#the days are blurring together into one indescribable shape again

[caffeinatedopossum]

God I'm so tired

[archonate-seorwen]

In Medias Res: A KOTOR Fanfiction - Prologue

Hi everyone.

I am currently working on a French version of the complete KOTOR story. I've got little time and not always the energy, so I'm trying to cheer myself up by translating what little I've written so far.

This version will include some chapters that are published (not here) in another fanfic dedicated to the relationship between Revan and Bastila. But they will certainly be subject to some changes.

Seven other chapters are to be published soon.

I am not a native English speaker. So my apologies for the grammatical and syntactical errors.

Thanks a lot!

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Prologue

Darkness. Then, a pinprick of light, growing steadily brighter.

"Corem."

The voice echoed, distant and muffled, as if filtered through layers of thick cloth. I tried to respond, but my lips refused to move.

"Corem Galhor."

My name. They're calling my name. But why does it sound so unfamiliar?

Good gods. What's happening to me?

"Corem Galhor, if you can hear me, do something."

Shut up. Please, just let me sleep.

"Turn on the spotlight. He needs to wake up."

Suddenly, a blinding flash assaulted my senses. It pierced through my closed eyelids, searing my retinas and slicing into my foggy brain like a vibroblade. The pain was excruciating, indescribable.

"The eyelids are contracting. Keep going."

No. Leave me be. I don't want to wake up.

A softer voice cut through the chaos, gentle yet insistent.

"Corem Galhor, you're waking up from a very deep sleep. It's normal that you feel unwell. Don't be afraid, this is only temporary. Come back to us."

Slowly, agonizingly, I force my eyes open. The world was a blur of harsh light and indistinct shapes. Where was I? What was happening?

The voice, once distant, now drilled into my eardrums with shrill intensity. An infernal cacophony. Would it ever stop? Part of me yearned to surrender to its insistent calls, if only to regain the soothing calm of silence. But the choice was being torn from my hands.

Slowly, inexorably, I clawed my way out of the darkness. This sleep had been so deep, so all-encompassing, that my very consciousness felt alien. Was this truly my reality? Or was it merely the product of my unhinged mind, a chaotic dreamscape orchestrated with unsettling precision?

How did I get here?

I forced my eyes open, only to slam them shut again as searing pain lanced through my skull.

"You're doing well, Corem. Take your time."

My breathing came in ragged gasps, each inhalation a monumental effort. Yet beneath the discomfort lay a startling realization – I could breathe. Such a simple act, one I'd never given thought to before, now filled me with a quiet satisfaction. I was alive.

But what had happened? I had to see, had to face whatever awaited me beyond the safety of my eyelids.

Bracing myself, I tried again. The pain returned, sharp and relentless, but I endured. If I let it wash over me, I reasoned, it would eventually tire and recede.

And so it did. After an eternity of agonizing seconds, the pain ebbed away. I blinked, trying to bring the world into focus. Blurry shapes danced before me, silhouetted against a blaze of light. Gradually, one of these forms approached.

A new sensation: pressure on my wrist. Gentle or firm, I couldn't tell. But it was there, grounding me in this strange new reality.

"Well, you're coming back from a long way off."

The voice was right. What I'd thought was a simple coma had ravaged my mind, reducing my mental faculties to mere fragments. The days following my awakening were a hellish ordeal: atrocious migraines pounded relentlessly, the world spun in a nauseating dance, and my stomach rebelled against me at every turn. My body, it seemed, was intent on sabotaging its own recovery.

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Yet, as the days bled into weeks, my strength slowly returned. Health, or at least a semblance of it, gradually reasserted itself.

With my memory in tatters, I became a detective in my own life, piecing together the puzzle of my past from the accounts of doctors and hospital staff. The picture that emerged was disappointingly mundane: a traffic accident. Ordinary, if spectacular. By some cosmic jest, I had managed to injure no one but myself.

But the fragments of dreams that clung to me told a different story. In my coma-induced haze, I had been someone else entirely - powerful, dominant, exceptional. Those phantom memories whispered of an extraordinary life, far removed from the banal reality I now faced.

The truth hit me like a bucket of ice water. I wasn't special. I wasn't powerful. I was just an ordinary man, recovering from a stupid, all-too-common accident.

The realization stung more than I cared to admit.

As days passed, fragments of memory slowly resurfaced. My brain, it seemed, was undergoing a meticulous process of cleaning and reorganization. Flashes of my time at Bar'leth University returned, reminding me of the path that had led me to become a skilled interpreter and translator. I recalled my last job, the pinnacle of my fledgling career, where I'd found myself in the rarified air of Onderon's royal court.

But beyond that? A vast, unsettling blank.

My personal life remained an impenetrable mystery. Was I married? A father? Did I have a family waiting anxiously for news of my recovery? Try as I might, I couldn't conjure a single face or name. The realization hit me with crushing force - I was utterly alone. Weeks of interacting solely with hospital staff only reinforced this isolation. Not a single visitor had darkened my door.

I was just an ordinary man. A lonely man. Adrift in a sea of unfamiliar faces.

Yet even this bleak assessment didn't quite fit. Why was I, a civilian translator, recuperating in a military hospital in the heart of the capital? True, I served the Republic, but I had no official ties to the armed forces. Wouldn't a civilian facility have been more appropriate? This incongruity nagged at me, adding another layer to my growing sense of displacement and confusion.

The more I pondered my situation, the less sense it made. Each answer only spawned more questions, leaving me feeling even more lost and isolated than before.

"Hello, Corem."

The familiar voice drew me from my reverie. It belonged to the head of the department, the woman who had been overseeing my care since my arrival. I recognized it as the same voice that had guided me back to consciousness, though its timbre had changed. What once had been aggressive and piercing now felt soft and comforting, wrapping around me like a warm embrace.

With effort, I pushed myself up from my reclined position, turning to face her properly. She stood in the doorway, a woman in her forties with fine features etched by years of dedication to her work. Fatigue had left its mark on her face, and strands of gray threaded through her short-cropped hair. Yet, despite these signs of age—likely accelerated by the demands of her profession—she radiated a quiet dignity and charm. There was an undeniable charisma about her, born of intelligence and a deep sense of responsibility.

"Hello, Doctor," I finally managed, my voice still rough with sleep.

Her eyes, kind but keen, studied me closely. "How are you feeling this morning?"

Morning? The word caught me off guard. I glanced towards the window, where partially drawn blackout curtains allowed a sliver of light to spill into the room. Beyond the glass, I could make out the bustling energy of a city coming to life. The soft glow of early morning light painted everything in gentle hues, its warmth slowly reawakening my dulled senses.

"I'm fine," I replied, meeting her gaze once more.

She nodded, seemingly satisfied with my response. "Perfect. I'm going to proceed with our usual tests, Corem. After that, I'll let you wash up and get dressed." She paused, her expression shifting slightly. "A naval non-commissioned officer wishes to speak with you."

The last sentence hung in the air, pregnant with implications I couldn't quite grasp. Why would a naval officer be interested in me? The question added another layer to the mystery surrounding my presence here, but before I could ponder it further, the doctor was already moving towards me, ready to begin her examination.

"Understood," I managed to reply, unable to keep a note of bewilderment from my voice.

The doctor, seemingly oblivious to my inner turmoil, proceeded with her daily routine of tests. Motor skills, cognitive functions - all checked and rechecked with meticulous care. As always, the results were surprisingly positive. My recovery was progressing at a pace that seemed to astound even the medical staff. At this rate, I was slated for discharge by week's end.

Once the examination was complete and I'd gone through my usual morning routine, I found myself restless. Instead of retreating to the bed or settling into a chair, I felt an overwhelming urge to move. I activated the news terminal, more out of habit than genuine interest, and began to pace the room.

My restless wandering brought me to the window. The view beyond the glass captured my attention, drawing me into a moment of quiet contemplation. Coruscant sprawled before me, a forest of towering skyscrapers bathed in the planet's characteristic white sunlight. Several of the most imposing structures, I knew, housed the Ministry of Defense - explaining the military hospital's proximity.

As I studied the cityscape, trying to reconcile this vast, bustling metropolis with my fragmented memories, a sudden burst of sound from the terminal jolted me back to the present. The news broadcast had begun, its urgent tones a stark contrast to the serene urban panorama before me.

Suspicious activities in the peripheral regions of the Outer Rim and the Taris system have caught the attention of the Republic authorities. Part of the fleet has been chartered to these areas and—"

The sudden roar of a passing convoy outside my window drowned out the newscaster's words, momentarily pulling me from the broadcast. As the noise faded, I caught the tail end of the report:

"—the Chancellery and the Jedi Order have renewed their agreement providing for effective military collaboration. Bastila Shan, credited with the Republic's recent victories, has been placed in a secure location following a Sith ambush attempt. Public authorities report that Lord Malak is now actively seeking the Padawan, whose Battle Meditation power has inflicted heavy losses on Sith forces..."

We were at war. The word hung in the air, heavy with implications. My mind grasped at the broad strokes of recent history: Malak's betrayal of his master, Revan, barely a year ago; his subsequent seizure of control over the Sith Empire. I knew these facts, but they felt distant, detached—as if I were recalling a history lesson rather than lived experience.

Yet, surely I had lived through these events? My mission on Onderon must have been connected to this conflict somehow. But the details remained frustratingly out of reach, like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands.

The name Bastila Shan struck a chord within me, triggering a sense of familiarity I couldn't quite place. As I tried to visualize this woman, so crucial to the Republic's war effort, I felt a strange resonance. It was as if fragments of memory were trying to surface, only to sink back into the murky depths of my fractured mind.

The disconnect between what I knew and what I felt was jarring. I understood the facts, but I couldn't connect them to any personal experiences or emotions. It was a stark reminder of how far I still had to go in my recovery. Regaining my full memory, understanding my place in this turbulent galaxy—it would take time. More time, perhaps, than I was comfortable admitting.

As I stood there, caught between the impersonal news report and my own nebulous recollections, I felt more lost than ever. 

A sudden, jarring noise behind me shattered my reverie. I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat, to find a tall figure looming in the doorway. It was a young man, lean and lanky, his hand still gripping the door handle as if unsure whether to advance or retreat. His eyes, though polite, betrayed a hint of discomfort—as if he was acutely aware of intruding upon my solitude.

"Please, come in," I offered, hoping to ease his apparent tension. As I spoke, I fumbled with the terminal, silencing the droning newscast that suddenly seemed trivial in light of this unexpected visitor.

The young man stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click that seemed to echo in the suddenly silent room. As he moved closer, I took in the details of his appearance. His youth was evident, but so was the crisp professionalism of his bearing. The dark uniform he wore was immaculate, trousers perfectly creased and jacket adorned with a smattering of medals that hinted at a career already marked by distinction despite his age. In his left hand, he clutched a data block with white-knuckled intensity—a digital lifeline that I suspected held the key to his presence here.

"Thank you," he replied, his voice clipped and formal. For a moment, he simply regarded me, his gaze analytical as if comparing my appearance to some mental image. Then, squaring his shoulders, he launched into what was clearly a prepared speech.

"Sir, we regret having to solicit you under your current conditions," he began, his tone as stiff as his posture. "I was sent to inform you that your next assignment is still effective."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My next assignment? Delivered by a military officer? I felt my brow furrow in confusion, a thousand questions suddenly clamoring for attention in my mind. What assignment? When had I agreed to this? And why was the military involved in the affairs of a simple translator?

As I struggled to make sense of this bombshell, the young officer stood there, ramrod straight, awaiting my response. The air between us seemed to crackle with tension and unspoken implications. Whatever this "assignment" was, I had a sinking feeling it was about to turn my already confusing world completely upside down.

"As soon as you've finished care here, you will be expected at the B96API Academy, the entity to which you belong."

The words hung in the air, each one a puzzle piece that refused to fit into my understanding of reality. A shrug escaped me, involuntary and telling. I shook my head slightly, my face a mask of bewilderment. The young officer's eyes widened, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features.

"Well, Sir..." I began, my voice faltering before I found my footing. "Thank you for this information, but... if I may, I'm not a military man. I don't see what I have to do with any of this."

The officer's gaze sharpened, a mix of surprise and suspicion evident in his scrutiny. He activated the data block, his eyes flicking rapidly over its contents before meeting mine again. In that moment of locked gazes, I sensed a shared confusion, a mutual grasping for understanding.

"Sir, you are indeed Corem Galhor?" His voice carried a hint of doubt now.

"That's me, yes." The words felt hollow.

"Well, Mr. Corem Galhor," he continued, his tone a blend of formality and growing concern, "I confirm the announcement I made to you. Four months ago, you agreed to collaborate with the Ministry of Defense, which assigned you to the Academy I mentioned."

The revelation hit me like a physical blow. My mouth fell open, words evaporating before they could form. The officer, seeming to grasp that my confusion was genuine rather than evasive, softened his approach.

"I know, sir, that your health is not at its best," he said, his voice tinged with patience. "However, we have received the results of all the tests you regularly undergo, which clearly indicate your ability to respond to your next assignment. You are expected at the Academy of sector B96 as soon as you are out of here. You will receive a short training there, and then you will be sent elsewhere."

My mind reeled, grasping for something familiar, something that made sense. "I hear what you're telling me, but I'm a translator," I managed, the words sounding feeble even to my own ears.

The disconnect between what I knew of myself and what this man was telling me was vast and terrifying. Had I really agreed to this? And if so, why couldn't I remember? The implications of his words began to sink in, each one adding weight to the growing realization that the life I thought I knew might be nothing more than a fragile illusion.

"It's as a translator that the Army called on you," the young man clarified, his tone softening slightly. "Anyone working within our armies is expected to receive military training. Don't worry, it will only involve basic knowledge for you. You will only be solicited militarily if the situation is desperate."

A cynical grimace twisted my lips. What choice did I have? Clearly, I had committed myself to this path before my accident, and the Ministry wasn't about to release its grip. The Republic's precarious situation demanded contributions from every citizen, even translators.

A hazy memory surfaced: I had indeed undergone some military training before. The volatile political climate on Onderon had led the Republic to arm its officials with basic combat skills. I recalled performing well in those exercises, but that hardly made me a soldier. The disconnect between my perceived identity and this new reality was jarring.

I heaved a deep sigh, resignation settling over me like a heavy cloak. "Alright," I conceded, my voice tinged with defeat. "I will report to the Academy as soon as I'm discharged."

The officer nodded, a sober smile flickering across his face. "Perfect. I'm leaving you a card with all the elements related to your file."

He deftly extracted a small data card from his block, holding it delicately between thumb and forefinger. I stepped forward, accepting the object that somehow held the keys to my forgotten past and uncertain future. As I slipped it into my pocket, its weight felt disproportionate to its size.

"Mr. Galhor," the officer said, his tone unexpectedly warm. "I wish you a speedy recovery."

"Thank you," I replied with a nod, struggling to match his cordial tone.

As the door closed behind him, silence engulfed the room once more. I stood there, mind reeling, wondering what labyrinth of intrigue and duty I had unwittingly entered. My hand found its way back to my pocket, fingers tracing the edges of the data card obsessively.

Finally, driven by a mix of curiosity and dread, I approached the terminal. With trembling hands, I inserted the card, watching as the screen flickered to life. The first file opened, revealing details about me and my future assignments - information that should have been familiar but felt alien:

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Name: Galhor | First name: Corem | Age: 33 | Planet of birth: Deralia

Personal status : Single, no children

Occupation : Translator, interpreter

Place of education : University of Bar'leth

Duration of studies: 5 years

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Military status: Recruit

Military training location: API Military Academy, Sector B96

Expected duration of training: 2 months

General Officer in Charge: Commander Bastila Shan

Restrictions: not specified - refer to the officer in charge

Last position: Interpreter, Onderon Republican Embassy | Duration: 4 months, 2 days

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Current duty station: not specified - refer to the officer in charge

Assigned by: not specified - refer to the officer in charge

Assignment validated by: not specified - refer to the officer in charge

General officer in charge of the agent: Commander Bastila Shan

Duration of assignment: not specified - refer to the responsible officer

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Height: 189 cm | Weight: 82 kg | Complexion: white/matte | Hair: dark brown/black | Eyes: brown

Sight:  satisfactory  hearing:  satisfactory

Physical and physiological condition: satisfactory

Psychological and cognitive condition: satisfactory

Suffers from retrograde amnesia after a severe shock. However, not a problem with current and future assignments. Requires medical attention, however.

Psychological condition: satisfactory

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Tests conducted by the Coruscant Republican Military Academy - B96API.

Extraordinary session requested by Commander Bastila Shan, validated by Admiral Forn Dodonna.

The B96API Republican Military Academy judges the agent eligible for training.

Corem Galhor #894

-------

I stared at the screen, my eyes darting from line to line, each new piece of information sending a jolt through my system. The clinical detachment of the file contrasted sharply with the turmoil it stirred within me.

Thirty-five years old. Born on Deralia. Single, no children. These basic facts should have felt familiar, comforting even. I found myself desperately searching for some emotional connection to these details, but came up empty.

My gaze snagged on a particular line: "General officer in charge of the agent: Commander Bastila Shan." The name echoed in my mind, triggering that same vague sense of familiarity I'd felt earlier. But why would a celebrated Jedi be personally overseeing my case? The implications were both thrilling and terrifying.

As I continued reading, more questions piled up. Why was my current place of assignment classified? What kind of translator needed such secrecy? And the duration of my assignment - also undisclosed. What had I gotten myself into?

Then the medical assessment hit me like a punch to the gut. "Suffers from retrograde amnesia following a violent shock." There it was, in cold, unfeeling text - the reason for the gaping holes in my memory. But the next line chilled me to the bone: "However, this does not pose a problem with current and future assignments."

How could my memory loss not affect my work? What kind of assignments could I possibly undertake in this state? The casual dismissal of my condition felt almost sinister.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts. There was no use in tormenting myself needlessly. After all, I had just emerged from a months-long coma with significant memory loss. It was only natural that I wouldn't have all the answers or details about my situation.

"Everything will eventually fall into place," I murmured to myself, though the words rang hollow in the quiet room.

As I stood there, staring at the terminal screen, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was standing on the edge of something much bigger than I could comprehend. With a mixture of apprehension and resigned determination, I realized that the only way forward was through. I would report to the Academy as instructed and undergo the training.

For now, all I could do was prepare myself for whatever lay ahead. The future stretched before me, a blank canvas filled with uncertainties. As I turned off the terminal, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was stepping into a story much larger than myself, one whose outline I could barely glimpse.

Whatever awaited me at the Academy, whatever role I was meant to play in this war, one thing was certain: nothing would be as simple as it seemed.

[hushedhands]

Challenge 83

@cecilia02 @everbeenminee Astra watching Andrew's coronation.

Astra Orders set an alarm for three o’clock in the morning, but she didn't need it. She didn't sleep at all.

Her mom had invited her to watch the once-in-a-generation event with her little cousins in Illéa Palace, but Astra had refused. Kile had offered to stay the night and keep her company, but that hadn't felt right either. Her dad had suggested not watching at all, which was cute but not really a solution. It would be weeks before footage of this faded from the news, and even then there would be anniversary specials forever. Astra might as well bite the bullet and watch the coronation that had almost been hers.

She wished her parents and her boyfriend weren’t making such a fuss about this. History was full of women who'd almost married princes and then gone home to watch them become kings. Her Uncle Maxon had left dozens of such women in his wake when he’d chosen to marry Aunt Ames, though Astra didn't have the telephone numbers of any of them. She wished Andrew had enough ex-girlfriends to make a proper club like the former Selected. It might have been nice to have someone who could understand this indescribable feeling without the need for words to name it.

It wasn't that she wanted to be married to Andy. She had no doubt at all that she'd made the right decision in calling off their relationship, and that was totally separate from the fact that she was now wildly in love with Kile.

But there was something aching in her chest as she watched the aerial shots of the city of London on the little television in her apartment in Angeles, curled up in her warmest fuzzy pajamas, hair in a messy version of her ballet bun, hands clinging to her mug of tea for dear life. Today was the day that standing by Andrew's side for his coronation went from something she wouldn’t do to something she couldn't do. She'd chosen to walk away, but this was the day that the door locked behind her.

Never was a hard word to give to Andrew, even if Kile had her Always.

The camera above the crowd panned past the palace Astra had stayed in that summer, and her chest squeezed hard. Whatever else had happened there, it had been a refuge for her at a time in her life when she’d needed it most.

It all started when she had been offered an incredible opportunity to dance for the Waverly ballet company in the summer, and an opportunity to attend an elite seminar with London’s royal ballet company in the spring, and Kile, realizing that he and Astra wouldn’t see each other for over six months, had broken up with her very suddenly.

Well, technically it had been a mutual decision. She hadn’t seen him much during his first year at school, and now she was off on her own adventures, and it seemed like a terrible time to try to make a relationship work. What if he met someone amazing at university? What if she met someone in Waverly or London? Was it fair to deny themselves new relationships and experiences just because they’d always been together? Weren’t they technically together by default, anyway?

It was a reasonable question. If you married someone you’d had playdates with for as long as you could remember, and you never even tried to date someone else, it was probably a relationship by default… right?

As she got on the plane for London, it had hit her hard that she wouldn’t have a hope of seeing Kile again, maybe for an entire year. The earliest she’d be back in Angeles was the next fall, and that’s exactly when he’d be leaving to go back to school again. And this time they wouldn’t talk to each other on the telephone almost every single day, and she wouldn’t slip secret notes in the care packages his parents sent him from home, and he wouldn’t surprise her by sitting in the audience during a matinee performance after sneaking back into town without telling her...

And maybe he never would again.

It was possible she’d cried the whole flight overseas, it was hard to remember. She must have rehydrated somehow, or she’d have shriveled up and died of the heartbreak. That time was all a blur now.

But what Astra remembered clearly, sitting on her sofa four years later, was the way she’d felt walking into that little old palace on the north side of the city and realizing that it was essentially hers for the season. It really paid to have a paranoid king for an uncle sometimes, because Maxon had pulled a dozen favors with the English royal family to get Astra somewhere safe and comfortable to live for a few months. She was technically an Illéan princess by title, so he wouldn’t hear of letting her rent a crumby apartment somewhere in the city, and besides, wherever she stayed needed to have enough room for a security detail. Still, even for a small palace, it was a palace and it was hers.

The old place had plenty of full-time staff that kept it in good shape as an estate of historical significance to the English monarchy, but Astra herself didn’t have maids or butlers, or a chef to keep her fed. At night, everyone who worked to keep the palace maintained went home, so it was only her and the security detail.

But she was allowed to order takeout from restaurants around town, so on her very first night alone she ordered enough food to live off of for a while, until she could get to a grocery store. She sprawled on a sofa in the downstairs sitting room, doodling in the notebook her Aunt May had given her for her last birthday, until there was a surprise knock on the archway in the entrance of the sitting room.

“Hello.” Andrew stood there, still in his business suit from the day, though with no tie, and with the top button undone. He looked ruffled, and in his hands he carried a large bottle of red wine. “Sorry to barge in… there isn’t exactly a doorbell in this place, and without staff to handle arrivals and departures… well, I did knock.” he awkwardly concluded.

Astra, still in her tank top and stretchy pants from the plane, would have felt severely underdressed to received a prince at a palace, except this was one of her oldest and best friends, and some of the ache in her heart from leaving Kile on the other side of the world eased away just from looking at him. She hugged him, “You don’t need to knock. It’s good to see you.”

“And you.” he hugged her back. “Ah, and here. A housewarming gift.” he offered her the wine.

“You’re just in time for dinner.”

“Am I?”

“It should be here soon. The finest spicy noodles and sautéed vegetables in the land. Although, if there’s no doorbell…”

“The guard at the gate will take it from the delivery driver and have someone bring it in.” he grinned.

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go hunt down something to open that bottle.” she said.

A new city, a change of scenery, some delicious New Asian food, a bottle of old wine, a dear old friend… this was the recipe to get over a breakup. Astra knew it, because she already felt worlds better, just struggling to find a way into the wine bottle. There wasn’t a corkscrew in the kitchens that they could find, and this palace didn’t have its own wine cellar, which was the only other place they could think to find wine accessories. In the end, Andrew took an impressive, ancient sword off of a display rack on a wall at the top of the grand staircase and carefully poked the sharp end down until it was lodged into the cork.

Astra laughed so hard her sides hurt as she twisted the bottle out in front of her and Andrew slowly stepped backward. After a couple of tries, the cork loosened up enough that he could use brute force to pull the rest of it out.

When the food arrived, they carried it up to the top floor, to a balcony that overlooked the city, and they had a picnic of sorts.

“Where’s Lucas? You two are usually a package set.” Astra asked between bites of spicy noodles.

“Still finishing up his first year at university.”

“Oh, of course! Kile— “ She stopped abruptly, her chest squeezed tightly, her tongue fell heavy in her mouth, and she drowned the bitter taste of his name on her lips with expensive wine.

“Oh dear. That won’t do.” Andrew leant over and brushed away an errant tear from her cheek. “You mean to tell me… well, he’s safe isn’t he? He’s not unwell?”

“No, no he’s fine. He’s at school… and I’m here.”

Andrew studied her face carefully. He’d met Kile and Astra on the same day, at the same moment, so they’d been friends for exactly the same amount of time. He knew that they’d been together romantically for almost seven years now, the teenage equivalent of a sixty-year marriage. “So you’re… taking time apart?”

“We’ve decided to go our separate ways.” Astra said, the words soft and wispy in her throat. “We’re not… we’re not headed in the same direction anymore. We might never head in the same direction again. After university, he wants to see the world. And I… I might travel around for a while as a dancer, but I can’t imagine not being there for Addy once she becomes Queen… Even if that wasn’t true, we won’t have a good chance to be in the same city for at least a year… and a lot can happen in a year.”

Andrew took a large sip from his glass and then refilled hers.

“That’s really difficult, Astra… I’m so sorry. I know how much you love each other. It must be hell, knowing that you’re growing apart from the person you’re closest to in the world.”

Astra choked a sob in her wineglass and Andrew’s eyes widened, “God, I’m sorry! What a terrible thing to say—“ he sat both of their glasses safely aside and wrapped her in a warm hug.

Astra got his suit all wet from her tears, but she felt comfortable in his arms. “I’m not crying because of you, stupid.” She explained when she had the breath to do so. “It’s definitely because of him. I just… I didn’t think anyone would understand. But you do.”

“I don’t.” Andy rushed to correct her. “Not really. I’ve never experienced anything like that. The closest I can imagine is if… if I lost touch with someone in the Palace kid gang. You’re my best friends, apart from Luke, and I’ve known you forever. If I had to say goodbye to one of you, to lose you forever… it’s not even close to what you’re feeling, but just the thought hurts enough for me to know that you’re going through hell.”

Astra sniffled and collected her wineglass again, ready for more sips, content to allow herself to be comforted by her friend. “Hell has better wine than I expected, I’ll give it that much.”

“Not a bad view, either.” Andrew agreed with a small chuckle, looking out at the city.

“Didn’t expect one of my very best friends to come with me to hell.” Astra timidly admitted.

“And I’m not leaving until I get you out of it.” he’d promised.

Andrew always did have words as sweet as honey.

They drank the whole bottle that night, between the two of them. They had as good an excuse as two teenagers needed: they couldn’t find a wine stopper. Andrew offered to stay the night with her so that she wouldn’t be alone, but now that the world was blurry and warm from the wine, Astra felt delightfully sleepy. She was going to get her first good night’s sleep since losing Kile. So Andrew left, promising to bring breakfast the next morning to check on her.

He checked on her a lot.

He brought her breakfast and dinner every day, and he’d probably have brought her lunch too, except that she was always at her dance seminar during the daytime. Astra ended every night with her body pleasantly tired from dancing, a new half a bottle of wine in her stomach, and her mind full of whatever nice, easy conversation she’d had with Andrew just before bed. Her first week in England flew by.

That Friday night, Andrew appeared in the doorway to the sitting room right on schedule, two bottles of wine in hand.

“You’re mad.” Astra giggled.

“It’s the weekend.” he argued. “You don’t have to dance tomorrow, and I don’t have any public appearances to make until next Tuesday.”

“You’re off work until Tuesday? You English royals really know how to take it easy.” she laughed. She didn’t think her cousins had taken a three day weekend in their lives.

“We’ll keep the second bottle on standby, just in case we decide we want to try it.”

But of course, they were young and it was a Friday night, they definitely wanted to try it. Somewhere after the first glass of the second bottle, refilling glasses got too risky and they started drinking straight from the bottle, passing it back and forth. There was a television show on, showing a concert happening on the other side of the city in a stadium Astra could just see if she stood tall enough on the balcony.

Andrew watched her going almost en pointe to try to spy the stadium, mesmerized by her strength and balance and grace. “Can we dance?”

Astra smiled brightly. Dancing was her favorite in the world, of course they could dance! They danced in their socks to the music on the television until Andrew collapsed, out of breath, on the sofa. Astra joined him, blood pumping pleasantly fast through her veins.

“I’m out of shape!” he bemoaned.

“I’m a professional athlete, don’t compare yourself to me. You did just fine.”

“I did? Do you think I could join the ballet?” He laughed giddily.

She’d never seen him giddy like this.

Andy carried the weight of his country on his shoulders, he always had. Addy hadn’t really started bearing Illéa on her back until she was eleven or twelve, old enough to understand what was coming for her, but Andrew had always been a future king, even when he was tiny. Seeing him now, not a care in the world, laughing about joining the ballet… Astra’s heart twisted in her chest and for the first time since breaking up with Kile, it had absolutely nothing to do with him.

He had no part of this.

Astra leant forward and kissed Andrew on the warm, red cheek.

He looked at her, stunned, smile falling off his face. “What was that for?”

“I don’t know… just because. Just for you.”

“Just for me…” he’d mused.

“For being good to me. For taking care of me while I’m here. For… for being you. Yeah… just for you.” Astra nodded, this time more certain that the words made sense outside of her wine-fogged mind.

“I should be me more often.” he chuckled.

Astra blinked.

Should he?

***

There was a version of Astra’s stay in London where she pined away for her ex-boyfriend every moment she got, and maybe poured that pain into her dancing because it was overflowing from her heart and needed somewhere to go. That’s what she’d been expecting deep down. But what really happened was, she found a favorite market to buy groceries from, she found a bakery between her palace and the dance studio that kept her in much-needed carbs, she found a park with a pond where lots of locals liked to walk their dogs, which meant she got to pet a lot of dogs, and she started falling in love with the city.

And then there was Andrew.

He knew her so well, and they’d loved each other as friends for so long, and spending those mornings and nights with him felt so easy, so smooth.

And he was handsome and kind and… ugh, handsome. Astra didn’t regret kissing him on the cheek. Not even when he stood with her on the balcony a week later, watching the sunset, and she laced her hand with his.

“Are you quite alright?” he’d asked, not because she’d grabbed his hand, but just because he was still so worried about her.

“When I got here, I thought the answer to that question would be no forever.” Astra confessed. “And listen… I don’t really know who I am without Kile, he’s been a part of me for my whole life… but these past two weeks I’ve started to find out… and I like it. I like getting to know me.”

Andrew smiled down at her and squeezed her hand.

“And I like you too, Andrew.”

His smile became pained, “Astra—“

“It’s okay. You’re the next king and blah blah blah.” he laughed, because there were so few people in the world who could blah blah blah being an heir to a throne, but Astra was certainly one of them.

“It isn’t that.” he corrected her with a shake of his head. “It’s… you’re getting out of a serious relationship. You can’t like anyone yet—“

“Yes I can.” Astra scoffed, a challenging glint in her eyes, “Watch me.”

“But we’ve been friends our whole lives, too. Wouldn’t you like to like someone different? A stranger, maybe?”

“Where would I find one of those?” Astra lamented, only half-joking. Having a king for an uncle really limited one’s opportunities to meet strangers.

Andrew peered at her closely, then seemingly made up his mind all at once, saying, “Put on a dress.”

“What?”

“Put on a dress, I’ve got a surprise for you!”

Just like that, Andrew was downstairs talking to his security team and Astra was upstairs trying to figure out what dress to wear. There was a sweet springtime yellow thing… and then there was the red thing.

Astra made up her mind quickly. She chose the red thing. She chose everything that the red thing implied.

She appeared at the bottom of the stairs and Andrew’s eyes widened.

“Is this alright? I have other dresses—“

“S’perfect—“ he muttered and then cleared his throat, “Ahem, that is perfect Astra. Let us be off.”

He formally offered her his arm and she accepted with a proud smirk at the flush in his cheeks, then they ducked into his car and his driver whisked them off across town.

“What are we doing?” Astra asked after they took a turn to a part of town she’d never been to before.

“Did I not say it is a surprise?”

“Yes, but—“

“We’ve got guards, and I’ve gone to this place before. There’s no need to worry.”

“Andrew—“

“It’s where I go when I need to meet strangers.”

Astra blinked, dumbfounded.“You? Meet strangers?”

“How else am I supposed to find a queen? ” he muttered mutinously.

Astra stared over at him for a long moment, never having given it a second thought. Addy would be free to date whomever she chose, but if all else failed she could always have a Selection to find her husband. Andrew had nothing like that to choose from.

