#then usually on the same note i write the fic. and usually without capitalizing anything.

[sansaorgana]

— LADY OF THE ROSES (IV)

PART ONE || PART TWO || PART THREE

PAIRING — Ser Gwayne Hightower x fem!Reader // Tyrell!OC

SUMMARY — Gwayne and his wife visit King's Landing with their children, who are very jealous of the fact that their cousins own their dragons and they do not. In the meantime, Otto Hightower wonders if his daughter-in-law is truly loyal to his house.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — It’s written as an usual x Reader fic without describing anything about the Reader’s looks but I still classified it as an OC as well since she is a Tyrell. + You don’t have to know the previous chapters to understand this one and it's the last one of this story. 😊💚 In the show Gwayne mentions that it took him three months to get to King's Landing but I was using some website while writing previous parts where it says that it takes a week from Oldtown to Highgarden and, according to the same logic, it takes less than a month from Highgarden to King's Landing – that's why I decided to make the whole trip only a month long here. 🤔

WARNINGS — Alicent slapping Aegon's face, Reader's child getting hurt (nothing major)

WORD COUNT — 6,870

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

LADY OF THE ROSES (IV)

Past few weeks had been busy and spent on making all the necessary preparations before the long trip. Oldtown would be left without the Lord or Lady to look after it for around three months and it required lots of training and instructing all the servants and knights around the city what to do in your absence.

You had been summoned by your father-in-law and his daughter, The Queen Consort. They had invited your Lord Husband and you to King’s Landing to spend time together – even though you had a very weird feeling the sudden need to create a stronger bond within the family was dictated by some hidden agenda. Either way, you were rather excited for the trip even though it would take about a month on the road to even get to the capital city of Westeros.

What stressed you the most was travelling for so long with four children you had given Gwayne for the past few years. Your eldest son Edmund was twelve now and his brother William was ten. Your daughter Rosalynd was eight and her sister Florys was six. You were glad that the time when you had been pregnant nearly constantly was over now and you could enjoy the ups and downs of motherhood without many worries because your husband was a man devoted to his family. Gwayne had not only been raising his sons and teaching them all they needed to know about the sword but he also made sure to spend quality time with his daughters. And above that all, he was simply a caring and sweet husband. No matter how many years had passed.

Your trip started in the very early morning and you all were half asleep while getting inside the carriage. Rosalynd was sleeping with her head on your lap and little Florys was asleep in her father’s arms. Edmund and William were looking out of the window, excited and interested in everything that they were seeing although the road to The Highgarden was very well known to them. Because you lived so close to your parents, your children were often visiting their castle. 

What started peacefully, soon turned out to be a little nightmare. The children were very whiny and easily getting bored. When you reached The Highgarden a week after leaving Oldtown, you were seriously considering coming back home instead of going further down the Rose Road. 

“It is only the beginning of the trip and it is already exhausting,” you complained to your parents during supper when you were staying overnight at their place.

“You might not get a second chance to go to King’s Landing, my darling,” your father reminded you. “Endure it.”

“Easier said than done, I’m afraid,” Gwayne chuckled and shook his head.

“I do not understand,” your mother spoke up. “Look at them, my grandchildren,” she smiled at the four of your children eating their meals quietly. “They’re so well-behaved. Little angels, really,” she sighed lovingly.

“Perhaps we might leave them here for three moons, how about that?” Your eyes sparkled at the idea. “We shall leave for King's Landing on the morrow while you watch over them.”

“I would love to,” your mother grinned.

“I would not,” your father’s eyes widened at the idea.

“I do not think that is a good idea, my Lady,” Gwayne put his hand on top of yours gently and you looked at him, confused. “To spend three moons without my little ones would be a nightmare,” he explained and your smile dropped.

Gwayne was right. You would miss your children dearly, too. You were sending them sometimes to spend two weeks at The Highgarden with their grandparents and given the fact the trip lasted a week, it would be a month away from you. It was barely bearable already whenever it happened. Three months sounded like torture.

“My Gwayne is right,” you sighed and laid your tired eyes on your mother. “They must go with us. Also, just like Lord Father said, such a chance might not happen again. They should see King’s Landing, too,” you nodded.

In the early morning of the next day, you were already back on the Rose Road, which took you through the town of Bitterbridge to The Kingswood where you entered The Kingsroad and The Crownlands. You had never been there and only two times before you had been on the road for such a long time. Both times it had been to attend your sister’s weddings. One had taken place in Dorne and the second had been in The Vale. 

Once you entered The Kingsroad, it would only take you a few days to reach King’s Landing and you were more than grateful for that. Both you and Gwayne were exhausted after trying to entertain your children on the road and attempting to tame their tantrums caused by boredom and frustration.

The night before reaching King’s Landing you were sleeping at the castle of some lesser Lord who lived nearby the road. You had been given the guest rooms but you couldn’t fall asleep, both excited and anxious about the next day.

“What are you possibly scared of, my love?” Gwayne soothed you by caressing your face with his fingertips when you were laying in his arms and staring at the ceiling instead of drifting off to the land of dreams. “You had met my father already and he seems to be quite indifferent towards you,” he pointed out.

Otto Hightower had visited Oldtown a few times after your wedding to his son and what Gwayne had said was painfully true – he seemed to be indifferent towards you. Just like he was indifferent towards his own son. The only signs of affection you had seen in him were for your daughters. He hadn’t even thanked you for giving him two healthy grandsons and heirs – his attention had been fully focused on the girls. It was quite adorable, you had to admit. But it was also saddening for your husband and sons.

“What about your sister? The King? Will our children get along with their cousins?” You voiced out all your insecurities in a low whisper. “And The Targaryens… I do fear them, Gwayne. People say they are more gods than men.”

“I am sure they are men just like you and I,” Gwayne smiled and kissed your forehead while caressing your arm.

“They have dragons…” You sighed.

“We probably will not even encounter one,” he assured you. “And do not be afraid of my sister or her husband. Are you not always reminding everyone that you are a sister-in-law of The Queen? Now it is time to meet her personally,” he teased and you rolled your eyes.

You somehow managed to get some sleep on that night. In the morning you had your dress prepared already because you had been planning to wear it for quite a long time. Your maids helped you to put on the elegant green gown that was pretty low-cut. You were a daughter of The Highgarden and you had never stopped wearing such necklines. Your own Lord Husband had given up already on trying to change that – in fact, he enjoyed it. You decorated your exposed neck with a golden pendant of The Seven-Pointed Star to make Queen Alicent happy.

Gwayne found it quite funny but you gave him a scolding look.

Your children had green outfits, too. Pretty little green dresses on your girls and dark green tunics with The Hightower beacon embroidered on them on your boys. The Hightowers were coming to King’s Landing.

When you reached the city you were staring out of the window with as much curiosity as your children. Gwayne had been in the capital once before for the tournament when he had been very young so his excitement was not as big.

Lots of people were staring at your carriage with a hint of curiosity. They knew that The Hightowers were The Queen’s family and for that reason some of them waved shyly at you. You were trying to wave back but Rosalynd and Florys were the ones who actually enjoyed it the most – feeling like little Princesses greeting the crowd. So, you allowed them to have fun as you leaned back on your seat. Your hand found Gwayne’s immediately and you squeezed it.

“You better be on your best behaviour once we reach The Red Keep,” you told your sons. “All of you,” you laid your eyes on your giggling daughters.

“You do not need to worry, mother,” Edmund nodded at you and straightened his back, trying to present himself more mature.

“I cannot wait to train with my cousins,” William added. “Father, will we be able to?”

“I do think so,” Gwayne nodded with a smile at him and leaned in to fix William’s ruffled hair.

“I cannot wait to spend time with Princess Helaena,” Rosalynd sighed dreamily. “She must be so ethereal… A Targaryen Princess…”

“I want to see grampa,” Florys’ eyes sparkled and you chuckled at your sweet little girl.

You smiled nervously at your husband when you realised you were already entering The Red Keep’s courtyard and a few people were waiting for you. You spotted your tall father-in-law and that beautiful woman standing next to him had to be Queen Alicent herself. She had soft, curly hair in the auburn colour and her dress was of the same shade of green as yours. You sincerely hoped it would not be considered rude of you but you had no idea. There were three silver-haired children with them – two boys and a girl. They had to be Prince Aegon, Princess Helaena and Prince Aemond.

“Grampa!” Florys clapped her hands excitedly and already moved to the carriage’s door.

“Florys, mummy and daddy are leaving the carriage first,” you reminded her softly.

“Do try to behave like a big girl!” Her older sister scolded her. “We are in King’s Landing!”

“Rosalynd, you are not her Lady Mother,” Gwayne reminded his daughter.

In the meantime, the servant announced your family and opened the door of the carriage. You took a deep breath in and watched your husband get out before offering you his hand to help you. You took it softly and wore a nervous smile before facing your in-laws.

The moment your feet touched the ground, you felt something moving behind your skirts. It was little Florys jumping out of the carriage already and running as fast as possible towards her grandfather. Everyone froze for a moment and widened their eyes at the scene.

“Grampa!” Florys reached her hands out and Otto Hightower let out a nervous chuckle before crouching down to give her a tight squeeze.

“You are being impatient, Lady Florys,” he greeted her and she clapped her hands.

Rosalynd stood by your side with a sigh and an eye-roll. Meanwhile, your sons chose to stand by their father. Since Florys had broken all the protocols already anyway, you decided to simply walk up to The Queen without caring about the right order as you nodded at your husband. He nodded back and only then Rosalynd ran up to her grandfather as well to give him a hug, too.

You sighed and shook your head before walking up to Queen Alicent herself. Your sons followed you and Gwayne while Otto whispered something to the girls, which made their faces go serious as they joined your side, too. You all bowed down respectfully. 

“My Queen,” you greeted her.

“Sister,” Gwayne kissed the palm of her hand.

From the corner of your eye you spotted the older Prince yawning. Queen Alicent blushed and pushed him slightly with her elbow.

“I see we both struggle when it comes to disciplining our offspring,” she smiled at you but you noticed how she looked down at your low-cut dress and the religious pendant on your exposed chest. She chewed on the inside of her cheek at the sight but she decided not to comment.

“Lady Hightower,” your father-in-law kissed the palm of your hand.

“Lord Father,” you greeted him and he gave you a shadow of a smile.

At his son, he only nodded. Gwayne nodded back and clenched his jaw.

“My grandsons,” Otto approached your boys and shook their hands. “Let me introduce the young Princes to you,” he pointed at the silver-haired boys standing by Queen Alicent’s side. “Prince Aegon, Prince Aemond.”

“Lord Edmund,” Edmund introduced himself and extended his hand towards Aegon. Prince Aegon looked him up and down and after a while of hesitation, he shook your son’s hand.

“Lord William,” your younger boy introduced himself and reached out for Aemond’s hand. Prince Aemond shook it shyly.

“Are you Princess Helaena?” Rosalynd stood in front of the Princess with Florys hiding behind her. 

The silver-haired girl widened her eyes and looked pretty startled. She took a step back and Rosalynd furrowed her brow.

“Princess Helaena is of a… rather timid nature,” Queen Alicent explained.

“Let us come inside, you must be exhausted after the journey,” Otto pointed at the doors leading to the castle.

“Do not even get me started, Lord Father,” Gwayne chuckled. “And certainly do not get my Lady Wife started,” he added teasingly and you shot him a scolding glance.

The first day was pretty chaotic because everyone was exhausted but also excited to see as much as possible of The Red Keep. Otto Hightower gave you and your children a tour himself. The only place he avoided were the chambers of The King who was ill and you had already been told you would not see him most likely.

Gwayne had already seen The Red Keep before but it had been before his sister was The Queen so now he was allowed in more places. He joined your little tour and kept his hands on your sons’ shoulders, while your daughters were holding Otto’s hands. 

To your surprise, during the supper, you quite befriended Queen Alicent. Of course she was still frowning upon your dress but you bonded over the experience of motherhood.

“The Red Keep is so green now,” your father-in-law pointed out happily at the sight of you, his children and grandchildren by the long table. All dressed in green clothes to show off their Hightower surname. “It makes me glad. Gwayne, I would like to have a word with you after supper.”

“Tomorrow, father,” Gwayne shook his head. “We are tired after the journey.”

Otto didn’t say anything to that but he gave his son quite an unpleasant look. You squeezed your husband’s hand underneath the table and caressed the palm of his hand lovingly to soothe him.

You retired to your chambers pretty early because you were longing for the comforts of a bed. Your husband and children followed and you made sure they all found their rooms and beds before you went to your own chambers.

“What do you think is the matter he wishes to discuss with you?” You asked Gwayne while brushing your hair in front of the mirror by the vanity table. He was sitting up on the bed and watching you with admiration in his eyes as every evening. “Do you think it is something about Oldtown?”

“No,” Gwayne shakes his head. “Those instructions have always been sent to us by ravens. It must be something about… the future and its possibilities.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” You furrowed your brow and turned around to see his face better.

“You know that my father wants Prince Aegon on The Iron Throne, not Princess Rhaenyra,” your husband reminded you. “And The King might die soon. We are not even allowed to see him.”

“They say he is slowly decaying with each passing day,” you winced when you imagined such a thing happening to a person.

“That must be a terrible fate,” Gwayne sighed. “However, his death will bring the conflict of succession.”

“What conflict?” You asked. “Aegon is his eldest son.”

Gwayne squinted his eyes and then shook his head with a chuckle.

“My father is underestimating you, my sweetling,” he hummed to himself. “Now, come here, since we are sleeping in The Red Keep, I want to make you feel like a Princess,” he opened his arms for you to join him but you only scoffed and put the hairbrush down before fixing your hair with your hands.

“I am not a child anymore, Lord Husband,” you teased. “You shall make me feel like a Queen.”

You and Queen Alicent were sitting in the garden together and watching your daughters trying to befriend each other. Rosalynd and Florys were pretty grossed out and shocked to see Princess Helaena sitting on the grass and picking up all sorts of bugs and insects to examine with her curious eyes. She handed Rosalynd a spider once and your daughter nearly fainted at the sight.

Princess Helaena was of a gentle nature, though. She seemed to like her younger cousins and she was whispering to them all the details about every bug she was picking up. Florys was more interested in them than Rosalynd. Your eight years old daughter was often shooting you meaningful glances but you were only smiling at her in return.

The young princes and your sons were training together in the courtyard with Gwayne and Ser Criston Cole, whom you had recently met. You wondered how it was going, so you decided to finally put Rosalynd out of her misery.

“Shall we check on our sons, Your Grace?” You asked Queen Alicent but she seemed to be surprised.

“What for?” She inquired. “Are they not with the men who teach them?”

“I like to watch my sons while they train and cheer for them,” you told her and smiled softly. She visibly did not understand the appeal of it but she stood up from the bench and you followed. “Girls,” you looked behind your shoulder and extended your hand. “Come.”

Florys ran up to you to take your hand while Rosalynd and Helaena followed quietly behind you. You could hear your daughter desperately trying to start a conversation she was dying to have with a real Princess.

“You must own so many beautiful dresses, Helaena! What is your favourite colour?”

“Beige,” Helaena answered, clearly uninterested but also not wanting to make her cousin sad.

“Nice…” Rosalynd sighed and you could hear that she was disappointed in that answer. “Do you think you could give me some of your old dresses that do not fit you anymore?”

“Rosalynd!” You gasped as you scolded her.

“That is quite alright, Lady Hightower. We shall gift Rosalynd some of Helaena’s old dresses,” Queen Alicent nodded at you and caressed her daughter’s head lovingly.

“Thank you, my Queen,” you smiled at her and then you gave Rosalynd a meaningful look.

“Thank you, aunt,” the girl bowed down happily.

You reached the courtyard but to your surprise, your sons and the young princes were spending time together on their own, whispering and laughing about something, while your husband seemed to be in the middle of an argument with the other knight.

“Is that what you teach them, Ser Criston?” Gwayne was irritated. “Knights shall be chivalrous and rightful.”

“They are no knights, Ser Gwayne, for they are young princes,” Ser Criston answered.

“Gwayne,” you approached them quickly to stand beside your husband and rub his arm before intertwining yours with his. “How is the training going?”

“Oh, rather marvellous, Lady Wife,” he answered, his voice filled with irony and mockery as he looked Ser Criston up and down. “I have a fascinating conversation with Ser Criston here about the manners of a knight. Perhaps they do not teach them in Dorne.”

“You are from Dorne, Ser?” You tried to change the subject as you looked at the man standing in front of you.

“Yes, my Lady,” Ser Criston nodded at you.

“My sister Olenna married a lesser Lord from Dorne,” you told him. “A Toland,” you explained.

“I hope she has found her happiness with him, my Lady,” Ser Criston cracked a smile at you, which made Gwayne move uncomfortably.

“Barely,” you had to admit with a sigh and Ser Criston’s smile turned into a frown.

Before the conversation would become even more awkward, you were interrupted by Edmund and William running up to you and tugging onto your skirts, making both you and your husband turn around.

“What is it?” You asked them.

“Can we go to the dragon pit to see the dragons?!” William’s eyes widened out of excitement.

“I do not think that is a good idea,” you shook your head as your heart skipped a beat out of fear at the thought.

“We only wish to see them,” Edmund explained. “Father…”

“Your mother is right,” Gwayne agreed with you.

“But should not a knight be brave? I want to see a dragon and so does William!” Edmund insisted and sadly, the mention of the knighthood convinced your husband – especially after an argument with Ser Criston about the very same matter.

