say? It wasn’t like you could tell them that you were being held prisoner here and that you’d stab any one of them if it meant getting out alive. And if you based your lying abilities on how often the prince believed you, the odds weren’t in your favour for pretending you actually wanted to be here.

The weight of everyone’s eyes on you made you aware that you had to say something, even if it was just to say that you wouldn’t say anything at all. Something had to come out of your mouth before these people could add stupid to the list of attributes they believed you possessed.

“It is an honour to be a Midgardian ambassador for this beautiful realm.” You cleared your throat, trying to stop the shake in your voice. “It has been too long since our two worlds have been connected. I look forward to meeting you all.”

“Thank you Midgardian. Enjoy the party everyone.” The Prince’s voice dripped honey but the dismissal was clear. The show was over. At least for now.

“You know, if you hadn’t been scowling, maybe someone would have believed you.” He whispered, all too amused for your liking. “Now go mingle. It’s a large part of your duties here.”

Even though he now had his back to you, you knew there would be a smug smirk on his face - the kind you only wanted to wipe off with your fist. If there hadn’t been so many people around, you might have done it, and something told you he knew that.

You sighed.

Mingle.

Small talk with strangers. Great.

You took a tentative step forward into the fray, trying to figure out why the prince had brought you here. Because there was no way he had only brought you here to mingle. You understood that technically he was right and that it was probably a part of your official job but still, you didn’t trust him enough to believe he had no other motive. Maybe it was punishment for having tried to escape, but you didn’t think so. The way he had sent you off just now made it seem like this was practice for other, bigger events.

It was harder than you thought it would be to even find someone to stop and talk to. It seemed impossible with everyone sneaking glances at you like you were a car wreck - a disaster they knew they shouldn’t stare at for too long. A woman in a cornflower blue dress with long blond hair walked by with an equally stunning man beside her, dressed in an expensive looking navy cloak. You recognized them as the couple you had run into earlier and they seemed no more charming than they did then.

You had just turned to, if you were being honest, run in the opposite direction when she spoke, “I can’t imagine why Odin wanted it around. I mean they’re so fragile, I’m surprised it hasn’t died yet.”

“I know.” The man said with a devastated sigh, “Prince Loki said they spend most of their time asleep. It’s a wonder it’s still standing.”

It was a wonder stupidity hadn’t killed either of them yet, you thought, taking a deep breath to try and calm yourself down. The rational side of your brain knew you should walk away but you couldn’t. You had had it with being called an it. And again you were stuck in a miserable situation because of a certain prince. And if you couldn’t lash out at him, you would find the next best thing. After all, wasn’t it your job to talk to these people?

Turning, you bared your teeth in a false, sharp smile. “Hi. I couldn’t help but let you know that I was actually wondering the same thing about the two of you. I mean, not the whole fragile, sleeping body thing but wondering how you’re not dead yet.” They furrowed their brows, unsure as to where you were going with your statement. “Honestly, how have you not annoyed anyone to the point of murder yet. I’m genuinely curious. I have to know your secret.”

Her eyes narrowed and she took a step forward as if to strike you, but the man sighed with a hand on her shoulder. He seemed so genuinely bored you couldn’t help but think he could have faked the welcome speech much better than you ever could have.

“Interesting, aren’t they.”

“Actually, I find these creatures to be rather predictable.” She pursed her lips as if having bit into a lemon. “Must be the results of being so…uncivilized.”

You ground your teeth, ready to turn this into a real brawl when a deep voice interrupted, “She’s only calling you a creature because she’s never seen anyone so lovely in her life.”

You whirled around, fully prepared to tell this new person to shove off but lost your words at the sight of the kindest eyes you had ever seen. The man they belonged to had dark skin and brown eyes so dark they were almost black, with hair cropped close to his head. Even amidst the rest of the the gorgeous crowd, the man before you radiated beauty.