Astra was surprised when the car pulled to a stop at the backdoor to a nightclub. Could princes of England really go clubbing? But this place looked like it had tight security, and there were signs posted prominently that there were no cameras allowed on the premises. Andrew’s and Astra’s bodyguards stayed close by as they entered the club and Astra’s ears were assaulted by music so loud she could no longer hear it. All she could hear was the beat.

Andrew took her to the bar and bought her whatever drink she wanted, and then leant in close to her ear so that she could hear him say, “What do you think?”

“It’s a little loud!”

He chuckled, “About the strangers.”

“Oh!” Astra looked around as she spun the little umbrella from her pink drink between her fingers. There were all kinds of men here. Some older than her, some younger, some looked athletic and some looked bookish, and they were all having fun, losing themselves to the same beat. “What do you think?!” she yelled at him.

He looked around at the women in the room, sizing them up, and then shrugged, “Hard to say.”

“How do we meet them?!” Astra was yelling, while somehow he was able to keep his voice low and still be heard when he leaned close to her ear.

“Honestly? They usually just come up to me…” he confessed.

Astra rolled her eyes. Royals.

Sure enough, several women came up to Andrew and threw themselves at him while he and Astra waited for even one man to make a pass at her.

“Maybe you’re intimidating them away!” Astra suggested.

“Maybe so. Do you want me to go dance?”

Did she want him to go dance with one of the strange women in the club so that a strange man might come up to her and hit on her?

Not really, no. She wanted to dance with him. She liked dancing with him. More than that, she didn’t want to dance with anyone else. And she didn’t want him to dance with anyone else. She took his hand and dragged him out to the dance floor, their bodyguards hilariously close by, and they started moving.

It wasn’t dancing the way Astra was trained to think of it. There was no choreography, no gentle swell of melody to carry her movements, this was something far more basic than that. The best part was how quickly she was able to stop thinking about anything but her own breath, the sweat on her brow, and the man in front of her.

There was nothing else in the world. For as long as they could stay with the beat, there was only the beat. Endorphins that she associated with a long hard workout flooded her body, and Astra felt good. And beyond feeling good, she did not feel sad. She did not miss anybody. Not her family on the other side of the world, and not Kile. She was complete right here. All she had to do was make this last forever.

“I am not a professional dancer.” Andrew reminded her, breath coming far too fast to get that whole sentence out without gasping for air several times in the middle.

Astra giggled at him, then hugged him close, “This place is magical!” she yelled in his ear.

“Magical?”

And just to prove the point, and to express her gratitude, she pecked his lips with a kiss.

That was it, right? A kiss of gratitude?

As first kisses went, it was silly. They were both too out of breath to do more than mash their lips together for a second and then go back to gasping for air. Andrew led them away for water and after a few minutes to recover, he was ready to try again.

Astra helped him find a way to move to every other beat instead of every beat, essentially cutting the speed of his dancing in half for him. That helped tremendously. But to help him do this, she had to wrap her arms around his neck to guide him, and once he had the beat it was all much less frantic and much more sensual. This time when they kissed, it was not a silly peck on the lips.

Astra had only ever kissed Kile before, but since that was never happening again, she didn’t allow herself to think about that. She didn’t think about how Andrew was taller than Kile, and his cheeks were softer because he shaved every single morning without fail. She didn’t think about anything except how nice it was not to feel pain. When she was with Andrew, especially when she was kissing Andrew, she felt nothing but joy.

Was she using him to feel better?

If someone made you feel better and wanted to be around you, was that even using them?

They stayed at the club until Andrew was too tired to go on (and even Astra was ready to admit she was tired), and then they climbed back into Andrew’s car and rode off into the night.

Astra’s ears were ringing with the sudden silence, and they were both flushed and dripping with sweat. Astra was ready to bet her face matched the red of her dress and her hair, and was ready to feel embarrassed about that somewhere beneath her exhaustion, when Andrew slid his hand over to hers and squeezed.

She looked over at him and smiled.

It was past 2 in the morning when they got back to Astra’s palace, and Astra couldn’t believe they’d spent so many hours getting swept away like that.

“I’d do that every night if I thought my hearing could survive it.” Astra admitted as they struggled to get up the stairs, feeling distinctly like they had overcooked pasta for legs.

Astra took an ice-cold bath and then rolled her legs out to try to avert any soreness the next morning, and then she found Andrew in one of the guest bedrooms. “Thanks for the dancing… sorry we didn’t meet any strangers.” she grinned.

“I’m not.” he admitted, with complete candor.

“Well then, no future queen for you and no non-childhood friend to date for me.”

“Perhaps you could find a childhood enemy?” he suggested, and she laughed at the dryness of voice as he made the joke.

“Yes, I’ll have to make do.” she agreed.

***

The kisses felt stolen for the first week, like they were getting away with something they weren’t supposed to, but then one day Andrew showed up with Astra’s favorite breakfast, and two paper travel cups of tea, and he pecked her on the lips in greeting and it didn’t feel stolen at all. It felt as comfortable as an old sweater, and made her feel just as warm inside.

To celebrate the end of her first month in London, Astra ordered dinner for them from the same restaurant they’d eaten at on her very first night in town. He showed up looking frazzled after a long day of talking with members of parliament, but all the more pleased to see her because that stress was over now. And, of course, he brought her the same kind of wine they’d shared that first night.

Astra had bought a corkscrew weeks ago now, so they didn’t need to resort to using ancient swords to open their alcohol, which made it slightly less interesting. Astra curled up against him on the balcony overlooking the city and kissed him every chance she got.

“You’re certainly in a mood.” he noted with a smile down at her, after their fourth surprise kiss.

“I’m just glad to be here.”

“Are you?” he seemed surprised. She didn’t blame him. It was quite a turn from her first weepy night a month ago.

“Yes. I think London’s been good for me.”

And maybe she meant the city, with her new favorite local spots and the friends she was making at the seminar, but maybe she meant Andrew. Maybe she couldn’t really tell the difference, and it was all just good for her.

“I am very glad to hear that.”

“I wish I didn’t have to go to Waverly in two months.” Astra admitted. “It’s an amazing opportunity for my career, not to mention I’ll get to visit my grandparents in Carolina all the time, but… I like London.”

This time she was blatantly talking about him.

“Well… London’s not going anywhere anytime soon, I suppose.” he pointed out, fully onto her game.

She hmm-ed into her wineglass, “I suppose not.”

“And you’re always welcome in London, you know.”

Astra giggled and shook her head, surprising him with another kiss as a reward for playing along with her silly euphemism.

Later that night, when the food was stashed away in the kitchen and the wine was mostly empty, Andrew joined Astra again on the balcony as she stood there with the springtime breeze blowing through her loose, curly hair. He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

“I meant it, you know.” he said. “You could stay as long as you like. There’s a tremendous ballet company in London, perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

Astra laughed, pressing a hand to his over her stomach and turning to look up at him. “Maybe someday.”

“You’re dead-set on going to Waverly, then?”

“Well, I’ve signed a contract.” she explained.

“Ah. They shall imprison you if you break it. I understand.”

His voice was always so serious when he joked, never giving away the game. She laughed at the thought and said, “Yes, there’s a special prison for ballet dancers who break their contracts, it’s especially brutal. I hear they make you dance to jazz all day.”

This time his lips brushed the placed where her shoulders met her neck, and her breath hitched at the sensation. “I shan’t extradite you.” he concluded, his warm lips brushing her skin. “I shall keep you here, safe and sound, far away from the ballet constables.”

Astra laced her fingers with his over her stomach and said, “They’re relentless, the ballet constables. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

His lips trailed up her neck and stopped at her ear where he said softly, “I think I can manage.”

Astra’s entire body erupted in chills, and suddenly she didn’t want to continue their elaborate, jokey banter about the consequences of her actions. She turned in his arms and pressed her lips roughly to his, knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that all she really wanted was to lose herself in the taste and the feel and the smell of him. Andrew was the only person in the world who made her not care about the future, and when his lips were on her skin that was doubly true.

It wasn’t exactly real happiness she felt when she was lying in bed with him, his sandy brown hair all ruffled, his arm slung across her like he was afraid she’d disappear in the night. True, meaningful, lasting happiness was something that required a lot of factors: feeling good about the present and hopeful about the future, and at peace with the past. Astra wasn’t at peace with her past, and she didn’t even want to think about the future, but the present… the present was so good. It was one out of three. One out of three wasn’t bad.

***

If Andrew’s parents noticed that he was essentially living with Astra that spring, they didn’t say anything about it. Maybe they just assumed that, since they were close friends, he was keeping her company and enjoying a nice, extended visit. And that was perfectly true, except that they were sharing a bed and occasionally a shower, and they shared a cup of coffee in the morning and a bottle of wine at night.

They didn’t go back to that club, but they found other ways to go out together without being photographed. There were secret tables in the kitchens of restaurants, special royal boxes in theaters, private trains to private estates, and one time there was a royal yacht. Astra was surprised that Andy had so much freedom, as the heir to the throne. Addy couldn’t have dreamed of roaming around Illéa the way that Andrew was gallivanting across his future kingdom. Sure, part of it was Andrew making sure Astra was having the time of her life— he probably didn’t usually venture away from home so much— but even so.

“Will you be able to keep this up once you’re king?” she’d asked him as they sat curled up together on a train ride returning from the south. “All this rambling.” she explained at his questioning look.

“Ah. No, there will certainly be less. But my job will be nothing nearly so intense as King Maxon’s, if that is what you’re thinking. For one thing, I’ve got parliament.”

Astra wasn't exactly sure how England’s parliament worked. She knew King Eoan set the legislative agenda, but he couldn’t pass any kind of law on his own. “I can’t believe they let you have a whole train to yourself, and you barely have to work.” she teased.

His arm was wrapped around her shoulders, and his thumb began tracing her upper arm as he said, “If you think my future job’s a scandal, you should see what our queen has to do. Host parties, go shopping, appear at events…” his voice sounded as if it was a strain to remain light and carefree. As if his words were more important than he wanted them to be.

Astra leaned her head on his shoulder. Those were all things she already did for Illéa. Well, she didn’t host many parties, but she sometimes helped her Aunt Ames out when things were especially overwhelming. It was strange to think that she had experience doing the same job as the Queen of England.

“All that, and she gets to retire young?”

“Assuming that whole heir business is sorted out sufficiently early.” he admitted.

“Oh, that.” Astra giggled.

“On the whole, it’s not a terrible job.” he said.

“No, not when you factor in the jewelry.” Astra agreed, still joking.

“Precisely.” Andrew nodded with a small smile against the top of her head.

Astra wasn’t sure why he didn’t return her joke with one of his own.

***

Though Astra very much enjoyed being swept off her feet by the prince, it was the quiet nights at the palace that meant the most to her. Sometimes, after dinner and a long, hot bath, her joints would feel well enough to practice some choreography in one of the drawing rooms. Andrew would play the piano for her, putting years of lessons to use for the first time. Sometimes her joints would not feel well enough for more dancing after a long day at the seminar, and he’d rub her battered feet and ankles until she melted into a puddle at the other end of the sofa or bed, or wherever they happened to be.

She’d ask him about his work, but he wouldn’t tell her much. Maybe he was worried about protecting state secrets, or maybe he didn’t want to worry her. Maybe he didn’t want her to see him in less than a good mood, because he was only there to make her happy. And how could she not be happy?

One night, in the middle of her second month in England, as she laid awake in their bed and brushed her fingers through his unruly hair (a sight so few had ever seen: the Heir to England with unruly hair), she pressed a kiss to the shell of his ear and said softly, “What are we going to do when I have to leave for Waverly?”

Sleepily, he’d pried his eyes open, his eyelashes fluttering against her skin. “What would you like to do?”

“Freeze this moment in amber. Live in it forever.”

“Be young, in love, and carefree forever?” he’d smirked.

“In love?” she’d hesitated, surprised. They’d only been attached at the lips for six weeks now, as impossible as it seemed. Hadn’t they enjoyed half a lifetime together already?

“Oh dear.” He’d lifted his head up so that he could look in her eyes, “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Astra shook her head, “It’s okay. I do love you Andrew.”

“Do you?” he sounded amazed.

And she did. She’d always loved him, just as he’d always loved her. They’d grown up together, perfect friends, how could she not love him?

“I’m sorry you didn’t know that already.” she let her hand fall from his hair down his spine, coming to rest on his bare lower back. She traced the shape of a heart there with her finger and he shuddered. “You’re one of the best friends I’ll ever have, and I love you.”

He smiled and returned his cheek to her chest, listening for her heartbeat. “Yes. This moment would do just fine.”

“We could freeze this moment and allow archaeologists to discover it in a few thousand years.”

“And if we don’t like the future, we could simply freeze this moment again.” he agreed.

“You don’t think you’d be bored after a few thousand years?”

He grinned, one hand tracing her ribcage lazily, “I could find a few ways to keep myself occupied.”

***

Astra didn’t notice the first time there was a photographer waiting outside of the dance studio after her rehearsals. And then, a couple of days later, when a rumor sourced to a local food delivery driver was printed in a Sunday paper saying that he delivered Prince Andrew’s favorite kind of curry to the Palace where Astra was staying a couple of times per week. She didn’t mind when Andrew suggested they stop sneaking out to exclusive clubs or restaurants around the city, because staying in was extremely entertaining.

But it was hard to miss when Andrew nervously appeared in her doorway one evening and said, instead of ‘hello’ or ‘how was your day’, “Grandmother has asked to meet you.”

Astra gaped. Queen Cerridwen, King Eoan’s mother, had never met any of the Illéan royals in-person. Maybe she’d met Uncle Maxon back before he was King, when she was still the active queen, but maybe not even then. “Me? Wh…why?”

Andrew ran a hand through his hair and ruffled it in a way that would have been funny if he hadn’t look so stressed. He sank to his knees to sit next to Astra, who’d been sitting on the floor, using the coffee table to hold her nail polish bottles as she painted her toes. “The rumors got to her.”

“Rumors… about us?”

Andrew nodded, “I’ve had the press department squashing everything the second they hear about it, and it’s bought us some time, but the rumors have been consistent for long enough now—“

“The rumors that we’re spending time together?” Astra asked.

“Yes.” Andrew looked faintly nauseous.

Astra smiled and traced his cheekbone with her thumb soothingly, “We are spending time together. We’re not being falsely accused.”

“No, I know… I think, just… I think we need to talk.”

Those were heavy words.

Kile had been the last one to say those words to her, and the outcome had been really unpleasant.

“You didn’t bring wine?” Astra noticed for the first time.

“I wanted us to keep our heads clear.”

“Are you ending this?” Astra asked, eyebrows furrowed.

“No.” Andrew promised. “But we’ve never talked about what this is before. I’ve been able to buy us a little slice of time to ourselves, but I’ve reached the end of my tricks.”

Astra looked into his eyes carefully, noticing the strain there for the first time, “You never said you had to use tricks…”

“I didn’t want you to have to worry about it. I wanted to be… uncomplicated. Simple. After everything you’ve been through, I thought that you needed simplicity.”

“I did.” she admitted, chest suddenly aching at the thought that the simple times might be gone.

He brushed an errant curl behind her ear and smiled bracingly, “I am not here to tell you that the world is ending. Merely that people have found us out. They’re asking questions that I do not have the answers to, and in lieu of my answers, they are coming to their own conclusions. Grandmother amongst the rest.”

“She wants to meet me because she knows we’ve been dating?”

Andrew huffed a breath, “It’s her way of forcing the matter at hand. When it comes to me, to dating the English Heir, there is dating and there is Dating. Courting. Something official, not just between you and I, but between us and all of England.”

Astra looked a little creeped out at the thought, “They… want in on our dates?”

Andrew rubbed his brow, “In a manner of speaking… there comes a point when I’m meant to introduce anyone I am seeing to the people of England as a potential future queen.”

“Why? It’s not like they get to vote on who stays in your bed, or in our case, my bed.”

“No, but it’s…” he seemed so uncomfortable at having to explain this to her. Probably any English girl he dated would have seen this coming a mile away and known what to expect. Astra blushed a little, feeling inadequate for the first time all spring. “It’s a bit like a small Selection, perhaps. They get to know the person their prince is dating and they get to watch me court their future queen.”

“Oh, and your gramma wants you to do that with me?” What a relief to know she was just a confused old woman who’d misunderstood.

“Precisely. Meeting Grandmother at her estate in Scotland would signal the official start to our official courtship.”

Astra felt all the tension leave her body and she smirked at him, “Your gramma is proposing marriage to me on your behalf.”

“Basically.”

“What’s she in such a hurry for? We’re teenagers.”

Andrew let out an exasperated sigh, relieved now that he could see Astra wasn’t panicking and throwing everything she owned into a bag to haul back to Illéa on the first flight out the next morning. “I don’t know. You’re a good match, obviously. My father is close with your uncle, but it would be smart to solidify that alliance with some kind of marriage.”

“Very sexy and romantic.” Astra giggled.

“Isn’t it just?” he agreed wryly. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath, “I suppose she’s worried because I’ll be king in a few more years. She doesn’t want me to have to go through that enormous transition of responsibility by myself. I suppose finding a queen would be much harder as king than as prince, too. Father’s even asked me if I want to take a few months next year and devote myself to dating full time before he begins handing off responsibilities to me in earnest. As part of a formal ascension plan.”

“What a conversation.”

“You can’t begin to imagine.”

Astra collapsed into giggles, doing her best to imagine it anyway. King Eoan asking his son if he wanted to be a full-time, 40-hours-per-week dater as part of his obligations to the crown.

“It’s good you think this is funny.” he sulked, but he only partially meant it. He was genuinely glad she was laughing instead of crying.

Fairly certain her toes were dry now, Astra stood and screwed the caps on her polish, stashing the bottles in a drawer next to her vanity. She stretched, fingers reached for the ceiling, going up on her toes, and as she came down she whisked her loose t-shirt over her head.

“Astra.” Andrew cleared his throat, forcing his eyes away from her lacy, pale blue and white bra, “Clear heads, remember?”

“I’m just getting comfortable.” she said in a voice that clearly told him she was not just getting comfortable.

He stood and she came over and loosened his tie for him. He placed a hand over hers when she made for his shirt’s buttons and said, “Do you want this to last past April?”

Astra gulped, “I wish April was forever.”

He stared at her, the only flicker of doubt coming from the small twitch of his eyebrow. “That’s not the same thing.”

“… I know.”

“You don’t have to answer me tonight, but we should talk about it. If we keep going past April, I suspect it will make the most sense for you… for you to meet grandmother.”

This time, when Astra continued with his buttons, it was a genuine effort to help him get comfortable, and not a ploy to see his bare chest. Seeing his bare chest was an undeniable bonus, though. She linked her fingers with his and dragged him towards her bed, and then she flopped down on her back and stared up at the top of her four poster canopy. “So what would happen after I met your grandmother?”

“You’d get some secret service protection.” Andrew laid on his stomach and used his finger to draw doodles on the smooth, soft skin above her navel. His breath felt warm as it puffed against her ribs, but her skin erupted in goosebumps anyway, and he pressed a chaste kiss to them. He knew the effect he had on her, and it only made him want to cherish her more.

“I’d go back to Illéa, though. To Waverly.”

“Yes. We’d coordinate that. It would probably be a less hectic place for you than in England.”

“You think England will be hectic if you announce we’re officially dating?”

Andrew huffed one dry, humorless laugh. “When they find out I’m thinking of making you their princess… sweetheart, it’s going to be a nightmare of a circus.”

“Terrifying clowns?”

“The most terrifying.” he agreed.

Astra sighed, “Then what? How long would we get to date before they’d expect you to decide whether you want to marry me or not?”

“Given the time you’d be spending in Illéa, we could get a year.”

“A year.” Astra liked the sound of that. Sure, she’d dance until her contract was up in Waverly, but then she’d come back and get to do this with Andrew for months and months. His dad might even let him date her full-time. Morning, noon, and night cuddles.

“Yes, and then…”

“And then a fairytale proposal. Would it have to be public?”

“Gosh, no.” Andrew promised. “But it would need to have a good story behind it. Take you somewhere meaningful—“

“Like the club where we first kissed.” Astra teased, running her hands through his hair.

“No, not at all.” he chuckled.

“And would I get to wear one of the crown jewels or something?”

Andrew lifted his head to look at her. “Would you want one?”

Astra laughed. It was all so completely silly. She was an eighteen year old girl! A boy was offering her a crown jewel! She laughed some more.

“Our engagement would be six months, eight at most.” he said. “That’s going to be the hardest time for you. You won’t be royal yet, but you’ll have all the expectations. Of course, you’d have everything you’d need from us. Security, education, an allowance for your clothes.”

“Mmm, clothes.”

“And then—“

“A royal wedding?”

“Yes.”

“And a royal honeymoon?”

“Of course.” he pressed another kiss to her skin, this one not so chaste.

“And then I’m your princess?”

“Until we take our oaths to become king and queen.”

“You really think I could be queen?”

“You think you couldn’t?”

“I know how hard it is on my Aunt Ames. It’s not really the life I saw for myself.”

“It’s different in England, you know. We’re smaller than most Illéan provinces, and we’ve got parliament.”

She couldn’t continue to fantasize about marrying him without understanding what he meant when he said that. “Andy, how does parliament help you?”

“Eh… help is not the word.” Andrew admitted. “It’s more that they take certain responsibilities off the monarch’s plate. Whether they do so in a manner that helps is an entirely different question. But unlike Queen America, who assists on many matters of policy and diplomacy, my mother’s job is almost entirely ceremonial, supporting my father’s efforts.”

“So do you think I could dance if we were married?”

Andrew fell quiet, wracking his brain for a way. “Not once we were engaged… I just can’t imagine that you would have time. And you’d quickly become one of the most famous women in the world… not that you’re anonymous now, just that we’re talking about a whole different stratosphere of public interest… even if we found time for you to dance in the royal ballet, it might not be safe.”

Astra hated that answer, but it made perfect sense to her. Addy had never regularly commuted into the city for any reason. Keeping her safe during recurring, publicly open performances would have been a nightmare, and Astra supposed that would be true for her too.

Astra also knew she wasn’t going to dance forever. She probably had a good ten or twelve years before retirement, and that was only if she avoided any major injuries. In Astra’s experience, injuries and pregnancies were two of the most common reasons dancers retired younger than thirty and they were both to be avoided.

“How long do you think we could put all of this off? I don’t want to stop dancing.”

“I know. I want you to dance! You’re bloody magnificent when you dance.”

“Just when I dance?” she teased suggestively.

“Other times too.” he smirked up at her. He let his face fall gently on her stomach, breathing in the smell of her body wash and then lifting his head again, “I could tell Grandmother we’re not yet ready. You could go to Waverly and come back for visits now and again.”

“Sounds like I’d miss you.”

“I’d miss you too.”

“Sounds better to me, though.”

“I suppose it must. The people mightn’t be fooled, they’ll still expect something is happening between us.”

“They’d be right.”

“But Astra… No matter what, I’ll be King four years from now. There’s no delaying that. ”

“That’s a long time, Andy.”

“I can’t… you must understand, I’d need to know for certain by then.”

“Of course!”

“Ideally… Ideally I would be married by then so that we could share the coronation ceremony.”

“So we could have a wedding earlier that fall? You’d propose that spring? That gives us a few years. That gives me time to dance.”

“But would it be enough?”

“Three years is forever, Andy.” Astra grinned down at him.

“And you’d really consider being my queen?”

“I’d consider a lot of things for blue eyes like yours.”

“They are an important part of the benefits package.” he agreed, placing an arm on either side of her and bringing himself up so that they were eye to eye. “Along with lots of travel to exotic locations. The finest champagne money can buy. Famous designers tripping over themselves to clothe you. A handful of palaces. Lots of diamonds.” he punctuated each of these offers with a deep, heated kiss and by the end Astra was absolutely dizzy and in no state to negotiate her future job benefits.

***

By the end of the week it was not just one photographer waiting outside of the ballet studio anymore, there were dozens. They were aggressive and pushy, yelling her name and constantly demanding she tell them if she was seeing Andrew. Her Illéan security detail was not pleased. The theater that housed the ballet was difficult to secure against so many persistent intruders, and there was serious discussion about whether they could even let her finish the seminar. They also discussed calling King Maxon and asking him for reinforcements, which made Astra’s stomach feel sick. She didn’t want her uncle to have to pay money and spare resources to send across the world to her all because of her love life.

It was a tense day and a half before Andrew was able to come through with security of his own to supplement her detail. It had been a tough thing to organize, given she wasn’t officially his girlfriend, but he’d found a way for her.

If Astra knew anything in those days, it was that he would always find a way for her. That had never been the problem.

There were reporters outside of Astra’s palace now, night and day, and they marked each time Andrew came or went. Instead of lounging together on the balcony overlooking the city, Astra and Andrew had to draw the curtains closed for the sake of their privacy.

“We should just tell them we’re not really dating.” Astra said. “I can’t outright lie to them.” Andrew insisted. “I can’t break trust with my people. I don’t have to confirm we’re together, but I can’t just tell them we’re not.”

“There’s got to be a way… tell them we have no intention of courting right now. That’s not a lie, is it?”

“It’s a bit transparent.” Andrew pointed out.

“Well, I’d love to hear your better idea!”

Andrew sighed into her hair. They were dancing to the music on the television, its glow the only light in her bedroom. “Maybe we break up. And I tell them we broke up.”

“You’re breaking up with me?” Astra suddenly sounded so small and vulnerable, he squeezed her tighter, “No! Not really. Not in that way. It’s just a way we can… buy you some more time before we have to fess up to anything.”

Astra didn’t want to fake-break up with Andrew. She wanted the entire world to leave them to their peace and quiet in their little palace of domestic bliss forever. What was so complicated about that?

Andrew had the idea of staying away one night to try to relieve some of the heat, but all it did was leave Astra pacing the floor alone, listening to the rumble of dozens of people camped out on the street in front of her palace all night.

Astra and Andrew were summoned by Queen Waverly the next day and sat down together on the sofa in her office.

Everything about it was embarrassing. Andy’s mother needed to know how long they had been romantic, how far their romance had gone, how serious they were about their future together, and why Andrew had turned down his grandmother’s invitation.

“Lovey, she wasn’t trying to force your hand.” Waverly told Andrew sympathetically. “What’s happening now out there… it’s going to get worse, the longer we let the media spin itself up into a frenzy.”

Astra said, “I only have a week and a half left, your Majesty—“

“Astra.” Waverly reproached the use of her title. “We’re having this discussion as family. Call me Aunt Waverly… if you’re marrying my son, call me Mum.”

Astra gulped, looking at Andrew, lost.

“We’ve only been together a few months, we don’t know—“ Andrew spoke up, until Waverly nodded and held up her hand to silence him.

“I understand entirely.” She turned her head to the side to study a giant portrait of one of Andy’s female ancestors. “Listen you two, I know that this is a complicated situation. The only thing that will help is being forthright with the people.”

“If Astra meets grandmother, the people will be demanding a proposal by Christmas.”

“Perhaps so.”

“We’re not ready for that.” Andrew was keeping a lid on his princely composure, but Astra could tell he felt hopelessly trapped by his mother and the palace and his people beyond its walls. He was ready to rattle the cages.

Waverly nodded, “Your father and I will do everything we possibly can for you, you know that. We only want your happiness. But things are getting very intense, very fast out there. That’s happening because you’re choosing not to do things the conventional way. You must understand that.”

Very intense, very fast. That was Astra’s whole relationship with Andrew in a nutshell.

“It’s just a week and a half.” Astra reiterated. “Then I’ll be back in Illéa and the press can calm down for a while.”

“The speculation won’t stop until it is addressed by us, and it might even turn ugly.” Waverly warned. “When you stop giving them fresh photograph opportunities every day at your ballet house, when there aren’t rumors flying about sightings of the two of you all over London—“

“Not true, by the way.” Andrew said.

“Some of them could be.” Astra reminded him.

“Only the very old ones. We’ve not been out in a fortnight.”

Astra nodded.

“My point is, in a vacuum of real news, someone will invent rumors to splash on their tabloids. It will be anything and everything. Abuse, affairs, pregnancy out of wedlock, Astra will be a gold digger who broke Andy’s heart one week, the next week Andy will be a womanizing fiend who took advantage of a childhood friend. Relations between England and Illéa will be on the brink—“

“They won’t!” Astra objected.

“Only in the magazines.” Waverly replied. “But we wouldn't want any hostile nations thinking the rumors were true and attempting to take advantage of the supposed rift. You see how this could spiral?”

The room fell to silence for the first time. Astra shivered just a little, “I feel like I’ve been tossed into a tornado.”

“It gets better." Waverly promised. “Once you’re proactive about telling your own story, it gets harder for the media to frenzy over half-credible unattributed rumors.”

Astra buried her face in her hands. She’d thought she’d have years before she had to tell the media a story about her relationship with Andrew. It felt wrong that the people of England were forcing an eighteen year old girl to move so quickly.

“I just need time.” Astra said into her hands.

“Right.” Waverly made up her mind and stood, “In that case, Eoan and I are inviting you to stay here with us for the rest of your visit, Astra. We’ll tell the media that we’re very much looking forward to spending time with you before the end of your trip.”

“No, wait…” Astra looked up, heartbroken that she was losing her private little palace. Would she even get to go back and say goodbye to it?

“This isn’t a punishment, sweetheart.” Waverly sighed and then tugged Astra up to standing, pulling her into a tight hug. “You’re not in trouble. Not one little bit. You’ll have more privacy here, behind our gates and with all of our guards. You’ll have one of our cars to drive you to and from the ballet, and Andy won’t be caught coming and going at all hours of the night because he already lives here… or he did before you came to town.” she said the last part teasingly to her oldest son, who had the temerity to blush at his shamelessness.

Astra felt her eyes sting with tears, “I love that palace… it’s been a good home for me.”

Waverly smiled sweetly, “You’ll be welcome to stay there the next time you come back. If you and Andrew announce an engagement, we’ll fully staff the place for you so that it’s safer. Perhaps you and Andrew could use it as your home for the time between your marriage and his assumption of the crown.”

“Really?” Andrew looked enticed by the offer.

“You’ll need to live somewhere, dear. You couldn’t live with your parents as newlyweds, it would be unbearable.” Waverly teased. “England would never get an heir that way.”

Heirs.

Hearing the queen say that word in this palace, next to the crown prince made it feel very real and very scary. Did Astra want her kids to be heirs? She thought again of Addy and Jamesy… she loved them more than anything in the world, but she couldn’t imagine raising her children for such an incredible responsibility.

Waverly continued softly, “The main thing is, we need to be very delicate here, my loves. When Andrew becomes king, he will become the head of the church. Please understand, I do not mind what you the two of you do or don’t do, so long as you are safe and consenting.”

“Mother.” Andy squirmed.

“But it would put Andrew in a difficult position, becoming head of the church, if he was seen to have a… well a marriage-style relationship with a woman who was not his wife for too long.”

“Yes, heaven forbid I have a healthy, long-term girlfriend.” Andy scowled.

“It’s the vows to God that are the issue at hand, not heaven, and you know it.” Waverly scolded his sass quietly, but efficiently.

“So we break up.” Astra concluded. “We officially break up when I go back to Illéa, and then when it’s time, I come back to England and we publicly reunite… you don’t have any church issues, and I have time to dance.”

Waverly looked between them quietly. “It might be the only option, short of scheduling dinner with your grandmother.”

Andrew looked almost as sad as if the breakup was real. Maybe he was scared it would become real once Astra was out of the whirlwind. She laced her fingers with his and squeezed, “We’ll figure this out.”

He squeezed back twice, gently.

***

That night Astra slept in Andrew’s bedroom for the first time in their entire affair.

“The maids are gonna know.”

“Everyone knows.” he snorted into her hair. “That’s why we’re here and not across town in our own palace.”

“Your parents are in the building.” she complained when his hands began wandering her body.

“Not close enough to hear anything.”

“Still… what if they have to walk by for a glass of water or something?”

“You want me to keep my hands to myself tonight?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, so shall we see who can be quietest?” he brushed his fingers across her ribs and she quietly shrieked a giggle. “You are so bad at this, darling.”

“Oh yeah?” she got her revenge with vicious tickles, exploiting every sensitive spot she’d found on his body the last few months.

***

Living in the English palace was an easy adjustment for Astra. She'd grown up in Illéa Palace which, as the functioning capital building of one of the largest nations in the world, was larger and had a much bigger staff. The English palace was certainly ancient and stately, but Astra had grown up visiting the place, so at least she wasn’t too dazzled to see this for what it was.

There was no more delivery from local restaurants once those palace gates were closed, but the royal chef made sure that Andy and Astra had everything they wanted delivered to one of their rooms each night, so that wasn’t actually too much of a change. Not only that, but the maids were discrete and only came onto their floor when Andrew was at work and Astra was at the ballet for the day, so it was almost like their bedrooms magically tidied themselves up each day.

Really, the biggest change for Astra had been weeks before, when rumors had started flying and she and Andrew had stopped venturing out into London. Andrew still appeared in her doorway just in time for dinner, looking handsome and happy to see her. They still shared good meals and long baths, and a warm bed each night. But now the illusion that time didn't exist and that they could continue peacefully, blissfully existing in their little bubble forever was burst.