“Alright then, but be careful you two,” Gwayne nodded and you watched with terror in your eyes as two of your sons ran away to join their cousins and a few servants on the way.

“Gwayne…!” You gasped.

“Worry not,” Queen Alicent’s voice made you turn around. “The Dragonkeepers and the guards are there.”

After hearing this, your daughters seemed to be interested as well. Rosalynd gave you puppy eyes.

“Can we go, too, mother?” She asked.

“Are you a squire, Rosalynd? Or Florys – is she?” You shook your head.

“Let them go, my Lady. It is better to feed the curiosity instead of letting it grow,” Ser Criston spoke and you shot him a deadly glance but you were sort of forced to agree to your daughter’s request now.

You nodded, reluctantly and watched the girls run away to join their brothers and cousins. Princess Helaena remained by her mother’s side, though.

“What about the young Princess?” Gwayne asked her with a smile and lifted her chin up gently with his finger.

“I do not find pleasure in flying, uncle,” she admitted.

You quickly regretted your decision to allow your children to see the dragons. They seemed to be mesmerised by the creatures and they could not stop whining about the fact they did not have their own beasts to ride.

“They are our cousins, mother,” Edmund kept whining to you on your way back from the supper. “Vhagar is so huge… It is so unfair we do not have any dragons and they do have so many!”

“They are princes and you are lords,” you reminded him. “They are Targaryens and you are Hightowers,” you added. “There is no shame in being different.”

“We are not different, Lady Mother,” Rosalynd rolled her eyes. “We are simply worse.”

“I am not jealous,” Florys saved the day with her sweet confession although her siblings shot her a deadly glance. She clinged to her father’s hand and sighed. “Dragons are big and I am small,” she explained and you chuckled because you found her reasoning adorable.

“You are just a coward because you are a girl!” William pointed out.

“I am a girl, too!” Rosalynd protested. “And I am not afraid. In fact, I would surely have a bigger dragon than you!”

“That is enough,” Gwayne shushed them. “Go to your beds, all of you. Sweet dreams about dragons – dreams, only,” he pointed out with a chuckle but the children did not find it funny.

“Goodnight, daddy, mummy,” Florys nodded and dragged Rosalynd with her to their shared chambers. Your older daughter only mumbled her goodnight.

“Goodnight,” Edmund and William both nodded and walked away, still frustrated and offended by the injustice of life and your light treatment of their situation.

You and Gwayne looked at each other and chuckled before going to your own bedroom.

You were asleep in your husband’s arms. The bed you shared in The Red Keep was twice as big as the one you had in Oldtown but you still were sleeping close in the middle of it. Your face was buried in the thin fabric of his shirt and Gwayne had his chin on top of your head and his arms wrapped around you just like yours were wrapped around his chest.

Sudden, loud and rapid knocking upon your doors made you both startle in your sleep and open your eyes. Gwayne sat up and rubbed his eyes and you hid your yawn with your hand.

“What is it?!” Your husband grunted and left the bed to grab a robe laying on the chair and put it on loosely. You sat up as well and watched his silhouette approaching the doors in the darkness of the room. “Someone better be dying,” Gwayne opened the doors and looked the servant up and down.

“F-forgive me for the rapid interruption, my Lord, my Lady…” The man stuttered. He was holding a candle to light up the room a little. “It is about your children…”

Your heart skipped a beat at that and you jumped out of the bed to stand behind your husband.

“What is it? What happened?!” You inquired. “Which children?”

“Lord Edmund is hurt, my Lady. Lord William and Lady Rosalynd seem to be alright but they were involved in it, too,” the servant swallowed thickly after delivering the dreadful news.

“Hurt?!” You squealed and squeezed your husband’s arm out of fear.

“Involved in what?” Gwayne furrowed his eyebrow.

“Apparently, young lords and the lady attempted to claim their own dragons with the help of Prince Aegon,” the servant explained and you nearly fainted at the news. Gwayne’s face went a shade paler in an instant.

“Where are they now?” He asked.

“Everyone is gathering, my Lord. You are expected in the dining hall,” he explained and walked away.

“Gods…” You whimpered and grabbed the very first dress to put on over your nightgown. You did not care much about your appearance at such a moment. Your hands were shaking because you were worried about your children, especially Edmund who was hurt.

Looking presentable enough, both you and Gwayne hurried downstairs and straight into the dining hall. Queen Alicent was there, too and so were Ser Cole and your father-in-law. Your eldest son was being looked after by a maester while William and Rosalynd were standing behind him with their heads kept low. Florys was scared and clinging to Otto’s hand. Prince Aegon looked pretty terrified, too, and he was not even smirking or laughing as usual.

“What happened?! Edmund!” You left Gwayne’s side to rush to your son. Your heart clenched inside your chest at the sight of his cheek burnt slightly. His lips and eyes were unharmed and for that he was lucky but there was a long burnt line on his cheek that would surely not heal completely and leave a scar. “Oh, Edmund…!” You sobbed and pressed the good side of his face to your chest.

“I am alright, mother,” he whispered.

“What were you thinking?!” Gwayne lost his temper but you knew it was dictated by worry and fear. “Grown tired of living, have you?!” He addressed William and Rosalynd now and they both looked away, ashamed.

“I did not go, daddy!” Florys exclaimed proudly. “And I was telling them it was a bad idea!”

“Shut your mouth, Florys!” Rosalynd scolded her and Florys hid herself behind her grandfather. Gwayne clenched his jaw.

“Do not speak to your sister this way, Rosalynd. Do not speak at all, I advise,” he pointed his finger at his daughter and she looked down again. “Whose idea was it?!”

Both William and Rosalynd pointed their fingers at Edmund. Even Florys stuck her little hand out from behind her grandfather to point at her eldest brother.

“Traitors!” Edmund shouted at them.

You looked down at your son’s face. He winced while the maester was putting an ointment on his injury.

“You’re scarred for life,” you sniffled your tears back. “My sweet boy…”

“I have nearly gained a dragon,” he told you proudly. “And the scar does not bother me, mother, for I have survived the attempt. I shall try again soon.”

“You could never own a dragon, son! Only Targaryens can own and ride them! It is common knowledge!” Gwayne raised his hands up as if he was giving up.

Aegon moved uncomfortably while Edmund shot him a glance full of hatred.

“What is it?” Queen Alicent asked, already sensing her own son’s involvement in this whole thing being much worse than she had expected.

“It was Aegon!” Edmund’s lower lip trembled suddenly. “He told us we could gain our own dragons, too! That we can claim the spare ones or Helaena’s since she has no interest in it!” He confessed.

Now everyone’s angry eyes were laid upon the young Prince. He huffed with an eye roll but his cheeks turned crimson red.

“I did not know,” he whispered. “I did not know that only we can ride them.”

You were filled with rage. Your eldest son liked to pretend he was more mature than the rest of his siblings but he was only twelve after all – he was still a child. Prince Aegon was the eldest out of the cousins and he should had known better.

“You have cruelly teased my children to risk their lives… To… To possibly lose them and die!” You approached him angrily and began to shake him by his arms. You couldn't care less that he was a Prince. You wanted him punished. “And now you are playing a fool by saying such a stupidity! You insolent son of a–”

“(Y/N),” Gwayne stopped you as he rushed to you and put his hand on your shoulder but you shrugged it off.

“Edmund has a scar for life!” You sobbed again.

“Mother, I am alright!” Your son’s voice reached your ears.

“I did not know…!” Scared Aegon was trying to get out of your grip and Queen Alicent was attempting to help him by pushing your hands away.

“Lady Hightower, be reasonable!” She pleaded. “I shall punish my son accordingly but it is my punishment to give him, not yours!”

“My children could have died! All of them!” You screamed at her.

“Not me!” Florys squealed.

“Shush, my darling,” Otto scolded her gently. “All of us should calm down now. After all, everybody is alive, thank Gods,” he pointed out and you pushed Aegon away before angrily turning around.

The maester was no longer sitting by Edmund’s side and now you approached your boy to grab him by his shirt and drag him towards Otto.

“Look at him! My son nearly died!” You yelled at him. “Do not order me to calm down, Lord Father!”

“Mother, let go of me, it hurts,” Edmund whined and you stopped pulling him by his shirt but your whole body was trembling out of anger, fear and frustration. “Young Prince Aegon should learn how to treat other people, especially the weaker ones…” You patted your own chest with your fist and your son huffed at the word weaker. “...if you wish to put him on the throne!” You finished and the whole room went silent.

It was something that should not be said out loud. Thankfully, everyone inside the dining hall was on the same side when it came to the conflict of succession.

“That is enough, my Lady,” Gwayne shook his head and put his hands on your shoulders to walk you out of his surprised father’s sight. “I am sure Prince Aegon will be punished for his behaviour by his own parents.”

“I did not know, I swear!” Aegon whined. “I would not want cousin Edmund or cousin William to get hurt and especially not cousin Rosalynd!”

“Save it!” Queen Alicent scolded him angrily and slapped his face. “You have outdone yourself this time, Aegon!”

Gwayne was rubbing your arms soothingly and pressed you closer to his body by putting his hand in the back of your head. Your heartbeat was slowing down and your breath was coming back to normal.

“I think we should all agree to collectively remove Lady Hightower’s accusation from our memories,” Otto spoke calmly. “And that it is time to go back to our beds.”

All of your children approached you, clinging to your skirts, except for Edmund who felt stupid and guilty now, embarrassed. He was looking down and clasped his hands behind his back but Gwayne put his hand around his shoulders to pull him closer.

“Your grandfather is right, it is time to go back to our beds. If we manage to fall asleep after such a night,” he pointed out.

Prince Aegon did not show up for the breakfast and you were glad he did not because you would tear him apart if you saw him. Now, after taking a better look at your son’s injury in the morning light, you were heartbroken. His scar would probably look intimidating when he would become the fearsome knight he wanted to be but you were his mother and your heart ached for him. 

The breakfast overall was pretty quiet and after the meal Gwayne took your sons to the courtyard to continue their training while Rosalynd and Florys followed Queen Alicent to Princess Helaena’s chambers for the girls to embroider together. Rosalynd also hoped to try on some of Princess Helaena’s dresses. You considered not allowing her to take any as a form of punishment for yesterday's stunt but you eventually decided it would be too cruel.

You were asked by your father-in-law to see him after breakfast and you kind of dreaded the conversation because you had a feeling what it would be about. Gwayne wanted to accompany you but you disagreed because it would make you look weak and scared. You had to face Otto Hightower alone. Gwayne had reluctantly agreed but he had assured you that he would remain by your side no matter what your father-in-law would say to you.

On your way to his chambers, you walked past Prince Aegon’s room. The doors were ajar and he was sitting on the edge of his bed. At first, seeing him brought back all the memories from the last night and all the anger. But after a short while of staring at him, you noticed that he was… sad.

It confused you as you kept staring and in the meantime, he spotted your presence. He got startled a little, knowing that you were alone now since his guard was nowhere to be seen and his mother was not there to push you away if you attacked him again.

He approached the doors to close them but he kept glancing at you like a beaten dog and even dared to speak.

“Is my cousin alright, aunt?” He asked quietly, his voice filled with guilt and worry. Suddenly, you started to have a feeling he had not been lying. Perhaps he truly had not known about the Targaryens being the only people who could ride dragons.

It would not surprise you because your father-in-law had been complaining about Prince Aegon not wanting to study his books and his knowledge of High Valyrian was… questionable.

“Edmund is quite alright,” you nodded at him and took a step ahead before he would close the doors. “Can we talk?”

Aegon hesitated but he looked down and nodded, letting you inside. You entered his chambers and looked around, humming at the sight of a wine goblet on his nightstand table.

“I truly did not know about the dragons, I am sorry,” Aegon confessed. “I know I am of a rather careless nature but I would not risk my cousins’ life,” he added and you sighed.

After a short while of hesitation, you approached him and caressed his hair before putting a silver strand behind his ear and lifting his chin up to make him look into your eyes.

“I am sorry for my outburst, young Prince. I do believe you now,” you assured him with a soft smile. “It still was irresponsible and foolish but I see now that your intentions were not malicious,” you nodded and his eyes sparkled at your words.

“Really? You do believe me, aunt?” He couldn’t be convinced and it made you sad to see it.

“I do,” you moved your hand away from his face. “To see a scar on my son’s face is painful for a mother but I do realise he does not mind it at all and he is proud of how he gained it. Let it be then,” you sighed. “It cannot be undone anyway.”

A short while of silence occurred between you two and you smiled at Aegon before approaching the doors again.

“You should join uncle Gwayne and my sons in the courtyard, my Prince. They are training with Ser Cole and young Prince Aemond,” you encouraged him. “And I shall leave now to speak with your grandfather.”

Aegon nodded at you and you left his chambers to hurry to Otto Hightower’s room where he was already waiting for you. He gave you a scolding look when you entered.

“What took you so long, Lady Hightower?” He asked, sitting on an armchair by the fireplace.

“I was stopped on the way, Lord Father,” you explained calmly and he pointed at the armchair next to his. You took a seat there and waited for him to start the conversation.

“We shall speak about last night,” he started.

“I do believe it was your idea to remove my accusations from the memory,” you reminded and he shot you an unpleasant glance.

“I need to know where you stand,” he looked deep into your eyes.

“Where do I stand?” You furrowed your brows. “What does it matter?”

“You have a great influence on my son. Much bigger than a wife should have on any man,” Otto pointed out. “I need to know I can trust you.”

“Speak plainly, Lord Father,” you challenged him with a head held high. “And I shall tell you.”

Otto hesitated as he looked at the dancing flames for a while. You waited patiently until he eventually laid his eyes on you again with the most serious expression.

“Do you support Prince Aegon as the future King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men?” Otto lowered his voice – his whispers were nearly audible.

“I believe you wish to know if I support your treason,” you raised an eyebrow and Otto clenched his jaw. “I do,” you nodded. “Prince Aegon is half-Hightower and I shall always support my family,” you added and stood up. “Does that answer satisfy you, my Lord? I shall join my sons and husband in the courtyard. I have promised them to watch their training,” you explained.

“You can go,” Otto dismissed you and you turned around but then you stopped.

“Lord Father?” You looked at him one more time.

“Yes?” He looked up to meet your gaze with furrowed brows.

“I shall ensure that my own Lord Father – Lord Tyrell – supports King Aegon when the time comes,” you promised.

Otto only nodded at you and you nodded back before walking out of his chambers and hurrying downstairs to the courtyard.

You smiled at the sight of your boys being instructed by their father. Prince Aegon joined them in the meantime as well and you waved at them all before taking a seat on the bench as usual – to watch and cheer.

After giving your sons their instructions, Gwayne gave them some space and joined your side as he sat next to you.

“What did my father want from you, darling?” He asked, worryingly.

“He wondered about my loyalty,” you scoffed and looked up at your husband’s face to fix a reckless auburn hair strand falling onto his face. “As if I didn’t give him four grandchildren to inherit his wealth and titles. As if I didn’t run Oldtown in his name for years. As if I didn’t love his son with every heartbeat of mine,” you finished quietly and a slight blush brightened your husband’s cheeks.

“Last night must have frightened him,” Gwayne explained. “You were rather furious with Prince Aegon.”

“Every parent would be,” you rolled your eyes. “Were you not furious, too?”

“I was but I did not show it,” Gwayne pointed out.

“Every person reacts differently,” you shrugged. “Either way, such conflicts always happen sooner or later between the family members. I shall not take them outside,” you assured Gwayne and took his hand to squeeze it. “I gave birth to four Hightowers. How could I play on any other team?” You asked, genuinely.

Gwayne squeezed your hand back and moved a little closer to you, as much as his armour allowed him. You both watched your sons train with loving smiles on your faces.

At one point, young Prince Aegon looked at you and smiled at you nervously. You smiled back and waved at him even, which caused his own smile to grow wider. Poor boy had no idea what responsibility was being plotted to be put onto his back.

MASTERLIST

[professorspork]

Hey, a little while ago, you reblogged that post about AI learning when people insert fics into AI text generators, and I wanted to offer good news and bad news: the good news is that AI learning models mostly don’t work like this. The publicly accessible text generator isn’t the whole learning model, it’s a single machine that the learning model generated. It won’t get fed directly back into the AI.

The BAD news is that there’s not really anything stopping them from saving that information separately to use later, and (much worse) anything that’s publicly available has probably already been scraped and saved. The good-in-this-context-but-depressing-overall news is that these models operate on the scale of billions of words, so, like. Idk. Individual fics ending up in a database mostly isn’t going to matter. That’s part of why the data-scraping isn’t something devs think about, ethically. This info is a paraphrase of another post I’ve seen going around saying the same thing, but I can personally corroborate it; before AI was a “crypto people hate when artists can earn a living” thing, I took some college courses on it and followed blogs about AI stuff for years. The last year or two of AI news has been really shitty :P It’s been really cool to me for a long time, but it is now clear that it’s even-more-vulnerable-than-usual to “capitalism uses every tool for oppression first” Knowing how it works is exhausting because anti-AI people are sometimes not all that much more accurate about how it actually works than the fervently pro-AI “I think chat-gpt is a person and human-generated art is dead” people, and then both of them skip talking about the more concrete problems like the “chat-gpt is propped up by slave labor” stuff.

I really appreciated this series of asks and wanted to make it available for all!