Knowing it wouldn’t be smart to alienate everyone on this planet, you unclenched your fists and forced a smile. If you were truly going to be stuck here for a year, you were going to need an ally - one that wasn’t known for chaos and vanity.

He extended a hand, “I’m Asger.”

You paused, shocked by his civility and overall lack of gawking.

“Is a handshake not a Midgardian greeting custom?” His brows furrowed as he looked at his hand like a traitor.

“Yes. Yes it is.” You took his hand before he could retract it. “I’m (y/n).”

“It’s nice to meet you (y/n).” A broad smile lit his face and for the first time since you had crash landed, you felt yourself loosen up, if only a little.

Maybe this party wouldn’t be so horrifyingly terrible. So far, he appeared to be kind and straight forward. You hated that your first instinct was thinking you could proabably use someone like him to escape, but you knew, deep down, getting out wasn’t going to be easy or pleasant.

“It’s nice to meet you too.” You turned your back on the two twits you always seemed to run into, and gave him your full attention. “It’s refreshing to find someone who isn’t completely oblivious about the ways of earth.”

As soon as the words left your mouth, you realized they were most definitely not the words of a proper ambassador, but if he noticed, he didn’t let on.

Instead, he let out a warm laugh, “I’m pleased to know all those hours spent in the library were not for nothing.”

You placed a hand on his muscular forearm, and shot him a smile of your own. “Well, I’d have to say I’m impressed Asger.”

“Then that makes it all worth it, lady.”

“And how is our dear ambassador doing?” The prince appeared seemingly out of nowhere, looming over your shoulder. “I’m sure you’re getting acquainted just fine?”

“What does it matter to you?” You snarled in a low whisper.

The prince didn’t answer, remaining still yet ever so bored. Asger looked between the two of you with a strange look on his face, his eyes lingering on the prince before he nodded and turned away, no longer meeting your eyes. You wanted to tell him to stay, that the cunning man behind you was leaving instead, but he was gone to quickly.

“As the one who brought you to this party, it wouldn’t reflect kindly on me if you were to me if you were to do anything,” He paused, still staring after Asger, “Unseemly.”

You glared at him with clenched fists, frustrated that he had scared off the only person here that didn’t seem to want anything from you. “You don’t have to worry about your precious reputation wolf. I’ve been fine.”

“Is that why you asked Alva why she wasn’t dead yet?” A laugh resonated through his chest as he took in your surprised expression. “I was informed.”

You crossed your arms, in no way willing to apologize. “Seems like I have a knack for making enemies. Maybe I’m not cut out to be an ambassador and should just go home to Earth.”

“Seems like you also have one for making friends.” His voice trailed off, all humour gone, eyes tracing Asger through the crowd.

“That shouldn’t surprise you.” You jutted up your chin. “I can be quite nice to those who don’t call me an it.”

“It doesn’t surprise me.” His unnerving gaze found yours again, staring at you as if you were the only person in the room. “It’s only natural.”

You couldn’t find it in you to look away. “And why would you say that?”

“Because it seems that no one here can take their eyes off of you.” He looked past you so quickly you almost missed it but the dangerous glint in his eyes was enough to remind you who you were talking to. “Maybe not all for the same reasons, but nonetheless, none of them can.”

“I think that might be because most of these people are so oblivious about Earth they can’t tell a rabbit from a racoon.”

That arrogant smirk slid into place, masking any real emotion you might have glimpsed. “You can’t blame them for their stupidity.”

You grabbed a flute off of a tray from a passing waiter. “Somehow I doubt that’s something a man who wishes to be king should say.”

He cocked his head, seeming surprised but not offended as he took the drink from your hand. “Who says I wish to be king?”

“It isn’t hard to guess.” You shrugged, trying to hide the fact that you were fishing for information. “Especially that you’re known for your cunning reputation.”

You weren’t sure what kind of information  you were looking for, but anything you could use against him might be useful later on. Getting to your ship meant getting as much help as you could blackmail into getting.

“Mischievous.” He corrected with a wolfish grin. “There’s no ill intent behind any of my tricks.”