Since the royal palace hadn't released a statement about the gorgeous young foreign princess living in the same palace as their handsome young future king, salacious headlines were beginning to trickle from tabloids to increasingly reputable news sources. Astra and Andrew's private affair wasn’t so private anymore.

Some part of Astra had been hoping that the rumors would die down once she and Andrew had retreated into the palace, even though she knew better. But on her second-to-final rehearsal before her big seminar performance, photographers started camping out overnight at the stage door to the ballet, not just hounding Astra but harassing her fellow dancers, too. It was humiliating to think that these world-class performers, some of whom Astra had idolized for years, were getting manhandled on their way to and from work every day because of Astra’s love life. She wasn’t sure her reputation in the industry would ever recover from this. Who would want to work with her when her very presence could cause such a disruption?

She cried in the backseat of the car on her way back to the royal palace that day, but she had big sunglasses on, and at least no photographers caught her moment of weakness.

“I don’t want to be the girl who’s dating the future king. I want to be a damn good dancer.” Astra said that night, her cheek pressed to Andrew’s chest as he drew swirling designs on her bare back with his fingers.

“You are both.”

“You don’t understand… you literally can’t.”

“What?” Andrew wasn’t insulted, which was the great thing about him. He was always humble about his own limitations. “Why can I not understand?”

“Have you ever looked up to someone who was truly excellent at the very thing that you wanted to be truly excellent at?”

“Of course.”

“Who?”

“King Maxon.”

Astra rolled her eyes and lifted her head so he could see her at it. “You met him when you could still count your age on one hand.”

“So?”

“So most people never get to meet their idols, and if they do it’s because they’ve worked extremely hard to become very good at something. There are choreographers and dancers at this seminar that I’ve admired for a decade. And now my presence is turning their workplace, a place I consider to be sacred, into a hostile circus.”

Andrew frowned down at her and said softly, “Did I not promise you terrifying clowns?”

“I don’t want to bring chaos to every stage I cross.” Astra pouted.

Andrew nodded and said, “So we should announce our breakup immediately. I’ll release a statement tomorrow, and ask a friend of mine to appear in public with me tomorrow night… a woman. It won’t cure everything overnight, but it would surely alleviate some of the pressure.”

Astra stared into his eyes, then studied the line of his nose, the cut of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw. “That’s a lot of trouble to go through just for me.”

“Astra, are you joking? You’re the one going through trouble for me.”

Astra nodded, but she dropped a kiss onto his lips anyway. “Okay, but the breakup is fake.” her lips danced over his.

His teeth gently teased her lower lip as he replied, “Yeah. I noticed.”

***

As warm and inviting as the arms holding her were, Astra had a difficult time staying asleep that night. She was nervous about returning to rehearsals the next morning, nervous about their final performance, now only a couple of days away, nervous about her new relationship with Andrew, and nervous about being nervous about her new relationship with Andrew.

At around four in the morning she slipped out of bed and tiptoed back to her suite, where she found a pitcher of water and a tray of snacks waiting for her. She spent so many hours of her day exercising that sometimes she woke up in the middle of the night ravenously, painfully hungry, so she’d requested that she be left some snacks just in case. She picked at a scone, lost in her anxieties, and her stress about not being able to sleep, until the telephone next to her bed rang so loudly and shrilly that it caused her to jump and splash some of her glass of water onto her night shirt.

“Hello?” Astra picked up the phone, hoping to hear an Illéan voice on the other end of the line. She hadn’t spoken to Addy in a few days, and it had been almost a week since her Aunt Ames or Uncle Maxon had phoned. She hadn’t spoken to her parents in longer than that, but they’d be arriving in London in less that twenty-four hours so that they could watch her final performance, so she wasn’t too desperate to speak to them.

And while the voice on the other line was Illéan, it definitely wasn’t one she had been expecting.

“Hey.”

Astra’s stomach clenched and her body flooded with adrenaline. She reminded herself to behave like a normal person and not like a lunatic when, as casually as she could, she replied, “Kile? Is that you?” like she didn’t know. Like she wouldn’t know his voice anywhere, anytime, under any circumstance. She knew his voice better than she knew her own.

“Sorry, I know it’s the middle of the night over there. …You don’t sound like you were sleeping, though.”

He would know.

Astra gulped hard, “I needed a snack.” It was a lie, but it was close enough to the truth.

“Hm. Is he there then?”

Astra felt defensive anger flare up in her chest, and only later realized that the anger was covering a sense of guilt. “So what if he is? You broke up with me—“

“Astra—“

“No, it’s okay. I’m not saying that in a mean way. I’m stating a fact. We are not together because you broke up with me, so why do you care if he’s here?”

There was a long pause and then a low groan on the other end of the phone. Astra heard a brush of fabric over his microphone, as if he’d been rubbing his face and his sleeve caught on the receiver.

“I want to know if he’s there, because I want to talk to you when you’re alone. It’s why I’m calling so late… or early, I guess.” Kile said.

Astra’s traitor heart beat faster. What did he want to talk to her about when she was alone? Was he going to apologize? Was he going to ask for her back?

It was too late, obviously. Astra had obviously moved on. Obviously. “He’s not here.”

Kile sounded relieved when he said, “Good.” and that annoyed Astra. He had no right to be relieved that she wasn’t in bed with another man. He’d hurt her in a way she’d never known she could hurt before.

She lashed out, “I didn’t want to wake him up with my snacking. But he’ll probably notice I’m gone soon, so you should hurry up and say what you want to say.”

The pained sound that snuck out of his throat with his next exhale was not as satisfying as Astra had hoped it would be. She regretted her words already. Maybe now he wouldn’t ask for her back… not that she wanted him to.

Kile said, “Let me ask you something…”

This was it. He was going to ask for forgiveness. He was going to ask her to come back to Illéa and be with him.

“What do you want more than anything in the world?” Kile said.

What was he expecting her to say? That she wanted him? She was dating the Crown Prince of England!

“Astra?”

“What do you mean, Kile?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean? For our whole lives you’ve always wanted one thing more than anything in the world. What is it?”

Oh. Astra replied almost mechanically, her voice barely above a mumble, “I want to be the Prima Ballerina for the Angeles Ballet for at least a season, maybe two.”

“And you wanted that enough that you didn’t even think about moving closer to my university, because it would have taken you away from the Angeles ballet. And not for a good reason, like that invitation you got to dance in Waverly. For no reason. For me.”

“You’re not no reason—“

“No, I’m just not a good enough reason.”

“Kile—“

“You can’t argue with that.”

“You said you wouldn’t promise to look for apprenticeships and internships in the cities where I was dancing. You said you don’t want to live in Angeles when you grow up!”

“I don’t. I’m going to go where I can do my best work.” he said plainly. “I still think you and I made a good choice to split up.”

Hearing him say that was hard. She wanted him to regret it. She wanted him to miss her like she had missed him before Andrew had swept her off her feet. Losing him had changed her and she would never be the same as she was before, and he wasn’t even sorry.

Kile continued, “I’m just saying… what was the point of drawing a line in the sand about you and me if you were just going to walk all over it for Andy?”

“What?”

“We both know that you’ll never be prima anything if you marry Andy. You told me yourself, every waking hour of a prima’s life is devoted to dancing or preparing to dance. There are no hobbies, no vacations, no date nights. There definitely isn't time to be somebody’s princess.”

“I’m already an Illéan Prin—“

“Cut the shit, Astra, you know what I mean.” Kile sounded exasperated, and she knew why. She was trying to miss his point, but he wasn’t exactly being subtle about it so dodging it was proving impossible.

“Maybe I want something else now. Maybe I want to marry Andrew.”

“Look… Andy’s not a bad guy—“ Kile admitted through gritted teeth, “But there will be plenty of not bad guys waiting for you after you retire. So if you pick him, do it because you want the life he’ll give you more than the life you can earn for yourself. And be ready to bury your dreams of being a prima ballerina forever, if you do. I know you, and I know you’re getting swept up in this—“

“Don’t talk about me like I’m some helpless little… little damsel, Kile.” Astra snapped.

“Think about it logistically. Do you want to move to the other side of the world from your parents and your little brothers? They’ll visit you as often as they can, but your visits to Illéa will always be to the Palace, to King Maxon and Addy. You won’t be able to go home again. Do you want to have to keep a royal schedule, planned months and years in advance? And you can forget being around from Addy once she becomes queen, you’ll be trapped on the far side of an ocean.”

“Kile—“ Astra tried to interrupt him because she wanted him to stop making sense.

“What about the little things? What about the weather? You’re an Angeles girl, are you going to miss the sun? You know they use different numbers for temperature over there, right? How’s it going to feel to wake up in the morning and have some maid tell you that it’s twenty-five degrees outside, so you’d better stay in the shade to keep cool?”

“Kile.” Astra laughed.

“I’m serious. You’re not just choosing a career here, Astra, you’re choosing a life: from the moment you wake up to the moment you fall asleep.” Kile paused and let out a tired sigh. “I just don’t want you to make a big mistake that you can’t undo. I know how badly you want to dance. You’re not ready for this, and even if you were, this wouldn’t be the right choice for you.”

“I’ve changed, Kile.” she wanted to add that he’d changed her. That losing him had made her someone new, someone she didn’t even know yet, but she kept that part to herself. Listening to his voice for so long that night… suddenly she found that she didn’t want to hurt him anymore.

“It’s barely been three months, Astra. You haven’t changed that much.” he promised.

Astra wasn’t sure. Sometimes change was gradual, sure, but sometimes change was all at once. Traumatic change was a sudden shattering of what came before, such that one could never go back again. That was what losing Kile had been like.

But did that mean she wanted to give up dancing and become Andrew’s princess? His queen? His wife and the mother of his heirs? Did she want to leave Illéa forever and eventually move into this palace?

She wanted all of that when she was wrapped up in Andrew’s arms.

But here, alone in the middle of the night when she had her wits about her…

She climbed back into bed and woke Andrew up with steady, gentle kisses. Everything about the love they made that morning was slow and desperate, and even though she hadn’t meant it to, in the end it felt like goodbye.

***

Astra was gone to her final rehearsals before dawn, but later that morning Andrew was true to his word and made a big announcement that he and Astra had both been secretly dating, and were now publicly broken up. He made a good show of wandering around London looking sad that day, and that night he went out to dinner with a fashion model friend, who did not mind the publicity one little bit.

There were still plenty of photographers salivating at the chance to photograph Astra looking dismal at having lost the chance to become an English princess, but at least they were leaving the rest of the dancers, and everyone else associated with the ballet, in peace.

Astra’s parents arrived at the royal palace in time for dinner that night, and Astra had a lot of explaining to do to them. King Eoan and Queen Waverly seemed to find Astra’s discomfort at explaining her affair with Andrew to her parents over roasted asparagus incredibly amusing, and possibly reminiscent of the beginning of their own relationship. It wasn’t fair, though. Andrew missed all the “fun”, making sure it looked like he was rebounding with that gorgeous model.

That night, Astra was too nervous about her impending final performance to wait up for Andrew to get back to the Palace. She could go to bed early or never at all. She drank some tea laced with a little bit of melatonin and fell asleep soon after dinner.

She woke up in Andrew’s arms, her cheek pressed to the side of his bare chest. She listened to him breathe deeply and evenly for a little while and tried one last time.

She could quit dancing.

She could leave Illéa forever.

She could raise her children to be heirs.

Her children could raise their children to be heirs.

When she died, her bones could be interred in a big old church.

Her whole life could be that easy.

God, it would be so easy.

“Andy?” she whispered.

He didn’t stir.

“Andrew?” she tried again, this time pulling away from him and sitting up in bed.

He didn’t hear her, but he reacted to the loss of her warmth, and eventually his heavy eyelids fluttered open. “Astra?”

“What time did you get in last night?”

“This morning.” He admitted, yawning widely. “I expect the tabloids will be plastered with headlines about their debaucherous future king today.”

“Was it any fun?”

“Yeah. Ellie’s great; she’s always happy to be photographed on my arm. Missed you, though.” he added, as if suddenly awake enough to worry that she was jealous.

She wasn’t the slightest bit jealous. Well, the slightest bit, but not for the reasons he would assume. Astra was jealous because Ellie could keep being photographed on Andrew’s arm for as long as she pleased, with no consequences.

“Maybe you should marry Ellie.” Astra suggested.

Andrew laughed, and it turned into a yawn. Then he explained, “Ellie’s too focused on her career right now. And anyway, she’d be far more interested in you.”

“Now that would be a tabloid headline.” Astra joked weakly.

“What’s the matter? Are you nervous for your performance? Is it because you’re leaving England this time tomorrow? Is it because you told your parents what’s been happening between us—“

“I’m not nervous.” Astra said, even though her stomach was in knots. Those weren’t nerves. That was grief. “Andy… I want to be a ballet dancer.”

Andrew sat up in bed now and rubbed the sleep from his eyes so he could focus on her. The words were familiar, but her tone was alarming. “Of course you do. You are a ballet dancer, and you’re bloody brilliant.”

“I want to be a prima ballerina.”

“Okay.”

“That sort of excellence takes years to achieve.”

“Good job you’ve been dancing since you were four years old, then.”

“Shh.” she pressed a finger to his lips so that he would stop talking back and listen to her. He complied. “I won’t be ready to be a prima for seven or eight years. I have a lot to learn. And when I’m ready, I want to be a Prima Ballerina for at least one season, maybe two. That’s every waking hour devoted to dance for two years straight. Then I want to live in Angeles and stay close to Addy in the first few years of her reign. I want to be there when she gets married and has babies, because she is great at putting on a brave face and absolutely terrible at processing the emotions that are scaring her into needing to be brave. She’s going to need me, and I’m excited to be there for her. I can’t live on a different continent than my dad. There can’t such a huge time difference between me and my mom. I can’t be a foreign queen. I don’t want to be foreign at all. Andrew… I can’t marry you.” Her cheeks were wet and her voice cracked, but she didn’t know when, in that little breathless tirade, she’d started crying.

Andrew stared blankly ahead, hugging his knees to his chest around their blanket. He didn’t look surprised. He’d known she was too good to be true all along. Finding his queen could never have been so easy, so perfect. He shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up.

“Andy, none of those reasons I gave have anything to do with you. I love you. You’re a good man, and a great partner, and you have no business being such a talented kisser when you’re so handsome. It’s overkill.” she waited for him to smile. She waited for him to do anything. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Andrew. I just can’t marry you. I’m eighteen years old, I just got control of my life. I’m not ready to sign it over to a monarchy. I would love to be your wife, Andy, but I would hate to be your queen.”

Andrew blinked hard, then looked over at her. His voice was too casual, his words were too easy when he said, “I understand entirely. I can wait.”

Astra furrowed her brow, trying to hold his far off gaze. “Wait? What do you mean, wait?”

“You want to be a prima ballerina, and you said it would take you nine or ten years to accomplish your goal. Fine. I will wait, and when you’re ready I’ll ask to marry you.”

“No, Andy—“

“I don’t mind ruling on my own for a while.”

“That’s more than a while! You’ll be king in four years—“

“It isn’t a problem.” he insisted.

“Did you hear the part about what I want to do after I retire? About living in Illéa, about staying close to my family?”

“Astra, once we’re married, you can do whatever you like.”

“But queens have responsibilities.”

“We can redefine the role to mean whatever you’d like it to mean. I don’t care. I love you, Astra, and you’re the best future queen I could ever hope for.”

Astra paused, blinking hard against the tears in her eyes. It hurt to hear him say that. It hurt to realize that he didn’t believe he deserved any better. “Andy, that’s not true. You deserve a wife who will stay by your side. You deserve a wife who adores you and would be willing to sacrifice her own ambitions to serve England. I’m not good enough to be your queen.”

“Then no one ever will be.”

“Andrew—“

“Let me wait for you, Astra, please.” His voice broke on that last work, his eyes finally meeting hers and betraying his anguish. “Let me hope. It’s all that I have left.”

Astra couldn’t figure out what would be crueler, to let him hope when she’d made up her mind, or to take that hopeless hope away from him.

So she wrapped him up in her arms and they laid down. She combed her fingers through his hair and he brushed his thumb against her ribs until her alarm clock rang and her last day in London began.

***

In retrospect, Astra should have chosen a happy, upbeat, peppy song for her exhibition. She could have flounced all over the stage and spun a ridiculous number of times on her toes, and allowed her partner to toss her all over the place with an enormous smile on her face.

Instead, she’d chosen an exhibition from a ballet about a woman mourning her dead lover, dancing with his ghost. She’d been thinking of Kile when she’d chosen it, hoping it would help her work out her feelings about their doomed childhood romance. Now she was about to take the stage of the royal ballet, with Andrew and his parents in the royal box, watching her close enough that she could see the pained look on Andrew’s face as clear as anything.

Astra and her dance partner, Geoffrey, took their place while the stage was lit in nothing but the darkest of blue lights. He laid down across on their only set piece, an enormous fake rock, and Astra settled over him in a dramatic pose of despair, arm flung over her forehead.

The first part of the dance was hers alone. Her grief, her agony, her desperation. None of it was fake. When Geoffrey arose, as a ghost, and began dancing with her, the bittersweet mixture of joy and sorrow was easy to tap into. Nothing brought her more joy than dancing, and nothing brought her more sorrow in that moment than Andrew watching her live the life she’d chosen over him.

When Geoffrey faded back into the fog upstage and left Astra alone again in the center of the stage, all the passion and desperation fled with him. The rest of the dance was small and slow, painfully precise movements timed with the orchestra just so that if she made the slightest misstep, it would be immediately, embarrassingly obvious.

But Astra did not have to fake the exhaustion and resignation her character was feeling. If she allowed herself to second guess her decision to break away from Andrew now, she’d second guess it forever. The roar of the audience as the last tremulous notes from the string section died away seemed to make a deafening contrast.

Astra was surprised to find tears had started pouring down her cheeks somewhere during that performance. Geoffrey returned and took her hand, and they bowed. As was customary for this exhibition, several members of the audience threw flowers onto the stage. From the third row, Astra’s dad threw a whole bouquet, and a little teddy bear. Astra laughed as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. Then she turned to the royal box to curtsey, perfectly observing royal protocol, and was startled to find that Andrew had been crying, too.

He tossed her a single white rose with a beautiful red satin ribbon tied around the stem, but the look on his face was resignation. He could love her with all of his heart for all of his life and still never be able to give her the kind of affirmation she got from a packed theater full of an adoring audience. He’d seen her dance dozens of times in her room at her little palace, and hell, he’d even danced with her himself. But seeing her like this in front of them…

He could wait until the oceans ran dry and the mountains fell flat, and every single star in the sky flickered into darkness… Astra was never coming back to him.

Astra spent that night with her parents, letting them gush over her and spoil her with presents, and help her pack up the life she’d made in London for the last few months. She hoped Andrew would come and say goodbye once her parents went back to the suite they were staying in, but he never appeared, and Astra didn’t chase him down because she thought he deserved to set the terms. That dance had been her goodbye to him. It was up to him whether he wanted to say goodbye in return.

The next morning, Queen Waverly was the only one in the entrance hall waiting to see the Orders family off as they left. The English Royal jet would take them as far as Carolina, where they would visit James’ family for a little while.

Astra imagined Andrew’s private car speeding out onto the tarmac to stop them. She imagined him dashing from the backseat and waving his arms to alert the pilots that they couldn’t leave until he’d said his farewells.

He didn’t come. It was easier this way.

Kenna and James stayed with Astra’s grandparents for a few days, but James had to go back to work and Kenna needed to get back to the Palace. Aunt Ames had five children, two of them under the age of six, and though they had plenty of help in that Palace, Kenna was their primary nanny, their aunt, and she missed them like crazy.

Astra stayed with her grandparents for a couple of weeks, until her contract at the Waverly Ballet began. The media frenzy around her got much better in that time, though it was impossible not to notice that things were staying hectic around Andrew as the English tabloids seemed to catch on to how severely he’d had his heart broken.

Astra wished she could take some of that public shame away.

She wished she could take some of his pain away, even as she was mending her own broken heart. Her weeks in Carolina were good for that purpose. Her grandparents spoiled her rotten, and she gave her body a much-needed break from dancing. Instead, she spent her days learning needlepoint from her grandmother, and her nights stargazing out by the pond where her parents used to sneak off on dates before Gramma Magda gave up trying to convince Kenna to marry someone from a higher caste.

When Astra packed her bags to take the short flight up to Waverly to begin yet another new life with another new ballet company, she was still wearing the beautiful red ribbon that Andrew gave her as a parting gift on that rose, tied around her wrist.

And when, years later, she sat on her sofa and watched him become King of England in front of the entire world, her fingers traced that now slightly frayed red ribbon, Andy’s last gift to her, in a familiar, much-practiced gesture.

It would have been so easy to say yes, to give in to the pressure and let herself get swept away by the English people, the royal traditions, the prince’s staggering blue eyes. It would have been a good life, too. A perfectly fine marriage.

But Astra didn’t want to be queen, and now she wouldn’t have to be, and the freedom she felt watching Andrew bear the weight of that crown was all the reminder she needed: she made the right decision. And now, despite the dull ache of longing in her chest for he boy she’d loved and left behind, she was happy. Truly happy. She was at peace with her past, content in her present, and excited for her future.

When the coronation coverage ended, Astra got ready to return to bed. She was surprised when her phone rang, but she knew exactly who it would be.

“Mom?” she said, before the person on the other line could say a word. Her little cousins would have had just enough time to be tucked back into bed by now, if Aunt May was helping. Kenna would have rushed to the phone as soon as she got the chance.

“Sweetie? How are you, little bug?”

“I’m fine, Mom, I don’t need the pet names.” Astra grinned, rolling her eyes.

“Are you sure?” Kenna double-checked.

“Yeah. I wish Andrew wasn’t alone up there. I still love him, I don’t want him to suffer. But I was nothing but relieved when they put that crown on his head and I didn’t have to put one on mine. I made the right choice.”

“I know you did, honey, but just because you did the right thing doesn’t mean you have to feel perfectly fine about it. Especially not on a night like this.”

“Honestly, Mom… my time in London feels like another life. One I’m nothing but grateful for, but not one I want to relive.”

At first, Astra’s spring with Andrew felt like it had never really happened, or like it had happened to someone else, or like it was all a fever dream: too hot, too heady, a surreal hallucination more than a fairytale fantasy. But now, with some time and space, Astra could see it for what it really was: a romantic affair with someone she could have chosen to marry, but who ultimately was not the right fit for her. On the one hand, Astra and Andrew loved each other, and their marriage would have been fine: they’d known each other forever and they each fully understood the challenges of the royal life they would have been embarking on together.

On the other hand, Astra had known what she wanted out of life since she was a very small girl. It was a hard thing to ask an eighteen year old to walk away from a guaranteed royal wedding for a chance to work very hard to one day, possibly, make her dream come true. If Astra hadn’t grown up in Illéa Palace, she might not have made the same choice. But everything she got out of her life from now on was truly hers, she was the captain of her own fate, and even if she failed and never became a prima ballerina, at least this way she’d have had the chance.

“But Mom?”

“Hm?”

“Don’t ever tell Gramma Magda that Andrew proposed to me and I turned him down. I think she would disown me.”

[redstainedsocks]

Human Again

For @amonthofwhump’s March Madness for the whump trope: choking

Here’s my whumpee Zach having a very bad wake up call. I know the previous four Zach pieces have been post-escape but, and hear me out here, he was just in need of some whumping. So have some out of context, out of order, pain. (Read more high up the piece for vaguely referenced thoughts of noncon)

Warnings: Forced nudity, implied torture, implied past noncon, choking, noncon kissing, shotgunning cigarette smoke, smoking, cigarette burns, manhandling, antagonistic language, blindfolds, captive whumpee, nausea mention, food mention, prisoner denied food

Zach woke up naked. He woke up stiff and sore, and though he knew he was on the thin mattress that was granted as his bed—he could smell the musty stink of it—he had no idea how or when he got there. 

The two things combined were enough to turn his stomach, and bile crawled up his throat. There were fuzzy memories, blurred indistinct ones of beatings and being bent over a table… but was that the last thing that had happened? Or was there more? Was that even yesterday, or two days ago? It all mixed up together, and he couldn’t work out what had happened when, or which thing it was that had made him lose consciousness. Was it drugs again? An electric shock? Or just the accumulation of pain and fatigue and he’d passed out naturally?

He only knew he must have been out a while to have been brought back to his cell. Not knowing if anything more had happened while he was unawares he shivered and curled up, wishing for a blanket to cover himself with. As he moved he felt the protest in his bruised ribs and moaned as he clutched his side. 

“Ah, he lives,” came a smarmy, grunt of a voice. 

Great, Mack, of all people, was here. 

Zach opened his eyes to better defend himself against whatever Mack had in mind and found something still blocked his sight. He groped for his face, arm numb from his own dead weight crushing it. 

“Leave that,” Mack said. “Don’t you fucking dare touch it, that’s your first rule of the day.”

Zach swallowed, groaned again and pushed himself to sit up, hyper aware of every inch of skin on display. He smelled Mack’s cigarettes before he heard the man move, felt the stale smoke waft over his face and another roil of nausea that it brought with it. He lifted a hand to rub his nose and coughed onto the back of his hand to try and rid the smell and the almost-taste of it from his body.

Mack’s hand—probably, unless someone else was here too—caught his wrist and squeezed painfully. “You deaf today or some shit, I said don’t touch your fucking face.” Mack twisted his hand until the skin pinched beneath his grip, and the joint protested. Zach hissed in pain and lurched into action to try and grapple his hand free, digging nails into the back of Mack’s hand.

Mack held on for a few more long moments before he shoved Zach, freeing his wrist, and he scooted further away from where he thought Mack was crouching.

“Actually you said not to touch the blindfold,” he replied tersely. “Try thinking before you speak it might help you get your point across.”

Mack grabbed the back of his neck, fingers curling into the ends of his hair and yanked his head back. Zach hadn’t known to brace for it and the jerk sent a wave of pain that ricocheted down his neck and jarred something in his aching hip. “Far too mouthy you little shit. If it were up to me I’d sew that mouth of yours shut.”

“But then how would we have these little chats I know you love so much?”

Another puff of smoke rolled over his face and he wrinkled his nose, stomach churning. He needed food, water... he needed proper rest, not just to pass out after some torment or other and wake up bruised and sore. Resigned to not getting enough of any of those things he focused on the slight sense of satisfaction of irritating Mack instead.

He heard the hiss of the cigarette being dragged on and hoped it was nearly gone. It was fruitless hoping when fingers gripped his jaw until his lips puckered, the heat of the cigarette sizzling far too close to his skin, held in the fingers that gripped him. Then Mack’s lips were on his and he sucked in a breath of surprise only to inhale a mouthful of smoke.

He sucked it down, drawing it into his lungs in surprise, hoping and hoping for clean air to come on the back of it. Mack’s lips were a seal over his own that breathed the filthy, cloying stuff from his own mouth—expelled it forcefully right to the back of Zach’s throat. 

Zach’s lungs grew tight and full and he needed to exhale but Mack’s mouth was still smacked over his own and his tongue was in Zach’s mouth too, invading and claiming and bitterly acrid. Zach grew dizzy, swayed forward as his lungs tried to force the shotgunned smoke back out, he coughed and wheezed and batted at Mack weakly. Over the sound of his own hacking coughs he heard Mack’s laughter. Why was it always funny to these pricks? Why did they have to delight in making him suffer or making him ill? 

The weight of it all was enough to drive him flat back onto the mattress, gasping for breath, aware he wasn’t going to catch a break here. Not even given a moment to try and process and remember the previous day’s horrors before the current day’s began.

“Your mouth has other uses too, I guess. Wouldn’t want to miss out on those,” Mack’s shoe nudged him.

He was about to respond when Mack’s heavy weight descended on top of him, driving more air from his lungs. The hand was back and it caressed his jaw as he grew tight as a bow string, muscles locked like he could fight this, change whatever was about to happen by being ready. Mack’s calloused hand slipped lower and closed around his throat... and squeezed. 

It trapped the air in his lungs, stopped the coughing in its tracks and he arched up, kicking his legs looking for the pressure to lessen. Mack held him on the knife edge of breathlessness until he went limp, allowed him a precious few wheezing breaths and then closed his hand again while he blew another round of smoke into Zach’s gasping mouth. 

Zach squirmed as his chest failed to expand and his lungs didn’t fill, the black behind the blindfold going haywire with flashes of light and colour and then fading to grey. There wasn’t room for breathing or thinking, he was only animal—desperate, hungry and directionless with the fear that came hot on the heels of being pinned down and choked out.

He clawed and kicked, begged with soundless words as he tried to make the shapes and couldn’t find enough air to give them voice.

Mack pressed tighter one more time and then released. Just as Zach thought it was over a burning, blinding pain sparked to life on his shoulder. He writhed, still sputtering inhaled smoke while a scream—half surprise as well as pain—was forced out of his throat. He smelled his singed flesh as well as the ashes of a cigarette on his shoulder. With a heavy hand he blindly flicked the hot ash from his skin, feeling it smear on his fingers with intense heat. He knew the scent would linger on his hands for a while, like some sick sort of reminder of the mornings activities.

“I’d miss that scream too, oooh man, you’re like a little girl sometimes. Can’t handle a little ciggy?”

Zach grit his teeth while tears swelled hotly behind his eyes and he only hoped to keep them at bay. He felt sluggish, no idea if it was from whatever knocked him out, or the lack of breath in his body, or just the general exhaustion and constant suffering. He almost began to laugh, and caught it before it turned into a pitiful whine. Drawing more attention to himself for being strange wouldn’t help him now.

“Think fast,” Mack said and a thud of something heavy landed on his chest with a slosh and a thud. “Drink up. Boss wants you in the training rooms today.”

Grateful for the fresh bottle of water, and hating that he was, Zach fumbled to screw the cap loose. The water soothed his abused throat, settled his stomach a little. Made him feel, briefly, more human. 

Mack pulled him off the mattress and to his feet and shoved a pair of loose trousers into his hands, holding him steady with a thumb pressed firmly on the spot Zach had just been burned. Zach steeled himself and ignored the sharp pain. He stepped one foot and then the other into the trouser legs, leaning on Mack for balance while he couldn’t see.

“Now you’ve got your modesty let’s fuckin’ get on with it, step to it Griffin, time to go see what else you’re good for today.”

With tired, heavy feet Zach followed where Mack steered him. Whatever dregs of human decency he was given were always taken away sooner or later. He wondered if today would be a day he remembered, or if it would fade and be lost to some indescribable pain like the day before. He shuddered, unsettled by the idea that maybe it was kinder if he forgot; if the memory was choked out of him into oblivion so he could sleep deeply and soundlessly. If all the days bled into one, would he really be living them? Or could he float through them like the moments he drifted, lacking in oxygen, somewhere between consciousness and sleep. 

He hated that that seemed appealing and wrapped a tentative hand around the bruises forming on his throat and pressed down, just because he could, just to feel the pain because he chose to for once; just to remind himself he was still very much alive, awake, and human, and that was worth fighting for.

[oristromboli]

If You Be Our Star, We’ll Be Your Sky | 1

Chapter 1: Haunted Memories

In which you grapple with past events bleeding into the present.

(Smut this chapter: none)

“The arrogation of mankind ends here.”

Things became a blur after that – your wings burst forth and you saw the twins take off in opposite directions as you split down the middle. Like some dance, the three of you wove between oscillating pillars of dark shapes folding in on themselves before all converged in on the imposing woman. She was no different from any other gate, any other obstacle you needed to cross between worlds; while you were often the one to suggest the quiet and efficient route, the twins charged forward with one clear goal in mind. Two-against-one were bad odds, especially when it was you between a rock and a hard-place – or, more accurately, squeezed between one twin and the other. You pitied the god as she braced for their combined onslaught, clearly unaware of what hell would rain down-

Except. Except, suddenly, you witnessed the twins suspended in mid-air, caught and strung up for their audacity.

You didn’t think, you couldn’t think, you dove for the first twin you saw and yanked them away from that void that crept from her fingers.

Lumine looked up, shocked and horrified all at once, and indescribable shame turned to ice in your blood. While you held on to Aether, you both witnessed Lumine become swallowed in that blackness, that.. nothingness, and you could only let go of Aether as he shot forward to flank the god.

His sword was drawn and in a flash of light did it seem to make contact. You quickly joined his side with hopes to see Lumine amidst the chaos. Everything would be okay again, you three could go back to adventuring, she would forgive the split-second decision, you told yourself. That is, until you saw the god tall and proud with barely a scoff as she looked at you two without even the decency of contempt. In that moment, you suddenly understood the impulsive twins’ tempers. You both dove towards the god, weapons drawn and red in your eyes.

Wait. Wait, no, that’s not right. The red was neither your anger nor panic, but the god’s powers enclosed on you both.

“Wait! Stop! Give my sister back!” Aether cried, and you closed your eyes, wishing to all the stars above that this was all a dream and you could stop suffocating –

 ---

 “Paimon! Paimon, get off of her,” Aether said, laughing as he lifts the fairy off of your chest and what the fuck Paimon.