I think what we run into here is where like. A rhetorical device to invoke a sense of stakes and a bit of a guilt trip ("this is plagiarism because it feeds the AI" and its many permutations) can run up against misinformation (it's not literally becoming part of the AI's knowledge base, though as you noted it certainly COULD.) Because like

Where that post was coming from was someone being like "but why shouldn't I do this?" and the answerer resorting to "because it takes my work away from me" and this is still true in like, the rules of community and creativity if not necessarily in the hard lines of code. it's harder to articulate "this makes me uncomfortable because it's violated my ineffable sense of mutual belonging with and ownership of my own work, which I already felt on shaky ground on because it's fanwork but still FEEL with my WHOLE HEART" than it is to say "this concretely makes my words fuel for the machine" which I think people grok as a more sort of understandable breach of that social contract.

Which is why I like this post a lot because it gets at the WHY of why this is so perturbing and violating and isolating

Fandom was never meant to be a solo endeavor! when I write fic and put it out into the world, it's like echolocation. the words I put out are only half of what gives it shape and meaning to me-- the other half is the sound of it reverberating back to me as it bounces off the people it hits by way of comments, tags in reblogs, and DMs and they tell me their reactions and interpretations. that's what makes it a complete picture and not just screaming into the void.

to be removed from that process at all is a heartbreak to me; to have my words taken without my consent is insulting and misses the point and just. ultimately makes all of us that much more alone. which is to say that it's factually correct to say individual fics ending up in a database won't matter because it's probably already been scraped anyway because that's true for the AI and for the data. but individual fics DO matter insofar as like, these are choices people are making about what this hobby is and means and why they like it and what they think it's for and how they enjoy it, on a communal and social level, and THAT matters to me a great deal, in the same way that like, people now might end up getting videoed for a tiktok without their consent or whatever. it's about the erosion of privacy and respect.

but also yeah ChatGPT also runs thanks to exploited and underpaid workers, consumes horrific amounts of water in a time of increasing drought crisis and emits tons of carbon to boot.

[slightlyrebelliouswriter23]

Writing smut without cringing the whole time? How do you do it.

Writing Smut 101: Overcoming Smut Shame

CONTENT WARNING: NSFW RELATED CONTENT BELOW.

The short answer, nonnie, is: you don’t. 

That is to say, writing smut is always kind of cringe—especially if you’re new to it, or simply “not in the mood” to write. 

But rest assured, feeling embarrassed is completely natural. The trick is learning how to overcome the cringe when it does happen, instead of letting it deter you.

I’m going to break this up into a few sections: 1) Why you might be feeling this way, 2) How I, personally, combat the issue, and 3) Some more tips that might help you get the ball rolling.

1. Why You “Cringe”

It’s important to find the root cause of any form of writer’s block so you can pull the weed out instead of just trimming it back. Smut writer’s block is its own special brand, and generally, the main issue writers have when it comes to smut is stigma.

Speaking openly and honestly about sex, in Western society, is still very much a taboo.

No matter how “progressive” we like to think we are, the inherent shame surrounding pleasure-seeking experiences, and the detailing/consumption of them, has been ground into us since we learned how to understand the concept of gratification.

And I’m not just talking about sexual gratification. This applies to everyday things, as well. Eating, shopping, relaxing (or doing virtually anything in capitalist society that does not directly contribute to capitalism).

So it makes sense that you would feel any amount of embarrassment, awkwardness, or “cringe” when writing smut. It’s something our society teaches us is wrong to want. Unfortunately, that shame translates to writer’s block when we sit down in front of the computer.

A lot of this blockage might stem from not giving ourselves permission to write the thing.

We’re staring at the blank document, knowing we want to write smut, and suddenly the thoughts start streaming in: This feels wrong, is this wrong? What if someone comes in and looks over my shoulder while I’m writing? Am I describing this right? Is this too unrealistic? I have NO idea what I’m doing, and everyone is going to know it.

These are all perfectly normal thoughts, and definitely ones I still have from time to time. But they’re also probably the direct cause of why you feel so blocked. Luckily, I have some bits of advice to give you on how to unblock yourself.

2. How I Combat Smut Block

✦ First, when the intrusive thoughts occur, instead of ruminating on them, think of each one as an impermanent object. You can use any metaphor, but I like to use the imagery of leaves:

Each negative thought is a leaf floating down the river of your mind. If you focus only on the leaf, you’ll exert a lot of energy running to try and keep up with it, consequently miss everything else around you. But if you acknowledge that leaf as a temporary part of the scenery, and let is pass, you can process and appreciate the beauty of your surroundings a whole lot better.

Remember: you are separate from your thoughts. You are not defined by them. The things you think sound stupid might be incredibly exciting to someone else. 

If you can string a sentence together, you can write smut. This is all part of giving yourself permission to write the thing that makes you feel uncomfortable.

✦ Second, I’d suggest giving good thought to how you personally experience embarrassment, how you experience excitement (of the sexual variety), and how those two might sometimes commingle or feel similar.

For me, they are very comparable, like different shades of the same emotion—but there are differences which are important to note. 

If I’m making myself blush from excitement, this is a very good thing for writing smut. It means that what I’m writing feels real enough to evoke something in the reader, even if the reader, like me, knows what’s going to happen.

If I’m making myself cringe, however, it may be time to take a step back and readjust my perspective.

✦ Third, ease yourself into it! Don’t jump straight in the deep end and expect to know how to keep your head above water if you’ve never swum before.

The way I eased myself into smut was first by writing “Steam”—a category of fic I made up because the current vocabulary lacked an efficient term for fics that straddled emotional romance and explicit content. 

Essentially, steam is smut-adjacent but not explicit, and here’s a step-by-step example of how I transitioned myself smoothly from one genre to the next:

I first wrote my fics Wicked Game and You Are (both of which feature either a heavy make out session or teasing + lots of sexual tension) with this “steam” concept in mind.

I wrote the first chapter of Fine Line, which has brief but explicit descriptions of fantasies, framed by a very sexually charged scene.

I released my fic Crashing, which is probably more of a bridge between Steam and Smut, and features soft-focus fingering. Nothing in it is explicit—it focuses more on the emotions than explicit detail—but it’s very clear what is happening.

After I wrote those, I felt just confident enough to make that final stride over the threshold into smut. I wrote my fics Holy, King, and the second chapter of Fine Line all within weeks of each other.

And trust me when I say, once you get the momentum going and receive that validation from people who’ve read your work, it becomes SO much easier to sit down and start writing. 

You just have to finish that first piece.

✦ Finally (and I know I’m going to sound cliche when I say this), just like any other skill, the more you practice the more confident you will feel and the better you will get. 

So practice, practice, practice! 

If you’re nervous about posting smut for the first time, have a trusted friend/mutual Beta read it for you. It’s the online equivalent to someone holding your hand before jumping off the cliff, and works wonders for the nerves.

3. Keep The Smut Rolling

Now that you have some tools to help get you past the blockage of writing smut, here’s how to keep the inspiration flowing.

✦ Start by incorporating smutty fanfiction/erotic fiction into your regular reading rotation- 

Of course AO3 is a fantastic resource for smutty fanfiction. 

If you’re a fan of TFOTA or ACOTAR and want some of my personal fic recs, visit my fic rec masterlist.

In terms of erotic fiction, my personal favourites are anything Anais Nin (specifically Henry & June and Delta of Venus), The Thornchapel series by Sierra Simone, The Godwicks series by Tiffany Reisz, and The Original Sinners series by Tiffany Reisz.

There are also sites like Literotica and sexstories.com, which play host to explicit short fiction (not fandom based).

✦ Next, I’d recommend having a designated digital space for smutspiration- 

This can be a list of “smutty” words/phrases kept on a separate document on your computer, for those days when you just can’t think of the right way to describe something. 

Or you can create a private side-blog or Pinterest board for your favourite smutty fanart or other kinds of visual smutspiration.

✦ For that matter, try following some smutty/18+ blogs (ONLY IF YOU’RE 18+) here on Tumblr-

Many of them have a plethora of what I like to call “lemony snippets”, a.k.a. short text posts that describe (usually in conversational language) explicit scenarios. 

This is useful because it will normalise the concept of sexual fantasies in your brain, making it less weird for you when you try to come up with ones of your own to write into smut. 

Not to mention, your dash will be rife with inspiration.

✦ I would also suggest checking out 18+ ASMR on YouTube (AGAIN, ONLY IF YOU’RE 18+). 

My favourite account is Professor Cal Official, but Auralescent also has some good content. 

Headphones are highly advisable for this, as their stuff is very dangerous for work.

So, nonnie, I hope this has provided you with at least one helpful tip. Whether you took anything away from this or not, just know that the feelings of embarrassment when it comes to writing smut are entirely normal. And the best way to keep those feelings at bay is to confront them head on. 

-Em 🖤🗡

Writing Advice Masterlist

Writing Masterlist

2K Celebration!

[genshin-impacted]

gift giving // Diluc x Reader

notes: first-person POV, gender-neutral reader, you have a best friend, diluc is lowkey a sugar-daddy; very different format from my usual writing (no capitalization); I assure you I know how to capitalize but not in this fic

wc: ~1300

insp.

diluc offers me something small at first; a trinket that reminds him of me and i feel endeared because he thought of me. and he keeps giving me gifts, sometimes by hand and others via delivery. and each one grows more expensive than the other. it goes from a simple hair tie to a pearled broach to diamond inlaid slippers, all delivered on our shared doorstep with nothing but his name as the sender.

i don't know what to think. i was flattered by his attention and now i'm confused on what this all means when he has yet to talk to me about anything. and without talking to me, i don't know his intentions and it's hard not to think about ulterior motives even if its someone like diluc.

back when this first started, i brought up gift reciprocity but its so hard to buy something for him when he can buy anything u can get for him. he seems to be surprised at first that i even offered, like that didn't even come to mind that i would get him smth that reminds me of him. he says i don't need to, and asks me how i like the hair tie i'm wearing that he gifted. my response only encourages his behavior, his feelings for me (and for me adorning his gifts) only growing.

but now with gifts far too pricey, there's just no way i can buy anything of equal value, and that makes me uncomfortable because it makes me feel like i might have to offer smth else in return. (diluc doesn't expect anything back at all; he truly just wants to shower his person of affection with riches he never really cared for but now that he can buy something for someone he cares about it's a little addicting.)

i address this issue with my best friend and they meet diluc when he walks to the doorway to drop something off for me-- something more modest, thank god, they think, but they have to ask anyway. "diluc, why don't you deliver these in person?" not the exact question they want to ask but they figure they can build up to it.

"i don't always come at the most convenient of times," he points out. "i don't think many are awake at dawn or in the dead of night."

"you'd be surprised," they say. "we're usually awake at night so you should try coming then." instead of leaving things in the doorway, they want to add.

diluc blinks and the grip on his gift tightens. "visiting someone so late at night, well-" and to their surprise, his cheeks redden, as though he's more embarrassed by the notion of visiting someone he's sweet on after dusk than his rather conspicuous and abundant spoiling with material goods. they never chalked master diluc up as an ostentatious man, and now you think maybe he doesn't realize how his actions may look if that's the reaction you get for suggesting something relatively harmless like a visit (late or not).

"i think they would like it a lot if u hand-delivered your gifts at least," they say, getting into the crux of the problem. when he shifts, they quickly suggest, "or maybe leave a letter saying... anything? it would be nice for her to hear from you i think."

my best friend will have to profusely refuse a thank-you gift for your advice, but they receive a gift in tow anyways despite their best efforts. (having your best friend being doted on by the richest bachelor in town had its perks after all.)

letters come with the gifts. (and i must have talked to him about the luxury items because they are less costly now, though some of them still peak with price.) my best friend come back home to see me rereading and pouring over the letters he wrote me. he writes formally, his words more like a medieval lord than anything he's done so far, and it is not difficult to swoon over the subtle way he shares his day with me and read what i hope is his feelings for me in-between the lines

gifts are not my love language. i fumble with gift giving when it comes to the way diluc can spoil me, and i can never win against him (not as though i can lose either). but i try my best to create something for him before i can go and ask for his time, which i find invaluable above all else.

it is a mini project i undertake, making two albums for him and me. one to keep all his letters and flowers pressed into the pages and the other for pictures of the past, present, and hopefully future.

on days i meet up with him, i always purposely wear something he has given me. his attention on me is always rapt, his red eyes trailing after me like i'm the most captivating thing in mondstadt, and it makes me feel small and big all at once-- shy and confident. for this one, i wear the hair tie he's given me and deliver the gift.

he is speechless. (i assume he likes it.)

then i let myself explain how i feel about the gifts. "what do you think of me?" i ask. "i want to know for sure so i can make sense of the gifts."

"make sense?" he echoes.

"yeah. i love my friends and i would love to gift them all types of things, and you're doing the same thing but... i want to know in what way. is it the same way or is it different?" i continue. "you... like seeing me in the things you buy for me right? in what way?"

"i want to spoil you," diluc says simply. "is that strange?" he reaches out to my hair, tied up in that hairtie of his, and i cannot look at him in the eyes.

"in what way?" i ask again and dare to glance back up.

he breathes out slowly. "in any way you want."

i squeeze my hands, urging me to be brave. "in that case, would you go on a date with me then? for dinner?" you pause. "I'm paying." when he intends to protest, i quickly rebut, "i need to share in the costs or i'll go insane, diluc, please. or tell me at least how i can-"

"dinner," diluc says, and i marvel at the way he blushes, “that would be..."

"good?" i supply playfully.

"...more than good," he finishes. the small smile he gives me relaxes me immediately.

"i cant be bought," i say to him quietly.

"i know." he says, "that was never my intention."

"i need you to let me know how to spoil you too."

"you already are," diluc says, eyes flickering to the hairtie, and when he lifts my sleeve up just enough to see the bracelet he gave me also, his gaze lingers on my wrist.

i flush under his undivided attention; i always do. "i- that cant be all," i stammer nervously, the poise i came with to confront him out the window when i feel his gloved fingers press against the tender part of my pulse.

"we can think of other ways," he says, and his eyes are intense as always. i feel myself burn in his gaze. "always in your comfort. always."

"okay," i say, small, but in a good way, like he always makes me feel whenever he looks at me as though there can be no one else like me. it makes my head light. "I'm looking forward to it," i say, and he looks at me curiously, "to spoiling each other.”

"me too," he says, and he means it, just as much as each gift meant something when given to me-- that i can understand now.

[amiedala]

SOMETHING DEEPER

CHAPTER 3: Without Armor

RATING: Explicit (18+ ONLY!!!)

WARNINGS: sexual content, violence

SUMMARY: “You’re an excellent leader. Tell me what to do.”

“Nova—”

“Prove it,” she whispers, her voice barely air. Her blood is pumping so heavily in her ears that her own words sound distorted, like they’re under a waterfall. “Show me you’re a good leader. Because I believe you are, but I know you have to prove it to believe it.”

“This isn’t what this place was made for.”

Nova stops, her forehead pressed against his. Everything in this strange arena is quiet except for their breathing, an urgent pulsing in the cold, dark night. “So fighting is sacred to Mandalorians,” she breathes, feeling the airlocks that keep Din’s helmet secure around his face hiss. He doesn’t move, letting her lift off his helmet, to have him without his armor. “You’re sacred to me. Every inch of you.”

If you're a newcomer, my fic "Something More" is the first installment of this story! <3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: hello hello my friends!!! this is where i offer a deep, massive apology for Chapter 3 coming out a week later than it was supposed to. i was traveling to visit my best friend who lives states away, then my family had a slew of emergencies and crises, then i was too drained with a flareup of pain to write a single word. writing SD is literally my happy place, and being forced to take an unplanned break was painful and hard. this chapter isn't as long as i wanted it to be (i'm so sorry for that as well!!!) but i think it's as fleshed out as i can get it, because, as usual, Big Things Are Coming. thank you so so much for being patient with me in my hasty, largely unexplained absence, and i hope you LOVE this week's chapter!! <3

*

Hoth really shouldn’t feel warm and welcoming. The climate is horrible, temperatures that drop to dangerous lows, the ice that breaks and shifts and opens into the gaping maw of the planet’s icy interior. It’s a wasteland, white-blind and horrible, but the small Rebel base located in the heart of the planet is enough to keep Nova’s heart anchored here, even when she’s parsecs away.

Landing Kicker isn’t an issue. The second they descend onto the landing pad, a small crew of the mechanics Nova spent most of her brief stint here with racing towards the underbelly. Nova waves at them, pointing over the noise at the makeshift patch on the mainline of fuel, and they nod, enclosing on the issue in a matter of seconds.

Din’s tense. Nova’s eyes roam over the silhouette of his impressive, taut body, knowing that most of what’s underneath the beskar is in fighting mode, ready to expel energy like a hurricane whenever he faces the opposition. He tilts the visor over at her, and Nova offers a tiny smile, her heart kicking an arrhythmic beat against her chest. She’s trying her best to not look relieved that she’s here and not on Mandalore, but she knows she’s a horrible liar and that her body is full of betrayal. When the airlock doors hiss open and the two of them are beckoned into the insulated hollow of the Rebel base, Wedge is there waiting. Behind him, like a silent sentinel, stands Bo-Katan, her owl-painted blue helmet obscuring the expression on her face.

“Rebel girl,” Wedge calls, and something cold in Nova’s heart thaws. His arms are strong and purposeful, and he envelops Din’s hand with that same warmth and vigor, nodding at him. Bo-Katan doesn’t move an inch, her pristine hands folded behind her back, every muscle in her body the same kind of tight and purposeful as Din’s are, Mandalorian strong. “Welcome back.”