You leaned back on your heels, turning your nose up at him. “Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night wolf.”

His smile curled into a sneer, his eyes slightly narrowed as if it was too much work to maintain the mask he wore in public. You had to wonder if your words had hit a nerve and you stored his little reaction away.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t find it all that difficult to fall asleep. And you must not any more either.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because I know from experience that the bed you have now is much more comfortable than the one in your cell. Just remember what that’s like before you decide to stop playing nice.” His lips spread into a wide, wolfish grin.

You clenched your teeth, unsure how to respond. It seemed no matter how often he might appear to be on your side, he always managed to remind you that he only played to benefit himself - and you knew what benefit the prince wasn’t guaranteed to benefit you. However, his vicious reaction only solidified your suspicions that you had hit a nerve and you wondered if maybe, deep down somewhere, the prince was at war with the decisions he made. If maybe, deep down somewhere, there was a heart in that lean chest.

His threat reminded you that being out of the dungeon meant you were constantly at his mercy, so however much you wanted to show him what you were really like when you stopped playing nice, he was right about the bed in your room being more comfortable. Although, you did have to wonder if he was speaking generally about the beds outside of the dungeon or if he really had tested both. You sighed. You had enough with this party and everyone in it. It was time you got the hell out.

“Have I mingled enough yet, your highness?” Your voice was clipped and professional - playing nice as he called it.

His jaw twitched, “When you spit the words out, the formalities don’t mean much.”

“I’ll save you the trouble by telling you this now wolf.” You placed your hands on your hip, unable to help yourself. “The formalities never mean much when they come from my mouth.”

“I figured as much Midgardian.” With a finger under your chin, he tilted your head up, his touch feather light. “Maybe someone will have to teach you some manners.”

Those green eyes were dark, taunting and beautiful - a dangerous mix you had never seen on a human. Yet he wasn’t the only dangerous one playing these games. You were too. And despite his threat only seconds ago, you weren’t about to let him think he was about to win every round so easily.

“Oh prince,” you let out a lover’s sigh that had him tilting his head in curiosity, “Touch me again and you’ll lose your hand.”

He let out a breath that may have been a chuckle. “So feisty.”

You raised a brow, waiting for him to remove the calloused finger that, even in its limited contact, seemed to burn at the touch.

“I hope that’s a promise you’ll keep with all the other men and women who touch you.” He dropped his finger but held you there with that intense gaze. “Have a wonderful evening ambassador. On behalf of the king, we’re pleased you have granted us with a moment of your time. We expect to see you at the next gathering.”

You stopped yourself from calling him out on his lies and forced a tightlipped smile and a nod. As much as you hated to admit it, he could change his mind if you gave him a reason to. He had taken his finger off and you had to consider that a win. You weren’t about to push it and stay here any longer than you had to.

With a wink, he turned and left, dismissing you with the motion. You thought about heading back down to the market now that you could say you were on official ambassador business but you suddenly felt exhausted. And if Asgard was anything like Earth, the shops would all be closed at this hour.

What you really needed was sleep and a lot of it. It was clear that no one here trusted you, and tired, there was no way you could escape with their eyes constantly on you. You knew even getting Asger to help you would take time. You would have to play the good little soldier before you could make your escape because there were no shortcuts here; you learned that today with how quickly the prince had found you.

Even if patience was not one of your virtues, you would make it one. Being too hasty would probably result in your death. On the plus side, if you were really smart about it, you could probably steal something valuable on your way out. It only seemed fair that they gave you a hefty payment for all the trouble they caused.

At the door, your turned back and glanced around the room, locking eyes with Asger long enough for him to shoot you another kind smile. When you spotted the prince who, despite the smile he shot in another lord’s direction, looked miserable, you smiled.

You pushed open the door and looked around, unsure which way to go. You had a lot of planning to do if you wanted to escape, but that was okay because they had sentenced you with enough time to use it to your advantage.