“Aw, Paimon just wanted to help! She wasn’t waking up, so Paimon thought that shaking her would help,” she said, pouting as you felt her tiny paws release your shirt to only hang limply as she was carried like a sack of potatoes away from you. Emergency rations indeed.

“Okay, we need to have a serious talk about you and personal boundaries,” you mutter while you sit up, massaging feeling back into your collarbone. “If you don’t want to be designated as mascot number two behind our lil’ buddy, I suggest you start losing some weight before sitting on me.” You jerk your thumb towards Aether’s belt where a small glass ball hung and a golden Seelie flickered rhythmically. Is it snoring?

“Hey! Paimon is not mascot number two! And Aether’s cooking is too good…” she mumbles, flipping between indignant to having the gall to look somewhat guilty as she breaks free from his grasp. That didn’t last long, though, as Aether snickers with an incriminating finger poking the fairy.

“So, you admit to being our mascot?”

You very quickly tune their bickering out and set out about collecting your own bedroll before moving on to Aether’s. Most of your powers were sealed except for the few convenient ones, such as access to a subspace for storage and the ability to travel quickly within Teyvat, but otherwise, everything else was left for discovery. In that way, organizing your campsite became quick and easy work on the days that you weren’t woken by Hilichurls looking to turn your bedrolls into breakfast burritos.

Actually, scratch that. Hilichurls are better than Paimon ‘accidentally’ strangling you.

Aether’s laugh rings clear around you as he stretches his lithe body, already limber and prepared for the day. He never seemed to care much about comfortable beds – or, well, any basic comforts – but Paimon is right, he makes damn good meals. In your many months on Teyvat looking for Lumine, you both fell into a steady rhythm where he cooked and acted as a de facto leader while you archived everything you came across. Between the three – no, the two of you - you were often the one taking notes and painting the landscape around you in an effort to remember these adventures while Aether acted as the beacon of hope for the locals.

Even if Aether fills Lumine’s role easily, you can tell it was never comfortable.

You pause at that thought, glancing over to Aether who was making very exaggerated gestures to what you can only assume are his steps for Paimon à la carte. The ball holding your new friend bounces around with his movements, but the Seelie inside seemed unperturbed, if you were being honest. He never parted with the creature, and you were sure it was equally possessive of its new master.

In his own way, you think Aether tries to be subtle about it: between the Seelie’s ethereal golden glow and its headstrong personality, you can’t help but notice how he cradles the ball with a forlorn expression some nights. It was only polite to roll over in your pretend-sleep and very pointedly not comment. When he wasn’t wrapped around the ball, you laid next to him and held him as tightly in silent understanding, often falling asleep tangled like that.

The tear stains are always ignored the morning after.

You swallow around a sudden lump and turn around, fumbling for your own journal to see the next tasks for the day. Despite your own emotions, you know that Aether doesn’t blame you, he told you himself many times and says that there was only one of you. Still, you can’t help but wonder if - while he doesn’t blame you per se - he wishes it was Lumine you chose and not him. Ever the self-sacrificing big brother.

A red thread lies hidden in the page you left off, acting as a sort of make-shift bookmark. Wrapped in knots and with a sort of tender care for the regal dragon with amber eyes near the bottom is a single Starconch, dangling around with each gentle breeze. If anybody asks you, you would deny it vehemently, but you swore you could hear laughter from that conch sometimes from another big brother. Twirling the sapphire item, you can’t help the bittersweet smile that breaks out on your face against the stupid memory.

 ---

 You decided to stray from Liyue that day, most of your daily commissions done with Aether treating Paimon to dinner afterward. Like two parents, you switched days on who gets the honors of taking the overgrown child while the other relishes in time for themselves. It was natural; though you were used to traveling as a pack, sometimes you just… needed to get away.

Apparently, you weren’t the only one with that idea as you soon spied a figure lounging in the sandy beaches close to the city. When you were close enough to see the scarf billowing in the breeze, you stopped and immediately held your breath. Shit, shit, shit, did he know you were here? Maybe if you just quietly turned around, you could get away and leave the Eleventh Harbinger alone. Not that you were strangers to each other. Far from, actually, as you grew friendly with each other over the many weeks - or has it been months? Time flows differently in this world – spent together in Liyue.

“Hey, girlie,” he calls without looking your way and you freeze. Whelp, there goes that plan.

“H-hey,” you stutter, only to stop and tap your throat lightly before trying again. “Hey, Childe. Sorry, I didn’t see you there. I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

He snickers and turns then with a wide smile, yet it wasn’t as feral as you expected. If anything, he seems distant. “No, you’re fine. Looking for some peace and quiet from that stir-fry?”

“Oh, how did you know,” you say with a small smirk as you walk closer. Childe looks up at you and pats the sand next to him. No harm in that, sure, you could sit down. He was better company than Paimon at the moment, anyway. At that thought you grimace briefly, when the hell did you want to spend more time with a Fatui Harbinger? Still, you join him in watching the waters dance across the sand.

Okay, yeah, you can admit the view is gorgeous. Liyue never fails you in that regard with its mountains and crystal clear waters. The trees are always an explosion of color while the geography varies dramatically from one corner to another. You're certain Childe thought the same despite his incessant complaints about the heat.

Which, speaking of, he was unusually quiet and focused. When you glance at him, you only notice then he was thumbing a small, blue shell with a star on it. He catches your eye and holds up the conch. “Mm? This? You know, there’s an old legend in Liyue that says that if you hold the conch up to your ear, you can hear what your heart longs for,” he says as he flicks the conch to your hands. “For most, that’s the sea, of course. All the boats, all the business opportunities. Maybe you’ll hear the gremlin’s whining?”

You punch his shoulder lightly while he laughs, all the while eyeing you carefully. Maybe this was your cue to listen? However, when you hold the conch up, you didn’t hear the sea at all. Almost… suffocatingly empty, like… Your eyes widen, imperceptible to all except for damnably sharp Harbinger who you felt nudging against your foot from his own. “So? What’d you hear?”

“I hear… the ocean. The one between worlds,” you lie before you held it back out to him.

Childe guessed yours and Aether’s otherworldly - or rather, "not human" as he put it - status early on. You weren’t surprised coming from someone who carefully pointed out the use of elemental powers without visions, so you never bothered to obfuscate your stories from other realms too deeply. How Zhongli suspected, however, was beyond you at the time. The funeral consultant dismissed Aether’s questions with a lazy wave and this is no more strange than adepti in teapots.

Your companion shakes his head and wraps his gloves around yours, closing the conch into your fist.

“The ocean between worlds, huh?” Childe looks up then, something… something dark and inaccessible in his eyes again. You purse your lips and lower your eyes. “You know, I hear whales. The ones in the ocean here… They call out and follow each other,” he finishes, the pause in his sentence enough to be nearly visceral. He turns to you, eyes wicked and teeth bared in a wide smile. “Maybe they’re looking for a good kill?”

You snort. It became quite easy for you to dismiss these little moments of vulnerability, to close your eyes and forget. Ironic, considering you spent your waking days desperately trying to remember. “Maybe. Maybe there are some up there, looking for their next adventure. They’re… never alone, you know,” you murmur and ignore the curious look Childe gave you, “they have constellations all around them. To guide them home.”

“Sure,” he scoffs and stands. All of a sudden, that vulnerability was stamped underfoot like a stray pest. Did you say something wrong? Regardless, it’s unavoidable that some of the sand flies in your face from Childe’s movement, but you take the opportunity to swat him in fake annoyance nonetheless. Score one for you, zero for Fatui. Childe chuckles and offers his hand, which you take gratefully and will not comment on his tight grip while he dusted your back off, nope. You will not.

It wasn’t a long walk back to Liyue and the two of you fell into an easy banter. Well, easy for Childe since he ruthlessly pinpointed your pet peeves for exploitation, but you enjoy him nonetheless. This felt natural, dancing between the lines of friend and enemy.

Along the docks, the two of you run into Zhongli examining tapestries from a stand.

“Ah! Zhongli! What a surprise finding you here!... ” No it isn’t.

“... Just browsing, I see. What are you planning on buying?...” You mean what you are going to buy, Childe.

“... Is there anything we can help with?” Help the walking encyclopedia of Liyue? The entire time your face twists more in your incredulity at the implication of Zhongli requiring anything other than Mora. Still, you nod along, if only to hear Zhongli speak at length about the history associated. You are, after all, a curator of all things practical in knowledge.

The fact that his warm voice sends shivers to your core was just a bonus, honest.

Zhongli’s eyes shimmer as he looks at the two of you, crinkling faintly along the edges. “Indeed, I would greatly appreciate assistance in deciding which pattern to buy.” He turns back to the stand with a hand resting on his chin, and you flank Zhongli’s right while Childe goes to his left. “This design over here depicts Glaze Lilies in bloom, a wondrous sight most rare these days in Liyue. A moment preserved for all to appreciate. Over here, we see the clouds descending upon the mountains of Liyue…”

So you told yourself you were going to listen to Zhongli, but you suddenly can’t help staring at a long, crimson token. The strings appear to be woven in complicated patterns, but when you look closer, you realize that the patterns are dragon scales that meet on a wild head with Cor Lapis eyes. How curious. Once upon a time, you were sure a design like this would have adorned the walls of kings of yore, yet now it only serves as a cheap souvenir.

The single thought of pretty propels you grab it.

Of course, this does not go unnoticed by Zhongli and Childe. You felt the silence rather than heard it; in that moment, you look to their inquisitive gazes, eyes wide and face as flushed as the dragon. “I… I. I saw this and. It’s… Pretty. Pretty nice,” you lamely explain, suddenly at a loss for words when the full force of their combined gaze is set upon you. Stars and gods above, that was pathetic. Tourist trap sprung.

Childe’s smile grows indulgent and Zhongli’s tight-lipped expression never moves while his shoulders barely trembled. They… thought this was cute. Great. You purse your lips and turn away, mumbling obscenities under your breath. Still, a traitorous grin comes as you felt Childe’s hand settle on your shoulder as he not-so-subtly breaches your personal space after side-stepping the funeral consultant.

“A pretty token for a pretty girl, no?” he coos and leans forward to inspect the trinket in your hand.

“Childe possesses an expensive eye,” Zhongli agrees and his voice floods your other ear as the older man follows Childe’s lead. His rich timbre petrifies you, and you could only stand there with a white-knuckle grip while you listen to their appraisal. “In Liyue, an invisible red string is said to entwine the fate of all those caught in its distinct pattern, destined to meet regardless of time or circumstance. Never will it break, safeguarded by the divine itself. Even the tangled pandemonium it may cause would lead only to a grander, more intricate pattern at journey’s end. Perhaps this will lead you to your destination?”

“Zhongli, as much as I appreciate Liyue’s customs and stories, isn’t this a little too on the nose? Saccharine to the very end indeed,” Child snickers. Still, when he notices your crestfallen expression at his bickering, he gazes at Zhongli again before you hear your name called softly. “Hey. Let’s make a deal, yes?”

“What? No, no, no I am not making a deal with a Fauti Harbinger,” you immediately hiss and whip around. Damn the fallen Geo Archon, you will not be beholden to the whims to a Harbinger in the land that once belonged to the God of Contracts. In a desperate bid for allies, you beg your other friend, who was suddenly and conveniently interested in another token on the stand. Damn him too, you decide.

“Come on, pretty bird,” Childe says and pokes your side.

“I think I liked it better when you called me pretty girl.”

“Ah, no no, pretty bird because you always cry when the cats come over to play.”

“I do not, fuck you very much. And did you just call yourself a cat -?”

“I promise, this is a deal you’ll like. Do you trust me?”

“No.”

“Fair enough. I’ll buy it anyway.” Childe waves his hand to the vendor to barter. Before long, he returns triumphant with the long thread in hand and gently lays it in your own in the same manner he did with the Starconch shell. “Y’ready to hear my deal?”

“No.”

“In return for me generously buying you this,” he continues, ignoring your very pointed is this how he treats you, Zhongli and the amused no, simply you in response, “I want your end of the deal to be carrying this with you, in that little journal you think we don’t see you scribbling in.”

Your face immediately flushes with indignation. “Like a bookmark? Why?”

“Because,” Childe says while he carefully wraps the end closest to the dragon’s head around the shell. By the time he’s finished, the dragon looks to be gripping the glimmering item and protective amber eyes gaze upwards to the heavens, ignorant to Zhongli’s intense scrutiny. “Because, sweet thing, I think Zhongli’s right. The Hero of Mondstadt, a Fatui Harbinger, and a funeral consultant all walk into a bar – “

“That is not how I remember our first meeting, Childe.”

“ – and forgive our dear comrade’s ignorance of Snezhnayan jokes. Point being, I don’t want you to forget this,” he says, winking when you blink owlishly. It’s hard to remember that you’re supposed to hate this man and hate his sentimentality.

“This… this is your attempt to piss me off, isn’t it? Make me never forget I’m friends with a Harbinger? Put a mark on my back that says ‘I.O.U.’?”

“Aw, now why would I do that? You wound me!” Childe pretends to be hurt before elbowing you with all the mischief you would see Aether give you before charging a Hilichurl camp. “Besides, you said it yourself, friend. I just want to be remembered. That’s the only debt you owe.”

As much as you wanted to hit Childe then, you both turn when you hear Zhongli’s rumbling chuckle. You lean forward against Zhongli opting to hit him instead and relish in his little grunt to your effort, clearly only putting on a show for humor’s sake. “Wow. Is this a gift from you too, Zhongli?”

“Hey! I paid for it!”

“Thank you,” you say fondly. “Except… Except I have nothing in return. Zhongli told me about how he gave you chopsticks, and you two gave me this – never mind how you even pay for Zhongli’s entire life. How can I…” You look down then, somber of the fact you are in the land of contracts.

(All must be fair in love and war.)

“How can I make this fair?” you settle, gazing up suddenly. Childe only laughs, characteristic of his lackadaisical attitude and oh stars you know this is going to bite you in the ass. You feel Zhongli’s hand rest on your hip and when you turn to him, he’s -

Oh gods he’s so close -

“Your company is enough, dear bird. Now come. I am in need of eyes tempered by travels outside of Liyue. It is refreshing to see these items anew.” He pivots on his heel and walks further along the docks without turning behind to check whether you and Childe would follow. You both do, of course, but not without half-hearted grumbles at his presumptuousness.

It became easier then, the bickering between you and Childe with Zhongli only stepping in when he cared enough to distract your verbal blows for opinions on his next purchase. That, of course, only led to the two of you turning on the refined gentlemen, determined to crack that stony exterior as punishment for his ridiculous disregard for money. How immature, how… childish. Damn it.

You hear your name being called. “Hey, hey, are you listening? Hey-“

 ---

 “Heyyy!” Paimon says, floating in front of your face while Aether snaps his fingers. Blinking awake, you snap to attention. Aether had gathered the rest of your supplies, and the three of you were ready to continue on your travels by foot to gather ingredients on approach to Dragonspine. “Hey! Paimon asked if you were ready to go?”

“Oh! Oh, yeah, yeah I am. Sorry, was just trying to remember our, ah… next commissions,” you mumble before putting the journal away. Paimon gazes at you sympathetically then. With a sharp turn on your heel, you began walking towards the mountain with a renewed bounce in your step and lame determination to ignore Paimon’s pity. “C’mon! Better to get there sooner rather than later, yeah?”

Aether jogs to catch up and flicks his eyes between you and Paimon in some grand conspiracy. “Think if Paimon eats the last of our goulash again, we can use her as a hot blanket?” You both laugh, whipping around then to stare at the aforementioned fairy who only gulps.

“Paimon, ahh, Paimon is going to go scout ahead! Can never be too careful!” she chirps before floating ahead at a speed you only ever saw her gain when she spies a fresh meal. You were thankful, though. It’s no secret how you hurt these past few months since Childe’s departure to Schnezaya after his release of Osial. In many ways, that disaster became old news with the citizens of Liyue eager to remember the event only as of the fond ascension of the Liyue Qixing’s power rather than the near-death blow from the Vortex God. The peaceful Rite of Descension held after solidified the transition into the age of men. Though rumors were abound of Childe’s – no, Tartaglia’s – involvement, they were quickly muddled with the Fatui emphasizing new business opportunities in an attempt to let it all be “water under the bridge.”

Rather, they attempted to save face while Ningguang squeezed them under her golden thumb as retribution. Ultimately though, nobody truly witnessed Childe himself summoning the god of old.

That doesn’t make his actions any better after knowing. If anything, you find it almost easier to forgive – bitter in your private admission – since he acted only within his nature, no more and no less. Understanding was swift after you and Aether were somehow roped into helping him wrangle Teucer, a spitting image of the stubborn Childe you knew and not bloodthirsty Tartaglia, before his return to Schnezaya. You couldn’t find it in yourself to truly hate him after the Fatui’s blatant trust in you two to keep his secret, even as you jot down a new quest afterward: ‘Strangle Tartaglia, the Eleventh Harbinger of the Fatui, at your next meeting.’

Before his departure from the Northland Bank, you even had the courtesy to warn him under your breath when you hugged him farewell. He naturally returned the sentiment and squeezed harder in emphasis.

Yep. Reasonable. Single-minded friends to the end.

No, you hate the Fatui more. Whether Tartaglia ever forgives his conniving comrades – and the Tsarista - is something for the stars to witness. You know how deeply he respected the Tsarista for her frigid yet imperial attitude, something borne from the experience of a true warrior who courted death head on, whose pale complexion was forever marred by the scarlet slaughter. The only time you saw light in his eyes was when he waxed poetry of her carnage, much to Paimon’s disgust.

His contempt for deceit often warred with his pragmatic attitude of “the ends justify the means.” Despite his misgivings, he acted within his orders perfectly. He even expressed his distaste for unnecessary power demonstrations, a complete contrast to your false assumption and Signora’s patronizations over his desire for chaos. The reward? Being used and tossed aside. With Tartaglia designated as a pawn in the Cryo Archon’s grand game instead of granted the bare decency for communication between commander and general, you couldn’t help but wonder where his opinions of her now lie. Even as he cursed Zhongli and Signora for leading him on, you heard humor lacing his words. You were sure that Tartaglia always suspected Zhongli to be more than a consultant, but the Tsaritsa’s blatant disregard for the Harbinger’s intelligence was offensive, even to you.

In the end, what Tartaglia really thinks of her now doesn’t matter. It never did.

No, you were – are, you desperately try to remind yourself – more disappointed with Zhongli, with Rex Lapis, the God of Contracts, the God of War, with fucking Morax. When you first came to Liyue with the intention of hunting down the Geo Archon, both you and Aether marveled at the Geo powers bestowed upon you from the first statue encountered out of Mondstadt. Surely, Aether pondered then, this meant that the Geo Archon approved of your Holy Grail quest. Instead, many months later and after some rather painful revelations, you both discovered that Zhongli – gentle, kind, and dear Zhongli – was none other than the stone-cold god instead. Aether tried convincing you for weeks that this was Zhongli’s nature, that as a god who walked Liyue for over six thousand years, he likely saw these as tactical maneuvers similar to the Archon War.

Aether, bless him, understood Zhongli’s reasoning deeply; after all, you two were likely thousands of years old yourselves despite stopping the count many centuries ago. You logically understand the desire for peace, but you can’t help the emotional betrayal.

Thankfully, Aether keeps most of his comments to himself. He knows you well enough to know why you were really upset, why your heart twists at the memories you spent with the former Archon, but he is wise enough to know when to pick his battles.

You still remember your bitter conversations with Zhongli afterwards, your rampage in seeking him out at Wangsheng Funeral Parlor for answers. Except, what answers could he give you that he didn’t already offer at the Golden House? Still, that didn’t stop you as you barreled forward, didn’t stop you from pounding against his stone-cold chest and meeting his irritatingly serene gaze as you demanded he sat down for what pitiful interrogation you could dish out on the God of War. Since that confrontation, you spent much of your time in Liyue attempting to harass – or reconcile? – with Zhongli.

As you approach the mountain’s base, you feel Aether’s hand on your shoulder and his soft voice, “She didn’t mean it you know. She’s worried about you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’ll bet you, I don’t think she’s forgiven him either. Paimon knows you’re trying, you’ve spent more time with Zhongli to repair things, but as much as she loves the fact that you’ve gotten him to pay for all our meals now, I'm pretty sure she’s still mad at him.”

You laugh then, and Aether perks up at your shift. He wraps one arm around your shoulders and pulls you close, matching his steps with yours as you snicker along. “Stars help the Lord of Geo, because he hasn’t face the fury of a hungry Paimon.”

 ---

 “Promise me.”

“I understand.”

“No, Morax, you don’t. I need you to promise me.” You scowl hard, hands slamming on the desk as you stare deep into his amber eyes. He only passively stares back, but you knew him better than that. Those months of connection, of deeper understanding – even if you didn’t truly understand then it was because of two immortals who subconsciously recognized eternity in the other – gave you some advantages, such as recognizing that flicker of guilt across his eyes before disappearing. You don’t relent in your assault as you both ignore Aether and Paimon in the background tensely watching. “You owe us. That explanation at the Golden House and Rite of Parting was crap.”

"But Mr. Zhongli told us everything - "

"He gave us half the story, Paimon," you growl. "Isn't that right? How deep in with the Fatui were you? What did you tolerate?" 

The air grows thick as memories of each Fatui camp obliterated run through your mind. You barely managed to stomach reading even half of the detailed accounts on the experiments conducted within Liyue. His eyes flick to the bags around your eyes, then towards the journal hanging by your side.

Zhongli’s fingers rap his table as his nostrils flare. Good. You got him on edge. Still, before you can say more, he relents and you try not to be disappointed. He knows when he is faced with an immovable mountain. With no more protest, Zhongli rummages for spare paper and ink before pulling both out and writes up a quick contract with a few lines of promises for total honesty. The pen narrowly avoids tearing the paper with the pressure. As he hands the paper to you, he never meets your eyes as he says, “It is important to me that you know I was authentic with you after Osial’s defeat. I hope this reassures and appeases your curiosity. If a physical symbol is required for what I have always given you, starlight, then so be it.”

Each word of his grows softer, yet only digs deeper daggers into your heart. Starlight. His own nickname for you to mirror Tartaglia’s pretty bird, yet you didn’t know why or how it came to be. Regardless, you take the contract and inspect his signature. Grabbing the pen from his hand – and with barely a flinch at his fingers lingering near yours – you sign your own name. “… Not always, clearly. It’s done,” you murmur and bring the contact with you to the fire behind him. All other parties in the room watch as you shuffle closer to the fire, ears straining for your next words that are nearly drowned in the incessant crackling. “You’re a lot like him, you know. Childe.”

Zhongli stiffens. “You have said so before.”

“You both see the world around you as means to an end, some limit to be pushed or some assessment to be passed. Is he… is he as bloodthirsty as you were, too? Back then?” He draws a sharp breath, though you don’t look behind you to see what expression he wears.

“… Yes. He is. I had expressed such sentiments to him before his departure. Childe only laughed, and… He told me that he knew there was a reason he liked me.” It takes all your willpower to not grip the contract any harder than you did, so you were proud of yourself, damn it. Still, you nod before tossing the contract into the fire.

Zhongli swiftly rises at that, and as you turn around, you watch his fierce eyes on you debate either questioning you or hurling a stone pillar towards you on pure instinct. Some habits die hard, it seems.

You only laugh, shoulders relaxing for the first time since Osial rose from the sea. “Zhongli.” He freezes, as if it were possible to become even tenser than he already is, and mouth parts lightly as you whisper his mortal name so sweetly. “All I needed to know was your willingness. I don’t care about contracts, I never even asked for it. Let’s not do that. It’s been six thousand years already, hasn’t it?”

He swallows thickly. “Yes. It has been.” Zhongli sits down and sweeps an arm out, gesturing for you three to take seats in front of his desk. Although you were the one to initiate the conversation, Aether and Paimon ask most of the questions while you keep your eyes glued to the desk in front of you. That didn’t stop you from feeling Zhongli’s eyes on you though, ever curious as to what was behind your own neutral complexion.

He taught you too well to hide your emotions; the thought alone is enough to crack the god of stone’s heart.

Unfortunately for the three of you, Zhongli can offer no explanation for their activities within Liyue. Although he was aware of some of their sickening actions, he was forced to turn a blind eye as he focused on the grander picture. Mortals needed to learn to handle affairs amongst themselves while he doubled his efforts in safeguarding what was personally important to him as he prepared to step down.

As you three were leaving his office – and after Paimon manages to convince Zhongli to pay for all her meals as recompense – you linger when you hear the former Archon call your name. When you turn back to see him, his own eyes aren’t meeting yours, but are instead taking the ring from around his thumb to place on the desk. What is the old idiot doing?

“I am not worthy of this gift,” he begins, closing his eyes as he shifts the ring forward. Copper floods your mouth from how tightly you bite your tongue then to keep from practically weeping at witnessing Zhongli attempt to give back the ring you gifted so many months ago. “You gave this to Childe and I as equal payment for our own gifts, yet you did this as promise to remain as true friends. I will not apologize for my actions, as I did what I believe to be right for Liyue as its Geo Archon.” His eyes open, resolute and vibrant. True to his word, there is no remorse for his manipulations. “As a mortal, however… I do not believe I have adequately upheld my end of the bargain. ”

Underneath his gloves, his knuckles go white from how tightly he clenches his fists in his lap.

“Zhongli…” You step forward to grab the ring before gently taking one of his hands. After unfurling his fist, you gingerly place the ring back in his palm. The ring you gave Zhongli is of a golden dragon wrapped around, biting its own tail. A symbol of eternity. For Tartaglia – Childe, you correct yourself, he was Childe then – you gave him a ring of silver and sea glass so brilliant, it acted as a mirror that could rival the ocean’s reflections. “Do you remember how Childe whined that my gift was impractical, compared to the utensils and bookmark?”

“Yes,” Zhongli says, smiling at the memory. “He complained that it would hinder battle as he gripped his bow.”

“Right. I said that it was so he would never forget how annoying I can be when I wanted to,” you giggle. “I gave this to you after you told me of how… of how all your friends forever shined like gold in your memories. I wanted to be like that too.” Before he could respond to your crack, you continue, purposefully cutting his thoughts off. “I know you promised to write Childe. He told me he made peace with you after bribery with some osmanthus wine. Something about learning how to be mortal, getting a chance to fight you, all that. He also told me he was ordered to keep you close as an asset, even if he didn’t understand why at the beginning. The Tsaritsa wants to keep tabs on your ‘progress’ and movements, I’m sure. For all of Tartaglia’s Fatuiness, he’s not very secretive about that sort of stuff. Guess he was glad to be done with those lies.”

Zhongli doesn’t respond and watches your face as you speak, so you took this as a cue to continue your speech as you withdrew your hands. You meet his gaze then. “I want you to let him know that I won’t try to make contact with him. I made my peace with him while Teucer was here, I harbor no bad blood. We were both pawns.” You ignore how Zhongli’s throat bobbed. “But I can’t keep contact with him. Not now, at least, not with where our mission is heading.”

After a long moment, the Geo Archon closes his eyes, before reopening to the imperial gaze the statues of him around the country forever etched. You both knew this was little more than a game, though. Nothing could make you bend the knee to any god before, why would you now? “Will you still visit me in Liyue?” he asks. For all of his age, you marvel at how lost he sounds.

A god who never learned how to be vulnerable, to be human.

“Yes, I promise, because you’re my friend.”

              ---

After that, the weeks crawled by, but you kept your promise. Ningguang saw fit to reward you, Aether, and Paimon with a reserved room in the finest inn at Feiyun Slope for whenever you passed through, as befitting of the Heroes of Monstadt and Liyue. Though the three of you collapsed on the floor in the apartment and wept honest-to-gods tears of joy of not having to open your wallet for once, you saw this as a cosmological suggestion for you to begin your journey of forgiving Zhongli.

Which, no, that was a lie actually. You knew deep down you already forgave Zhongli, that wasn’t the issue.

Long after Paimon retreated to her own bed tucked amongst an ungodly amount of pillows and blankets set in one of the larger windows, Aether sat you down in another windowsill to ask you honestly about your feelings on Zhongli and Childe. Thank the stars you knew Aether for centuries because he opened his arms instinctually as you sniffled and crawled over, burying your head into his chest as tears flowed openly for the first time since you both lost Lumine. After apologies and please let me wash your scarf I’m sorry I made it gross and no don’t you dare I ruin your shirts all the time, you began to confess how, for the first time, you felt dually matched tit-for-tat in these two men.

Tartaglia reminds you of the joys of adventures, of youth, of the difference between surviving and being alive while Zhongli gives you the stability that a mountain eternal would. He beckoned you through the history of Liyue with a warm smile, shared in your long conversations with Aether on the nature of life well into the night against the dawn, and stood steadfast as warden against your own anxieties of eternity despite not knowing then of his own timeless status.

Could it be helped that you fell as quickly as a star, set aflame with hopes of something more?

Yet, once again, luck proved to not be on your side. You remember in the days leading up to the battle with Osial at discovering how Zhongli and Childe would share long conversations or made time for meals regardless of busy schedules. Though you confessed to Aether that you recognize it was because both wanted to keep tabs on the other without revealing their ulterior motives, it didn’t fail to ignite anxiety, especially now that you knew Zhongli maintained correspondence with Childe, despite the former’s insistence that it was strictly friendly and contractual.

Stars, could you have felt any more like a selfish kid then? To want both men left you feeling equal parts angry with yourself and with them. How dare you allow yourself to get close to them? You should have left the socializing to Aether, fuck.

Combined with the fact that both men betrayed everyone involved and were shy of brawling each other in the Golden House, you couldn't help but feel that most - if not all - of the memories made were false. Bloodthirsty, warmongering, and ruthless in pursuit of their goals. Did they really care for any but themselves?

Aether held you tightly that night, singing songs in your shared native tongue that sounded of bells and twinkling glass to lull you into a fitful sleep. In the weeks after, you grew to become friendly with Zhongli once again, and if Aether didn’t know you any better, he would have said you moved on.

Except he did know you better.

Despite his own attempts at explanation, he knew you had to see for yourself what both he and Paimon witnessed during those long months spent in Liyue with Childe and Zhongli. He knew how frustrated the Harbinger and ex-Archon would grow, restless in their seats if you took too long escorting Paimon around the city to collect snacks. Aether got along like fire to a wooden house with the other two, all wit and not-so-professional humor. However, knowing that he fulfilled the diplomatic role to help others, you took the opportunity to try to irritate Childe where you could – at first because of his Fatui status, until it evolved into you and the Harbinger competing to elicit a laugh from present company without throwing hands.

While Aether certainly didn’t like to pry where it wasn’t his business – that was Kaeya’s modus operandi, thank you – he sometimes wondered if Childe and Zhongli viewed you and Aether as the guide to that murky area between mortal and divine. Their robust characters more than once reinforced his idea that Visions reflected personalities rather than the nation’s sovereign ruler. By extension, when he thought about how water crystalizes geo, he concluded that the speed Childe and Zhongli summoned shields and attempted to break them in a conversational dance whenever they were together was due to some deeper, instinctual urge.

That, or they were just nearly the same brand of deceitful, halfwitted idiots.

Perhaps that was why they felt comfortable constructing such a close friendship. To both of them, this merely played into some larger façade, all while convinced that the other was entirely fooled by the thick shield. Aether laughed to himself. The morons got so tangled in mental games, they unknowingly built a true and dependable relationship, if the blatant stress between them in the Golden House was anything to by.

Aether was not born yesterday. He didn’t survive these many millennium by not carefully observing the inhabitants of each world they visited. He is friendly, yes, but not ignorant. And how could he fault you for trying to find some sliver of happiness here, even if it was temporary? Stars above know his own heart ached each night.

That was why he was so sure you felt as comfortable around them as you did with Paimon and himself. The traveling troupe acted as a pacifying force for whatever the hell was going on between Childe and Zhongli being head deep in manipulations. In the little ragtag gang of the three travelers, none of you held tolerance for any bullshit and welcomed only peace, in whatever form a Fatui Harbinger and Geo Archon could manage.

He personally never doubted the authenticity of any sentiments, any stories expressed in conversations between all of you, even if you were now swimming with mistrust. The loneliness of not being able to trust anybody... He doesn't know if he can take much more abandonment after Lumine's entrapment. Everyone holds their own secrets, what they share always has a sliver of truth. Lies are built on that. By extension, Aether had no doubts that Childe and Zhongli were equal parts stubborn, righteous, and fucked up in their own uniquely Teyvaten ways. 

At this point though, weren’t you all? Aether glumly drew his gaze upwards to the peak of the mountain. All of this for a five-thousand mora commission? Whoopee.

When the three of you grew closer to Dragonspine, he fell behind to gather tinder for a cooking fire to shake himself out of these deeper thoughts. As Aether returned, he couldn’t help his open fascination as Paimon played dodgeball with the small stones you were hurling at her when she kept commenting on your stove-building skills instead of helping.