“It’s—” Nova inhales, eyes flicking, uncertain, over at Bo-Katan, “good…to be back. I wish it was under better circumstances, but—”

“You’re Andromeda Maluev,” Bo-Katan interrupts, and the mention of her old name sends a spike straight through Nova’s chest, puncturing on scar tissue that’s never fully healed. “Aren’t you?”

Nova swallows, running her tongue over her bottom lip. “I was,” she answers, finally, voice far away and small. “Why do you ask?”

Bo-Katan gestures with her head, a tiny movement, and then she’s turning on her beskar heel to move towards the war room. Silently, Nova and Din follow behind her and Wedge, Nova’s heart still hammering, erratic. The space is smaller than the giant one on Mandalore, but because it’s empty except for the four of them, it seems massive. Dangerous. Lonely.

Nova steps up to the holotable, twisting her tongue behind her teeth, trying to remain calm. The mention of her old name, twice in less than a week, feels like shrapnel. It reminds her of everything she’s been running from for a decade—her parents’ deaths, Jacterr Calican, the Empire, the resurrected evil in the First Order—and it sits sourly in her stomach as Bo-Katan presses buttons on the holotable. When the image of Nova comes up—so much younger than she feels now, dark hair long against her back, her features glitched and glittering in the hologram projected towards the ceiling—she winces at it. Beneath her portrait, her name is written in Basic: ANDROMEDA MALUEV. AGE: 26. CRIMES: EVADING CAPTURE, MURDER, AIDING AND ABETTING CRIMINALS. It’s bold and terrifying and Nova can’t look away. The word MURDER, screaming at her in capital letters, is too much to bear. She swallows, throat dry, blood rushing in her ears. It’s such a dangerous, horrible thing that it takes Nova a minute to read anything beneath the portrait of a girl she hasn’t been in years, but when she finally gets past the roadblock—MURDER, MURDER, MURDER—she sees a price on her head.

“Five million credits?” she asks, her voice rocketing through three octaves in her disbelief. The word credits cracks down the middle, incredulous. She presses a hand to her mouth, flattening her fingers flush against her face, trying to steady herself. “Why—why is the bounty so high?”

“That’s not from the First Order,” Wedge starts, gently, but he’s interrupted by Bo-Katan’s knife of an arm, cutting up between him and Nova. She jabs a long, gloved finger at the script underneath Nova’s image and her bounty, and Nova blinks hard, trying to get her brain to focus on what the words say.

“Novalise,” Bo-Katan says, her voice clipped, “you’re wanted alive or dead. Do you see that?” She enunciates her point with her finger again, stabbing it on the shimmering blue words reflected in front of them. “This is from the fucking Guild.”

“Easy,” Din cuts in, the word hard in the air. He steps forward, knocking Bo-Katan’s angry hand out of where it’s shaking in Nova’s face. “Take it the fuck down, Bo-Katan, or I will do it for you.”

“The—Guild?” Nova asks, trying to make all of the moving parts fit right in her brain. “I—I don’t understand. The Bounty Hunters’ Guild? The one that Greef Karga runs? I—I’m wanted? Why?”

“You’re not,” Din interrupts, his voice clipped and intense. Nova shuffles to the side as Din steps towards the holotable, magnifying the strange text. “It’s not Karga’s Guild. And you,” he adds, shoulders tossed back, facing Bo-Katan, “had no right to yell at her with those theatrics. Save that for the enemy.”

Nova can’t see Bo-Katan’s face, hidden under the blue beskar of her helmet, but she knows that Bo-Katan is glaring daggers at the both of them. Nova swallows again, trying to keep her heart rate steady, her racing mind calm, but she just keeps seeing the word MURDER flash before her eyes. Din’s saying something else, and she can’t concentrate, turning her body away from the three of them, staring off at the ice that makes up every corner of this room, clear and dangerous. She closes her eyes—MURDER, MURDER, MURDER—and opens them again, just as rapidly.

Inhaling shakily, Nova starts counting the deaths she’s been responsible for on her long, shaking fingers. Her skin, usually so warm and radiant, is fallow and pallid in the low light. Her thumb sticks up first, wearing Jacterr’s name. It wasn’t intentional, she tries to console herself, but her hands are still quivering. It was an accident. She didn’t mean for the lightsaber to ignite. She didn’t even know she had the power to do that, let alone use it as a weapon. It was self-defense, killing him before he had the chance to kill her. And then there were all of the faceless troopers in the TIE fighters she shot at when trying to get out alive. For years, hordes of them, shooting back at them before they had the chance to blow her to smithereens or capture her for something worse. You’ve never shot first, Nova tries to reason with herself, eyes focused on the outline of her boots, old and worn, warm against the icy floor of the room she’s standing in. It was all self-defense.

Except, that tiny little voice in the back of her mind whispers, insidious and awful, you killed Xi’an all on your own. Nova’s heart hangs heavy in her chest, like it’s on trial. She tries to inhale, but there’s no air in this ridiculous ice block of a room, and everything is purple and wounded, the imprint of Xi’an’s cold, dead body embedded on the back of her eyelids. That could be argued as self-defense, too, Nova tries to rationalize, but the reminder of the bullet that hit her wicked body head-on is still so horrible in her head. Logically, Nova knows that the only reason that she shot and killed Xi’an was because Din would have died if it weren’t for that bullet, and that Xi’an hurt her husband in ways she’d never felt fully comfortable asking about, but it’s still a dead body on her hands. Her gorgeous, terrible, radiant, shaking hands.

“I g—I gotta go,” Nova mumbles, and then her feet are carrying her out of the war room, into the hallway. They’ve put up more insulation since the time she lived here for a few weeks, when Din and Grogu left her and the world stopped turning, but the recognition of it barely registers in Nova’s mind as she sprints through the empty hallways, picking up her feet so that they don’t tangle in the loose generator wires curled across the floor. It only takes a few more turns, and then she’s through the airlock, back out into the frozen climate of Hoth’s exterior, her heart hammering something horrible, her pulse erratic, her blood pressure high and dangerous. Slowly, she sinks onto the frozen ground, right outside of the door, pressing her bare hands into the snow, trying to calm anything back to its usual resting place.

It’s freezing out here. Nova’s still in her outfit from Ahch-To, and even though her pants are lightweight and the cold cuts straight through, she’s not getting wet from the snow. Her upper body is slightly warmer, fabric of her shirt protective, the shawl wound tightly over her shoulders, flapping slightly in the wind.

“Nova,” a voice behind her cuts through the silence, and Nova turns at the sound of her name, breath stuck somewhere between her chest and her mouth. Din’s standing there, tall and stately. “Are you okay?” he asks, and the timbre of his voice makes it very clear that he knows full well that she’s not okay.

“Why?” she manages, and then she’s being hauled to her feet, Din’s gloved hands warm and steady around her waist. “Why is there a bounty on my head—alive or dead?” She blinks against a loose lock of hair blowing in her face, and before she can react to it, Din’s already tucking it gently behind her ear. “I thought the Order wanted me—”

“I don’t know,” Din interrupts gently. “I don’t know why you have any of these charges on your head, or why there’s a bounty at all. Gideon and everyone we’ve interacted with associated with the First Order always insisted that you would work for them, not that you were to be eliminated. I don’t know who put the charges out there, but we’re going to fix it. I’m never going to let anyone touch you.”

Nova looks straight up at the visor, swaying slightly in the frosty breeze. Her head hurts. Her scar aches. The pressure that’s constantly blossoming on her shoulder blades feels incredibly heavy, and even though the wind is frozen through, it makes her heart burn for Ahch-To—its gorgeous greenness, its holy ground—and Nova just stares at her own, unhinged reflection in Din’s helmet.

Her teeth press down onto her bottom lip before she can muster up the strength to speak. One of Din’s gloved hands is pressed protectively against the small of her back, and the other is holding her right cheek, a fortification, a promise. Nova looks desperately into the visor, trying to see straight through to Din’s brown eyes. Her voice is barely there when she’s able to talk. “How?”

Bo-Katan’s helmet is off by the time Nova feels stable enough to walk back inside. The airlock door hisses shut behind them, and Wedge is the one that Nova catches first. He’s outfitted in his regular orange jumpsuit, but the spark that usually burns behind his eyes is replaced by a sadness that Nova’s never seen before. He offers her a small smile, beckoning into the room, but she knows his mind is racing just as quickly as hers is, and when she looks at the holotable, the horrible image of her isn’t projected anymore. She inhales once, exhales, and tries to coax her heart back to a normal rhythm.

“Novalise—”

“It’s okay,” Nova whispers, nodding in Bo-Katan’s direction without looking at her. “You—you were right to call us here. I’m just…” she trails off, a small glint of light catching the stone on her ring finger, and she sighs. “I was taken by surprise. That was—I wasn’t expecting it. I know the First Order wants me. I know that my…powers, however mysterious as they are, make me valuable, and that makes me dangerous. But I don’t understand who wants me dead if it’s not the people we’ve been running from for the last year.”

Bo-Katan steps forward, uncrossing her lean, muscled arms. Silently, she pulls up the shimmering holograms again, but this time, Nova’s bounty doesn’t come up. It’s not anything recognizable until Bo-Katan points to a blue, rotating sphere. “I think,” she finally says, her tone unreadable, “that whoever put this bounty up on you wants your face out there in a bigger capacity than what it already is. You’re known in the Alliance, obviously, and now you’re known on Mandalore.” She stabs her finger at the hologram of the planet, rotating in silence. “And you’re wanted by the First Order, for whatever horrible plans they have next. But whoever this other force is—”

Nova holds up a hand, and, miraculously, Bo-Katan stops talking. “They want me to be a martyr,” she whispers, and all three of them look over at her with various expressions of disbelief. Din’s face is still hidden underneath his helmet, but Nova knows exactly what the contours of his features look like right now. Wedge’s worry lines deepen, dark and troubled. Bo-Katan raises one sculpted eyebrow, but her eyes focus on Nova’s like she knows it’s the truth.

“What did Luke say?” Wedge asks, finally.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant right now,” Bo-Katan interjects, but Wedge holds up a hand. It’s so sharp in contrast to his usual easygoing demeanor that her mouth snaps back shut.

“Nova’s a Jedi,” Wedge continues, eyes drifting to the lightsaber hanging off her belt. “Or at least she’s going to be,” he amends, “so she’s rare. One of three still existing that I know of, so that makes her incredibly important. Luke has been off on his own the last few years, trying to piece back the history of the Jedi that got lost or erased in the war. And that’s the Skywalker family lightsaber she has right there,” Wedge continues, nodding again at Nova’s belt loop, “so I know she went to go see him. What did he say, rebel girl?” he asks again, and Nova exhales lowly through the tiny gap of her open mouth.

“He knows something is coming,” Nova manages, finally. “He wanted—he wanted me to stay and train. He’s trying to locate all of the remaining Jedi in the galaxy, to try and rebuild what got destroyed. And,” she continues, exhaling, “he told me that what died may not stay dead.”

“Well,” Bo-Katan interjects, huffing, “that’s incredibly cryptic and entirely unhelpful.”

“Don’t start,” Wedge snaps, an edge to his voice. “Did he mean Gideon?”

Nova slowly shakes her head. It’s the truth, even though, to Bo-Katan’s point, Luke was being cryptic when he gave her that particularly sage warning. It’s not Gideon. Luke was talking about something deeper. “No,” she whispers, finally. “He meant someone—or something—much worse.”

Bo-Katan raises another eyebrow, a scorn so distasteful it makes waves on her face. “Yet another cryptic and unhelpful point, Novalise.”

Din steps forward before the expression on Nova’s face even changes. Bo-Katan Kryze doesn’t cower much, but she sure as hell shrinks underneath Din’s stance. He’s all anger, electric wires running currents throughout his entire tense body. Even the beskar pales in comparison to his rage. His hand slips to his own waistline, and Bo-Katan’s startled eyes glaze over the Darksaber before she backs down.

Nova has no idea how to diffuse this situation. Maybe Din’s right, maybe she is an expert at getting out of things, but the mountain crushing down on top of her shoulders just keeps growing bigger and bigger. Soon, it’ll be the size of Mandalore, and then she’ll have two planets to try and keep balanced on her already aching back. Nova rubs at the sore spot between her eyebrows, trying to worry out the knot that’s been growing in intensity there.

Bo-Katan’s talking again. Nova registers it, faintly, in the back of her mind. She’s long since grown tired of running, but right now, all her legs want to do is make a break for it. She’s exhausted and frozen in place and so unsteady on her feet. All Nova craves right now, this very second, is to lay back down in the piles of frigid snow outside and let it cool down her body right to the core. Din’s voice is angry, direct, curling in waves through the modulator, and when Nova whips back around to face the three of them, somehow, miraculously, they all grow silent.

“They want me to be a martyr,” Nova repeats, her voice barely anything in the chill of the chamber. Wedge’s thick eyebrow raises, his careful eyes searching over her face, trying to find her angle. “I’m not going to be. But I’m also not going to sit and wait on Mandalore for them to come find me, whoever they are. I’m not going to make it easy for them. Besides,” she finishes, eyes locking on Din’s, even under the obscurity of his helmet, “I’m a Rebel. Laying low isn’t in my blood.”

“Maybe,” Bo-Katan says, and there’s a razor’s edge to her already sharp voice. Something is wrong, Nova knows that, because underneath all of that icy venom, there’s a tremble that ricochets through her words. “But you’re forgetting something. You aren’t just a Rebel anymore. You’re the queen of a planet—”

“I’m a figurehead,” Nova spits back, exasperated. Maker above, her head is seriously killing her. Somewhere, distantly, she aches for the quiet crush of hyperspace, the dazzle, the glimmer, the flair of it all. Out there, running didn’t feel like running. And out there, home actually felt like home. “I’m nothing. I’m married to the Mand’alor, that’s it. I don’t rule. I don’t interact with anybody but the two of you. I wear Mandalore colored clothes, sometimes I’m in the war room, but most of the time, I’m staring up at the sky, and I can’t see the stars. I cannot see,” she continues, her voice unhinging into something desperate, “a single star from the planet’s surface. Bo-Katan, Mandalore is a ghost town. There’s only a handful of people left. Why did you battle Din for power in the first place,” she finishes, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, “if this was all that it was for?”

The room is silent. Nova can barely see straight, her eyes burning with the tears she’s trying to hold back. Bo-Katan looks like she’s been wounded—not pissed off, not royally wronged—wounded. Hurt. It’s written in the fracture lines of her face, and even though she’s been cold and hostile and a pain in everyone’s asses, Nova aches knowing she put them there. “Because,” Bo-Katan says, finally, and her voice isn’t icy anymore. It’s flat. Monotonous. “I love Mandalore. And I wanted something more.”

Nova inhales shakily, letting her shoulders round, clutching her arms around herself. The shawl wrapped around her upper body has fallen down to her shoulders, her loose hair flying in curls around her face. She’s exhausted. Behind her, she can feel Din stepping forward, his presence like a locus, an orbiting star. She staggers backward, mouth struck open, unable to conjure any words to fix this. “Bo-Katan—”

“Maybe I was wrong,” Bo-Katan interrupts, and her regular permafrost is back. “Maybe I was wrong about you. You’re right. You’re not a ruler. You’re a figurehead, Andromeda.” Nova recoils as if Bo-Katan slapped her. Slapping her would be better, actually, because the gut punch that comes with the stab of her old name is almost too much to bear. “And you’re sure as hell not a Mandalorian.”

Nova closes her eyes at the impact, but Din shoves his body forward, the whoosh of the Darksaber igniting in his hand before Nova can react. When she finally opens them, Din is standing like the warrior he is, like the bounty hunter he used to be. The horrible, flickering blade is up in front of Bo-Katan, an inch from her throat.

“I agreed to do this job because you insisted. I only promised to follow through if you were in my corner.” Din’s hand doesn’t waver once. Nova watches, horrified, as the terrible blade crackles and hisses in the low, cold light. “You intentionally disrespecting my wife is the opposite of being in my corner. If you ever,” he continues, and Nova can hear the grit of his teeth through the modulator, “use that name to refer to her again, those words will be your last. Do you understand me?”

Bo-Katan stares up at him, all malice. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Believe me,” Din spits, voice even and dangerous, “you haven’t been burned by me yet.”

Finally, she steps down, jutting her chin downward in a very reluctant nod. “Maybe you’re not a Mandalorian,” she concedes, staring back at Nova. Nova’s frozen to the spot, arms hugged tightly against her chest, knees shaking from the proverbial impact, “but Mandalore is still your home. For now, at least. And until we figure out who’s after you, that’s where you’ll stay. No Rebel missions. No alone time out in the stars.” She stares up at Din. “You wanted me in your corner? Fine. But your corner is on Mandalore, and Mandalore only.”

“I can’t do that,” Nova manages, quietly, her teeth aching in her mouth. “I need to train, Bo-Katan, I—I need to go see Grogu, I’m a commander in the Alliance, I cannot be grounded on a planet indefinitely, not with the entire galaxy on the brink of another war, not while there are two groups of people who want me dead or to be their slave—”

“Your home,” Bo-Katan interjects, her eyes dangerous behind her solid voice, “is on Mandalore now. What better place to protect you than a planet full of born and bred warriors?”