In a hidden blessing, some things will never change. While rummaging through his subspace storage, the smile on his face quickly falls when he realizes –

“Guys. We have a problem.”

-

notes:

1) According to the game, starconches let you hear the ocean, no matter where you are. In a lot of religious texts (Buddhist, Egyptian, Mesopotamian, etc), the oceans are referenced as the bridge between heaven and earth, i.e. "bridge between worlds"

2) In one of childe's voicelines, he specifically references the Traveler wielding a lot of unusual powers without a vision

3) One of the MC's voicelines also references how time in Teyvat seems to be quicker with the days being so short

love yall <3

[kilhara]

So, inspiration struck when I saw the Maycabre 2021 reblog from @half-life-prompts They're definitely right, the prompts fit HL ridiculously well. So here's something starring Gordon Freeman getting into a little scuffle with a big bad Combine douche.

Warnings: Violence, broken bones, blood, death

The prompt list can be found here, credit of @hey-hamlet

Story under cut. Enjoy :)

1. Compound Fracture

Adrenaline surging, Gordon ducked left, missing the Combine soldier's swing by a hair's breadth.

Too close.

This guy was huge. He didn't think he'd ever seen a soldier this big before. Persistent, too. He hadn't anticipated running head-first into one of the Combine troops, blindsided to the temple by the end of an SMG whipping straight out of the ninety degree corner of the bend of a hallway he'd been traversing. He was barely holding up though the relentless barrage of fists whistling through the air. He couldn't find enough time to fight back before another punch would fly his way and force him back into this frantic dance of evasion. After the initial hit to his temple, there hadn't even been time to recover before his crowbar was knocked from his hand in a brutal punch, leaving him defenceless. He didn't know why the soldier hadn't shot him full of holes yet. Guess this one had been a fan of boxing once, before being remade into a foot soldier for the Combine regime.

Another swing from the soldier, a quick jab to keep him on his toes. He ducked to the side. Lucky he was nimble, hard to believe with the heavy HEV suit he wore, but this wasn't his first fist fight by a long shot. Dusty and greased with sweat, he felt the terrifying slide of his glasses slipping and slapped a frantic hand over his face to keep them from falling, blocking his sight.

Big mistake.

A lightning-quick punch came straight to the side of his head, blasting right into his ear. He hollered in pain, head snapping to the side and eyes flying shut as an explosion of sound screamed through his synapses.

His glasses went flying anyways.

The world was a blur of motion and noise, all mashing together into a warped, pulsing haze. He couldn't react. His armoured body hit the floor like a stone, a crash that came clear through one ear, but roared in the other. He dimly registered that he hadn't sustained any more head trauma hitting the ground, but his suit was rattling off words he couldn't grasp through the waves of disorientation.

Barely able to move, his arms shuffled on the floor uselessly as he desperately tried to wrestle back his senses, flailing like a stunned bird. Panic quickly set in.

Glasses. Glasses, had to— need glasses. And the— and the crowbar.

He scrambled blindly, HEV suit cutting grooves into the concrete as he flipped onto his front and swept his hands in wide, desperate arcs. The tinny sound of the soldier's voice bounced off his ears.

His glasses weren't there.

Screw it. He grunted, gritting his teeth, pushing shaky arms beneath him to lift himself up. He had to get up. A swift kick landed above his hip, followed by more Combine nonsense his garbled brain couldn't piece together. The HEV suit softened most of the blow, but he was sent back down to the ground.

Groaning in pain, he quickly tried again, flicking squinted eyes up at his attacker. The large grey shape of the soldier was already in motion and something came slamming down viciously onto one of his legs, instantly buckling the metal around his ankle like papier-mâché. White-hot agony shot up his leg and seared through every single nerve in his body. He couldn't hold it back and a scream tore straight from the depths of his lungs.

Legs swinging, the soldier paced back and forth, uncharacteristically smug, keeping their glowing goggles trained on him but allowing him to scream himself empty, obviously enjoying the show. After the blinding pain passed, he was left heaving, air whistling through tightly clenched teeth, head thumping like a drum. He fought back a tingling surge of nausea while the stern voice of the HEV suit calmly recited its diagnosis.

Warning. Compound...fracture...detected. Seek...medical...attention.

He grunted, the sound trailing into a shaky whimper. A gentle click and whirr alerted him to the hefty dose of morphine being pumped into him and he hissed a strained sigh. Through all the chaos, he'd ended up close to where his trusty red crowbar lay. A blurry red line, off to the side but within reach if he could just shuffle a little closer. Problem was the Combine nutjob was in the way. There was something seriously wrong with this one.

The drug mingling with his blood had beaten back the agony enough for him to formulate an idea. Trying his best to ignore the harsh bite of pain every time he moved, Gordon pulled himself closer to the strutting soldier and lunged, grabbing ahold of one of their legs and sticking on tight. The soldier let out a growl that sounded like disgust or anger, maybe both, but he stopped them in their tracks. Using the grunt's own leg as leverage, he pushed off and dove for his crowbar.

Got it!

He clenched his fist around the metal rod, indescribable relief passing through him with it back in his hand. With an adrenaline-fueled surge of power, he twisted back around and savagely speared the sharpened point of metal up between the soldier's legs before they could react, praying that he hit something.

His prayer was answered.

The tip pierced clean through fabric, lodging deep into flesh and tendon between the crook of the soldier's leg. A robotic scream scratched out of the misshapen mask, and hot, wet blood dripped onto his glove, trailing down his hand onto the floor. He quickly let go of the metal as the grunt stumbled back and buckled to one knee, toppling over into a wailing heap.

A delirious little laugh escaped him, but the fight wasn't over yet. Grimacing, Gordon started to crawl on his elbows, broken leg scraping uselessly behind him with a trail of bright red droplets.

Closing in on the struggling body, he reached between their legs for the curved end of his crowbar, wrenching it out with a growl, ignoring the disturbing howl of pain. Adjusting his grip on the blood-smeared metal, he powered on, getting closer to their head.

Sensing danger, the soldier groaned and tried to get up, rasping heavily. Gordon lifted his weapon, readying a strike, but they reacted by catching the swing just before it landed. He tugged the crowbar back, but the Combine grunt's grip was solid. Grunting in pain, he wrestled himself into a one-legged kneel for a better position. It was all a battle of strength from here on out. Gordon had the advantage at this height, and the weight of the HEV suit to boot, but the soldier was packing serious muscle. A stray leg kicked his broken ankle and he bit back a heavy groan. He bore down on the curved end of the crowbar, lining up the point with the crook of the soldier's neck. An angry sound burst from the mask, the sound of garbled profanities. His arms trembled, fingers burning from the strength of his grip. He could feel the soldier slipping and doubled down, a growl building at the back of his throat passing through clenched teeth. The crowbar was shaking as he pushed down with all his might, watching the sharpened end slowly sink lower and lower. The soldier struggled, bucking and kicking, head swinging side to side, firing rapid bursts of panicked speech. He ignored it all, honed in on that vulnerable little spot at the soldier's neck. As soon as the tip made contact, he rose up and slammed his weight down to drive it home. The body under him went stiff. Unable to scream around the rod of metal lodged deep in their throat, the soldier gasped out a mechanised gurgle of blood and started to shake. Gordon screwed his eyes shut, riding out the erratic jitters of the dying soldier. Soon everything went still, and the hands gripping the crowbar went limp, falling away, followed by the low tone of a flatline.

Silence returned.

He let go of the breath he'd been holding, lowering back to the floor, giving himself a second to recover.

He'd won. But at a cost. He was always careful, but... guess it just wasn't his lucky day.

Gingerly he turned onto hands and knees and crawled over to the nearest wall, leaning back and resting his head. The morphine was starting to wear off, a hot feverish throb gradually worming its way back into his leg. He grimaced, carefully pulling his leg closer. Without his glasses he couldn't make out much of the damage, but he could still tell that it was bad. He wasn't going to be able to walk this one off. He'd have to regroup with the rebels and get patched up. Shit. Repairs to his suit, too.

Breathing hard, Gordon sat back and made himself as comfortable as he could, well and truly spent. He'd wait awhile before limping back to a settlement like a beaten dog. He thought he deserved a little rest, at least. In his mind, something that was long, long overdue.

[babygirlwolverine]

Push the Button (If You’re Ready for Me)

My sixth entry for the DeanCas #SPNStayAtHome event hosted by @bend-me-shape-me @helianthus21 @pray4jensen :)

Also posted on ao3 if anyone is interested in reading it there!

Tag List: @baby-in-a-trenchcoat7, @scamp-00, @pizzamanhedelivers, @deanscastiel79

PS- my tag list is starting to grow and I’m so excited. If you’re enjoying my writing and want to see more and you’d like to be tagged in any of my future destiel fics, please message me or comment and let me know! I’ll be happy to tag you in future fics!

Monday 6: Jealous

Push the Button (If You’re Ready for Me)

Maybe Cas was just a little bit sick of waiting for Dean to make a move. It had been years. Maybe at first, Cas had hid his attraction. He was an angel. It wasn’t acceptable for an angel to fall for a human. But Dean was… well. Dean was Dean. From the moment Cas had laid eyes on Dean in hell, there had been an indescribable feeling; a bond tethering them together in ways Cas couldn’t even begin to formulate.

And so he waited. He waited the first few months out. But it had only taken a few days for Castiel to become Cas in Dean’s eyes. And maybe Cas could barely keep his eyes off the hunter. He was alluring and snarky and tempting and attractive. So very attractive.

It wasn’t like Cas was being subtle throughout the months. Time after time of being in Dean’s personal space. Of glancing down at Dean’s lips and licking his own. Of touching Dean‘s arms or brushing their hands together. Of watching over Dean and being at his beck and call.

Months blurred into years. But the harder Cas tried to flirt and show an attraction, the harder Dean tampered down his own feelings. Even though Cas knew Dean wanted him back. All the signs were there.

The way Dean checked him out, eyes lingering on Cas’ lips before their gazes locked. The way Dean leaned into his space, always reaching out to touch the angel in reassurance. The way his first thought was to call out to Cas, no matter the situation they were in. How he offered to make Cas something to eat or to watch movies together when Sam had gone to bed and it was just the two of them awake in the bunker.

Years turned into a decade. Cas wasn’t sure how much clearer he had to make it. He was getting tired of waiting for Dean to make a move.

Really, it wasn’t Cas’ fault. He’d just been on the computer when his eyes caught the cover of a trashy magazine Dean had picked up on the way back to the bunker the other day. Something about the attractive female celebrity on the front cover had been Dean’s excuse to buy the tabloid magazine.

But it wasn’t the half-naked woman on the cover that had caught Cas’ eye. It was the bold print down the side. How to catch your crushes attention if they just aren’t getting the hint that you’re interested.

And, at 2:30am, Cas decided what the hell. He picked up the magazine and skimmed the article. One magazine article led to one Google search, which led to 17 pages of Googling, an article on wikiHow, 20 YouTube videos, 3 online pop culture websites, a Twitter debate, a mom blogger explaining how to make the best banana bread in the country, and one rather devious last ditch attempt plan to get Dean Winchester to man the hell up and make a move.

~

Two days later, they were back on the road again. After a night in the local motel where little progress was made on the case and a total of two hours of sleep had occurred between the three of them,  Dean had threatened shaving cream on Sam’s toothbrush if they didn’t stop at the nearest diner for breakfast and a minimum of six cups of coffee.

They’d piled into a booth near the back of the diner; Dean and Sam sitting on one side and Cas sitting on the other. Cas’ eyes had been on the menu, the plan from a couple nights ago at the back of his mind as he determined if he wanted to try eggs sunny side up or over easy. Everything came rushing back though when the opportunity of a lifetime landed into Cas’ lap.

“Good morning. My name is Chaz and I’ll be your waiter this morning. What can I get started for you today?” a honey-smooth voice asked.

“Two coffees and whatever they’re having,” Dean grumbled, clearly not in the mood to deal with the waiter’s peppy attitude.

“Excuse him. Long night at work. I’ll have a coffee, too,” Sam said, throwing Dean a withering look.

“And what about you?” the waiter said, turning his attention to Cas. Cas finally lowered his menu, looking over at the waiter for the first time. The man looked about Sam’s age, with dark chocolate eyes and golden brown hair. He had full lips spread into an easy smile, and his bangs were brushed to the side, covering half of his forehead.

The waiter's eyes flew open, locking with Cas’ and a little surprised look crossed his face. “Anything I can get for you, handsome?”

Automatically, Cas opened his mouth to turn down the waiter’s initial flirtation, but then Cas remembered his plan and he smirked. Dean was already in a bad mood. If he wanted to make Dean jealous, now was the perfect time. Cas tilted his head slightly, throwing on the innocent look he knew usually caught Dean’s attention. “Coffee for me too, good looking,” Cas said, letting his already deep voice pitch down another octave. He darted his eyes over the waiter, flashing him a grin and leaning forwards slightly in the booth. “I wouldn’t mind you telling me what’s good in here. Well, besides you.”

Across the table, Dean choked, a deep growl bubbling up in his throat. A warning. A threatening noise Cas had never heard Dean direct his way before. It sent a thrill down the angel’s spine. Cas ignored him, keeping his eyes on Chaz.

“How about I surprise you?” Chaz replied smoothly. “I’ll be right back with those coffees.” Turning, Chaz flashed Cas a wink before disappearing off towards the swinging double doors into the kitchen.

The table lapsed into silence for a second before there was a loud clatter as Dean knocked his knife to the floor as he snatched his napkin from the table. He tore the thin material, swearing under his breath before snatching Sam’s napkin and knife before the younger Winchester could complain. “What was that about?” Dean asked, his tone tight and clipped.

Cas shrugged, playing it off. “What was what about?”

Sam snorted as he reached over and grabbed the spare napkin and silverware set next to Cas. “You're flirting. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you show an interest in someone.”

Cas shrugged again, playing coy. “Not sure what you’re talking about. You’re both tired and need to get some rest. Or at least several cups of caffeine.”

He glanced over at Dean, who was shooting daggers at him from across the table. His left eye was twitching, and a slight tremor was running through his right hand. Inwardly, Cas smirked. He cocked his head to the side slightly, throwing on the innocent look again. “What?” he asked Dean.

“Nothing,” Dean hissed, dropping his head into his hands and closing his eyes. He tugged at his hair, grumbling lowly under his breath and letting out harsh breaths through his nose.

Cas frowned. Dean giving up. That definitely wasn’t an option. He had to ramp it up if he wanted Dean to snap and make a move.

When the waiter came back with 4 steaming mugs of coffee, he placed the first one in front of Cas, leaning slightly into the angel’s space before placing a mug in front of Sam and the other two in front of Dean. “What can I get you fellas to eat?”

“Just eggs and toast for me, please,” Sam said, handing his menu to Chaz with a kind smile.

“Pancakes and a side of bacon,” Dean said, his tone curt as he shoved his menu across the table towards the waiter without moving his eyes away from the cup of coffee in front of him.

Sam rolled his eyes, apologizing again for Dean’s behavior.

“And something special for you, of course,” Chaz said, turning his attention back to Cas. “Unless there’s something else you want?”

Cas smirked, letting his eyes wander slowly up and down the man in front of him. “Actually, yes, there is. You can give me your number,” Cas said, licking his lips and letting his eyes settle on Chaz’s mouth for a few long seconds.

Chaz immediately grinned, tearing off the next ticket sheet in his notepad and scribbling something down. “I’m off at 6 tonight. Unless you have other plans?” he asked, offering the paper to Cas.

Cas reached out and took it, letting their fingers brush as he took the paper, which he noted really did have a number and a winking smiley face for good measure.

“He’s busy. Got a case we’re working on and all, you know, since we’re FBI,” Dean snarled, breaking the moment.

Cas darted his eyes over to Dean, raising an eyebrow. The hunter was almost vibrating with waves of jealousy, his eyes flashing bright green in the fluorescent light. There was a slight twitch, as if Dean was just itching to reach out for his gun for good measure. Cas shivered involuntarily. God, Dean really was hot when he was jealous.

Chaz cleared his throat. “Just call me when you get a night off.” He darted his eyes over Cas again, a smirk settling on his lips. “I’ll be back with your order real soon.” The last two words came out in a sultry tone as his eyes locked with Cas’.

Cas grinned, briefly biting as his lower lip and letting his eyes flutter slightly. Just as he expected, the waiter sucked in a sharp breath and cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away from Cas and walking away with a sway to his step.

As soon as the waiter was out of ear-shot, Dean kicked him harshly under the table. “What the hell, Cas?” he snarled, eyes alight with jealousy. The hunter looked poised and ready to attack, as if the waiter was a vampire and Dean was milliseconds away from lopping his head off.

“I told you, Dean, I have no sexual preference when it comes to a partner. And I happen to find him extremely attractive.”

“We’re a little busy for you to be shacking up with the waiter. Vampire case, remember? Or had that slipped your mind?”

“You manage to find time to go to strip clubs and hook up with women. What’s wrong with me showing an interest in someone?”

Dean snarled, the noise seeming to echo around the booth. The hunter’s back was ramrod straight, as if every single muscle in his body was taunt and ready for a fight. The tremors were now radiating from Dean’s right hand all the way up his arm, his shoulders tightly hunched. “That’s completely different.”

“Dude, Cas has a point. He has every right to do whatever he wants with whoever he wants,” Sam pointed out.

“Who’s side are you on?” Dean asked, rounding on his brother, throwing the full force of his angry glare at Sam.

Sam put his hands up in defeat, reaching out to grab his coffee in order to avoid answering Dean’s question.

“Your opinion is irrelevant,” Cas said with a shrug, leaning back into the booth. “He’s attractive, he flirted with me first, and I wouldn’t mind if he, as you so put it, banged me into next week.”

Sam, who had been quietly drinking his coffee, let out a startled noise and instantly choked on the hot drink, gasping as the liquid went down the wrong pipe. Dean leaned over, automatically thumping Sam on the back, but his eyes were firmly locked on Cas.

“Seriously? Fucking seriously?” he seethed, eyes narrowing as he glared at Cas. Sam shoved Dean’s arm away, and Dean balled his hands into fists. A dark red flush was creeping up his neck and staining his cheeks, and his breathing was fast and erratic. Dean was bouncing his leg so violently it caused the table to shake with his rage.

Cas shrugged, picking up his fork and twirling it around in his fingers. “You’ve always said getting laid helped you to focus on the case and to blow off the extra steam. I thought I might give it a go,” he said, keeping his eyes locked on the silver fork in his hand.

“Oh, right, because some random waiter just calls you handsome and you’re ready to bend over for him?” Dean snapped, voice sharp and biting in the small space across the table.

“Dean,” Sam said, his tone strained from his choking fit.

“My preferences are not your concern, Dean. Last time I checked, you don’t get a say in who I decide to flirt with,” Cas said, looking up and locking eyes with Dean.

Dean slammed his hand down on the table. The silverware clinked and rattled, and the coffee from one of his untouched mugs sloshed onto the table. “Doesn’t mean you have to do it right in front of me.”

Sam leaned over, elbowing Dean in the side. Hard. Cas took the distraction to slowly pull his phone out of his trenchcoat; making a show of saving the number to his phone.

“Fuck this,” Dean hissed under his breath as he loudly grabbed one of the mugs of coffee, his grip so tight on the ceramic that his knuckles turned white.

Sam elbowed Dean again, this time hard enough in the ribs that Dean was forced to look at him. ‘Make a fucking move, Dean,’ Sam mouthed, nodding his head towards Cas, who was engrossed on his phone.

Dean scowled, shoving Sam away. “I’m not into Cas,” he muttered lowly so only Sam could hear.

Sam rolled his eyes, shooting Dean a sharp look. “Seriously, Dean? Even I know you are. Make a move before you lose him,” Sam hissed under his breath.

“I’m not going to-” Dean was interrupted as the waiter returned, 3 plates in his hands.

“Eggs and toast for you,” Chaz said, putting a plate down in front of Sam. “Pancakes and bacon and an extra mug of coffee for you,” he said, placing Dean’s plate and another cup in front of him. “And waffles with strawberries and cream for you. On the house, of course,” Chaz said, winking at Cas as he slid the plate of waffles in front of him.

Cas smiled brightly at the waiter, reaching out and brushing their hands together as Chaz put the plate in front of him. “Thank you. Although I was more hoping for a free date on the house,” he said, cocking his head to the side and going for his best sultry look.

“That can be arranged,” Chaz said, leaning back into Cas space.

“Right in front of my fucking pancakes,” Dean seethed under his breath loud enough for Cas to hear, his tone like sharp knives tipping end over end and hurtling towards Cas and Chaz.

Clearing his throat, Cas pulled back away from the waiter, biting at his lip instead. “I’m Cas, by the way.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Cas.”

“Oh trust me, the pleasure is all mine,” Cas replied, letting his voice drop down even deeper as he once again let his eyes deliberately linger over the waiter’s body.

There was suddenly a loud bang as Dean slammed his hand down so hard onto his plate it shattered.

Chaz startled, tearing his eyes away from Cas. “Oh goodness, let me get you another plate,” he said, quickly scurrying off into the kitchen.

“Dean,” Cas admonished, feigning surprise. “What is your problem?”

“My problem? My problem? What the fuck is your problem? I’d like to eat my breakfast without watching you and Prince Charming fucking each other right in front of me,” Dean snapped, his hands clenching into fists as he bared his teeth. The whole table was rattling as Dean's body shook with pent up emotions. The maple syrup was knocked over, dripping sticky residue across their plates. Dean didn’t seem to notice the mess. His chest was heaving sharp breaths, his jaw clamped shut so tightly it ached. His vision was wavering, eyes blurring until the only thing he could see clearly was Cas.

Cas leaned back in his seat, shooting a hard look at Dean. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware we had to sit back and watch you flirt with everyone that walked past us but so help me God when I decide to show an interest in someone. Or is it that you’re just pissed that I’m showing an interest in someone besides you?”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s not like I’ve been hiding my attraction to you. Maybe I just got tired of waiting for you to make a move,” Cas shot back.

Dean opened and closed his mouth a couple times, the words seeming to get lodged in his throat as the jealousy, anger, and desire crashed and burned through his body. “Go out with me,” he finally rasped out.

Cas cocked his head to the side. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Go out with me. Go on a date with me, Castiel,” Dean said, raising an eyebrow at Cas as if challenging Cas to say no.

Cas hesitated for a moment, just to see Dean squirm. The asshole deserved it after making Cas wait ten years before growing a pair. “Fucking finally,” he said, breaking out into a smile.

Without hesitation, Dean reached across the table, grabbed Cas’ tie, and yanked him forward. “Gonna kiss you now,” Dean said, his mouth hovering just over Cas’.

“‘Bout damn time,” Cas replied, bumping his nose against Dean’s.

And then Dean closed the distance, his hand still wrapped around Cas’ tie as their lips met in a bruising kiss. Cas let out a relieved huff through his nose, the air cascading over Dean’s cheek, and Dean moaned lowly in his throat, nipping at Cas’ lower lip and running his tongue over it before diving in and kissing Cas again.

There was a loud thump on the table and Cas and Dean broke apart; Cas heaving in a deep breath and Dean’s hand looping around Cas’ tie to keep him close. They both looked over to see the waiter, who had dropped a new plate on the edge of the table.

“What about our date?” Chaz asked, raising an eyebrow at Cas questioningly.

Dean snarled, yanking Cas forward again to lock their lips together in another searing kiss. “Get your own damn angel. This one is mine,” he said possessively against Cas’ mouth.

“Dean,” Cas gasped. “You can’t go around telling everyone that I’m an-”

Dean cut him off though, wrapping the remainder of the material of Cas’ tie around his hand until there was no slack left and Cas was leaning more onto Dean’s side of the table. “Mine. My angel,” Dean said, closing the distance and kissing Cas noisily; groaning lowly just to make a point.

They broke apart, and Cas felt like his head was spinning. He was breathless and hungry for more, more, more. Dean tasted like maple syrup and the bitter after-taste of coffee, and Cas was addicted.

“Tonight. You, me, and dinner in some place that isn’t a diner or a take-out burger.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Cas babbled, because finally.

“You guys are disgusting,” Sam grumbled off to their side.

“Shut up,” Dean said good-naturedly, never taking his eyes off of Cas.

“Seriously. First I have to be witness to the flirting, and now I have to watch you two make out while I try and eat breakfast. Disgusting,” Sam complained, even though there was no actual heat to his words.

“What do you say we give him a show?” Dean murmured against Cas’ mouth.

“Yes,” Cas hissed. And then they were kissing again, sharp breaths and quiet moans; lips slotting together over and over, as one kiss morphed into two then into ten.

Cas was the one to break the kissing, pulling back slightly with a dazed look in his eyes.

“Is this what you wanted?” Dean asked breathlessly.

“Oh God yes,” Cas replied, leaning in and kissing Dean again.

“Guys, seriously, we’re in public. Go make out somewhere else. Some of us are just trying to eat our toast in peace,” Sam grumbled, but there was a smile on his face as he kept his eyes locked on his plate.

Dean rolled his eyes, leaning forward to place one last chaste kiss to Cas’ mouth before he finally pulled away; letting the silk of Cas’ tie slip through his fingers.

“Hey Cas?” Dean asked as he sat back down in his seat.

“Mmm?” Cas hummed, his eyes still glazed over as he sunk back down into the booth.

“Delete that number right now,” Dean said, another wave of jealousy radiating off of him as he looked at the discarded paper with disdain.

Cas chuckled, fishing out his phone and pushing it across the table to Dean. “I never saved it. See for yourself if you don’t believe me. I just wanted to make you jealous.”

Instead of reaching for the phone, Dean snagged the piece of paper, tearing it in half and dropping it into the last remains of his cold coffee.

“You’re mine,” he said, locking eyes with Cas and darting his tongue out over his lower lip.

Cas sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes darting down to Dean’s swollen lips. He swallowed thickly. “I’m yours,” Cas replied, flickering his gaze back up and catching the predatory look in Dean’s eyes. It sucked all of the air out of Cas’ lungs, leaving him breathless and dizzy with desire.

For once, maybe some dumb magazine article had been right. Cas finally had what he wanted, and he had to admit, jealous Dean was sexy. The words slipped from his mouth before he even registered them: “You’re sexy when you’re jealous.”

Dean, who had been about to take a bite of his pancake, stopped and smirked, the predatory gleam sparking in his eyes again. And this time it was Cas knocking the fork out of the way as he leaned over and dragged Dean into another kiss.

Sam made a show of grabbing the car keys from the table, announcing loudly he was eating his last piece of toast in the peace of the Impala. Dean hummed vaguely, waving his hand at Sam as he licked his way into Cas’ mouth.

And maybe Dean purposely waited until the waiter had come back with the cheque to moan into the kisses, groaning out Cas’ name. Cas shuddered, Dean’s name on his lips as he pressed another kiss to Dean’s mouth.

And maybe, just maybe, Cas was plotting how he could tempt that jealous streak out of Dean again. Because hot damn, Dean really was new levels of attractive when he was jealous and Cas wanted, wanted, wanted.

[myimaginesandrp]

Force Sensitive Reader  (Finale)

Summary: Maybe swearing your life to The First Order wasn’t the best idea...

Words: 5k

Warnings: M, Heavy Angst, Violence 

Previous , Part 1 

(I know its been over a year, but I hope this is satisfying and happy conclusion to this wild mess of a ride. Thanks for those of you who stuck around to finish the story! )

✦⋆✦⋆✦⋆✦⋆ ✦⋆✦⋆✦⋆✦⋆ ✦⋆✦⋆✦⋆✦⋆ ✦⋆✦⋆✦⋆✦

 Blinding and unforgiving lights.

 That’s what you saw. 

Hot, piercing lights that followed the brutal attack you’d just endured. You’d hoped you’d have gotten a chance to steal a look at a star or even another life form before you gave out. A flower would’ve been nice. All in all, you knew you wouldn’t make it out of this one, you could only take so much. You could still feel the heat emitting from the red saber as if finished its merciless mark on you. 

The dark eyes that stared at you were colder than you’d ever seen, glassy from the fury that clouded them. Out of all the ways those brown eyes had stared at you before, this one was one you’d never expect to see. The pure rage and fury that they emitted masked the hurt and betrayal that lingered underneath. You could see it. You could even sense it in him, no matter how strongly he tried to push it away. He was utterly devastated by what you’d just done..

 It was only fair to him that you admitted it. It was you who’d decided it was enough, and you’d be lying if you didn’t acknowledge part of you was just as devastated .The guilt that pressed on your chest hurt almost as much as the fresh wounds he’d bestowed upon you. Being just another person in his life who’d let him down, who’d let him slip further into the darkness.

His voice spits down like venom on you, but you can't make the words out; you’re too far gone to even try. You don’t have to guess the type of hatred he’s throwing at you anyway. His shoulders slump down then,  he huffs down another breath and he disappears. This was bound to happen, and at least you’d admitted to yourself that there were worse ways to go. But going out as a coward was not something you’d ever do. Not even when your last breath left you. 

Blinding and unforgiving lights. 

 That’s the last thing you remember before everything went dark. 

They say it’s been a few months, that you’re lucky to be alive. They say that transport got you out just in time, and that if it weren’t for the lack of security in the outer rim, you’d have never made it. They  say anyone else wouldn’t have made it. That your wounds won’t ever heal but you’re breathing on your own again and you’re very lucky. You’re very lucky to be alive.

 You’re not really sure about that last part. 

A quiet hum fills the air as you listen to the noises of the creatures nearby, for the first time you start making sense of the smells and sounds you didn’t recognize before.

Droids everywhere. Once in a while, someone comes over and does its regular check up. You absolutely hate those times. Any time you feel their cold metal press against your skin, you want to scream, but your lips don’t obey you anymore. 

The first time you became aware of your surroundings was a few nights ago, when a warm hand brushed against your cheek gently. The first time anyone other than Kylo had laid a finger on you. Gratitude would be the appropriate response to the kindness of the stranger. After all, they did wake you up, but upon further inspection, it turned out that you weren’t entirely awake, conscious but not awake.

The quiet drip of the ivy machines kept you busy for the most part. Drop after drop you counted. Every day.

Eight thousand, nine hundred and fifty four drops today. Well at least you thought it was daytime. There really was no way to keep track of time since you came to. Only a misplaced whisper from a doctor here and there told you where you were. 

Looks like your plan worked all along. The resistance was able to blow up that stupid ice planet and with it, any chance the Firs Order had of ever seeing victory again. It was a small contribution on your part, but an essential one nonetheless. 

Poe had been right all along. 

You didn’t know how far the First Order would go, but thinking back on it now, you were but a fool to believe anything other than the fact that they were bad news. For the whole galaxy. 

Sure, you could let a few murders here and there slide, but when the weapon was fully charged…

When they made a whole star system disappear…

All those voices crying out in pain…

You felt every single one of those life forms reach out in anguish. Oh and the fear they felt, the absolute horror they emitted before they were quickly, and cruelly silenced. 

 So much suffering…

“She’s crying!” The voice is loud and too close to you. It seems so familiar but it’s muffled and you can’t place it. Whoever they are they're right. You feel the warmth of your tears trail down your cheeks.

“She very well could be,” another voice agrees. “I’ll keep a droid on her at all times, we'll see if anything else changes” 

It was so infuriating to hear them speak about you, hear them right there next to you while your stupid body refused to obey you. Who were they anyway? Where were you? It couldn’t be with the order, you'd be long dead if they had their way. In fact, when Kylo found out about your little involvement in the resistance scum getting away, you’d nearly paid for it with your life. The one you were willing to risk after all. 

 Time passes by in a blur, it all mixes together in a senseless clock that you can’t keep up with. Has it been days? Weeks? Years? You definitely didn’t know. You just wished you could wake up, you wished you could lift your hand so you could feel your way around. You fight to stay awake, for who knows how long, until you slowly start to give away at the weight on your chest. 

Would it be so bad if you just gave up? Maybe you should. It’s not like anyone out there is waiting for you. The damage you’ve caused can’t be wiped away by one act of kindness, or better yet foolishness. No no one would miss you, The Order was gone and you weren’t even sure if Poe was… 

You stop your train of thoughts before they take you somewhere dark. Of course he was fine, he had more will to live than you ever did. He was probably out there, flying through the stars, cleaning up what was left of the galaxy. Still you wish somehow you could know, if what you did was worth it all in the end. If giving up your pathetic life helped, someone somewhere out in the universe. You know you won’t get your answer though, or you think that, until one day you feel a pair of hands entwine with yours. 

Whoever is touching you feels so warm against your cold hands, they feel like the ones who’ve touched your cheeks before. The ones who’ve held you before. Maker, you wish you knew who they were. Who was so close, and making your stomach fill with butterflies? You want to scream, let them know you feel their touch beside you. 

They need to stop. 

You’ll go crazy, you can’t bear to live like this. You thought you’d get peace when everything went dark, but this was a far greater punishment than you’d bargained for. It’s when you think you’ll finally lose it, when they speak. The sound is muffled, but you can hear a voice. It cracks as it speaks but you can make out the desperation in it. It calls your name over and over, pleading for you to fight, to come back. The weight of the bed shifts and suddenly your whole body is filled with their warmth as they wrap themselves around you. You’d mind, but you feel safe. Their body shakes as they sob beside you. You want to cry too. You wish your body would listen, listen and take pity on you and this poor creature beside you who’s broken cries break your heart every time they disrupt the otherwise silent room. 

It seems like forever that you lay together like this when you feel a pair of lips pressing against your forehead, a warm trail of tears brushing against your skin as their cheeks make contact with you. Your heart jumps inside your chest at the familiarity of their touches. They speak again, telling you they don’t know when they’ll be back.  You feel tightness in our chest as they admit their goodbye. The weight of the bed shifts again and their warmth is gone, leaving behind a cold and empty feeling inside you. They pull away from you and your head is lifted slightly. Once their hand is gone, you feel a slight feel of cold metal on your chest. They put a necklace on you? A pair of hands find your cheeks for a moment and then they're gone, leaving you to the silence of the cold room. 

 You don’t hear the voice again. Not when you’ve passed the ten thousandth drop of the day, or week or whatever time cycle it was since you’d heard it. In fact you don’t really hear much, until one day everything changes. 

It starts out very slowly. The way your body seems to come alive from the inside out is almost indescribable. All you know is that it creeps up from your hand until it reaches your toes. By the time you realize what’s happening, your whole body is alight. 

One drip…. 

Two drips…

Three…

The sound of your own gasp startles you. You don’t recognize it as it fills the silent room. Now your hands are moving. Yes, they're moving, your fingers are grasping at the cold sheets beneath you, and you try to remember how your lungs are supposed to work. 

Blinding and cold lights greet you as your eyes fly open. They scan the room and slowly the shapes around you come into focus behind the bright spots left behind from the lamp above you. Your breaths are heavy and its then that you realize you’re not alone.

“Hey you're alright”, a soft voice calls out to you. It’s not the same one as before, but you follow it immediately until you're met with a kind pair of brown eyes. “It’s okay breathe”

“Rey” you call out when your eyesight finally settles on the figure beside you. 

“You’re okay, you're safe” she assures you as your body finally relaxes into the mattress. You were safe?

“What happened?” you wonder aloud. Before she can answer, a  familiar white and orange bb unit comes into your field of view. The sight of him nearly chokes you into tears. If he was here...

“You were gone a long time Y/N you’re with the resistance now. The war is over” 

You try to sit up, your mouth unable to keep up with your brain as you spit out a garble of questions, trying to process what is going on. A pair of hands gently pushes you back into the mattress. 

 “I’ll explain everything, I promise. But for now you need to rest. I have to inform the others you’re awake. Can you please stay here?” You don’t know what comes over you, but your sudden panic is replaced with a warm feeling of peace, and you only nod your head as you listen to her order. She explains how she used her life force to wake you, but all that does is leave you with more answers than you had to begin with. Still, you agree to stay there until the medics finish treating you. Once she’s sure you’re not going to bolt out of bed, she makes her leave, promising she’s to return soon and explain everything to you. 

 The next few hours are filled with a flurry of activity around you. Doctors and droids stop by and ask you the same questions over and over again until you’re just about sick of hearing them. BB8  sticks by your side the whole time, and his presence fills you with reassurance that everything will be okay. So you let them take their samples for testing and obey their requests when you’re to change or move so they can take to your wounds. 

 Days pass before you’re able to finally get up from the bed but the little progress you make makes the evenings tolerable. It’s only when you’re able to shower for the first time, when you see the extent of the damage Kylo inflicted on you. The sight in front of you shocks you into silence. The person standing in front of the mirror is very different from the one you saw last. She’s so small and weak, but the hollows of her cheeks seem to have been filled again. Her skin had regained some of her color back and her hair was long past her waist.  A droid assists you when your legs shake, not used to standing after such a long time. You stare down your body to take in the bigger wounds that lay below. Three long gashes protrude from your back. They are similar to the ones on your face, but these are still red and they extend across your sides into your chest. They still hurt and you wonder how bad they must’ve looked before Rey partly healed you. Maybe they were right, and you were lucky to be alive. 

 It’s then  that you feel the necklace round your neck again. It’s still there, a small silver band, accompanied by a set of familiar tags. Your hand reaches out to hold them as tears threaten to leave you for the first time. The cold metal pressing against your chest demands our attention, and you stare at it through the mirror thinking about the person who put it there in the first place. The one that came to visit you, time and time again. This necklace belonged to one person and now that you think of it, you’re wondering where he could possibly be. You want to ask about Poe, but every time you think of bringing it up, your heart catches in your throat, not brave enough to hear something you won’t like. 

Later that night you lay on your bed, holding on to the necklace for dear life, until sleep starts to weigh heavy on you again. Panic threatens to rise in your chest as the night brings up memories from the time you were attacked. You suppose it was bound to happen, after all you went through. Before you can lose yourself to them, though, a little droid comes by to soothe you. He plays soft music that distracts you from your thoughts and as he rolls closer to the bed, you feel his warmth wash over you. 

“Thank you BB8” you mumble as you finally allow sleep to drift you into the darkness once more. 

 *  *  *

Time begins to pass again, although this time not as fast, but you welcome it nonetheless. Your wounds start to heal, and though they’re very noticeable, it doesn't hurt as much as you thought they would. Rey keeps her promise and returns to explain everything to you. How they were able to blow up the planet, how important your contribution had been to the downfall of The First Order (and therefore all your war crimes were pardoned), and how you’d been saved by one of the pilots. That causes BB8 to perk up and you make a mental note to ask him about that later. She doesn’t say who, but you're ever so thankful to them. Anyone in their right mind would’ve just left you for dead, you were just the enemy. 

She explains how the general gave you some of her life force to keep you alive before she passed. That particular detail hurts you like you’d never imagined. Even as Rey speaks, you realize you can feel the general’s presence all around you. She was gone, but you never felt closer to her. She did care about you, even after everything you did to her…

Rey answers all your questions and hours later she promises to check in on you once in a while. You thank her and she makes her leave, promising everything will be okay now and you honestly believe her. 

 One night, as you’re laying on your bed, you think about the pilot who found you on Ilum. 

“BB8?” you call out, and after a few moments the droid makes his way from his corner of the room. He noisily rolls over to you, grumbling and complaining about being woken up. “I know I’m sorry. I didn't know you’d powered down for the night.”  You sit up, and he gives you his full attention. “Say, you remember when I was rescued from Ilum? What happened to the Pilot who found me?” He perks up, communicating excitedly and it takes you a few moments to process what he’s trying to say. 

“You found me?” He beeps in agreement.  “You wouldn’t happen to have any record of it, would you?” He moves his head as if to nod but he hesitates to give you the recording.

“It’s alright BB8, you can show me” After another moment of pause, he pulls out a hologram recording from his memory. 

You sit there in disbelief as the scene unfolds in front of you. 

 There’s so much red covering the floor. It’s a stark contrast from the bright blanket of snow on the ground. He’s moving quickly towards a small mound on the ground. Your breath catches when you realize it's you, lying motionless on the ground. That's when you hear a familiar voice call out your name and your heart stops. 

“Scraps! Scraps wake up!” 

Poe comes into the field of view, throwing himself on the ground to pick you up. His breaths are raged and labored, as if he’d been running.

“No, no, no no. please, please!” He lifts your head up trying to feel any pulse on your neck, crying out again when he doesn’t feel any.

 “Scraps please, wake up” he runs his hand across your cheek, brushing your hair away from your face. “Please baby, don’t leave me. Wake up” He shakes you as heavy, pain filled wails leave his lips. “I’ll do anything,” he cries out to no one in particular 

“Please Scraps. Y/n please come back to me!” It’s then that BB8 gets closer and Poe gently puts you back in the ground. Once he moves away, BB8’s mechanical arm reaches out to deliver a shot of electricity to your body.

 Tears spill from your eyes as you watch yourself on the hologram. 

Your body jerks for a moment before lying limp on the ground again. Poe's lips are on you, blowing air into your empty lungs, once, and then twice before your body jerks again from another shock BB8 delivers. 

 Another familiar face comes rushing into the field of view. FN2187.

“Please, she’s not responding, she’s not- She won’t wake up” he calls out to his companion, his face stained from the tears that he’d shed. Rey and a small group of random resistance fighters come into the field of view. You watch as they try to pry Poe from you and he yells out that they let him go. Once they’re able to drag Poe far enough away. Rey places a hand on your chest, it glows for a moment and Poe cries out in relief as she says your pulse started again. The rest of the men release their hold on him and he’s back by your side. 

“We have to get her to the ship” a random voice calls out.

“Yes, fine” Poe agrees “But be gentle with her…” he continues blabbering on as they all quickly work to get you up. You see your body being carried off the ground before the transmission cuts off.

 You sit in silence for a long time as the memory replays in front of you. BB8 calls out your name and you nod in his direction. Warmth rolls down your cheeks and you realize you’re crying. The last time you saw Poe there was so much disappointment in his eyes, but that’s not the man you were seeing in the hologram. The pain in his eyes ripped your heart apart. He was there looking for you, he found you, and he saved you. 

“Thank you for saving me” you say to the droid beside you, “Thank you for not leaving Poe alone.” 

 *  *  *

Slowly you recuperate and are given more freedom to wander around the medical base. As soon as you’re able to, you even make your way outside. Eventually, you’re assigned a temporary tent while they figure out where to put you. You’re just fine with that. It seems the gratitude finally starts to make an appearance on you after all. Maybe you could be happy here. 

It helped you so much to know you were still able to use the force. You’d thought your abilities would have faded away by now, but when you step out into the forest one day, you’re surprised to learn you can still feel a special connection to it.

On this particular day, you dare to wonder further out than usual with BB8 by your side. You still wear your necklace and it clicks with every step you take on the damp ferns underneath your feet. You’d grown to have BB8 around, it seemed any interaction with any other life forms put you on edge, but they seemed to be more understanding of you now. Instead of worried glances, you were met with kind eyes and on some rare occasions, they thanked you for what you’d done. With each passing day you were starting to become convinced that this place could really be your home again.  

You walk in silence and you’ve just about passed the landing strip when BB8 suddenly bolts onward ahead of you. The sudden shift takes you by surprise, so when you finally call out to him, he’s a good several paces beyond your reach. 

“What is wrong with this droid today?!” You huff in annoyance. It actually takes a few minutes to reach him, with how fast he was moving, but soon you can make out the little figure among the ferns ahead of you.

 It’s an overcast day, but the temperature is mild. So why do you suddenly feel so cold? You lift your hand as you’re about to call out to BB8 when you see someone crouch down next to him, making you freeze on the spot. The droid is going wild, beeps and nodes flying around as it gives its affection to the man beside him. It's a sight you were very familiar with, but this time it drains all the blood from your face. A hand instinctively reaches out to touch the necklace around your neck, a single finger receiving solace in the cool touch of the ring it finds. 

He looks healthy. There are no scars or bruises on his face, save the ones he’d had the last time you'd seen him. His hands reach down and pat the droid with the same enthusiasm he receives, and you see him smile for the first time in a long, long time. Your heart beats excitedly in your chest, it's pulsing so fast you can feel it in your throat.

“Hey boy! I’ve missed you too! You didn’t get into any trouble while I was gone did you?” he murmurs to BB8 excitedly. The droid replies right away and his face falls for just a moment. 

“I know. I didn’t think I’d be out this long. I’m sorry buddy” His hand pats the side of the droid gently, as he examines him for any dents or scratches. The next words that come out of his mouth are a hushed whisper, so low you’re not really sure you heard it until BB8 answers him.

“How is she?” He listens as the droid gets seven more excited, offering him a series of beeps as you watch his face light up with everything he’s told. That is until his whole body stiffens “She’s where?” He lifts his head up, and you think to move, but you’re frozen in place. His eyes find yours, and suddenly the world that was alive around you, goes quiet for a moment. A gasp escapes him as he takes you in. His eyes travel up your body, resting on your hand and the necklace you’re holding so tightly your knuckles are starting to lose color.

You don’t know what to do, you don’t know what to say, and he doesn’t give you a chance before he straightens up and turns in your direction. 

Neither of you speak for a long time, you just stare at each other, dumbstruck and in complete disbelief that the other is actually there. Eventually BB8 decides we’ve had enough time in silence and gently nudges him forward. He stands only an arms reach away when he clears his throat, still at a loss for words. 

“Poe” The small gasp leaves your lips in a strangled and honestly pathetic cry. Your eyes really betray you, because soon they start to sting and a pool of tears begins to collect around them. 

“Hey scraps” His words are a weak whisper that mirrors yours. He reaches his hands out as if to touch you but he refrains from doing so the moment your eyes peer down at them. 

“It was you” you manage to say without your lip quivering. “You saved me”

He drops his gaze to the floor and nods. 

“You saved me first,” he counters, “when I was taken prisoner. Leia told me it was you.” 

You give him one hard nod and you don’t know what comes over you then, when he lifts his eyes to see you. You’d seen the same look many times before, one you’d never thought you’d receive from him again. His eyes were so full of love, they stared back at you, glistening in the sun. You don’t have any idea of what he’d possibly been up to all this time, but you didn’t expect to have him here, alive and safe, and so close to you.

“I’m sorry Poe” The tears that you’d been holding back finally start to spill over, any remnant of self-control you could’ve had is long gone as you force yourself to speak again. ‘I’m so sorry. I should’ve listened to you. You tried to tell me so many times. I don’t listen! I-”

He reaches for you then; the moment his skin makes contact with yours, you feel a fire explode inside you. His arms wrap around you and pull you into him tightly, and you reach up to hold him, afraid to let go in case this is all some horrible hallucination and he disappears from you. 

“It’s okay baby, you’re okay” he coos softly as one of his hands cups your cheek. “I’m sorry too Y/N.” His voice begins to break then, any self-composure he had left, completely gone from him. “I’m so sorry baby. I shouldn’t have let you go. I’ll never let you slip from me again you hear me? Never” 

He starts crying then, loud sobs that you respond to with your own as you let the pain from the past years swim out of you. He’s here with you, and you love him just as much as you had when you saw him all those years ago. You don’t know how you end up in the ground, but eventually your breathing evens out enough for you to speak again. You’re sat on the ground with your arms wrapped around each other when a cool breeze passes over you both and you shiver from the sudden change in temperature. He notices and gently pushes you away to help you stand. 

“Come on scraps, we have a lot to talk about” he says as he offers you his hand. 

You take it gladly and you both make your way back through the forest as you did once long ago. BB8 trails beside you both, making loud noises as he exclaims how pleased he is to have you both together again.

 That night Poe stays by your side, and all the nights after that. 

 *   *  * 

It takes time. It takes time to open up to him again. To be vulnerable, and openly allow each other to be intimate again, not just physically, but emotionally. It takes time for him to smile at you when you spend time together. And it takes even longer before you’re back to being friends. You tell him everything. Absolutely everything. Every death and every cruel punishment you set out to inflict on others. In return he tells you his woes and adventures while you were apart. Some things break your heart a little more than others. You tell him everything that Ren did to you, so when he lifts his hand or steps in your field of view too suddenly and you flinch, his eyes grow kinder, and softer than before.

 It takes time, but slowly your wounds heal together, and soon it’s as if time never passed. Sure, you’re a little frayed in the edges, but you’re together, and you are whole. Soon you’re strapping on your helmet again and flying through the stars. In the near distance, you watch as he flies his X wing through space just like many years before. But this time you’re not running from him, or the Order or the Resistance, You’re not running from anything anymore. You’re free.

Time passes. 

Sometimes fast and others a little slower, but you don’t mind it now because he’s by your side. Time can pass, and you’ll be okay with that.

✦⋆✦⋆✦⋆✦⋆ ✦⋆✦⋆✦⋆✦⋆ ✦⋆✦⋆✦⋆✦⋆ ✦⋆✦⋆✦⋆✦

Thank you so much for reading!  

@country-cowgirl-101 @nicci442 @commondazy @acehyacinth @stumbleonmywords @clumsycopy @chewymoustachio @treestarrrrrrrr @irrelevantyettopicalusername @iamburdened @thescarletknight2014 @far-beyond-infinity​

[scythian-andromache]

homeward bound

a The Old Guard fic Relationship: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova Rating: T (referenced canon-typical violence) Summary: Nicolò di Genova came from Genova before Italy even existed, but it's been a long time since Nicky went home. (AKA: the immortals have a complicated relationship with memory and nostalgia, but sometimes home is intangible.)

also on [AO3]

***

Places, they hold memories in them. Make them tangible again, like a smell that transports you back to your childhood classroom, or a song that sends shivers up your spine and makes you feel just as you did when you first heard it in a café twenty years ago. Places are vessels for the past, even as physical landscapes shape the future. They hold the imprints of the things that happened there, for better or worse; places have power.

*

"Joe, Nicky, I need you to meet this contact." Andy's voice is crisp and collected as she details the next mission, passing Joe a scrap of paper with an address. "They have a dossier we need, and we can't leave an electronic trail. In person only, this time."

Even with Copley covering their asses, erasing any digital footprint he finds, Andy's been extra careful of late, making sure there's no chance that anyone learns who they are again, and honestly, Nicky appreciates it. He doesn't need anyone else experimenting on Joe. It's not the first time they've been captured and it probably won't be the last, but being used as lab rats has left a certain bitter pang of fear in the back of Nicky's brain.

"Nile will go with me," Andy continues, unaware of the little detour his brain took him on. "We'll rendezvous in three days, at the safe house outside of Marseille." She pauses. "You get out clean, you hear me? I'd better see both your ugly mugs in front of me on Thursday."  

"Yes, boss," says Joe, and Nicky manages a small smile, because this is one of the little ways Andy says I love you.

"Right, let's move out."

It's only a matter of grabbing their go-bags, really, but Nicky takes a moment to pull Nile aside and give her a quick hug.

"You take care of yourself, cucciola," he whispers. "Look out for Andy, but look out for yourself too, capisci?"

Nile hugs him fiercely, tightly, and then lets go quickly, straightening back into the stiff military stance that seems to be her fallback in situations like these when she's tamping down her emotions. "See you in three days, and not a second later."

He nods, and then they're going their separate ways, Andy and Nile screeching away in Andy's beat up Citroën.

"You want to do the honors, Habibi?" Joe asks, sliding into the driver's seat and passing the little scrap of neatly folded paper that contains their mission to Nicky.

Of course, Joe immediately complicates Nicky's efforts by reaching out to lace their fingers together over the gear shift, distracting him so that he fumbles with the paper. Nicky laughs, his task all the more difficult now with just one hand, and Joe lifts their twined hands to give Nicky's a kiss. Nicky shakes his head fondly at Joe's antics—he starts every road trip this way—and finally looks down to read who they're headed to meet.

The corners of Nicky's vision blur a little, and he feels himself go lightheaded. He squeezes Joe's hand tightly—too tightly—as he stares uncomprehendingly at what's inked there. Even though there is a name and the street number of a residence off of a piazza, all he can see is the last line, written in Copley's tight script: Genoa, Italy.

"Yusuf," he breathes. "Yusuf, look."

*

Genova, once upon a time, was home. Long before "Italy" existed, long before he became an immortal, the bustling streets of the merchant city were as familiar to Nicky as the freckle on his wrist or the soft way his mother smiled at her children when they did something clever. There was the market, where people shouted over each other about wares and prices, and the fountain where, at age nine, he'd tested his balance walking the lip of it and failed miserably, falling and scraping his knee, and the little twisting alley behind his home where, at thirteen on a dare, he'd chastely kissed Francesca, the baker's daughter, and hated it. He knew to always walk on the left side of the street that passed along his house, because the right side had loose cobblestones that were liable to trip you, and he knew that on Fridays, the shipbuilders took to the taverns, filling them with spirited—if drunken—singing. He fit there, and life was uncomplicated, or at least as uncomplicated as life ever gets.

*

Nicky hasn't been to Genova in more than nine hundred years.

They're immortals with adequate resources and his name is literally di Genova, so it might seem strange. Such a tangible connection to a location, one that was so close to his heart, and he hasn't gone in centuries, not even when he and Joe lived in Venitzia during the Renaissance, and not when they went to Firenze for the weekend a few years ago.

Because sometimes you can't go back.

He tried, once, in the early years after he first became immortal. He thought it might be a balm, a comfort. Something familiar to ease the profound sense of loss that had opened a cavern in his chest. A touchstone to who he'd been before the world turned upside down.

Instead, it felt like walking through a ghost town. It felt like existing within a refracted re-creation of his memories. Everything so hauntingly familiar, and yet slightly out of place. The city had grown, re-bricked, a new plaza where there should have been a house, and rows of shops and residences that hadn't existed before. The market went on cheerfully in the same spot, but the vendors were new, the wares organized differently. He'd walked past his childhood home to find the street busier, the stucco faded and cracked.

On his walk through the city, he'd sworn he saw his sister at the market, her face staring back at him, and then the woman had cursed him out for looking at her too long, and he'd realized the pitch of her voice was wrong, the curve of her eyebrow not quite right. Maybe, possibly, the old woman she was with when she left the market—hair greying and hunched figure and deep wrinkles around her dark eyes—had been his sister, or maybe it was just wishful thinking. Maybe she'd already been dead a generation. Maybe Nicky didn't actually remember her face, already so faded in his memory, and was so desperate to remember that he'd opened himself up to the power of suggestion.

It was only after the incident in the market that he realized: time had been grinding away at this once-familiar place, leaving no comfort to be had.

Nicky left the next morning, and never tried to return to Genova again.

*

It wasn't that he'd avoided it specifically; there'd just never been a reason to go before, and even though they'd visited Joe's hometown once, he'd never pushed to see Nicky's, sensing his reluctance.

After all, Genova isn't the only place Nicky or Joe have a difficult relationship with; perhaps it's the most salient, but they're immortal, and places tend to carry tangible reminders of the lives they've led, and the people they'll never get back.

Memories weigh down other cities too. Constantinople—er, Istanbul now, Nicky supposes—is another one, the streets somehow both foreign and nostalgic after the ten years they lived there. Echoes of friends' laughs ring out in quiet corners of the city, and the fragrant odor of spices—the bite of cumin and the wafting caress of mint—in the grand bazaar smells like hot nights drinking coffee with excitable scholars, passionately discussing philosophy until all hours, when their eyelids got leaden but their hearts were full. And strolling along the picturesque canals in Bruges never fails to turn up pangs of the indescribable loss of Quỳnh, and the memory of a broken Andy, sobbing that she'd lost her. (It's the only time Nicky can remember seeing Andy cry in the thousand years since they'd met.)

It happens with every place they've ever lived to some degree, wholly unavoidable, but Genova holds a strange and intimate attachment—something intrinsic—that these other places do not have.

It's true that sometimes you can never go back, but it's also true that you cannot escape your past entirely, either.

And now they have a mission there.

*

They pull into Genova in the late afternoon, as the golden hour rays are illuminating the city. (There's really nothing quite like the Italian sun, especially as it sets the port and the seaside on fire.) It's more colorful than he remembers, except for the water: that's as vibrant as it's always been.

They're making contact with their source in the morning, which means that tonight is mostly about laying low and not getting killed, two things that they should frankly be better at than they are.

Joe finds them an unremarkable pensione on a quiet side street, and books them a room for the night, paid in cash and using aliases. Untraceable.

Their route to finding a place to eat takes them past a view of the ocean and Nicky has to pause. Everything else has changed, but the ocean hasn't, not really. It's from a slightly different angle, but the same view he grew up with, familiar in a reflexive way, like muscle memory, something he'd forgotten he knew.

Over dinner, they talk about the mission, and speculate about how Nile and Andy are doing ("I bet you Andy's already done something stupid and Nile's had to take a bullet for her," Joe says, and Nicky replies, "Do you think I'm stupid? I know Andy too well; there's no way I'm taking that bet.") and revisit their long-standing debate about whether exiling Booker when his betrayal was borne of loneliness and isolation is really the right move.

The beautiful thing about being with someone so very long is that they know you, inside and out. Joe doesn't need to ask about how Nicky's dealing with being back in Genova, because he can see it written out across his face, detailed in the tension in his shoulders. (They'd talked a little bit about it in the car, and will probably talk about it some more later, but for now Joe won't press, and Nicky loves him all the more for it.)

On the way back to the pensione they take a different route, and stumble across a little plaza that Nicky recognizes. He squeezes Joe's hand and they continue, but if he looks hard enough, he fancies he can see the shade of his younger self scampering across the cobblestones.

How foolish, really.

*

In the deepest depths of the night, Nicky, restless, slips out of bed, sneaks out of the pensione.

The city has been painted over, rebuilt a dozen different times and pieced together like a patchwork quilt, but underneath it all are the bones of the city Nicky once knew. His feet carry him through the warren of streets, and he finds himself, suddenly, standing in front of his childhood home.

He stares at the building where he was born. Where he begrudgingly learned his first shaky letters. Where he sliced open his palm, trying to whittle a bit of wood like his older brother. Where he and his sister Catalina, closest in age of all of them, swapped whispered secrets and fantastical stories of their own creation. Where he dreamed of changing the world with the misguided vision of an insulated youth. Where he ate, slept, and laughed for the first fourteen years of his very long life.

It's a drop in the bucket, now, and looking at it this time doesn't produce the same emotions as it did so long ago. Instead, he just feels an emptiness, a sense of detachment. It is someone else's home now. It has not been his in any meaningful way for a long time, a transfer of ownership occurring with every brick that was replaced, every layer of paint splattered on. A blessing and a curse in equal measure, he supposes, to feel this way.

He's been there a few minutes—reality almost lost to him as he tries to remember exactly how his mother used to quirk her eyebrows at them and finds he can't—when he suddenly realizes that he's not alone, a thousand years of dangerous situations training him to notice and believe the prickling feeling on the back of his neck.

But when he turns, he just sees Joe, hands in his pockets, watching him intently. His face is thrown half in relief by a nearby streetlamp, and he blinks for a moment, marveling at how beautiful his Yusuf is, how entirely dear.

Joe doesn't ask what Nicky is doing here, or why he's not getting the sleep they need before the drop tomorrow. He simply joins him, and they stand there in quiet contemplation for a few moments, just being together in front of this unspectacular building.

Finally, "Is this where Nicolotto grew up?"

Nicky finds himself nodding. "It was not much back then, either. Less, even."

Joe studies the place again in the flickering light of the streetlamps.

"It should be a museum," he declares, and Nicky scoffs.

"Every house in Italy could be in a museum if you think having old bones warrants a spot there."

"Ah, but not every house was your house," says Joe.

"The person who came from here was no good," mutters Nicky. For all the shiny, fleeting memories of childhood, he wasn't: he was prejudiced, closed minded, convinced of his own superiority, taught to hate instead of love. It took dying several times—several dozen—to figure that out.

"None of that, ya Habib albi. That person needed to live," says Joe, fiercely, "needed to die, needed to be, so that I could meet you." Nicky ducks his head, but Joe's only just beginning, and he continues emphatically, "His existence is a miracle I praise every day, because every moment in time had to happen exactly as it did so that I would meet you, so that we might exist together. If this is the house where you grew up, I praise the blocks that made it stand, so that you might sleep each night within it; I praise the stones on the ground that absorbed your footfalls; I praise the herbs that grew on the windowsill and sweetened the air of each breath you drew in. This place, flawed though it may be, brought me you."

Yusuf's poeticism is nothing new, but it still sneaks up on him every time. "Elegant bastard," Nicky curses, several tears tracking down his cheeks, and reaches out, cups Joe's face tenderly and pulls him in for a desperate kiss.

A millennia and his lips are still tingling, a millennia and Joe's kiss is still tender, life-affirming, a question and an answer and a beautiful, delicate promise all at once.

Even when they break apart, they remain in each other's space, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, hands resting on cheeks.

It's not as though they've been apart for any vast stretch of time recently, but Nicky still takes a moment to relish in Joe's presence, ground himself in the warmth of Joe's skin under his fingertips. It's on a deep inhale as he clears his mind that the idea comes to him, and he flicks his eyes open to meet Joe's.

"Yallah ya hayati."

"Ila al-funduq?"

"Not yet," Nicky says. He links his arm through Joe's. "I want to show you something else, first."

Nicky lets his feet guide them, and together they walk the remnants of the neighborhood of Nicky's youth, as he tells Joe about the merchant who lived in that house, and the shop on this street that sometimes gave the neighborhood children sweets when the owner was in a good mood. He allows himself to reminisce, finally stops holding back the wave of wistfulness and sadness and displacement and fondness—complicated and messy—as he narrates these long gone trivial bits of his childhood to Joe. The eastern sky is smudged with a little pink by the time the arrive back at the pensione for a few quick hours of sleep.  

*

It is easier the next morning, a weight off his chest, the itchy eyes that come with a lack of sleep a small price to pay. When they go to collect the dossier, they trod part of a route he thinks that he used to take to go to the butcher's shop for his mother.

"I got into a fight in that alley," he says aloud, as the memory springs to life for the first time in centuries, triggered by the curve of the stone at the corner of the building.

"My Nicolò?" asks Joe dramatically, pretending to be shocked. "In a fight?"

"It wasn't much of one," says Nicky, the ghost of a smile on his face. He can't remember what the fight was about, anymore, or the name of the boy he got in a scuffle with. Dario? Dante? It doesn't come to him. Just the kiss of pain that came with his split lip and bruised cheekbone.

"Of course it wasn't," says Joe. "You had not yet met me."

Nicky snorts, but Joe isn't wrong. To this day, and even counting the many missions Andy has sent them on, some of his most intense fights were against Joe, before they realized they were far better suited as lovers than enemies.

"I have a secret," he says in a low voice, and when Joe turns to look at him, he continues, "I do not even think I won."

Joe's laugh rings out along the cobblestone street.  

*

Genova, once upon a time, was home, but that was a long time ago. Places are vessels for memory and nostalgia, reminders of the people we have known and the people we have been. Places have power, but something you learn with time is that, powerful as they may be, home is not always a place.  

As they pull out of the city with the dossier tucked in his bag, Joe at the wheel and hands laced together over the gear shift, Nicky feels something within himself quiet. Genova still means something to him and probably always will, but it is softer now, more approachable, a collection of memories he is reconciling with and not a cavernous hole to be avoided. He is content with filing it away as home, once instead of the dour no longer home he's thought of it as for so long.

After all, it is Yusuf, dear Yusuf, who is home, who has been for nearly a millennia now. His eyes are vessels for memory—their brightest, happiest moments, and also the tragedy and hardships they have faced together—and his soft smile carries its own nostalgia, even as it is his beacon of hope. Home is a patchwork of days and nights and soft whispers traded between them, a constellation of moments traced across his skin, the invisible story of their love etched within their souls.

Nicky lifts up their intertwined fingers and kisses Joe's hand, and when Joe glances over at him, he smiles softly, a thousand beautiful memories refracted in Joe's eyes. Home, indeed.

***

[monstersandmaw]

Winter Solstice - Chapter One (undergoing re-work; new chpts posted on Patreon)

PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS IS AN OLD, FIRST DRAFT, AND IS CURRENTLY UNDERGOING A COMPLETE RE-WRITE. I’ve left it up in case you’re interested, and I intend to release it in full as a self-published novel. Consider this a tease/sneak peek.

Who remembers my Fae Realm? Well, here's Chapter One of a new story set in that universe, released on Winter Solstice night (it happens at 4.19am on Sunday 22nd December in the UK, so I think this counts).

I hope you enjoy it! See the links at the end for more stories set in this universe.

It’s been up on Patreon for only a couple of days (to keep it roughly Solstice-relevant), but the second part will be up on there for longer before it gets its Tumblr debut. As it was a surprise post, it was also available to all patrons, from the Shadows tier up.

Content: female character attacked in the woods by a mysterious dark fae creature, rescued by a shadowy fae with one wing, and the Prince of the Winter Court himself... Wordcount: 1678

___

On the longest night of the year, when the veil between the Mortal Realm and the Fae Realm is at its thinnest, its weakest, she, like the chump she was, found herself riding alone through the forest between the harbour town and her  little village.

Foxfire danced between the trees as the sun’s last rays dissolved in the watercolour sky above her, and she tried to keep her heartbeat steady as she trod the familiar path back home with her saddlebags empty and her coin purse full. She’d finally sold the last of the pendants that she’d made from old iron horse-shoes to protect mortals against the advances of the Fae, but of course, she’d not left enough time to get home.

Her ears picked up almost nothing save for the whisper of snow falling all around her. The woods were silent and empty save for the hiss of the wind in the bare branches and the steady, creaking crunch of her horse’s hooves on the old forest track. No birds sang; no deer moved between the sentinel trunks of the ancient trees; no rabbits scampered through the thorny arcs of purple-limbed brambles.

She had just leaned forwards to pat her mare’s coarse, white mane, the dapple of her coat blending in with the winter around, when the silence of the woods exploded into chaos.

Something erupted out through the trees with such force that her ears rang from the crack like a thunderclap, and snow sprayed in a thirty foot arc, spattering against trees, and sending her horse rearing up, hooves lashing out as the mare neighed an equine scream of pure terror.