Nova’s heart is in her throat. It aches, pulsing and twisting and waning, like she has a knife lodged in her esophagus. “I can’t stay there indefinitely, I—I’m a Jedi—”

“No,” Bo-Katan interrupts again, “you are not. Not yet, and not until we figure out what danger the Order and these bounty hunters are to the rules of Mandalore. Besides,” she tacks on, leaning back on her heels, “Mandalorians and Jedi do not get along.” Her glance that flickers over to Din’s intimidating, awful silhouette, the Darksaber a ruthless weapon in his capable hands, is the only thing that gives away all the fear she’s tucked away under all that venom.

“Ahsoka Tano,” Nova manages, and something painful runs through the hard lines on Bo-Katan’s face. “You led us to Ahsoka. So no matter what you’re telling us right now, I know that you get along with at least one Jedi better than you think.”

Bo-Katan stares back at her. For a horrible beat, nobody breathes. Nova’s almost forgotten Wedge is still in the room until he lets out a quiet, exhausted sigh. “We’re going back to Mandalore. Wedge will run the Rebel operation from here, with people who aren’t responsible for a planet and the next collective fight of the galaxy. You leave Mandalore,” she says, and this time her gaze is trained expertly on Din’s visor, “you’re on your own.”

“Stop,” Wedge says, finally, and the singular word shatters through the tension, bringing everything down to the icy floor in one fell swoop. “Stop it. You,” he says, pointing at Bo-Katan, “were in here less than a month ago talking about unity, wanting to build something better, to protect the galaxy. I never thought we’d be close friends, Bo-Katan, but I at least thought you were on our side.” He lets the intention hang there, before turning to Din. “You are an incredible warrior, Din. I think Nova was right about you being a good leader. I think you have great potential. But I’ve seen power easily go sideways, and if you keep fighting against your own, you’re going to end up in another war. And you,” he enunciates heavily, turning on Nova, “you’re the best person I know. Kindest heart I’ve ever seen, except maybe for Luke. You’re an incredible pilot, a fantastic Rebel, and I don’t doubt for a second that you can save the galaxy from whatever evil it brings. But you’re not immortal, Nova. You’re not a saint, or a god, or anything bigger than a human being. Bo-Katan is right about one thing, and that’s you being in danger. They want you to be a martyr? Don’t let them make that a reality.” He pauses, and there’s something ancient in his eyes. “Go back to Mandalore. Work with each other, in whatever capacity that means. And when the three of you realize that we’re all in this together, no matter what threat we’re facing next, then you get to call the shots again.” He lets that hang in the air too, and it’s so heavy with genuine care, Nova’ heart breaks over itself again. “And I don’t make a habit of saying this, but may the Force be with us all.” His gaze roams over the three of them again, and Nova swallows, nodding against Wedge’s words. “We’re certainly going to need it.”

Mandalore is deadly and quiet.

It doesn’t welcome the three of them back in open arms. Bo-Katan’s ship is so much sleeker than Kicker, but Nova revels in the groan and tumble her starfighter makes when it touches down on cool, ashy earth. Her teeth are still shaking in her mouth. She has a headache, one she can feel in her jaw, right down to the bone. No one has spoken since Wedge gave his rebel rousing speech back on Hoth, and Nova knows that nothing she can manage can top that one. She’s silent in her flying, her disembarking. Slowly, she and Din trail Bo-Katan up the marble steps of the palace, and Nova can barely remember to offer her usual smile at the guards before the tall, impressive doors snap shut.

“I meant what I said,” Bo-Katan offers, finally, and there’s a wicked set in her jaw. “I can’t protect you out there. Mandalore is my home. I’m not abandoning this planet to run after the two of you and your masochistic need to save the galaxy. It’s been through enough, and I’m not going to let either of you ruin that. I meant it.”

Nova stares at her. She wants to snap back, to repeat what Wedge said, to shake some sense into Bo-Katan’s tense shoulders, but she doesn’t. She left all of her vitriol and fire back on Hoth, and she’s so incredibly tired. It’s nearly impossible to remember that DIn only took the throne a little over two weeks ago, that the ragtag group of their collected rebel fighters seemed so confident that they could stop the First Order, take down the evil lurking there, and restore peace to the galaxy. “So did I,” Nova whispers, finally, and Bo-Katan blinks uncharacteristically, a tiny slip in her usual armor before she opens her mouth again.

“We’ll talk more about this tomorrow,” Bo-Katan allows, and then she turns on her beskar heel and walks off somewhere in the dark haunt of the castle, her steps receding into nothing but dread.

Nova’s scar hurts. These days, it always seems to hurt, this horrible sucking wound that still aches, an aftershock of a trauma long gone. She sighs, long and heavy, wanting to sink into bed for a day or two and sleep all this responsibility off. She wants to be back up there in the stars, moving from planet to planet with purpose. She wants to use the lightsaber hanging from her belt. She wants to hug Grogu to her chest, to feel his tiny green body give off that special kind of warmth. She wants to lay with Din without armor, the rest of the world falling away.

When she finally manages to pull her heavy head up, Din is staring at Nova in the silence. There’s only a small strike of moonlight cutting across the strange, blue floor. He’s still wearing his helmet, but she can practically cut straight through the shield by the way she can feel his eyes piercing hers. This aches, too, such small hurts that accumulate across the map of her body.

“Come with me,” he says, finally, and when he reaches out his familiar, steady hand, she takes it.

It’s quiet in the palace, as per usual, but something about the moon striking through the windows as they move through the empty halls feels loud and haunting. Quietly, Din and Nova walk, hand in hand, past the throne room, past the staircase that leads to their massive bedroom, into the maze of corridors in the yawning belly of the beast. The amphitheatre is massive, something holy in its own right. Mandalorians treat battle like it’s divine, and the giant stadium built into their palace is made of marble and blue stone, the sky open and glittering above the arena.

“Why are we here?” Nova asks, finally, breaking the silence holding the both of them captive.

“Because,” Din answers, his voice level, leading her to the center of the ring, “this is where I won the Darksaber.”

Nova raises a dark eyebrow at him, and even though Din’s face is still obscured by the helmet, she can feel his face softening. “I know, mighty Mand’alor,” she deadpans, her own voice gentle, “I was there for the fight of the century, remember?”

“Stop it,” he interjects, but there’s no venom in his tone. She smiles, relaxing slightly, letting her aching shoulders drop. “I meant this is where it started. When we stood here, you said you thought I could be a good ruler. A fair one. Someone people would listen to.”

“I still think that,” she echoes, and Din’s fingers flutter over the makeshift hood of her shawl, dropping the blue fabric so that her hair falls loose. There shouldn’t be a breeze in here, but something rustles Nova’s long curls, letting them spiral over her right shoulder. “Actually, I know it—”

“I’m not,” Din interrupts, and Nova watches his movements, how calculated they are, how he’s pacing back and forth in the pit around her. It’s empty in here except for the two of them, but there’s some strange sense of exhibition, as if they’re being watched. “I’m not a good leader, Nova, because I’m not a leader. Bo-Katan told me Mandalore doesn’t take kindly to outsiders, but you were right earlier. This place is a ghost town. Besides the people who live and work in the palace, I’ve never seen anyone in the village. I’ve spent hours in the war room just looking at the maps, trying to figure out where all of the Mandalorians are.” He sighs, and Nova chances a half-step forward. “There aren’t any. They’ve either fled, been killed, or have left Mandalore to hide on other planets, like my covert.”

“Din,” Nova starts, but when he holds up a single gloved hand, the words die on her tongue.

“There’s nothing here left to rule,” he says, finally, like the words are both an incredible burden and the truth that sets him free. “Mandalore is gone. Whatever it used to be, whoever used to live here, what we see is all that’s left. Maybe I am meant to rule this planet full of nobody, I don’t know. Maybe this is some sort of strange...riddle that I can’t figure out. But I can’t understand why it’s so imperative for the two of us to step into these roles, to follow rules that make no sense, to try and be a leader for a planet that’s barely anything.”

Nova stares at him. A small smile winges across her lips before she even realizes why. “You don’t want to stay here,” she whispers, which is an echo of the same sentiment she’s been saying for weeks, but this time it feels like the truth laid bare. “You want to be where the fight is.”

Din’s quiet. His shoulders are still rigid. “I don’t run from things.”

“True.” Nova steps another foot towards him, her head cocked to the side, trying to puzzle out what’s happening in his head without seeing a glimpse of his face. “That’s usually my M.O.”

“Stop it,” Din whispers, but there’s no fire left in his voice. Nova studies him—his stature, his stance, the Darksaber hanging off his hip, the proverbial crown balanced over his helmet—but there’s nothing hardened there, nothing sharp, regardless of how regal he is, how his presence cuts through every room like a knife. When she’s finally close enough to touch him, her hands immediately go to his helmet, pressing her palms against the smooth, cold beskar, an invitation and a question all at once. “Novalise,” he tries, and her name sounds like something more, something deeper, something holy. Quietly, she presses her body against his, letting the coolness of the armor heat up against the soft curves of her skin. “We can’t do this in here—”

“You’re the one,” she breathes, hooking her fingers under the rim of the helmet, “who said this is our place to desecrate.”

Din’s breath comes out sharp and wicked, like he’s been impaled on her words. “And I meant it then,” he manages, as she starts to pull his helmet off, “but now all I want to do is be back out there in the stars. Not be this figurehead. Not being the leader of a dozen people who all hate my guts and want to slaughter me for the throne.”

“You are a leader,” Nova continues, pressing her body closer to his. Even through the armor, she can feel him harden against her touch, stiffening against her trousers, a sign that she’s pushing the both of them closer and closer to the edge. “You’re an excellent leader. Tell me what to do.”

“Nova—”

“Prove it,” she whispers, her voice barely air. Her blood is pumping so heavily in her ears that her own words sound distorted, like they’re under a waterfall. “Show me you’re a good leader. Because I believe you are, but I know you have to prove it to believe it.”

“This isn’t what this place was made for.”

Nova stops, her forehead pressed against his. Everything in this strange arena is quiet except for their breathing, an urgent pulsing in the cold, dark night. “So fighting is sacred to Mandalorians,” she breathes, feeling the airlocks that keep Din’s helmet secure around his face hiss. He doesn’t move, letting her lift off his helmet, to have him without his armor. “You’re sacred to me. Every inch of you.”

The sound that erupts from Din’s mouth is even more wicked as the modulator cuts off in the middle of it. Nova pulls the rest of the helmet off of his face, her eyes roaming over every single pore, trying to memorize the way he’s staring at her, half-frenzied, his eyes fluttering somewhere between pleasure and pain.

“Novalise.” Her name still sounds like a prayer. Nova doesn’t break Din’s eye contact, just drops the helmet with a clatter against the floor. It’s loud, deafening almost, but he doesn’t flinch at the sound. “You can’t say things like that to me—”

“Then stop me,” Nova counters. Her heart is hammering. She’s being a brat, she knows she is, a whiny, wheedling baby that only wants one thing, but she can’t help herself. Din’s gloved hand closes around her wrist, squeezing lightly, and even though it makes her heart skip a beat, she’s unhinged and dangerous right now. Silently, she unhinges his hand from where it’s gripping her arm and places Din’s fingers against her throat, leaning into his touch, eyes wide, inviting. “I know you. I know what you want. I know that I made a Rebel out of you, Mand’alor, but I also know that when you give people orders, they’re helpless to do anything other than follow them. You can have whatever you want. You just have to prove it.”

His eyes glint for just a moment. It’s in a flash, over almost as soon as it starts, just a nanosecond, but something glittering and dangerous sparks up behind Din’s measured brown eyes, and Nova barely has time to inhale before his grips tightens around her throat, his other hand anchoring her hips in place. It’s an exact replica of the way he’s held her a million times, but his touch still feels brand new. “I want you.”

Everything stops existing. The war, the ghost town of a planet they’re supposed to rule, the First Order, the insidious war that’s gearing up in the underbelly of the galaxy. The pressure for Din to be a ruler, the urgency of Nova becoming a Jedi, every single piece of their lives fall away. It’s devastating and divine, vivid and vivacious. “Then take me,” Nova breathes, feeling Din harden against her leg, hot and heavy even through her pant leg and the beskar that’s protecting him. “Take me, but do it without armor.”

He stares at her, just for a second, and despite knowing that she has her husband wrapped around her pinky finger, Nova’s own eyes widen, heartbeat quickening, worried she took it a step too far. When Din’s hands disappear from her body, a panicked apology is already trying to hurtle its way out of her mouth, but Din doesn’t break eye contact. His hands pull the armor off of his body, letting each piece clatter at his feet like it’s nothing. Nova’s breath has barely been returned to her lungs by the time that Din’s finished undressing, standing in front of her with nothing but his underclothes, Mandalorian blue, and then he slams himself into her, knocking both of them back a few steps with the centrifugal force. Her knees buckle as she lets herself be swept away, wind knocked right back out through the hollow of her open mouth, Din’s hands purposeful and intentional.

Nova’s pretty sure she’s seen Din this vibrant before, this full of desire, but the way he devours her means something deeper. It’s desperate, and yearning, and haunting, leaving his mark all over her body to be worn as a prize later. His lips trail down her jaw, his teeth sinking into her skin, tongue licking out a symphony on the pulse points he’s expertly mapped over the last year. “Din,” she manages, before his name is sucked straight out of her mouth, and his hands twist and writhe underneath the clothes she’s wearing.

Almost as immediately as he started, his mouth disappears. Nova’s eyes flutter open, trying to find where Din retracted himself to, and his large hands, suddenly bare of the gloves he was wearing just a second ago, grasp onto her face. She inhales sharply as he grabs her, the force of his grip puckering her lips up. Nova feels like putty in his hands, like she’s buzzing. “You want me without armor, cyar’ika?” he asks. Din’s voice is so low, it rumbles straight through her, everything between her legs a hurricane. “You want me to be a ruler?”

Wordlessly Nova nods, trying to coax air back into her lungs. “Yes,” she manages.

There’s something torrential in the low blaze of Din’s eyes. Nova thinks she’s still standing, that he’s keeping her upright, but honestly, she can’t tell. The only thing she’s focused on is the darkened outline of his gorgeous face, the flash of his eyes. “Then I want you like that, too,” Din breathes, yanking the shawl right off of her shoulder. Nova’s hair springs out from underneath it, ricocheting against her face as Din grasps her cheeks, pulling her forehead against his. “No armor. Submissive to what I say.”

Nova gasps, nodding against Din’s touch, and when he tears her clothes off of her, she doesn’t even try to tell him she needs them intact. It’s just fabric. It doesn’t matter, not when his hands can burn against her. When they sink down to the floor of the amphitheatre, kissing so hard their teeth knock together, nothing else exists anymore. It’s just Nova and Din and the stars they’re under, just like always.

The ground is cold against her back, but the second Din pulls his pants down and gets on top of her, the chill is immediately forgotten. Nova stares up at Din, trying to map every single inch of his face, even though she’s already memorized it, even though he’s shown it to the rest of the planet, it still feels so incredibly divine. He’s inhaling sharply, and when she flutters his eyelashes up at him, she nods. Permission. It’s just a second, wordless, but he understands. Usually, Nova wants foreplay, to be kissed, to have every single inch of her body blessed by the man she loves, but that’s not necessary tonight. When he pushes inside of her, hard and warm and huge, she gasps against the pressure. It’s devastating. It’s perfect. It’s hot and heavy and loud, and the force of how Din’s fucking her makes her head slam back agaisnt the floor. Before she can mutter a single word, one of his hands comes up underneath her skull, creating a barrier against Nova and the marble. She lifts her hips, locking her ankles around Din, trying to keep herself in the place he needs her, eyes rolling back in her head.

Somewhere, something devious whispers to her that she’s being used, but right now, Nova doesn’t even care. Every inch of her body is screaming out for Din’s, and every place where he’s touching her feels sacred, complete.

“Nova,” he whispers, and she’s a hymn, a prayer, something deeper than herself in this strange, makeshift place of worship. She wants to talk, to reassure him that she’s here, but then Din’s mouth is back against her lips, ravenous, unyielding. It’s everything. It’s dark in here, and still eerily quiet, and for the first time, she’s unabashed about filling this space up with their noise. It feels like a rite of passage, something divine, especially when Din licks his vows into her mouth, murmuring in Mando’a, swearing in Basic, and his other hand finds the curve of Nova’s hips, lifting her up so he can fuck deeper into her. Suddenly, every single insidious thought evaporates, her hand fluttering down across her stomach to reach her clit.

“Din,” she manages, breathy and disconnected, and immediately, his expert hand knocks hers away, replacing her touch with vigor. Before Nova even has a chance to adjust to his pressure, he’s pushing her over the edge, her oragasm quick and loud, deafening and ecstatic.

“Wait for me,” he grunts, his mouth back on her neck, and Nova’s eyes are flooding with collapsing stars, her ears buzzing, and she wants to apologize that she’s beating him there but when he’s touching her like that, she doesn’t even care. But then Din breaks away from her, angling his hips to slam deeper and deeper into Nova, and his lips tear off her neck, knocking their foreheads together. “Now,” he orders, and his voice is low and commanding, and that alone sends Nova through the roof.

Din grunts as he’s about to cum, writhes into her like it’s the last time that he’ll ever get to touch her. Usually, he pulls out soon afterward, rolls over on his back beside her, but tonight, he just grabs onto Nova’s jaw and stays pulsing in her. Every time his cock twitches with the aftershock, it extends Nova’s own orgasm, and she lets herself be held there, not wanting to move.

“I could,” she starts, panting.

“Stay here forever,” Din finishes, his voice barely anything at all. “I know.”

For what feels like lightyears, they stay together, a tangle of limbs and warmth, trying to catch their collective breaths. Slowly, the rest of the world filters back in, and the quiet, starry darkness of the amphitheatre doesn’t feel desecrated. It feels used, for something better than it was designed for, at that, and Nova feels her heartbeat pound down to a regular rhythm before she lets Din lay down beside her, both of them exhausted, staring up at the ceiling.

“I meant it,” Nova finally says, closing her eyes to feel the hum of her own voice in her throat. One hand is tracing the outline of her scar, the other is tangled up in the discarded shawl that Din thankfully did not eviscerate. “When I said you were a good leader. I think you’re a great one, Din Djarin, and even though I want to be out there.” Nova trails off, gesturing at the ceiling painted with stars, “if staying put means you get to do that, I’ll stay right here. I’ll be a Mandalorian.”

Din’s quiet. Nova doesn’t dare to move, because she knows the significance of what she just said, the crushing weight of it. “I meant it, too,” he whispers, finally. “When I said I’d follow you anywhere.”

Nova inhales sharply, finally turning her head to search her husband’s eyes. “I know,” she murmurs, eyebrows furrowing down the middle. “And I believe you. But what do you want?”

Din’s face is entirely unreadable. Nova counts the beats of her heart as they sit there in the silence, trying to encourage him without saying a single thing.

“You.”

Nova inhales, wetting her mouth with her tongue. “What else do you want?”

Din stares at her, moving only to press the open palm of his bare hand against her cheek. “I want you without armor, too,” he whispers, and then pulls both of them to their feet. Nova knows there’s more to that sentence, but she’s fighting sleep, and she doesn’t want to put pressure on more points than either of them can take. Wordlessly, they redress, and Nova follows Din out of the eerie amphitheatre, out of the maze of tunnels, back to the first floor where the giant war room sits, beskar throne impenetrable at the highest point. She wraps her shawl tighter around ehr shoulders, all the warmth that sex gave them blown away by the startling reality of the situation. Without a word, Din presses the ignition to the holotable, and the strange, blue, fractured image of Nova ten years ago illuminates.

She inhales sharply, her old reflection a sucker punch. Din grabs her hand, and Nova squeezes it, trying to stare at herself head on, without flinching.

“I want to kill off Andromeda Maluev and everyone who’s after her,” Din breathes, his voice so much louder without the barrier of the helmet and the modulator. “I don’t want to rule this planet and ignore the war that’s coming while there are people out there who want you.”

“Din—”

“Listen to me,” Din whispers, grabbing Nova’s face in his hands, and she turns away from her painful reflection, letting him become the only thing she orbits, even if it’s only for a second, even if it’s only for now. “You are Novalise Djarin. I’m not going to let anyone take that away from you.”

Nova’s green eyes flood with tears. Above them, above the mist and fog and haze that hangs over Mandalore like an omen, her stars are sparkling and clear. She inhales, focusing her blurry gaze on her husband, something concrete, something real. “What does that mean?” she whispers, and Din’s right hand goes to her right hip, purposefully knocking into the Skywalker family lightsaber, and Nova’s sharp inhale comes out stuttered.

Din’s eyes are a promise, a prayer. His bare hand smoothes back over her cheek, and something dangerous and pulsing inside of Nova suddenly quiets. “It means,” he says, guiding her own hand down to the weapon hanging from her hip, “that we do what Mandalorians do best. We’ll take it one day at a time,” he continues, and Nova nods, “but we’re going do what we do best. All of us.”

“What are you—?”

“I’m saying,” Din sighs, pointing up through the domed ceiling, and Nova strains her eyes to look through the clouds to the stars above, pulsing and flickering with the promises they’ve made to each other, “that Bo-Katan is going to protect Mandalore, Luke is going to train our kid, Boba and Fennec are going to avenge, Cara’s going to forcefully keep the peace, Karga’s going to figure out who put the bounty on your head, Wedge is going to rally the troops, and you and I are going to save the galaxy.”

There’s a smile on Nova’s face before can register everything Din’s saying. “Din—”

“You’re the only one who gets me without armor,” Din whispers into her ear, and Nova feels the giant door sliding open behind them. She’s going to turn around to yell at Bo-Katan that it’s not the morning yet, and that she just wants one tiny minute of happiness before returning to the weight pressing down on all of their shoulders, but multiple voices filter into the throne room, and Nova lets Din pull her up the steps onto the dais, watching as the space fills up with the people who still make up Mandalore. Bo-Katan raises her chin at them, but something’s replaced the fear and vitriol in her eyes. Din lets his helmet clatter on the floor, the noise loud enough for the rest of the hushed noise in the room to fall quiet. Nova swallows, staring out to the scene of people gathered in front of them, trying to look like a leader, like someone trustworthy. “We’re going to fight,” Din promises, his voice full and honest, a vow, and then he turns to face the people he rules in the center of the room. “Let’s get started.”

*

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*

I HOPE YOU LOVED IT!!! writing this story is truly my biggest joy, and getting to share it with all of you is priceless! i lovelovelove talking to you about your theories and comments and questions, so please leave them below or send me them on tumblr (amiedala)! i think i am finally back on track, so CHAPTER FOUR WILL BE UP SATURDAY, OCTOBER 2ND, AT 7:30 PM EST!!!

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xoxo, amelie

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

By the king’s hand 🐍 XIII

Warnings: noncon/rape, violence, trauma, allusions to torture, mentions of suicide.

This is dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You struggle with the past, present, and future.

Note: So now that the holiday rush is over and my province is in lockdown, I can write so yay? But also, stress anew hahaha. Anyways, I’m enjoying it so it’s not too bad. :D

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

Your stomach curdled as you walked between the guards. For whatever foolish reason, you’d assumed Loki would accompany you. And even more foolish, you were disappointed when he did not. He was king and had much more pressing matters; his usual excuse. As true as it was, you were still irked by your task.

Your thick winter wool had been replaced by your former satin. The gown was not so sultry as before but it offered little protection against the chill of the palace corridors. You were allowed a cape woven in the king’s green, though the hood was to be kept up until you reached your destination. As before, you were the royal shame.

The further you descended, the more your nerves stormed. You remembered your first journey to the dungeons; the night felt long ago. Like many of your memories, it had faded since your time with the prince and his heartless accomplice. It was fragments but still sent a shiver through you. You could, at least, recall, the fear, the anger, the helplessness of your time in the capital.

Your slippers whispered over the stone floor as the gaoler showed you past the cell doors. The stink of unwashed bodies mingled with that of stale blood. There were coughs, some murmuring, and the occasional maddened shout from down the row. The cell you’d been left to was empty and open as you strode by and you refused to look within. It was at the next, that you were stopped and the thick key was shoved in the slot.

You touched your stomach, a thoughtless habit forming as each day saw you a little rounder. Your middle could still be hidden beneath loose fabric. Birger said not yet halfway through your time; maybe for months and with over a month of deprivation, you weren’t so big as you could be.

The door opened and the shriek of the hinges made you tremor. One prison to the next. You were no different than those locked behind these doors. You were kept and controlled. You had no voice, no will, no wants. You only did what was needed to survive.

One of the guards entered first as the gaoler stood with arms crossed beside the door. You heard a scramble within and you were ushered through by the other armored man. He grabbed a stool from against the far wall before he followed. You pushed your hood down and closed the cloak around your body as the frigid air nipped at your gown.

Gilla was dragged away from the wall where she huddled. She didn’t struggle as the guard brought her to sit at the center of the cell and the other planted the stool behind you. You sat and your hand dropped away from your stomach. Her hair was dirty and her face smeared with tears and grime. She was terrified and sniffled quietly as she blinked away the fog of her imprisonment. Your name on her brittle lips made your heart knot.

You recalled what Loki said and cleared your throat. This girl was not your friend.

“Gilla,” you said flatly.

“Have you come to save me?” She clutched her hands. “They found you! Oh, I’m so happy you’re safe--”

“And do you know who took me away?” You challenged. She shook her head in confusion. “So the man you sold yourself to never mentioned me. You never spoke in those times he came to you? Were you so easy to roll over to him?”

“The prince? Oh, if you send for him, surely he can get me out--” 

“Do you have no idea why you’re here?” You sneered, “Even if the prince could, do you think he would save a peasant?”

“The king… the king took you from the dungeons…” she batted her lashes.

“He did and what did he make of me but a prisoner elsewhere,” you looked away from her.

“I don’t… understand,” she lowered her chin. “I don’t know why they’ve brought me here.”

“Well, you best think on it and figure it out. The prince cannot help you for he is a criminal himself.” You looked down at her. How had that little girl you’d grown up with become this? How had you come to this point? “He plotted against the king, surely you must’ve known.”

“How could I?” She babbled as her tears began to fall. “He never spoke to me of such things. He only wanted… love.”

“Love?” You scoffed and stopped yourself from laughing at her naivety. “Do you truly believe these noble men could feel anything for us but the basest desires? That their favour is little more than fodder for their egos? That they delight in our degradation rather than our pleasure?”

“Thor was always kind--”

“Thor used you.” You insisted. A lump rose in your throat. “As he did me. He… as he gave you jewels you have no use for, he got his use off me. He would have worn me until I was dead.” You inhaled and quelled the flurry of emotion inside. “But you never truly cared for more than your own self, eh?”

“What? I… we’re friends.”

“Are we?” You bit down. “I remember my time down here.” You looked around. “I remember how I was even dumber than you. To have begged the king to spare me. You left me behind that night and I was locked up like some animal. Whipped like some braying donkey.” Your mouth was bitter as you spoke, “Bred like a mutt. And when you saw me, still alive, what could think of but the silks and the gold and the crown?”

“I didn’t--”

“You must’ve been so worried for me to have fallen into the prince’s arm’s so easily,” You snorted.

“We all thought you’d run.” She squeaked.

“Oh? Yes then, I suppose it was easy to forget about me.”

“I never did. I…”

“This is the last favour you will have from me, Gilla.” You declared. “And I pray you are smart enough to accept it.”

She blinked, confused, and quivered as she stared back at you.

“Do not lean on your ignorance. The prince is a traitor and you laid with him. Who would believe that in all your time together, he never mentioned his intent against his brother?”

“He didn’t--”

“Listen to me.” You hissed. “The prince will be brought to trial for his crimes, but a whore like you can be cast away and forgotten by all. If you did abet him in his offenses, you will be dealt a cold steely justice. You will not be afforded the same hearing or the same grace as his highness. You are just another commoner fed to the jaws of the rich and their squabbles.”

“But I don’t know anything.”

“Think. Hard.” You stood as you snarled, “And perhaps by the time the inquisitors come to you, you will recall.”

“But--But I--”

“If it had been you that night, I wouldn’t have left you behind. Even if it was your stupidity which led us to trespass. I would have stuck by you.” Your chest tightened as you spoke, “I wouldn’t have abandoned you but I realise now, Gilla, that you never did care for anybody but you.”

“I love you, I do.” She pleaded.

“No,” you uttered, “I don’t think you do, but I did love you, my friend.”

“Please…” She sobbed.

“I will not see you again, I expect,” you said as the guard retrieved the stool, “So let us part without hatred. Take this last generosity from me and save yourself. Perhaps you might live to learn from it.”

“I didn’t know he… I’m sorry.”

“I don’t believe you,” you backed away. “You’re not sorry for me, only sorry for yourself.” You turned and bent your head. “Goodbye, Gilla.”

You strode through the door and the guards followed, signaling the gaoler to lock up behind them. You raised your hand and bit into your knuckle as you were overcome with despair. Your old life was over. The last remnant of your former existence was extinguished. 

It was your final surrender. You belonged to the king completely. Your body, your mind, your child; every part of you was his.

🐍 

You returned to the chambers exhausted. Those days, you were always tired. You hung your cloak and stood by the fire to warm your numb fingertips. You undressed quietly and retired to the bedchamber. You sat in your shift before the hearth and watched the embers beneath the tent of logs.

You thought of the baker’s daughter and that first day you’d met her. She had been sweet, once. When had she grown so… greedy? How could one raised in simplicity come to want what she had never known? You closed your eyes and refused to cry. She would not break you; if nothing else had, she could not.

You floated in a haze as the orange glow of the fire shone against your eyelids. There was much yet to worry for. Would the king’s men arrest the prince before he could evade them? Would the kingdom overcome the rent caused by the royal siblings? Would your child survive the months before you?

Hours passed and you did not move. You stayed as you were, held by the moment. A taste of solace you hadn’t known in ages. No anxiety of your tormentors’ return, no fear of what was to happen in the next instant. It was just you and the hearth; you and your child in what could be the only peace you had together.

When at last you were disturbed by the gentle open and close of the door in the next chamber, you still remained. You listened to the king as he moved around and sensed his shadow as he appeared in the door frame behind you. He was quiet as he neared.

He said nothing, as if he believed you were asleep. You knew he didn’t but he let you think so. You listened to the rustle of his clothing as he shed each layer. As stubborn as he was, as much as he insisted nothing had changed, something had. You were both afraid of it but would not admit it.

You felt a tug at the bottom of the blanket spread over your legs. You tried to ignore it, thinking perhaps he had passed too closely. A rush of air flew up below the wool Loki’s fingertips tickled your ankle. You opened your eyes and looked down at him as he reached below your shift.

“Your majesty,” you yawned and shifted but he caught your knees and kept them apart. “What--”

He hushed you with a soft his and dipped his head below the blanket. You braced the arms of the chair as your body went rigid. He wore only his undershorts as he bent and plied kisses to your thighs in a torturous trail towards your pelvis. You grasped his head as he rolled your shift higher and higher and his breath grazed your cunt.

“My king,” you begged. You were trembling. You knew you could not stop him.

He ignored you still and kneaded your thighs as he pushed closer. His hands slid up your sides as he nuzzled the patch of hair between your legs and you gasped. You weren’t ready. You never truly were. His tongue surprised you as it flicked along your folds and he purred. He cupped your tender breasts as he delved into you, your core alight at his command.

He dragged his tongue along your bud and lingered on it, teasing it with small swirls and hungry suckles. Your arms flew back to grip the back of the chair and he rubbed his thumbs over your nipples as they stood out beneath your shift. He groaned as he lapped you up. His gentleness was disarming though he remained as adamant as ever.

“Please,” you begged as your body responded against your want. “Please…”

He purred and kept on, his head moving against your bunched up skirt and bobbing beneath the blanket. You arched in your seat, unable to resist the bloom deep inside. You felt the release and suddenly you needed it. All your stress, all your fear, anger, and hurt, bundled up and brewed inside you as ecstasy muted them.

You cried out as every muscle in your body tensed and eased in a split second. You moved your pelvis against Loki’s mouth as you rode out your climax and he didn’t relent until you were limp and breathless. He sat back on his heels and let the blanket drop to your feet. His hair was tangled and askew, his lips glistening as he grinned at you.

He rested his hands on your thighs and came closer so that he leaned against the front of the chair.

“My brother has been arrested,” he said. 

Your lashes fluttered and you nodded, speechless. He bent and the tip of his long nose met your stomach. He slid his arms to hug you as he turned and pressed his ear to your middle. You froze as you watched him, as if he was listening for the stirring of his child. You were startled by his tameness. He kissed your stomach as he drew back to look at you again.

“I need you.” He murmured, “I ache. Badly.”

You felt the stone set in your skull. Ever as you were, his plaything. You knew his meaning; it never differed. And he never asked, only demanded, 

He took your hand and stood. He pulled you up and you let him. You hadn’t the strength to deny him. There was no denying him. You didn’t want that Loki; cold and callous. So you would cede to his needs and hope they were met quickly.

He let you go as you neared the bed. He rolled down his shorts and his desire stood up before him. He lowered himself across the mattress and beckoned to you. You lowered your eyes and chewed your lip to keep from showing the turmoil raging inside you. You lifted your shift over your head and dropped it. 

He guided you over him and stroked his cock as he did. He pressed his tip along your folds, his hand on your hip as he urged you down. You sank to his hilt and he sighed. He stilled you and looked at the joining of your bodies. The silence enshrined you and you closed your eyes. He took your hands and placed them on his chest.

He gripped your waist and moved you atop him. Slowly so that your clit rubbed against him. You hated how good it felt, hated that you couldn’t stop, hated that he was being so… nice. You dug your nails into his flesh and sped up. He held you tighter and forced you to slow. You grunted and opened your eyes, frowning down at him.

“No,” he spoke at last, “Not like that.”

You shook your head. When had he ever wanted anything but hard, fast pleasure. You pulled your hands from him and he forced them back as they were. You struggled with him for only a moment as he squeezed your wrists in warning.

“Slow,” he bid as he stared into your eyes. 

His hands returned to your sides and he rocked you again. You shuttered as the tide began to roll inside of you, swelling as it grew. You moaned as you began to quake. Loki’s deliberate stride had you confused. His pace matched your pleasure, quickening only as your voice rose louder.

You came again. You twitched atop him and he moved you as your wits left you entirely. His own voice filled your ears and his thick breaths intermingled with his lurid groans. His hand snaked around to your back and the other spread over your stomach. He stilled you and tilted his hips into you over and over from below.