She fell from the saddle and landed heavily on her back, the wind knocked from her lungs and her vision sparkling. The heavy-set mare launched herself into a plunging gallop away through the trees, tail streaming behind like a banner, leaving her rider exposed beside the frozen, woodland stream and wondering what in the name of all the realms had just happened.

Then she heard it; a slow, deep growl, and the prowling footsteps of something creeping through the mist of disturbed snow up ahead at the point of impact. Her heart thudded in her ears, almost drowning out the sound of the creature, but as she scrambled backwards in blind panic, she saw it crawling out of the debris on all fours, turning its head this way and that, snuffing and scenting the air like a hound trying to find a trail.

Its body was as big as a bear’s, but it was skeletally thin, hairless, and with gangly arms and long, spindly fingers. Its skin was a mottled greenish grey, and as it swivelled its head around and fixed its gaze on her, she was met by two enormous, moon-like eyes, glowing with a horrid, dead light.

The scream that tore itself from her throat sounded foreign to her ears. She scrabbled to her feet and grabbed the first thing her hands fell on, which happened to be a stout, fallen branch. The creature skittered this way and that, bouncing playfully off the trunks of the trees, lunging after her like a cat at play, and then it opened its maw. Horrifically, its jaw split into four, fringe-like sections, like some hideous flower, and the inside of its mouth was blood red and filled with row upon row of needle-like teeth.

She scrambled to her feet, desperately trying to find traction in the mucky slush beneath her, and swung at the creature as it made its final dash towards her, quick as a spider and as unstoppable as a charging bull.

The branch collided with the side of its head, and it staggered and veered away, snarling and snapping that grotesque mouth and narrowing its enormous eyes. The drool that dropped from its four-fold lips hissed and sizzled as it hit the snow.

A blueish light shifted in the trees a little way off behind the monster, but she didn’t have time to call out for help as it darted for her once again.

This time it was too quick and she screamed again as its vile mouth clamped down on her neck and collarbone, sinking its myriad venomous teeth into her skin. Searing pain shot through every nerve and she dropped the stick, her fingers going almost instantly limp. Its disgusting breath stung her nose, its continuous and delighted snarling filling her ears, but she could barely breathe through the pain as it tightened its grip on her and brought its long, gnarled fingers to her waist and drew her close to its foul body.

She was going to die. It was Winter Solstice, and she was going to die in the rotting claws of some foul creature from the Fae Realm.

Her arms were clamped to her sides by its terrible grip on her, but as the long, hard handle of her belt knife dug into the inside of her wrist left, she thought vaguely of freeing it somehow so she could at least try to gut the creature who was going to take her life. It had to be a Fae creature, though she had never heard of one like this before. As the best blacksmith and farrier within thirty miles of the lord’s castle, she had seen the Fae pets that the nobles kept on iron chains, parading them around like exotic animals for everyone’s entertainment. Fae on this side of the shield between the realms were not supposed to be able to access their powers. This one, however, was strong and quick, lithe, and gods above, her neck was on fire with its venom.

Finally loosing the knife as she twisted, choking on the pain and screams which lodged together in her throat, she rammed the six inch blade deep into its gut. Foul black liquid gushed out, burning her hand, but the creature released its hold on her neck immediately. She staggered and fell backwards into the snow, her right hand darting to her neck that was a mess with ragged puncture wounds. The pain was indescribable, searing beneath her skin in waves of rippling needlepoints and clenching her lungs and throat so tight that breathing became almost impossible.

The creature writhed on the ground, reaching for her with its taloned fingers, scraping them through the churning snow and mud as if determined to drag itself towards her and finish her off, no matter the cost to itself. She managed to kick it in the face with her heel before she slumped back into the snow, dizzy, cold, and sweating.

“I don’t want to die,” she rasped, turning her blurring vision up to the lacework of black branches above while the snow pattered down around her. “Please…” she prayed to no one in particular.

Hoof-beats pounding through the slush made her turn her head dazedly, and a second later, a burst of darkness exploded out like a drop of ink in water, and the creature screamed. A human-shaped figure now stood beside it, and she squinted as her own vision began to dim. She thought the figure that had erupted from the pure, writhing darkness had wings, but when he turned, she saw that in fact he only had one wing, and where there should have been a second protruding from the special slits in the back of his leather armour, there was only a ragged, black stump. The right wing hung like a giant bat’s wing down his back, and she could see dapples of moonlight through its shredded membrane.

Before she could take in much more about the figure, he had clutched the creature’s head in his hands and torn it clean off in a spray of gurgling, black ichor. The thundering hooves drew close and a second person swung down from the saddle of a huge grey stallion. The horse’s hooves danced in the snow while he whinnied and snorted at the scent of the creature’s blood.

“Is she alive?” she heard a rasping male voice ask from above her.

“Yes, highness,” the winged figure swathed in shifting darkness replied. “Looks like she did our work for us though.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, and suddenly he was crouching beside her.

His clothes were simple fighting leathers, but they were tooled with silver filigree and studded with a glimmering metal that was not of the Mortal Realm. His long, silver-white hair was tied back in a simple ponytail at the nape of his neck to reveal tapering, elegant ears, and he wore a simple band of white metal around his head. As he turned to look at her, she caught a glimpse of the right hand side of his face and gasped. Where his left cheek was smooth and pale as polished marble, his right seemed, to her blurred and fading vision, to be made of quicksilver, or iridescent ice. All the planes of his face were hard as crystallised ice and his eyes were a blue so pale they were almost white.

Their voices warped, her hearing failing as the poison in that creature’s maw got to work on her body in earnest.

“She’s going to die,” the prince remarked, in much the way that a housewife might comment that someone was nipping out to the market.

“Please,” she hissed, her fingers - slick with the creature’s black blood - groping for a hold on him. She found his hand and he wrenched it back from her clutches with a look of disgust on his beautiful face. “Please… I don’t want to die. I…” Her throat closed, but as the world tilted back into darkness in a wash of agony, she caught the flare of curiosity in his grey eyes and hoped it would be enough to move him to pity.

It didn’t occur to her that asking a Fae for her life without waiting to hear the price - and on this night of all nights - was a very, very foolish thing indeed.

Part Two

Fae Realm Stories

Prince of the Court of Night x female reader *commission* (nsfw) Part Two (nsfw)

Male winged shadowborne fae (Shaer) x female reader (nsfw) *commission* (long!)

Male reptilian fae (Adan) x female reader (nsfw) *commission*

Male triton Fae (Kaerio) x female character (sfw) *commission*

—

I really hope you folks enjoyed this one! Don’t forget to let me know if you did enjoy it by leaving a like and/or reblogging it!

For all early releases, character art and bios, upcoming story info, and much, much more, join me over on Patreon!

You’ll have access to stories before anyone else, and you’ll get instant access Patreon-only content as well, including polls and an exclusive monthly story for those on the Pixies and Goblins tier or higher!

__

| Masterlist | Patreon | Ko-fi | Writing Commissions |

[underlinedkasis]

Unconscious Eyes [Shoto x Reader]

Unconscious Eyes

Shoto Todoroki x Impaired! Reader

You felt a smile tug at your lips when you saw the bobbing head of bicoloured hair. Todoroki was leaning against a street light, nodding off as he waited for you.

‘_So cute.’ _You thought to yourself. You then walked up to him and as he started to wake up, gave him a little peck on the cheek to jumpstart him. And it worked like a charm. Instantly, he was awake, returning the gesture like a gentleman. Giggling, you grabbed his hand and tugged him off to school.

Yanking open the door of 3-A with clumsy grace, you smiled at everyone in the class.

“Morning! We’re not late!” You declared. Usually, you and your boyfriend were barely on time if not a few minutes late thanks to you. Today however, you were right on time- if not a little early. After all, today was the day you were going back to your old hero mentors. All the third years had this day to visit and help their former mentors, taking the chance to also look back on their growth. Everyone was excited, but you were absolutely ecstatic to see Mirko again!

The Rabbit Hero had taught you so much and without her, your quirk use and ability wouldn’t be anywhere near what it was now. You were so happy just thinking about seeing—.

An audible gasp sounded across the room and everyone went silent. Worried, you tensed and braced yourself for something you not like. However, when you turned around and followed everyone’s stares, all you saw was a red Todoroki and the traces of a smile disappearing from his face. You looked around confused.

“Wait. What’d I miss?” You questioned.

After a small silence, Kaminari answered.

“Bro…..Todoroki..smiled?” His question seemed to pull everyone from their trances.

“No, not smiled! I-it was a full on grin?!”

“Yeah! He was beaming!”

“It looked as if his mouth would split because of his elation!” The room erupted in chatter. After a few seconds of ear-splitting jabbering, you were able to calm your giggles.

“WOAH! Everyone CALM DOWN!” You hollered. Your yell echoed out and luckily quieted down the room.

“Jeez. Have you people never seen a smile? Ya know, the thing where you lift the corners of your mouth? Plus, that smile wasn’t his.” You held up your connected hands and motioned to them. “It was mine. I was excited. Get it?” There were collective ‘ohs’ and some sighs of relief.

Chuckling sheepishly, you sneaked a glance at your annoyed boyfriend.

“Sorry Sho. I forgot my glove. Forgive me?” You pouted and made puppy eyes, pulling a reluctant sigh and nod from Shoto.

Your quirk, Link meant that you could form a physical, mental, or emotional connection with anyone you touch. A full mental connection was the most exhausting, so mostly you used an emotional connection. And of course, you sometimes did it unknowingly when you were feeling a particularly strong emotion. Like just now.

“It’s fine. Just put your glove on. And watch the pinky.” Shaking his head and trying to hide a smile, he went to his seat. Mirroring his grin, you slipped on a pair of black spandex gloves missing a finger sleeve and sat down as well.

When Aizawa finished his mini lecture on how screwed they’d be if they did anything stupid, it was time to leave. Pulling your sour boyfriend into a hug, you give him a peck on the lips and a giggle.

“Stop pouting. It’s three days. I’ll call and text alright? And I’ll be careful which Rumi-sensei probably won’t like, but..” You had smiled reassuringly and gave him a last kiss before pulling away.

You had meant every word, but when a deadly villain appeared and the time came, you couldn’t stop yourself from racing around the corner to confront the villain. So here you were, panting and grimacing from the pain pulsing through your body.

“Why are you doing this?!” You hollered half curious and half hoping someone would hear you.

“Because the world isn’t fair. So what’s the point in playing by the rules?” The figure you were fighting snarled. He hadn’t used his quirk yet but still managed to beat the crap out of you. You were bleeding, achy and scrambling to find an advantage, a tiny bit of leverage. And so, you did the stupidest thing you could think of.

You rushed towards the villain, reaching out your ungloved right hand. This was all you could do. Reach out and hope. But the action was desperate and stupid, and the villain knew too. He smirked before easily grabbing your outstretched hand and yanking it, throwing you off balance. When he drew a quick line across your arm as you collapsed to the ground, devastation and hopelessness were seen on your face, seemingly giving up. Anyone could tell you were tired, frustrated with feeling useless as you lay there. But of course, no one saw your wide smirk hidden by your curtain of bedraggled hair. Your hand had touched his. Your ungloved hand. And you could literally feel the smugness radiating off him at his apparent victory. Now all you had to do was transfer your injuries onto—.

You couldn’t give any other reaction then tense. 

Everything was confusing, nothing made sense nothing made sense and you couldn-  

“Y************/N! Are you okay? Y-Y-Y/N!”

Panicked, rambling, blurring and distorted EVERYTHING

You heard the tinny footsteps before red and white even slid into your bland view of the room. And when your eyes shifted, they couldn’t meet his. 

You couldn’t see them. The true windows to his soul were gone in your eyes, covered by blurred edges of skin colour. You couldn’t see his fingers either, or the lines on his school uniform. No details. It was all just shapes and blurs. And as your eyes slid back up to his face, you caught an interruption in the never-ending skin when he talked.

“[Y/N]? I heard you were here. Are you alright? They wouldn’t tell me what happened.” Shoto breathed out as his eyes raked your figure and saw no life threatening wounds. He got worried for a second-

“I’m not alright..” He stiffened before whipping his eyes to yours, only to see your eyes not quite looking at his. Like they weren’t there. Like you couldn’t-

“I can barely see Shoto. I..” You sank your teeth into your lip, drawing blood in an instant. “I can’t see your eyes. Or your individual fingers. I can’t see your mouth moving when you talk and I just can’t see.” 

You didn’t bother catching the blood dripping from your lip as you tried to decipher the boy’s reaction. And when you saw liquid plopping onto the cold marble, you realized you had tears streaming down your face.

“I-I can’t see. It h-happened because of t-the villains quirk. He’s dead so he c-can’t take it hic back..” Your shoulders were shaking as you tried to spout out logic to calm your quickly onsetting panic. It was as if saying the words set everything in stone, which was then proceeded to hit her right in the gut. The realization that her vision would never be normal again.

You desperately drew in air and exhaled shaky breaths to try and stop your quivering lips, only looking up to see your boyfriend when you calmed down. And the sight shook you.

His eyebrows were scrunched together tightly, looking almost painful, and his haunted eyes were filled with unshed tears but the thing that scared you the most, was the painful smile drawn across his face. The anguish was etched into his never-ending steel and blue eyes and sorrow tumbled from his face in tear form, but he had a smile on his face.

“..Shoto.”

“Sorry. It’s just..” He clenched his shirt in his hands. “First my father, then my mother, and even my brother who I didn’t know very well…there’s something wrong with all of them, and now it’s happened to you too. But.. do you see the common link? It’s me.****_ _I’m the reason my mother is in this same hospital, my brothers a villain because of my father, who wouldn’t have abused him as much if I’d sucked it up a little quicker, and now here you are, with _broken _eyes because I wasn’t there.” He chuckled shakily but his smile broke, exposing the guilt and trembling shoulders.

The room was silent for a few minutes, letting a heavy atmosphere sink further into the room.

“Sho. Your father was crooked. How could you have prevented something that happened before you even existed? Also, every kid deserves to be protected, right? And one of the reasons you hate your father is because you know what he did to you isn’t right to do to any young child, right?” You paused to actually let him reply, but quickly cut him off when he started to ramble.

“Yes, or no?” He sighed.

“Yes.”

“Alright, so if you think that, can you criticize a child for not being cold and cut off, and cutthroat? It’s not rational to expect that of a child. And the feeling of pain, the longing for simple happiness..” Your voice cracked. “It’s what you should’ve gotten. So it’s okay. It’s not you. It was never you.” You reached your arms out, enveloping him in a hug. You clung to each other, indescribable loving emotions taking place of old painful ones, hopefully to stay in their place for a long while.

“Ready?” You asked, facing away from your boyfriend.

“Yes.” He couldn’t lie when he said he was nervous, but gave you the thumbs up. Bracing yourself, you turned around and opened your eyes, letting him see your vision helpers in all their glory.

“[Y/N]? What did they do to your eyes?? Are they….” He trailed off at the sight of your blue and grey eyes, suspiciously matching with the bi-coloured boy.

“..You’re pranking me aren’t you?” He guessed in a flat tone, not giving away if he was even a little bit amused. You giggled anyway, cheering up the daunting atmosphere that had filled the room before.

A couple months ago after you and Shoto(but mostly you) cried out all your tears, the doctor came in and announced that they may have a way to improve you vision at least to a point of being able to see the words on the classroom chalkboard from the second row. Now you were here, trying on the lenses Mei had worked obsessively on.

As you pulled out the coloured contacts you had in, you grabbed the screened glasses you flipped onto your head and pulled them back down. Breathing in deeply, you opened your eyes and slid your eyes to meet his.

His endless pools of aquamarine and silver, shining with the smallest sliver of hope.

“..Hey.” You whispered. “Hi. Hey. Oh god. Uh—Your hair looks as gorgeous as ever. A-And don’t get me started on your eyes. Also, what is wrong with your fashion sense? You look like a hippie.” You let out a watery chuckle. You couldn’t stop talking, couldn’t keep the words from flowing out. You rambled on about everything; every little detail down to couple strands of hair resting over his eyes.

When you finally stopped to take in a breath, you were hit with the most breathtaking sight of all. The tired boy had the biggest grin, brimming with raw joy and pure exhilaration. It dazzled you; and you remembered. Seeing the little quirk of his eyebrow when something annoyed him, the adorable dazed blankness in class, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly whenever you did something ridiculous.

You remembered his love.

And you were so thankful.

_____________________________

....In case you haven’t noticed, schedule’s are dead to me. But hello, whoever is reading this! Thank you so much, and I hope you enjoyed! Have a great day!

-Kasis<3

[amelink66world]

Love of my Life

Heyy guys!! So this is the next part. Make sure you read the previous parts before starting with the new ones. Anyway, enjoy!!! <3

Some Time??

Link went with Amelia to her place at Mer's after the puppy surprise. Link couldn't ask for a better partner. He was already thinking about building a future with her. She was perfect for him. He finally had a purpose here in Seattle. He was actually feeling like a lost puppy...no pun intended, he chuckled, after Meredith stood him up. Jo had pushed him in her direction and he had even liked her but he soon realised, it was not supposed to be him who took her to dates in the first place. Deluca, who had become a really close friend of his, was the one for her. He was gloomy for a while until Meredith apologised to him. Knowing Link, he obviously forgave her.

He was okay until Amelia came thundering in his life like a hurricane...again, no pun intended, he chuckled. He was the most at ease with her. There was just something about her that he couldn't pinpoint. She always made him feel desired with the way she looked at him. Some people questioned his calm and laid back exterior but she welcomed it with open arms. She actually kinda liked it. She did strange things to him, things couldn't actually explain. She had some sort of power over him. No one had ever made him feel like this.

Currently, Link woke up in an all too familiar room with blue sheets and walls with the woman of his dreams in his arms. He couldn't actually see clearly because his head was buried in her soft, brown hair. He inhaled the vanilla scent of her hair. She just loved the smell and feel of her hair. She ha the most amazing hair, well second to him as no one could compete with his hair. He was not smug, it was just a fact.

               She was still sleeping with the most adorable pout on her face. Link raised his head slightly to look at her face better. She was facing away from him and he couldn't get a good look but he was ready for compromise until God answered his silent prayer and Amelia shifted in her sleep mumbling something. She always talks in her sleep. Link chuckled at how adorable he found this habit of hers to be. He noticed even the slightest things about her. She was like an open book. She wore her emotions on her sleeves. Sometimes it was difficult to read her too but Link was becoming an expert at doing so.

Amelia turned in his direction and wrapped her arms around his torso. Without disturbing her, Link raised his body gently and propped his head on an elbow to get a good look. I look like a stalker. But I can't help it. She is just so beautiful. Her face was completely relaxed. He noticed just now that her eyes were slightly almond shaped. He knew she had big, blue eyes but it was just then that he realised they were almond shaped. She had a tiny button nose. Link really loved her nose. It was just so cute and small. It was his favourite feature in her face apart from her eyes and lips and...Wait, what's left then? Forget it, her whole face is my favourite. He bent slightly to place a soft kiss on her nose. She seemed unfazed.

                    His eyes drifted lower to her lips. They were just so full and soft and pink. He loved her lips. The softest. He ran his hand along her hair and lovingly brushed some loose strands away which landed on her face because of the wind entering through the open window. His right hand lingered on her cheek. He placed it firmly now and decided, Enough with the staring now. It's time to wake up!

He leaned in and placed a soft kiss on her lips. She stirred. He now kissed her with more intensity with the utmost intention of waking her up. She opened her blue eyes to his bluish- grey ones staring right back at hers. She smiled. She could wake up like this forever. "Good morning to you too, stalker, " she laughed at his faux hurt expression. " HEY! I'm not a stalker! ", he exclaimed blowing a tuft of his hair out of his face petulantly. She was laughing really hard, "Yeah right ."

Her laugh. Oh, how he loved her laugh. He could hear it all day long. It was like music to his ears. Too cheesy, bleh. Get a hold over yourself, Link. You're not some lovesick teenager. He tightened his arms around her and turned them over. " You just wait...", he attacked her neck with feather kisses making her sigh with pleasure. He pulled back and Amelia stared up at him quizzically. With a devilish smile on his face and a confused expression on hers, he dove right back in to prepare her for the ensuing onslaught. Amelia felt his fingers moving up her stomach and she squirmed beneath him.

Something totally unexpected happened then. She felt a soft pinch on her side. She yelled with surprise. " Ouch. What was that for? ", she asked with a mock angry face. He blinked at her innocently. " What do you think it was? " He then pushed his tshirt that she was wearing to expose her skin and proceeded to tickle her mercilessly. She was astonished for a second before squirming under him uncontrollably. She was laughing hysterically now. " Someone's very ticklish, I see. Hmmm"

He was having the time of his day teasing her like this. " Liiinkkk. Stop it." She was breathing heavily, "Pleasee, stop. I'm veryyy ticklish." She started laughing heartily on the new set of tickles on her exposed abdomen. He grinned down at her and moved lower to get level with her stomach. He held her stomach from both sides to prevent her from evading what he was about to do. He started blowing raspberries on her stomach. Amelia started guffawing and panted heavily. " Link, stooop. You'll wake up the kids. Stop, stop, stop " She held on to his arms for dear life and pleaded him. She started mock crying and he knew it was time for him to stop.

He moved back up to her and laid down close beside her. Both of them were grinning at each other with lovable gazes. Suddenly something in Amelia changed and she shifted. All of a sudden she straddled him and grabbed his hands to keep them at bay. Link stared at her slyly. Amelia whispered in his ear, " It's time for your punishment."

Her hot breath on his ear caused a shiver to travel down his spine. Link grinned at her and playfully said, " Are you punishing me or rewarding me? ", he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. She answered with a loud laugh. " That is for me to decide ," she dove in to kiss him hungrily.

Link got called in after they were done punishing each other. Amelia had a day off so she was left all alone to get bored. She blew a big puff of air from her mouth. Meh, what a boring day !! It was times like these that she wanted to pick into someone's brain. She hoped someone's aneurysm blew and she got called in. She was not a horrible person, believe me, she was just epically bored. Out of nowhere, her phone dinged and she received a text from Owen. He was requesting her to take Leo out of daycare and to his house as he had to rescue Schmitt and the golden blood donor. She quickly replied with a thumbs up emoji thanking God to grant her some work.

She hurried to the hospital and picked Leo up. She hoped to see Link on her way but couldn't find him. She was slightly disappointed but let it slide. At Owen's house, she was only there for a half hour when the doorbell rang to surprisingly reveal a heavily pregnant Teddy. She sarcastically commented about opening a time portal seeing Amelia with Leo. Amelia could not have agreed more with her. What an irony. Amelia chuckled. She was pulled out of her thoughts when Teddy started professing her love for Owen to her. Amelia was listening confusedly to her ramblings and didn't interrupt. She realised with a start that Teddy's water had broken.

What happened after that was a blur to both the ladies. It was just indescribable chaos. She had accidentally revealed Teddy's baby daddy's sexual romps with her OB and cursed her blabbering mouth. Inspite of that, as usual, Amelia's quick thinking saved the day. Teddy successfully delivered a beautiful baby girl, Allison. She was now standing outside her hospital room observing her happy family. Teddy surely deserved it. She felt bad for her teacher though. He loved her with his while being and would be devastated to know what Teddy was up to. Despite all of that, she was really happy for Owen. She had always wished hum happiness. He finally receive it. Teddy was perfect for him.

The view of the perfect family made Amelia's mind race. Amelia and Owen did not end up on a happy note. She always wanted them to be those Together Forever couples but that didn't happen. They were just not meant to be. Her mind then wandered off to Link. That perfect man waltzed into her life and turned it upside down. In such a short notice, Amelia was totally invested. This scared her to an unbeatable degree. What if her sisters were right? What if there was still some tumor left behind and she was crazy? What if Owen was right? Would she break Link? Would she lose Link too like she did all the other men in her life whom she loved? Was he just a rebound? She haulted her racing thoughts there. He most definitely was not a rebound.

He was what she had needed all along. But still she could not help but think if she jumped into him too soon. She knew he was not a rebound but she did not give herself much time to recover from her harsh breakup before running into Link's arms. He deserved better. She deserved some time to recover, to heal. Link did not deserve such treatment. He told her a few days back that this 'relationship' of theirs started feeling like something real to him. She was internally dancing with joy when he said that but then he asked her if she felt the same thing thing. She absolutely did. Surely did. But no words left her mouth. Her mind suddenly went blank and numb. She couldn't answer him. Instead she asked him for some time to answer his question. He looked disappointed but quickly guarded his expression. After all he was Link. He never displayed his hurt to others.

She was comprehending his words in her mind. This felt real to him. I'm hurricane Amelia!! I know I'll hurt him someday or the other. I can't do that to him. I'm reckless and unreasonable sometimes. Link surely doesn't need that. Does he? She silently hoped that he wanted her along with he negative qualities. She was highly doubting her actions of the past two months spent with him. It was too soon. She knew herself. She always got too attached too soon. Se completely jumped into a relationship right after one ended. She needed to clear her head. She needed some clarity. She did not want to break up with him, she just wanted some space. She wanted to get to know him better. She wanted to go on dates with him before her no filter mouth uttered those three words which she was aching to say after the wonderful time spent with THE GOD this morning. She had to talk to him and explain him that they needed to take it slow.

A hand on her shoulder pulled her out of her incessant thoughts. She knew that touch. She didn't even have to turn her head in his direction to know who it was. I hope what she is about to say doesn't hurt him. I won't be able to see that.

Link spoke gently, " I heard about what happened with the police officer. Quick thinking, Smartypants." She smiled at the nickname. " How are you doing? Are you okay? " He was quick to notice where her gaze lingered. He understood she must be hurt seeing her ex-husband with another woman and their child. He tried his best to be there for her. She has me now.

Here we go. " You are pretty incredible. And great. You are really good to me, Link." She stopped to gauge his reaction. He was intrigued and had an eyebrow raised. Amelia found it cute but then he frowned, putting two and two together.

She's praising me. Oh God. She's obviously 'breaking up' with me. All women start their talk like she did. Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt her? Did she suddenly realise she's still in love with OWEN?! Nah, that's not true. I've seen the way she looks and smiles at me. It must be something I did. I'm sooo stupid. He internally panicked. He didn't want her to leave!

" Uh, I hear a 'but' coming," he softly commented. His suspicions were rewarded with her affirmation. Link lost it. This was one relationship in his entire life that he wanted to cherish forever but he screwed up. Like always. He was beating himself up and was not listening to her properly.

" But I jumped into you too fast. I should not have done that."

Is she questioning what we had?

I hope he understands that I'm talking about the ill-fated timing.

" I was a rebound," Link commented dejectedly and nodded. He was too hurt to say anything else.

" You definitely were. I'm not sure if you still are."

I'm sure, no scratch that, I know you're not a rebound. I just don't have the nerve to say this. Please understand, Link. God, I can't look at his face. He's hurt.

What does she mean by that? I am or not? I don't understand. Of course, I'm not a rebound now. She's breaking up with me, that's why.

Link broke the silence. " So you're saying...? " He looked at her with confusion all over his face.

" Uh, I'm saying I'm open to possibilities. And that could include you if you don't need me to decide anything too permanent right now. I, uh....", Amelia looked away. Her eyes filled with tears at what she had done. " I need time." Her heart broke seeing Link's face. I'm not leaving you, please get this inside your head!!! " I need to figure out who I am outside of Owen. "

She needs time. I completely understand. I'll give her time. I don't want to stay away from her. Why is she doing this so suddenly? We had such a nice time in the morning!

Link didn't know what to say. He replied with a simple " Okay ".

Wait, that's it? He mentally chided and cursed himself for his curt reply. She's vulnerable right now. Don't treat her like that!

Amelia was speechless. She was waiting for the big blowup from his side. But nothing came. Is that it? He doesn't have anything to say? He won't blow a gasket? Huh. He's so understanding. Amelia mentally slapped herself. Don't go there again. You need time. Take your time. Stop dreaming about him again.

" Okay? ", she questioned softly with teary eyes.

He nodded solemnly and replied, " Okay."

They gazed at each other longingly for a whole minute until it was time for Amelia to leave. She didn't know what to do as she parted. Shall I hug him? No, that would be too intimate. Shall I hold his hand? No, that would be too formal. She finally settled on nodding his way and slowly turned on her heels to leave. She hurriedly left from there and crawled into an on-call room to bawl her eyes out. She finally got the man of her dreams and she screwed up again. No, she did it to stop herself from screwing it up with him in the future. This was necessary. She paged Maggie to the on-call room. Oh right, she's at that stupid camping trip. She then paged Meredith. She did not answer. So she settled for Alex. No answer again. Her final resort was Richard. He ignored her too. What is the matter with everybody? Why is everyone ignoring me? She started sobbing harder. Her very good day was turning out to be really, really bad.

Link's eyes lingered on her form long after she left. He was contemplating what just happened. He was trying to figure out why things took a turn for the worse out of nowhere so suddenly. He came up with nothing.

He sharply left from the nurse's station and headed to find Jo. He needed a drinking buddy today. He needed his best friend right now.

Author's Note:

Hey guys!! So here it is. I asked y'all to not hit me. Please don't after reading this chapter. It was getting really sad towards the end so I made the beginning really fluffy. Can't hurt the feelings of my readers now, can I ?! 😉

Anyways, enjoy. Next chapter will be up soon. Until then.

[saltandburnbabyy]

So, This is Heaven Huh?

PAIRING: TFW x Reader

RELATIONSHIP: Platonic

AGE: 20s

SUMMARY: When things go seriously wrong on a hunt, not even the invincible determination of Team Free Will can save you. 

WARNING: angst, blood, death, a whole lot of sadness

A/N: I seriously don't know where this came from, but hope you enjoy my sad boi hour writing. 

MASTERLIST

It's a strange thing, dying.

At first, all you felt was a pain. This immense pain that seemed to spread through your body, as if flames licked every inch of you. Your head felt heavy and there was this tightness in your chest that would not let up. You heard getting stabbed was painful, but you did not expect this.

You weren't very aware of what was going on around you. Shapes blurred past you. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. You felt a presence next to you, something moving your hands from your stomach and as quick as the pressure was gone it returned with a greater force than you were able to give.

"Hey, hey y/n, look at me okay? Just keep your eyes open and focus on me. Just focus on me and nothing else. Dean! Cas! Get in here now!"

Sam. Sam was the one next to you.

Sam tried to hold himself together, especially in front of you, but the pain that he felt when he watched that demon plunge that jagged knife into your abdomen was indescribable. He wasn't sure if Dean or Castiel were aware of what just happened to you, considering they were going toe to toe with the remainder of demons outside the abandoned house, but he prayed that they would come inside soon.

The concrete floor under you soon became a comfort as a wave of icy numbness flowed through your body, replacing the pain that once flowed through you. You weren't sure if that should come as a relief or if you should begin to worry. The pain was gone, but something wasn't right.

"S-Sam. I...I can't f-feel anything. I don't..."

You saw the color drain from his face and his eyes became glassy. So, this definitely wasn't good.

You couldn't tell if he was applying more pressure to your abdomen or not, but when you glanced down at your body all you saw was red.

Red stained clothes. Sam's red-stained hands. The jagged demon knife that was once embedded in your abdomen only moments ago. Red everywhere. You tried to place your hand on top of Sam's, maybe more pressure to your wound would help, but your arm lied limp at your side.

You couldn't feel that either.

You parted your lips to say something to Sam, anything at all, but all that came out was a trickle of blood.

"Crap," was all you were able to mutter as your own blood began to pool in the back of your throat. You tried turning over to spit it out, but you couldn't even do something as simple as that. Sam looked down at you, his hands never leaving your wound and his gaze never leaving yours. Without looking up, he began yelling for someone. Dean. Castiel. Anyone to help him keep you alive.

You had to stay alive. You just had to.

Suddenly sobs reached your ears and you noticed the tears that flowed freely from Sam's eyes and down his stubbled cheeks. The only time you had seen him cry this hard was when Dean died (which seemed to happen on multiple occasions). He never allowed himself to show so much emotion, despite the situation. Hearing and seeing him sob freely in front of you caused tears to slip down the sides of your face.

The metallic taste in your mouth began to fade. Your breaths came out in shallow, gargled gasps. That's when you knew.

You were going to die.

There was no stopping it or reversing it. The damage was done. Your vision began to grow blurry and everything sounded like it was underwater. Sam's screams and pleas sounded muffled.

Two shadows appeared behind the youngest Winchester, but you couldn't tell who they were. Your vision began to blur and grow dark.

Damn, you wished Dean and Castiel were here too.  Not only would their presence in your final moments bring you much more comfort, but you knew they would never forgive themselves for not making it you before you died.

Little did you know those two shadows were the men in question, watching you in terror and grief as you took your final breaths.

It took every ounce of energy in your body, but you lifted your hands and placed them on top of Sam’s very large and bloody ones. You weren’t sure if you were doing this for Sam or yourself, but the comfort was deeply needed and the smallest amount of fear began rising inside of you. 

The Winchester brothers begged Castiel to heal you, use his "angel mojo" as Dean had put it. They were begging for a miracle the angel could not give them. You were to close to death for him to heal you.