He exclaimed as his orgasm struck him and impaled you entirely. He slowed and eased you down against him. He embraced you as he laid you over his chest and cradled your head as his chin rested against your head. 

What was that? You wondered as your heart raced with his. His petered out but you couldn’t help as your mind struggled against your body.

When you calmed enough to move. His arms fell away and you parted from him, his seed spilling down your thighs. You fell back on the mattress, your flesh still buzzing. You couldn’t look at him. Why would he do that? Like that?

You were his whore, he’d told you time and again. You rolled onto your side, your back to him and crossed your arms. He ran his fingers along your spine.

“Are you unwell?” He asked.

You didn’t answer. Why would he even ask that? Your eyes tingled and you fought to hold back your tears. He was just torturing you. That’s all this was.

“Speak to me, mouse,” he grabbed your shoulder and forced you flat on your back.

You gritted your teeth and stared at the ceiling. “Why?”

“I was gentle…” He said, his voice tinged with confusion.

“Yes, why?” You repeated.

“I…” He paused and the silence was thick as it choked you.

“When your wife arrives, what will she think of me, your whore, and the bastard inside of me?” You spat. 

He sat up and leaned on his arm as he watched you. You refused to look at him.

“I’ll deal with my wife.” He said, “And I’ll deal with you. Don’t forget yourself, mouse.”

You scoffed and tried to turn away from him again. He held you down and let out a long breath. His hand came up to frame your face. “I am heartened, mouse, that you do remain so stubborn.”

🐍

Sleep did not come easy that night. Not to you. Loki was hardly bothered as he snored beside you. His arm was across you as if to remind you of his power over you. Your thoughts strayed back to all your worries. Gilla, Thor, the man beside you, the child in your stomach.

Your life was not your own. It had never been. As you thought, you realised you had only ever been used by others. You had only ever been a footnote to someone else’s will. You had nothing, not even your own body, your own mind.

You slowly slipped from beneath Loki’s arm. Your thighs were sticky still with his cum and you were sickened by the sensation. You stood and went to the bath chamber and cleaned yourself with the cold water of the basin. You saw yourself in the looking glass. You looked hollow; you felt it.

You went back to the bedroom and covered yourself with the silken robe allotted you. You bent, awkwardly, to feed a log to the ashes and stirred it until you found ember. As the flame began to lick at the pale bark, you stood with a groan and passed into the front chamber.

You wandered around the space; it was smaller than the king’s former residence. You neared the table placed against the wall and stared at the peculiar object left atop it. Careless, you thought as you pulled the leather-sheathed dagger towards you. Or deliberate?

Loki had a wife coming and brother to be tried. You were trouble for both. He was ever a trickster, ever deceptive, and perhaps, you had been dumb enough to believe him. Again. He didn’t want you back, didn’t want a bastard to muddy his inheritance; he’d only wanted a reason to be rid of Thor. Surely, he was so intent on keeping you hidden so that none would notice if you were gone.

Had you been foolish enough to think he felt anything towards you but the need to sate his own lust? That he had any loyalty to you beyond a warm cunt? That you had any place here once he married? That your child would be welcomed as anything but a nuisance?

You sat and freed the dagger from its cover. You held the blade up in the dim and felt its sharp edge with your fingertip. It sliced easily into your flesh. You turned it in your hand and thought of bringing it to your throat or plunging it deep in your chest. Your eyes welled and at last, the dam was broken.

You cried into your palm as your other hand gripped the dagger. You trembled and peered down at your stomach. Would he care? If he found you in a river of your own blood? It would be a favour to all. 

You wept until your eyes were swollen and your throat was hoarse. You were a coward. Why couldn’t you just do it? What did you have to live for?

“Mouse,” Loki’s voice was cautious. “What are you… give me the knife, mouse.”

You dropped the blade and flinched as it bounced between your feet. You shook your head and mopped up the last of your tears from your cheeks. Loki neared slowly and bent to lift the dagger. He took the sheath and replaced it on the silver. His jaw squared as you avoided his gaze.

“What were you thinking to do with this?” He growled.

“Nothing,” you croaked. “I was only curious.”

“Don’t lie to me.” He hissed. “Whatever you were thinking, I don’t want it to ever cross your mind again. Understood?”

You nodded and hung your head. He moved away from you and opened the chest atop the side table. He tossed the dagger within and locked it.

“I told you. It is treason to spill king’s blood.” He stomped back to you. “Death cannot save you from my wrath.”

“I didn’t--”

“You thought to.” He snarled. “Get up.”

“Your majesty--”

“I will not tell you twice.” He barked.

You stood and he seized your arm. He turned you and marched you back into the bedchamber. He sat you down on the edge of the bed and you expected him to tear open the robe. You expected the same as he had been. You were certain he would be atop you in an instant.

But he passed you and went to the cloak hung beside your own. He fished around the pocket sewn into the lining and took out a bundle. He returned to you and held out the folded linen, bound with a length of hide lace. You frowned and he dropped it into your lap.

“Go on,” he loomed over you.

Your hands shook and you pulled free the bow looped atop the bundle. You unfolded the linen and revealed a pair of green booties, winding snakes sewn into the soles and golden ribbons woven along the top. They were small, meant for an infant. You cradled them in your hands as your throat tightened.

“My mother sewed them,” he said. “I found them after she died. I had almost forgotten them before I moved from my own chambers.” He sat beside you heavily. “I don’t know what else to do with them.”

You peeked over at him. You lowered them back to the linen and set them aside. “They’re meant for a prince.” You muttered.

“No, only for my child,” he said, “Prince or no.” His cheek twitched and he stared at the carpet, “Don’t make me hide them again. I couldn’t bear it.”

You were quiet. You’d never seen him so vulnerable. Angry, annoyed, longing… but never so solemn. Despite all your loathing for him, your heart squeezed. You took his hand, he winced, but let you move it. You put it to your stomach.

“It is my child, too,” you said softly. “I couldn’t…”

He nodded and pressed his palm firmly to your midriff. You sat, silently, the crackle of the fire the only noise. Loki did not move, nor did you. A wordless pact forged between you. The child would live. It had to.

[chai-tealattae]

Pen Pals

soul mate /ˈsōl ˌmāt/

noun; a person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner.

✒️ Pairing: Taehyung x reader

✒️ Genre: Fluff

✒️ Word Count: 2.4k

✒️ Warnings: Swearing

A/N: This is my first fic pls be nice AKSDK

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

You tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep. Tomorrow was your 21st birthday, the day your soulmate connection would be revealed to you. You’d heard stories from your parents, family friends, and even some of your friends that were a year or two older than you about the different connections. What if you got one that would make it damn near impossible to find them? What if your soulmate was older than you, and already knew, but gave up since you were too young? You sighed and laid flat on your back, staring at the ceiling, giving up on your futile attempts at a decent night's sleep, your mind hot with the different scenarios baking within it.

The next morning, you groaned and begrudgingly swung your legs over the side of your bed, stretching as you opened the curtains, the mid morning sunlight flooding into your room. You cringed slightly at the brightness, your eyes struggling to adjust. Yawning as you walked into your kitchen, deciding on a bowl of cereal for breakfast. Scrolling through your phone as you ate, you smiled as you read the birthday wishes from your friends and family. After replying to as many as you felt like doing, you opened Twitter to see what fresh hell awaited you on your timeline. Surprisingly there wasn't really anything bad being mercilessly tweeted about.

The one thing that caught your eye was the lovely photo on your screen, tweeted a couple hours ago, staring back at you. It was embarrassing how infatuated you were with a certain man by the name of Kim Taehyung. He was the perfect man, in all honesty, by your standards at least. He was devilishly handsome yet charmingly adorable from the tip of his nose down to his toes, the smallest details all adding to the things that caused him to worm his way into your heart.

You smiled as you saved the picture to your camera roll before setting your phone down on the table. Your smile quickly turned into a surprised squeak as you felt an oddly ticklish sensation on your wrist, and you stared down at it in shock. Appearing on your skin before your eyes was writing, but it wasn't just any writing. It was a greeting.

“Hello?”

This must be it, your soulmate bond. You didn’t know anyone personally with this particular bond, but you’d read about it through your countless nights of curiosity and excitement driven research.

You nearly tripped on your own feet as you scrambled to find some kind of writing utensil, eager to respond to the stranger. Not just a stranger. Your soulmate. You felt your heart rate quicken just at that thought. You found a pen on your counter, quickly scribbling a response below their message.

“Hello!” You wrote back. Not 30 seconds later, you felt the tickling sensation again, impatiently tapping your pen on the counter as you awaited their response.

“It’s you! You’re finally getting my notes!” You smiled to yourself, your late night suspicion confirming itself. They were definitely older than you, but hopefully not by much. You’d hate if you left your soulmate waiting for too long for you.

“How long have you been trying?” You wrote, a little smaller this time near the ditch of your elbow, so you wouldn’t take up too much valuable space on your skin. You bit your lip as you felt your skin tingle again, hoping it wasn’t too bad-

“Four years” Four years. Four whole years they’d been writing on themselves with no response. You sighed, feeling awful. Well, at least you knew how old they were. Twenty-five, twenty-six tops, if their birthday was coming up sometime soon.

“I'm sorry you waited so long… today is my 21st birthday” you wrote back, twisting your arm at a slightly awkward angle as you did this. You smiled softly, growing familiar with, and anticipating the feeling as they wrote.

“Happy birthday :)” Was written there. You smiled and wrote your thanks, not really sure how to proceed with finding them. You’d read that there were specific guidelines when it came to the different connections, things you weren’t able to do, since that would make finding your soulmate too easy. Things like their exact location, names, things of that nature. The catch is, you were able to reveal that when you were in the same vicinity. As if trying to find them wouldn’t be hard enough.

Over the next month or so, you’d learned that your soulmate was a man that was born in South Korea (you didn’t know how you’d ever be able to swing a trip there, or vice versa). You learned that he enjoyed drawing, painting, photography, singing and dancing. He was fun to talk to (at least until there wasn't any more space on either of your bodies for more ink). He had a pretty time consuming career from what he told you, but he still liked to draw you pictures to wake up to, or write you little good morning messages. You found yourself becoming incredibly fond of him, even without ever seeing his face.

One day, you found yourself staring at your laptop and phone screens, focusing excruciatingly hard on trying to score tickets to see BTS in your city. After nearly missing the opportunity, and a decent amount of money you’d surely have to pull quite a bit of overtime to make up for, you scored a decent seat for their show in a couple months. Eager to share the news with someone, you wrote on your arm.

“I just got tickets to see BTS!!” You wrote with a shaky hand, your already poor penmanship suffering even more. This would be your first time seeing them, seeing the man you’d had your eyes on for so long.

~~~~~

Taehyung smiled when he felt you were writing or perhaps drawing something for him. He loved reading your short messages about your day, getting to know you. Over the past months he was growing more and more impatient, half tempted to fly to the States and wing it. His heart nearly thudded out of his chest when he read what you wrote.

“I just got tickets to see BTS!!”

Holy shit. This was good. This was great, actually. Now he knew you were a fan. Jimin looked over when he saw the stupid grin plastered on his bandmate’s face.

“What is it, Taehyung-ah?” He asked. Taehyung didn’t answer verbally, just angled his arm so Jimin could see what you wrote. He broke into his own smile. “Oh this is good! Maybe you're closer to meeting her than you thought.” He said, patting the younger man’s back. Taehyung smiled with a nod, you being the only thing occupying his mind at the moment.

~~~~~

It was the day of your concert and you could barely contain your excitement. You barely slept the night before, knowing you would be exhausted, but couldn't find it in yourself to care all too much. You’d been waiting for what seemed like forever for this day, and weren't going to let anything, not even your lack of sleep, ruin it for you.

The day seemed to drag even longer than usual, before you figured it was a good time to start getting ready. You got dressed in an outfit that you purchased specifically for this event, a more affordable version of the Dior outfits Rap Line sported during their performances of Tear, and you put on your TaTa headband as the final touch. You know, so everyone knew specifically who you were there for. You looked at yourself in the mirror one last time, smiling and letting out an excited squeak as you grabbed everything you would need, before you made your way to the venue.

The venue was absolutely packed. There was no way you’d be able to even get any merch without missing half the concert standing in that line. You sighed quietly to yourself and went to your seat, busying yourself with syncing your lightstick so it would light up with everyone else's. You looked around from your seat, in awe about how many people were here. Crazy how many people could fit into one space.

While you waited for the concert to start, you decided to write him a message about how excited you were, and that you would keep him updated throughout the show. You decided to draw a small heart on your hand, in the space between your pointer finger and thumb, just because. You smiled when you saw his words appear on your arm.

“Have fun <3”

Oh, you would. You would have the time of your life. Little did you know, in more ways than one.

~~~~

Taehyung knew you had to be here somewhere. You just had to be. He ran a hand through his perfectly groomed hair, effectively rendering his stylist’s hard work useless. He couldn’t help it. Not when he knew his soulmate was in this building. His mind started to race. What if you didn’t want to be with him? What if you liked one of the other members better than him? What if you couldn’t deal with his lifestyle? He was pacing now, and everyone but him seemed to notice.

“Taehyung-ah, relax. I’m sure everything will work out fine.” Namjoon smiled reassuringly. Taehyung nodded and let out a breath, sitting down. They were called to start getting into position, and Taehyung knew he had to do it, now or he wouldn’t have time, and you would slip through his fingers. He pulled out his pen, writing one word on his forearm in larger than usual letters. He put his pen in his pocket, heading to where his microphone and earpieces were waiting for him, hoping you would see his message.

~~~~~

When the concert started, you could barely focus on anything else other than the men on stage in front of you. You felt the familiar tickle on your arm that your soulmate had written you, though you ignored it for the time being. You couldn’t keep your eyes off of Taehyung, witnessing his incredible stage presence and the massive amount of fan service he was giving was mesmerising, to say the least.

When time for the intermission came around, and the VCRs played on the big screens, you took a moment to see what your soulmate wrote to you. You gasped when you saw the big, capital letters spread along the length of your forearm.

“TAEHYUNG”

There was no way. Absolutely no fucking way. Kim Taehyung was not your soulmate. You had to have been some sort of saint in your previous life to deserve such treatment from the universe. You stared at your arm for a few more seconds in complete disbelief, before taking your pen out of your pocket, writing your name under his on your arm. A minute later, you felt him writing, and you anxiously chewed at your lip as you awaited his response.

“Where are you?”

You hurriedly scribbled your section and seat number, your brain barely able to process what was happening.

Within 5 minutes, there was a man approaching you, asking you to confirm your name. When you did, he told you to come with him, you did without asking any questions. The man led you backstage, and you looked around, frantically trying to find the familiar face in the crowd of stage hands.

When your eyes finally met his, you felt like you couldn’t breathe. Was it anxiety? Excitement? A spicy mixture of both? You couldn’t really tell, but there were some things you needed to see. His long legs effortlessly closed the distance between you, until you were standing toe to toe. You looked up at him and he looked down at you, neither of you truly believing you were here at this moment. You studied his face for a moment, then without a word, you took his hands, inspecting them. There it was. You brought your hand up and compared, the tiny heart you drew on your hand matching the one on his. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing the messages you’d written to each other throughout the day.

“Y/N…” He said quietly, only loud enough that you could hear. “I finally found you. You’re even more beautiful than I imagined.”

“I can’t believe it’s you.” You said as you looked up at him, tears beginning to form in the corners of your eyes.  He smiled and brought his hand to gently cup your cheek, his thumb lightly brushing against your cheekbone.  

“Are you disappointed?” He asked with a chuckle, his tone teasing. You shook your head, letting out a quiet laugh.

“Not even a little bit.” You reassured him, smiling softly. He gave you a toothy grin before leaning down and closing the small space between you, and you couldn’t help but melt when his lips finally met yours. The kiss was soft and careful, as if he was testing the waters. When you pushed slightly against his lips, he deepened the kiss just a little more.

He was the first to pull away, seemingly remembering his surroundings, and you caught the faintest tint of pink creep onto his face. It was almost time for him to go back on stage, and he rested his forehead against yours for a moment, his eyes locked with yours as he intertwined your fingers with his.

“Wait for me? I plan to talk to you for hours, now that I can finally hear your voice.” He said, and you nodded without hesitation. He smiled widely before pressing a kiss to your forehead, jogging off to wherever it was he was needed. You sat on the couch that was there for the members beside the stage, running a hand through your hair. Never in your wildest dreams did you think something like this could happen. Not to you, at least. You felt him writing again, and this time, you paid full attention to the words appearing along your arm.

“I love you.”

Your heart skipped a beat as you read those 3 words, pulling out your pen and writing your response.

“I love you too.” You wrote, carefully, easily readable. Never had you meant something more in your life. You couldn’t wait for him to come back to you, for him to execute his plan. After what felt like a very long time, you couldn’t wait to finally begin your life with the man you happily called your soulmate.

[hankwritten]

TFComics Rewrite

I am currently plotting an outline for a TFComics, and I want to get my thoughts about fixes to canon and possibly get feedback. Since this is a rewrite there’s really no *spoilers* or anything, so I’m willing to answer all questions about what I plan to do. Also some characters I’m not so sure about how I want to retool them, so if your have ideas for your fav let me know!

Disclaimer:

This rewrite is intended to critique the content/choices made in the construction and telling of the Team Fortress 2 comic series. It is not a personal attack on the artists/writers/directors or any of the creatives that made contributions to this series, nor is it meant to substitute or replace the official release. This work is transformative in nature, and relies on an understanding of the source material to be understood. TF2 and its characters belong to Valve.