You were barely in your 20s and here you were in your last moments. You thought you had at least a couple of decades before you bit it. I guess that's life for you. Nothing ever works out the way you expect it to. Dying at the old age of 90 in your sleep would have been much more pleasant, but I guess there is only one way out of the hunter's life. Gruesome and bloody.

It took every ounce of energy you had left in your stiff body for you to turn your head in the direction of Sam and party and mutter the last words that would ever pass your lips.

"I'll be okay. I'll be okay. I'll..."

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

At first, all you heard were birds. Birds and the rustlings of trees.

You blinked a few times to try to adjust your eyes to your new surroundings, but it only took you a few seconds to realize where you were. It looked just the same as the day you last saw it.

It was your old family house. The color. The old porch. The faded white rocking chair on said porch. The lame welcome sign on the front door that your mother constantly refused to replace. It was all the same.

There standing in front of you on the porch was the one person you thought you'd never see again.

"Castiel," his name left your lips with such softness and disbelief you weren't even sure if he heard you.

Castiel stood on the porch of the two-story house with his hands in his trench coat pockets and a melancholy expression.

You didn't bother restraining yourself as you run off the road and down the dirt path to the porch, launching yourself at him. Your arms wrapped around his torso and you buried your face into his chest, not wanting to let go. There was no hesitation on his end either as he wrapped his arms around you and squeezed as tight as he possibly could.

"I am so...so sorry y/n. This wasn't supposed to happen. It's too soon for you to be here," Castiel whispered to you, his eyes becoming glassy with unshed tears.

You pulled away from his comforting embrace for a few short moments to look up at him, your expression confused.

"Cas," you began, "you have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. Not you or Sam or Dean or even Jack. This was on me and only me." You looked at him with such confidence and determination as you spoke, and every word you uttered was the truth. You were dumb enough to take on those two demons on your own. You thought you could handle them. You thought you were saving everyone. You thought your plan would result in everyone walking away. You were obviously wrong about the last part.

You buried yourself back into his embrace and sighed, "and I swear if any of you try something funky to bring me back it will not be pretty for any of you. Got it?"

Castiel listened to your words, and his heart ached. How could he go back to Sam and Dean and tell them that he wouldn't bring y/n home? How could he do that to them? How is he supposed to walk back into that bunker and tell them that y/n does not want to come home? That she refused to? What if it meant any of them sacrificing themselves for the young hunter that she would have none of it?

They are going to be crushed.

Castiel pulled away and looked down at you once more, "Y/N, are you sure? I-I can't just leave you here. You belong back on Earth. Alive and well and definitely not in Heaven. This isn't right y/n. This isn't-"

"Fair? Yeah, I know," you interrupted him, " but here's the thing Cas, life isn't fair. Despite what could have been done differently downstairs to keep me alive and kicking, I'm going to chalk that up to fate. It was just my time."

You knew this speech of fate and destiny was probably going through one ear and out the other for Castiel, and you knew if Sam and Dean were here right now they'd call you on bullshit because they don't believe in fate either, but you know what the first thing you felt when you saw Castiel was? Aside from love?

Dread.

Dread of going back to Earth and fighting the "good fight". Dread of fighting one bad guy after another with no end in sight. Dread of having to be the one to bury your friends and family instead of the other way around. Dread of all the evil and pain and sorrow that you had experienced in your few short years of life.

You didn't want to say this to Castiel, not wanting him to feel worse than he already did, but the moment you opened your eyes here, in Heaven, you felt nothing but peace. Peace and happiness.

You were just so tired of fighting.

Taking a step back, You looked up at him and laid a soft hand on his cheek, "It's okay Cas. I'm okay. Trust me on that."

He laid his hand over yours and gave you a reluctant nod. You knew to leave you here killed him, but this just felt right to you. Sure you'd miss everyone, but if it meant one less person for them to worry about than it looked like it was time for you to start getting comfortable.

"Hey," you offered a smile, "at least I made it to Heaven and not the fire pit way down yonder."

Castiel barely cracked a smile, but you didn't bother to hold back your laughter. 

"You might not see me for a while," Castiel began, "I just want to say..."

You watched as he tried to find the right words to say to you, is that this might very well be the last time you would see the winged, sassy angel that you've grown way too fond of.

"Yeah Cas," you spoke with light tears forming in your eyes, "I love you too"

For the third and maybe final time, you embraced Castiel as tight as you could and after a few seconds took a few reluctant steps back away from him. You didn't realize it until a tear slipped down your chin, but the tears began to flow freely.

"Goodbye Castiel."

There was a short pause before he said anything to you, his voice a bit raspy.

"Goodbye Y/N."

You both shared such a bittersweet look, and before you knew it he was gone.

After that teary farewell, you knew what you had to do. It was time to go inside. Taking a look around you once more you chuckled to yourself and faced the familiar weathered door. You could have sworn you heard laughter and the faint sound of music, oldies to be exact, floating from underneath the door.

"So, this is Heaven huh," you questioned out loud to yourself as you pushed the door wide open, immediately being engulfed in a comforting white glow.

You were okay.

[blood-and-cigars]

moar phantom au.

You didn’t ask for more of my literary analysis bullshit, but tough luck that’s what you’re getting. Gotta stay on brand, after all.

Ok so Phantom at its core (for me) is about the transcendence of artistry, of the sublime, into monstrosity. It’s about an unwitting Faustian bargain; the protagonist wishes to dabble in the music of the angels and instead finds herself tangled in the obsessions of a very human madman.

However, Phantom isn’t a traditional “escape the murderer” story, (It isn’t a traditional *anything* the original, serialized novel jumps genres like nobody’s business) it’s equal parts beauty and the beast, or rather its older cousin, death and the maiden. There is no book if after the initial disillusionment there isn’t still a draw.

The protagonist (Christine) expects divinity but instead is faced with this overwhelming tragic monstrosity, and amid the devastation of that realization she discovers… she’s still kind of into it?

You can strip away the dressings of theatre and opera and still keep that main premise.

Frankly I was always disappointed with Phantom’s lack of truly supernatural elements, I think a Hellsing AU would actually fit rather nicely.

However some alterations to Alucard’s character and role in the story would be necessary because the titular character is indeed the villain.

The same can be said for Integra too. While I love Christine as a protagonist, she’s inherently the wilting ingenue archetype (her strength is a quiet sort) and Integra is… not that.

Seras would actually be a more obvious choice for the Christine stand in, however I interpret Alucard as being… more decent?? than to form that kind of selfish obsession on someone without their being underlying baggage to their relationship (as is his history with the Hellsing line).

Ironically enough I think Alucard is too scrupulous to put all his tragedies and emotional burdens at someone else’s feet.

Either way, if not music, I’m not certain what their fixation would be. Most likely some form of occult knowledge? Or perhaps successfully running the organization itself.

I wonder how Alucard could deceive Integra though. Perhaps it’s the fact that upon her ascension she realizes that a vampire has been governing the Hellsing organization from the shadows for all those years since Van Helsing died. (Which if we’re swapping out the Opera House for Hellsing, could be a thing that happened)

I don’t know, there’s a lot of ways to go about mashing Phantom and Hellsing together.

Lovecraft + Phantom of the Opera + House of Leaves+ Hellsing = I have no idea what I’m doing anymore.

Here’s some stuff I’d include in a fic:

Arthur lives until Integra is twenty, all that time he is in charge of the organization. Although he is always withdrawn, a little sickly, and white around the eyes.

The catacombs of the opera house can be the Hellsing manor subbasements. Alucard has been locked away for three long decades. The years are incomprehensible at this point, stretching out into something quite close to an eternity.

No he’s never been released from his cell since then, but the many years of silence and solitude have made him powerful in a different way.

He is part of the basements, the mansion, the organization itself. The walls breathe with him, not a soul passes the threshold without his notice. To some extent, he’s forgotten what it is to be a person, instead of simply an extension of the shadows.

Arthur is very secretive about his duties, even as his health declines and it becomes clear they must begin thinking of succession. He mutters about demons, of monsters, and hellfire.

There is a room, on the ground floor, nestled away to the side, with the best view of the gardens. No one is allowed there. This is our box five.

The drapes are tightly drawn, but from a few cracks Integra’s been able to make out a desk and old, worn journals.

Every two weeks, Walter may go in for twenty minutes exactly, to clean without disturbing anything. Only Walter, no other staff.

When Integra asked, he told her it was once Van Helsing’s study. It is where he kept all his arcane knowledge, where he wrote out his correspondences, where he was found dead one early morning. But that was decades ago.

Arthur himself never sets foot in the place. Integra wonders if it’s out of grief. He talks about his father often, with both disdain and reverence.

During the last year, Richard comes to live with them. To be with his brother, he says. To look after his niece. He’d execute his attempted coup a tad more gracefully; after all why kill your opponent when instead you can discredit her?

When she was younger, Integra caught her reflection grinning back at her. She told her father about it, asked him why the deepest recesses of the mansion drum like a beating heart.

Arthur’s smile froze on his face. After a moment he told her, in the forced cheerful tone one uses with children, that there were spirits watching over the house, watching over them.

“Like angels?” Little Integra had said.

And her father nodded indulgently, even as he called Walter in to have every mirror on the property covered.

She is not so naive, by the time Arthur dies. Even through her grief, she sees how Richard is making himself oh so comfortable at the manor. How his smile is sickly sweet, and the way he’s trying to set himself up as her “protector.”

During the viewing, Integra stares at her father’s cold, still body and it’s like the breath’s been stolen from her lungs. She does not weep, but she is empty.

She’s not sure she cares to challenge Richard’s silly games. Let him have the organization and it’s haunted legacy.

Integra dreams she is walking along a beach. Icy water laps at her ankles with each step. There’s a figure amidst the rocks, playing a violin. And when he looks up, he wears her father’s face but his eyes are unfamiliar.

“What are you doing here, little bird?”

“I’d ask you the same thing,” she said. “Who are you?“

“I’m no one.”

She does not remember the rest of that dream.

Richard laughs when Walter explains about the study to him. First when it’s presented as his dead brother’s wishes, then even more so when Walter claims a supernatural bent to the precaution.

However, Integra is the heir, and it is her house. She will not see her father’s wishes disrespected before he’s even cold in the ground— no matter how eccentric those wishes may be.

She gives the study key to Walter and instructs him to continue as before.

Integra is looking over the old ledgers, the first time she hears the voice. No that’s a lie. She’s heard it before, this is the first time she acknowledges it.

Her father had been rather free with government funding, it seems he didn’t see much of a distinction between business and pleasure. (She shudders at the thought of an audit) At least he had been meticulous about recording his expenses.

She goes through years of accounts, and very suddenly the extravagant spending stops. Somehow Walter’s modest budgeting is so much worse.

She’s brushing away silent tears when she hears it. The voice is muted and distant, hardly discernible. She decides to follow it.

Hellsing manor has always been a strange place, where shadows flicker in the periphery and invisible hands claw at the windows.

Integra knows this. She’s been taught to ignore it.

She isn’t sure what compels her— recklessness or grief or anger but she follows the voice, down two flights of stairs and closed off staff quarters, to the forgotten basement door that leads into an even deeper section of the mansion.

There’s a strange indescribable shift, as she senses a consciousness focus on her. Something old and long slumbering, shaking off layers of dust and disuse.

Her father had told her the basement was walled off, that the door was sealed. Bricked shut, never to be opened again

It stands ajar, inviting her inside.

Any other day, Integra thinks she would have turned back. But this time she trails down into the bowels of her home.

Somehow— she thinks there is a trick involved, a few passages did not lead where they should have— she reaches a room that she just knows is a perfect mirror of Van Helsing’s study, even if she never set foot in the place herself.

On some level she knows it probably isn’t real. But she’s determined to figure out what this thing is that slumbers beneath the manor. She’ll indulge these games to see what’s behind it all.

There is someone waiting for her. Maybe something. It’s just a silhouette, with ever shifting edges. Blurred movements, darkness barely given form.

“What are you?” she asks this time. And she knows somehow, this is the man from the dream. This is the voice she’s heard from the shadows.

He doesn’t respond. Just looks at her. When she nears him he seems to reform. To take shape into something more resembling a person. But she realizes she can’t make out a face. Any face at all.

[almost-fun-drabbles]

Charred Lily

Chapter 1: First Morning

“Happy birthday, Ghirahim,” she said. Happy birthday, a phrase said to a being on the day of the year they came to life to recognize or celebrate that being. Ghirahim, a name, his name.”

          Notes: Oh shit y���all it’s here!! For a long while now, I’ve been thinking hard about Ghirahim’s backstory, and what he went through leading up to the events of skyward sword. So! I finally got a chance to begin writing it! I wanna thank my friends @savvyzelda and @curious-corvids for the inspiration and motivation!! Let me say I’m really proud of this, and I really wanna continue it if I get the time.

        The first time his eyes opened, they were graced with a blurred mound of vibrant greens and the sky’s blue. Spring’s colors were softly blended together, framed around a white figure like a halo. It glowed faintly with a gold shine. Something in his consciousness told him this figure was alive, this figure was powerful.

        The world turned dark again as his eyes closed, open again, and the colors rearranged themselves. Green became blotches of leaves on the trees that stretched over him, granting him shade from sunlight. The blue grew wispy clouds. The being had a face. The being’s eyes were blue, they crinkled up as a soft smile found a home on her lips.

        “Good morning…” she said as he realized he could focus his sight on other things in his view. Good morning, a phrase spoken from one being to another as a greeting, said before the sun begins traveling across the third quadrant in the sky.

        “Happy birthday, Ghirahim,” she said. Happy birthday, a phrase said to a being on the day of the year they came to life to recognize or celebrate that being. Ghirahim, a name, his name.

        Ghirahim blinked, he saw a bird fly overhead. He opened his mouth to speak and could taste the air of the earth on his tongue with his first breath. “Good morning, Your Grace,” he said, because his mind told him the title was appropriate.

        Her smile, which he hadn’t noted had faded, returned, bringing along a warm and quiet chuckle at his response. Ghirahim became aware of other things. He himself was not just a formless, mental entity. He had a face, which had grass blades tickle his cheeks in time with the breeze. He had a torso. His back was cooled against the morning dew and soft patches of dirt under him. He could smell flowers and his ears twitched to birdsong.

        Finally, he’d realized movement was possible, and took to lethargically sitting himself up. Then, he looked down. The body below him, his body, conjured his first opinion. He was beautiful. His entire being was a sculpted obsidian black, decorated with intricate designs, diamonds. Facened into his chest was another diamond shape, a clean cut silver colored gem. It glistened in the light, and radiated warmth. He could feel it pulse inside of his core. He took his time touching the tips of his fingers together, twisting his wrists, curling his toes, bending his arms and legs, all only slightly, and slowly. Just to get a taste of solving his first puzzle, living.

        When he looked to the land in front of him, he was given a new scenery of tree trunks and shaded over forest flowers. He sad idly, his eyes narrowing and widening as he became aware of every new item in the forest, trying to memorize every bit around him. His neck swiveled and his view panned to drink in the world. His mind fed him definitions and explanations to every object he focused on.

        Ghirahim’s attention was ripped from the woods when another voice rang in his ears, it wasn’t the golden woman.

        “Did you make him quiet?” she asked. His head turned towards the source of the voice. This woman was different, she had a petite form, compared to both himself and the other woman. Her blue hair was short and airy, grown barely past the tip of her chin. Wide, curious, blue eyes, blue eyelashes. Blue was a very prominent feature on her, but the color stuck out because of her pale skin, void of any cut or scrape. She was dressed in royal purple and navy hues, her most prominent piece of fashion was a ruffling cloak that draped itself over her arms, exposing her shoulders.

        “I didn’t intentionally,” the woman answered, “But perhaps that is just how he is.”

        Ghirahim took a moment to examine the golden woman as well. She was a great, large, being. A powerful aura radiated from her. It exuded a warm, bright feeling that was like the sun that shone down on them. A part of him found that light appalling, wanted to shy away from it. However, he did not move, for a greater piece of him felt an air of safety in her. The dress she wore was a simple white, it was long and flowy, and draped itself far across the grass below her. Surely, she was too ethereal to be any mere creature, Ghirahim concluded she was a goddess. He gazed upon her face again, and realized how long her hair really was. Her golden locks were fine strands that fell over her like a curtain, the ends reaching out even farther than the skirt of her dress.

        “Are you going to talk to us, Ghirahim?” the goddess asked him when he turned back to the forest.

        He paused to contemplate a proper answer. “Right now, I cannot.” Ghirahim replied. The unpredictable, random sprouting and growth of nature was much more interesting to him compared to the symmetry of the two women’s bodies. “I am busy.” He thought that was a satisfactory explanation, for he felt totally occupied with this need to analyze and discover.

        “Busy?” she asked, a giggle, “Admiring our handiwork?”

        He studied her with a scrutinizing gaze. Was everything she spoke going to be filled with bubbling chuckles? What did he say that was amusing to her?

        “Your handiwork?” Ghirahim asked.

        She smiled, “Yes, the work of us divine beings. You should know of us, Ghirahim. I did not create you unequipped with knowledge.”

        Yes, Ghirahim thought, it was obvious he was knowledgeable, but of exactly what, he was not certain of yet.

        “You are divine beings?” he asked. The blue woman did emanate a sun-like aura as well, but it was nothing in comparison to the golden woman.

        The blue woman shook her head. Her expression was cheery, eager to speak, yet dialed down to keep herself composed. “I am not. I am only a servant to my goddess, Hylia.”

        Ah, that was all he needed. Things began to fit together now, at least a little bit. The golden woman was a goddess, she was the goddess of life, Hylia. She was known as the mother of the Hylians, a race of beings created in her image, which were renowned as blessed, as holy. She had created many other races and animal species, but her love truly shown for her crown jewel of creations, her hylian people.

        “Only?” Hylia asked the blue woman. “You speak like you are unimportant!”

        The blue woman shared similar bodily composition to Hylians, but she was not one, Ghirahim was certain of it. What was she? He wondered.

        “Your Grace,” she began, turning her head towards her goddess, but her eyes were fixated on the swaying grass. “In your glorious presence, I am unimportant.”

        It was then, in Ghirahim’s silent study, that he noticed Hylia had wings. They kept themselves tucked behind her back, and laid themselves slack upon her like a cape. He compared them to the clouds overhead, for the long feathers bunched in stripes much like the wispy, white formations above. He decided he liked them, as they looked quite lovely there, sparkling in the sunlight.

        Her wings moved with her when she spoke, they swayed in the wind when she adjusted them. “You’re my sword spirit, Fi,” was all she could manage.

        Ghirahim’s ears perked. He caught that term, sword spirit. A sword spirit was a being created to serve. In exchange for life, the spirit relinquishes it’s free will to serve whoever is deemed their master by their creator. This person, Fi, was a sword spirit.

        “Do you know what you are, Ghirahim?” Hylia asked.

        “A sword spirit.” he said to her, loudly and clearly.

        She tilted her head slightly, preparing to inquire again. “Who are you owned by?”

        “I am your sword spirit.” he said to her.

        At that, she smiled again, the expression being pulled forward from the beginning of quiet chuckle. Ghirahim’s eyebrows knitted in confusion, was that not the correct answer? He had not been given to anybody just yet. By default, he was Hylia’s sword, yes?

        “For now, I suppose you are.” So, he was correct? “But you won’t be for long. I’ve actually prepared you as a gift for somebody I know.” Then, her smile formed into a giddy grin as she began to scoot just a little closer to Ghirahim. “Sword spirits are mostly created to be servants, yes, but I have a plan for you.”

        She raised her hand and waved it in a motion that said ‘come here’, beckoning him closer. Curiosity tugged at Ghirahim, and he scooted closer to her as well, even tilting his head a little to listen to the information Hylia was about to relay to him.

        Like a child passing one meaningless secret to another, she loosely cupped her hand near her mouth, and spoke in a small, but excited voice.

        Her next words conjured an indescribable feeling in Ghirahim.

        “I want you to be a friend.”

[thebrandings]

Enough angst!! ROs reaction to the MC decorating their room with sappy stuff like hearts and teddy bears on a random day because they love them

“Not enough angst!” is what I would say if I didn’t have any more angsty asks in my inbox…but I do, so I suppose I should give you what you want.

Thank you for the ask!

        Lily/Ollie/Oliver (She/They/Him)        "W-why do I have to close my eyes?“ Lily protests, hands crossing against her chest as she sticks out her leg and pouts. You laugh at how adorable she looks before refocusing on what she said. Her false facade immediately crumbles as a delighted and hesitant smile lights up her face.        "Because I have a surprise for you.” You excuse, watching as she arches an eyebrow questionably, still not moving. Your shoulders visibly deflate as you reach for her hand, which she willingly, without question hands over. You bend down, laying a kiss on it and enjoy the softness on her face as she stares at you. “Do you trust me?”

       She sighs happily, squeezing your hand gently. “With everything.”

       You smile in return, allowing the both of you to enjoy the moment before you narrow your eyes at her. “Eyes closed.” You tease, moving behind her and using your own hands to cover her eyes before she can protest again. She mumbles under her breath but you don’t comment on it. Carefully, you lead her from her room to yours, resiting the urge to poke her in her side from all her objections.

       You slowly open your door, smiling when you don’t make a sound and gently guide her in. Her back brushes up against your front and you tremble from the slight touch. “Okay, you can look now.” You say, slowly dropping your hands from her eyes and catching her hands. Almost immediately, she raises your conjoined hands to her mouth, her body instinctively and excitedly leaning into your’s.

       "I love it.“ She gasps and turns to face you. Unfortunately to do so, she lets go of your hands but quickly makes up for it when she dives in for a hug instead. You feel her tears of joy begin to soak your shirt but you don’t care, you only squeeze her back in return. She leans her head away from your chest, an indescribable amount of happiness etched on her face. “Not as much as I love you though.” She confirms, already starting to slowly angle her face towards yours.

       "I’m glad you like it.“ You whisper hoarsely just before your lips meet. 

       Victoria/Tor/Vick (She/They/Him)        You exit your room, carefully closing the doors so that there is absolutely no chance that Vick can spy what’s behind the door. Not that it mattered since his nose has been buried in a book. You bit your lip, wondering just how you could get his attention.

       You softly skip over to hip, gently pulling the book from his hands and besides immediately stuffing a bookmark in it, Vick makes no moves to stop you. With the book safely in your hand, Vick tilts his head upwards to look at you. A smile blooming on his face, as he takes the hands holding the book into his.

       "Yes, my Juliet?”

       You frown, looking at the cover. Unsurprisingly, it’s Romeo and Juliet. “You know Romeo and Juliet died in the end, right?” His smile brightens, causing his glasses to slightly elevate above his eyes.

       "Yes.“ He traces his thumb over your hand. “But they died together.”

       You laugh, shaking your head. “That doesn’t make it better, but I do know something that will.” You say, gently tugging on his hand to get him to get up. He does, letting you guide him to the bedroom while swinging your tangled hands together. His eyebrows shoot up once you stop in front of the bedroom.

       "I-uh. W-what?“ He asks, his cheeks beginning to flush. You stare at him, your lips quirking upwards at his obvious nervousness. You delicately grasp his hand, forcing him to look at you.

       "Do you trust me?”

       "Of course.“ He smiles at you then chuckles a little nervously, combing his hair with his hand. "Should I not?” He teases, chuckling when you open your mouth. “I’m joking, kind of.”

       You poke him in the cheek, a mock pout on your lips before you turn back towards the door, about to open it. “Wait, close your eyes.” You swirl back towards him, hands on your hips to emphasize your demand. He stares at you, surprised at first and then amused.

       "Only you.“ He says, shaking his head but does it anyway.

       You open the door and immediately turn to face him, your excitement beginning to bounce off the walls. "Okay, you can open your eyes now.” You inform, watching as he does just that, his eyes widening in shock and his mouth agape.

       "This is. .“ He trails off, his eyes still roaming around the room before finally settling on you. "It’s just like you. Simply breathtakingly beautiful." 

       Christine/Chris/Chris (She/They/Him)        Chris stares blankly at the wall, draping over one of the chair’s arm rest. "What do you think Vick is doing right now?” He asks, having to shout so that they could hear him through the bedroom. Wait a second. Chris bolts up at the thought, they’re in the bedroom alone.

       A mischievous expression lights up his face. I wonder what they’re doing in there, all alone, Chris thought, biting on his fingernail at the thought provoking question. Chris swings his legs over, practically skipping towards the door.

       "Oh, sweetie.“ He sings, bursting through the door before immediately freezing in place. Oh, this was even better than he imagined.

       Like him, they were stuck frozen in place, bending down, their hand outstretched as they were completing their finishing touches. "I could get used to this sight.” Chris commented whistling lowly, not able to take his eyes off them. They immediately bolt up, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

       It was only then that Chris noticed what they were doing, they were spreading red petals on the bed and some heart shaped decorations. Chris tilted his head, a little confused before recognition dawned on him. He gasped dramatically, clapping his hands over his mouth in excitement. “Can you do the same thing to my room?”

       They smile, a little taken aback by his response but they seem to enjoy it just as much. “Of course.” He walks towards the bed, to where they still stood standing and wrapped his arms around them, leaning his head on their shoulder. “You really like it?”

       Chris smirks into their hair, deeply breathing into their scent. “Absolutely. I think I’d like anything you did.” Chris reaches around them, picking up one of the fluffy stuffed-up bear. “Even if it does involve these terrifying, soft plushes.”

       Fable (She/They/Him)        Fable’s face scrunches up in pure confusion as she watches them walk towards her, a grin overtaking their face no matter how hard they fight it. She quickly runs through all the possibilities; could they be breaking up with her? She shakes her head immediately, why would the be smiling though.

       Unless, Fable thought dread filling her stomach, they were happy to be rid of her. They reach her, making Fable dismiss her thoughts and instead focus all her attention on them, not that she was fighting it. She smiled nervously, hoping they didn’t see her worrying thoughts. They don’t.

       "Hey, is something wrong?“ She asked softly, her arms wrapping around their torso as they ease into her lap, their body perfectly molding hers.

       They push their head out of the crook in her neck, shaking their head at her question as they studied her face, their own full of concern. "No.” They drawled, their frown quickly disappearing as they bring their hand up to her cheek. Her heart pulsing at the simple, yet unsatisfying touch. “Are you okay? Your voice cracked.”

       Fable bits her lip, cursing herself for making them worry. “No.” She smiles, a little too forced to not be noticed. “Everything’s great.” She reassures, her hand brushing against their side, causing them to jump.

       "Sorry.“ She mumbled, not sincere at all. In fact, she was doing all she could not to break out into a face-eating grin as the little noise they had made as they jumped. They were just too cute sometimes.

       They lean away, narrowing their eyes at her obvious amusement. "Well, if you’re just going to laugh at me then I have better places to be.” They say, a teasing tone obvious in their tone as they get up from her lap. Now, it’s Fable who jumps, heart stuck in her throat.

       "I-I d-didn’t laugh at y-you.“ She stutters, panic squeezing her chest as she began to think of ways to explain. Their expression softened and they quickly reached for her hand.

       "It’s okay. I was just joking.” They smile, a little sadly. Fable bits her lip, suddenly feeling too clingy, too needy, and all too stupid. “Hey.” They gather her attention. “I have something that I think will cheer you up.”

       Fable allows herself to be pulled into the direction of the bedroom, curiosity deepening with each step. Her breath catches in her throat and her palms begin to sweat as unwanted thoughts once again invade her mind. Then she feels them squeeze her hand and all her worries disappear. They quietly open the door, carefully observing her reaction.

       "Wow.“ She gasps, as the lights dimly shimmer over her. Piles of stuffed, fluffy bears and flowers are spread all throughout their room, a bundle of red, pink, and white blurring in her eyes as tears started to gather. "It’s beautiful.” She awed, turning towards them. They smile shyly at her, enjoying the effect it had on them. “Wait, am I missing something? Is it our anniversary or-”

       They raised their hand, shaking their head. “No, I just…wanted to do something for you.” They explained, a sudden shy smile on their lips.

       Fable smiled, reaching over and wrapping them up in her arms. “I love it.” She sniffled, pressing her lips to theirs. They gasped but allowed her lips to push harder into theirs. Her lips trembled, as her whole body shook with emotion. She leaned away for a second, making sure their eyes connected with hers first before whispering, “Thank you." 

       Aila (She)        Aila rubbed the sides of her head with circular motions, trying to ease the impending headache that she got just by staring at her paperwork. Who knew being a Handler was so much work, she thought frowning at the idea. She did. She took in a deep breath before demanding that her focus remain on her responsibilities.

       She finally managed to finish a page, quickly signing her name at the bottom before a knock interrupted her thoughts. Aila rolled her eyes, sarcastically wondering if they were delivering her more papers. She hoped not, as she glanced at the stack of still unfinished ones. "Come in.”

       The door slowly opened and Aila held her breath only to quickly exhale as a familiar head peeked in. “Hey.” She greeted, crossing one of her legs over the other as she pushed away from the desk.

       "Hey.“ They smiled, slowly making their way towards the seat across her desk. She licked her lips unconsciously, observing how they seemed more nervous than usual.

       "Are you okay?” She asked, the need to comfort them already rising. She positioned her body, so that she leaned towards them, prepared to launch herself over the desk if they need her to.

       They smile at her blatant concern, reaching over her desk to hold her hand. She eagerly joins them together. “I’m good, how about you? You seem a little stressed, I barely see you anymore.”

       Aila smiles, some of the tension returning in her smile. She rubs her thumb over their hand, trying to reassure them. “I’m good. Unfortunately, being the responsible Handler seems to result in a lot of paperwork.” Aila explains, her free hand wildly gesturing towards the unfinished pile. “Hopefully, I’ll be able to breeze through it. I miss you too.” She admits, squeezing their hand gently.

       They smile at her admission, rising from their seat causing Aila to frown though she quickly masks it with a happier one. They took the time to visit, that’s what matters. Now all I have to do is finish the papers. They tilt their head at her, motioning for her to get up as well.

       "I-uh. I have a surprise for you.“ They pause, quickly backpedaling. "I m-mean, if you have time.” Aila quickly rises from her seat, in protest.

       "I’ll always have time, darling. Always.“ She emphasized, her eyes staring into theirs. She raised their hand, pecking her lips on it before allowing a bright smile to overtake her face. "Now, what’s this I hear about a surprise?”

       They immediately reciprocate her smile, eagerly guiding her towards their room. She laughs as they stop right outside their bedroom. “Are we watching a movie?” She asks, the thought of just snuggling with each other, filling her heart with affection. They blink, shocked as she opens the door with a lavish move.

       "O-oh.“ Aila immediately pauses, surprised at bears and red hearts already taking space on the bed. She scanned the room, her face a mask of practiced indifference. "Where are the movies?” She asked innocently, her face turned towards them. Their heart skips a beat before her face breaks into a heartfelt grin.

       "I’m kidding. This…it’s amazing” She trails off, unable to piece her usual composure back. “In fact, I think this is just the break I need from everything. I absolutely adore it.” She compliments, gently guiding their chin to look at her with her hand.

       She pauses, the words stuck in her throat. “I love you.”

       Hayden (They)        Hayden laid their head on top of their arm, closing their eyes. It had been a tough day for them, not only did they have to oversee the new recruits, Hayden hadn’t seem them at all during the whole day.

       After their duties were taken care of, they had searched all over for her, the cafeteria, library, even the woods that stretched miles long. Regardless where, Hayden had searched and searched, only to come home disappointed and empty-handed. Maybe they would see her tomorrow.

       Hayden felt themself slowly drift to sleep, only to be startled back by a knock on the door. Grumpily, they rubbed their eyes, trying to wake before trudging to the door. “MC?” They asked, blinking to make sure they weren’t seeing things.

       She burst out into a smile, excitedly and eagerly taking them into her arms. “Hey.” She mumbled against their chest, her warmth and presence fully waking them up.

       "Hay is for horses.“ They mumbled, inwardly slapping their hand to their forehead. Why couldn’t they put into words just how much they had missed her? Instead, they seemed to make a fool of themself. In return, she leaned her head away from them, laughing. They stared at her, a reluctant smile appearing on their face.

       Though if making a fool of myself causes such a reaction like that, maybe they should make a fool of themself more often. “I-uh. I couldn’t find you after training.” They inform her, watching as excitement flares through her eyes. She squeals, already pulling them out of their room and towards hers.

       "About that.“ She smiles shyly, swing their connected hands back and forth. "I have a surprise for you.” She says, turning to stare at their reaction. Not usually one for surprises, Hayden forces a smile.

       "T-that’s great.“ They say, immediately wanting to smack themself when she catches the crack in their tone. "I’m sure I’ll love.” They reassure, more genuinely this time. She only smiles more anxiously.

       "Okay.“ She mumbles, unlocking the door to her bedroom. Immediately, Hayden wishes they could retract that higher pitch. How could they not love this? They quickly turn towards her, wrapping their arms around her tightly.

       "I think you’ve managed to change my view about surprises.” Hayden smiles. “Well, at least about you surprising me.” They reinstate, watching a bright smile bloom upon her face.

       "I’m glad.“ She smiles into them, pushing her body harder into theirs to gain more contact. Hayden bits their lip, wanting to say more. You’ve changed my view on a lot of things, they wished to say. If only they had the guts.