TFCR is working on the assumption that the audience has read the original comic, and as such will skip over scenes and plot points that are unchanged from the original. I don’t think it needs to be said, but this fanfiction will not make sense if you are not familiar with the source.

I also recognize that there are strengths within the comic’s writing and weaknesses within my own. Namely, that Valve writers are gods in the realm of comedy, and I’d rather not try to match them in the regard. As such, I will state up front that these will not be as funny as the TFComics. That is not to say there won’t be jokes (either ones transplanted from the source or some of my own) or that the tone of this will be terribly grimdark, only that my focus will be on improving story structure and character development as those are what appeal to me.

 The Broad Strokes

The goal of TFCR is to give a more engaging story for all the mercenaries we know and love, as--let’s face it--the TF2 mercs are side characters in their own damn story. These are some of the planned improvements.

There will be reason for each of the mercs to actually be there. As it stands, the motivations for almost every character besides Pauling and Saxton Hale are vague and unsatisfying. We’d usually say something along the lines of “money” for hired killers, but clearly Scout doesn’t even know if they’re getting paid, and some of the other characters are even worse. The hunt for the Australium is, therefore, boring. MacGuffins usually are, but at the very least the characters should care about the item even if the audience doesn’t. This work aims to give each of the nine mercs a motive and a reason to be in the story instead of just replaceable joke dispensers.

Explain what “Team Fortress” means, and how it relates to RED and BLU. Long and short: the nine mercenaries we see on the team are not from either RED or BLU but rotate between the two, and were the individuals selected to fight the robots. That means all things do happen to all characters. As Valve pretty much goes with “whatever is funniest at the time”, it’s very hard to make a cohesive theory about “where the hell is BLU team?”, but I’ll do my damndest. We’ll also examine Team Fortress’s relationship with the other capital T Teams, and why they’re considered the “rejects” of the bunch.

Comics 1 & 2 will be removed from the timeline as they serve no purpose, only taking what needs to be known about the plot’s setup and jumping straight to A Cold Day in Hell.

We will introduce the Classic Mercs right away so they can generate threat and play against the TF mercs when they do actually meet head to head.

We will not be killing off Gray Mann. (Not preemptively anyway.) In fact, there will be more focus on him and Olivia as villains facing off against the Admin, providing her foil as the TF2 and TFC mercs provide foils for each other.

I considered waiting until the final comic was out to begin working on this, but that may never happen. Jay Pinkerton said he may reveal what plot they had in store eventually, but considering it took Half Life over a decade to get the “I was once a Valve writer but my NDA has expired and now I can go buck wild” treatment, I’m not holding my breath. The main reason I wanted to do this is that the Administrator’s motivations are not interestingly foreshadowed, to the point where there aren’t even any good fan theories out there. That said, WritingDispenser and Riddle of the Sphinx helped come up with a pretty fun one, which was actually the inspiration for me to get off my butt and start plotting this.

There will be no queerbaiting. This refers both to HeavyMedic (which has been simultaneously used as wink wink nudge nudge joke many times and as encouragement for fans to play their stupid hat game) as well as lesbian Pauling (since femme lesbians are the preferred method for front facing LGBT representation across almost all media, but video games especially). If you need to understand why lesbian Pauling is an issue, Sarah Z coined the term “queercatching” in order to describe word of god confirmations on characters sexualities that are not followed up on in the text. I recommend the full video on it.

Due to the importance of immortality in the theming of the comics, respawn will not be a thing. Deaths we think should have happened previously will be explained as close calls, or that Medic can heal a short time after death. Medic and Scout’s deaths will be cut in the story itself, as after Sniper died and came back, them doing the same thing kinda lost their punch.

Scout

There will be no ScoutPauling hints. It doesn’t make sense to give screentime to this relationship because Valve obviously doesn’t think it’s going to go anywhere so why make Scout turn down advances from other hot women? I mean I get Expiration Date was a Thing but it feels like Scout’s whole motivation shouldn’t be reduced down to chasing a girl who doesn’t like him back.

He’s here because he lost his life’s savings in bad investments and needs the money. That’s it. Which is still somehow more than his canon motive which is question mark question mark question mark

He, Soldier, Spy, Demo, and Pyro all start the adventure with Miss Pauling.

Engages with Heavy on a genuine level when they go to collect him, Heavy doesn’t blow him off when he tries to level about dead dads.

There will be no DadSpy reveal. The way Spy treats Scout has never been “deadbeat dad feels bad about abandoning his kid” but more “this is someone I would kill without a second thought if I felt like it” which makes his reveal in comic 5 feel very disingenuous. I don’t think Valve even had this plotline in mind until comic 3, as #2 still has Spy seeming only to care about Scout’s Ma and not Scout himself. It also makes “seduce me!” retroactively weird.

Uhhh hooks up with Zhanna. This one isn’t critical I just think it’s funny.

Soldier

Soldier is going to be the Ur example of the Admin not treating her people well, as we’re going to lean into the whole “Soldier was only mildly messed up until the whole lead poisoning” thing.

He’s here because he’s blindingly loyal to the cause. He’s actually going to very little from canon because of this actually.

Might be the reason Team Fortress has a reputation of being the lower tiers of the Teams, but that doesn’t mean he’s damn good at his job. Fatal flaw is that he’s unstable, and even though the courthouse plotline won’t be in this fic, it should be noted that he actually does cause problems for the other protagonists due to his short temper. He’s a risky asset, but still essential.

There will be a minor explanation for the WAR! Comic, but I think that’s better saved for Demo’s analysis.

Pyro

Pyro is the character you could cut entirely from the comics and have the least change. Now, they’re going to be Pauling’s right hand. Let me explain.

Engineer and Pyro are implied to live together, and Pyro doesn’t have anything better to do than go with Engie after Team Fortress is disbanded. Rather than having a reveal, we will see some of what is going on with the Admin and friends early on, and see what leads up to her sending Miss P the note that kicks off the whole plot. However, while Engie needs to stay and look after her, Pyro’s skills aren’t useful here, and they are sent as a direct messenger to help Pauling.

They’re loyal, and unlike Soldier rarely mess up orders. They’re also partially mute, making them ideal for handling sensitive info. Pauling trusts them to handle the burning of “Elizabeth’s” paper trail.

Will be using they/them in the narrative voice, but other characters will refer to them as he/him. I considered going with it/its because that’s bubbled up in popularity again, but ultimately I decided against it.

We’ll get glimpses to their train of thought, but like the comics they will remain virtually silent.

Demo

Demo’s role in the cast is going to be very similar to Spy’s. The events of WAR! involved him nearly dying and Soldier taking the win, and he’s very bitter that after all those events *apparently* mercs can just be switched around teams willy nilly and don’t have to kill each other anymore. (As the audience, we know this is because the Admin found out the “make them so angry they won’t ask questions” wasn’t a long-term viable solution, and instead brought TFI forward as a neutral third party that was pretending to mediate the gravel wars.) But Demo’s suspicious, and is only along because he really has been miserable since he lost his job.

This conflict will eventually come to a head, more on that in the Sniper section.

Is fairly forgiving with his teammates. Doesn’t like Sniper but I’m willing to drop a little angst during that submarine scene. Is glad to see Medic actually. Here to be some glue to hold this merry band together.

The Eyelander will not be forgotten after 2 comics because I love this character concept and I think it was underutilized.

Drunk jokes will be kept to a minimum. What I liked about WAR! and Bombinomicon was that it took Demo and showed that they knew how to make him funny without making him one note, which they sort of did in the early TFComics but stopped in the later ones in favor of him….being asleep for the whole plot. I promise 100% awake Demo in my rewrite.

Demo likes Pauling on a personal level, but has trouble reconciling her with his feelings on TFI.

Doesn’t get knocked out by moonshine because. Seriously? Poisoning the Demoman with alcohol? In what world does that work.

Heavy

Not too much to change. Scout doesn’t accompany him when he goes to look for the secret Australium cache, and he engages with Mags and Saxton (which will be when the audience finds out what they’ve been up to) and actually cares about what’s going on with them. He thinks Darling is up to something. Which he is, he’s attempting to unseat both Gray and Helen due to long family history.

Will at least mention Medic. Their reunion falls a little flat since it mostly relies on Meet the Medic for context, as they don’t really interact in the comic. There can be a bit of a flashback to what it was like as all these mercs broke up.

I know uhhh Valve seems to think found family is really dumb, and that these murderers could ever like each other is silly or something, but the mercs do? Like each other? For the most part anyways. 

Bronislava and Yana come alone for adventures, not just Zhanna. Again, no real reason, but sometimes I get to have tacky fanfic stuff in my own fanfic because I Wanna.

Engineer

Engie ruminates on his family history of allowing all this bullshit to happen and just kind of shrugging. Basically Moss’s analysis of the Conagher themes.

Has put a lot of time, sweat, and tears into BLU and now TFI, isn’t willing to let it fall now, even if Admin is basically living on borrowed time. He’s doing this because of the ‘ole sunk cost fallacy.

Also we get to see more of Pauling and Admin’s relationship through his eyes.

Medic

Congrats on being the one merc with an actual arc, Medic! As a reward, you will not be changed much.

I’m actually going to use Medic’s section to say that the Classic mercs will be referred to by their first names in order to differentiate them, and we’ll get little previews of what they’re like from Medic’s perspective before we actually see them fight Team fortress. The battle at the submarine will be more of a fight in this sense, working it out so it seems like surrender is the only option after Sniper is killed.

Final fight with Cheavy will be...not blocked so awkwardly. I mean this is now a textual medium so my work is already halfway done, but still the pacing is so weird. Shudder.

Sniper

These are the big guns. Most changes, even more than Demo. He’s been actually hunting for New Zealand/the Australium cache on his own, and doesn’t want Pauling interfering, saying for a he knows she could have been the ones to kill his adoptive parents.

(She hasn’t, but the Admin did actually order them killed in an attempt to stop Sniper because she thought she could prevent the exact thing that is going on right now which is that Sniper is considering trying to get at it.)

Sniper doesn’t know this, but Pauling, Demo, and Spy eventually convince him to share his findings and help them get to New Zealand.

Spy

Similar to Demo but is less conflicted about it. He knows just because he likes someone doesn’t mean he won’t have to kill them later. 

Spy knows about who killed Sniper’s parents, and tells Demo, sort of as a test to see where his loyalties lie. He also knows that Pyro is Pauling’s confidant for certain things.

Demo questions him about what he’s doing here, whose side he’s really on. But you know. Spy is Spy and he was never really on anyone’s side but his own. When it comes down to it, it might be exactly as Scout thinks: that he’s ditched them all and run off when he had the opportunity. But, big damn hero, comes back in the end.

He’s here mainly to “keep an eye on things.” Also maybe because his gf asked him to keep an eye on her son :)

[bigskydreaming]

That post about "I'll keep reading a fic that mischaracterizes Dick even if it angers me because the plot is interesting" but with Scott McCall. I'll come across genuinely interesting concepts and plots and power through for that even when Scott is portrayed negatively in the story, he's there at least and it's either that or wading through 99% of fic which centers Stiles/Sterek and the most common Scott tag being "Scott's a bad friend" ya know?

Honestly, what is it about Scott McCall and Dick Grayson that gets them (mis)treated so similarly by their respective fandoms?

Oh yeah, definitely. Tbh, part of why I’m so loud and obnoxious in Batfandom is because in TW fandom it eventually got to the point where I just had to stop reading fic completely, because I wasn’t finding anything that was Scott-friendly outside of the handful of writers I was already friends with and I just got fed up. And I’m too stubborn to do the same thing twice in two separate fandoms so I just....refuse to give up on DG fic by way of a rousing morning “Not today Satan” pep talk. fhslakhfkal

But honestly, the parallels, there are more than a few:

1) Obviously I do think the racism element has plenty to do with it. Especially in the way “is Scott really even Latino on the show though, I mean did they ever actually SAY it” arguments could be swapped out almost word for word with the “is Dick really even Romani in the comics though, I mean it was just a retcon” arguments. With the primary aim of arguments against this being a factor focusing on just invalidating the idea that either are characters of color in the first place, rather than examining the way people engage with these characters for signs of racism. Instead of trying to refute that there’s anything wrong with certain ways people interact with these characters, people jump right into “well there can’t be racism if the character in question isn’t even REALLY a character of color, y’know not like, a board-certified one with proper accreditation and everything.”

But its definitely interesting when you look at how Dick Grayson’s been perceived by fandom overall, like, in terms of looking back over the years. As someone who’s been in and out of DC fandoms to various degrees since the late 90s, as in before Dick was retconned as being Romani in the first place, and as I’ve said before, he used to be a LOT more popular and forgiven for stuff in the past in fandom.....like, I maintain that if you look back at the early 2000s-2010, aka when that retcon was not just written, but gradually and more fully spread into the fandom’s overall awareness and perception of the character....you can almost like, SEE the empathy gap suddenly click into place once he was more fully solidified as a character of color in a lot of fans’ minds. Even if they won’t admit it because that would require admitting to the racism that then began to seep into how they interacted with this character now, compared to how they’d interacted with this character in the past.

And I think the empathy gap - and the complete refusal to admit that’s even a thing, because its not like these are REALLY characters of color so why would it even apply - like, I think that goes a long way to explaining the way both Scott and Dick consistently have their traumas invalidated and ignored by large parts of their fandoms, with the focus always being shifted to how bad things that happen to them are really MORE bad for how they affect the people around them, etc.

2) It also I think has a lot to do with their personalities and the archetypes they both embody as empathetic caregiver types. I think I described it pretty well here in my BUABS fic:

“What do you know about Impostor Syndrome?"

"It's a term sometimes used to describe over-achievers who have trouble internalizing their accomplishments. Perfectionists who think they're frauds because they don't know how to take credit for their own achievements and say its because of luck or timing or something other people did," Dick frowned, puzzling through both the question and the aim of it. He raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't sound like something that applies to someone as arrogant as me."

"Don't be a little shit, Dick," Dinah said with small smirk. "And you're right, I don't think any of that applies to you. However, it's also used in another capacity, to describe trauma survivors who are unable to internalize their own trauma. Who deflect from it, or mitigate it, treat it as less than it is on the basis that it wasn't as bad as what's happened to someone else. It's especially common in trauma survivors who are noted for being especially empathetic or who have caregiver personality types. People who are so used to self-identifying as someone whose role or purpose is in helping others, that they find themselves unable to identify as traumatized because it might shift the focus to themselves instead of people they feel need it more. Does that behavior sound a little more familiar?"

(For the record, that fic is set in the YJ universe, not the comics, and I go with the approach that Dick and Bruce have a much better relationship there than they do in the comics, and thus overall Dick’s mental health and self-esteem are better than in the comics, generally speaking. I only mention this as a tangent, but like....I think Impostor Syndrome as an issue for perfectionists and over-achievers with low self-esteem DOES pertain to comic book Dick Grayson as well as its trauma interpretation. But anyway).

But point is, I think that describes both Dick and Scott, and their respective approaches to dealing (or not dealing) with their personal traumas. This isn’t a problem in and of itself, as its a valid survivor reaction and issue plenty of people deal with....the problem lies in the willingness of fans to capitalize on the OPPORTUNITIES this presents, as fans of other characters, to keep the focus trained on the characters around these two, and THEIR issues, even at the expense of these two.

Basically, its not in either of their natures to ASK for help and forcefully DRAG focus and awareness to themselves and their issues, for a number of reasons including the fact that I don’t think either character feels they ‘deserve’ that focus or need that help more than other people need theirs. 

And because these characters are the empathetic caregiver archetypes in their respective ensembles, ie the ones who usually take the lead in reaching out to even characters who don’t normally ask for help themselves....there’s often no one else immediately popping up in reader awareness as like, a likely candidate to extend that same awareness and offer of aid to Dick and Scott even without them actually asking for it.

(Which, is a large part of my commitment to the theme “Stop assembling your ensembles with just ONE of each archetype, mix and match more, or like....use more hybrid archetypes so you don’t HAVE this problem, and also, stop limiting characters to JUST their archetypes, three-dimensional people aren’t confined to only acting upon a limited menu of actions and impulses, and neither should three-dimensional characters be.”)

And then of course there’s the additional component, linked to point #1, that a lot of people refuse to write other characters seeing their need for help or support or offering it even when they do see it, simply because like....they don’t WANT these characters to HAVE help or support.

3) The Intelligence Factor - as in, do they really have it? Both Scott McCall and Dick Grayson are repeatedly and consistently established in their respective canons as being extremely intelligent, and no, not JUST in emotional intelligence. I don’t like sounding like I’m undervaluing that particular form of intelligence, I’m just really irritated by the way people go about saying “oh I do admit they have very high emotional intelligence” like they’re throwing them some kind of a bone. LMAO. No. They both have high emotional intelligence, true, but they’re also extremely intelligent across the board in all other ways. Both are excellent strategists, quick-thinking and repeatedly out-maneuvering even other noted strategists, both display a quick grasp of new information and an ability to see how and where and when to PUT that information to use in practical applications, etc. These are not dumb characters, at ALL.

But fandoms have this weird committment to the idea that only the Smartest Person In The Room REALLY matters, and like, there can only be one of those per room, or like, at most two, so that they can be a matched pair and make kissing noises and then very smart babies, or like, they can be the doting (smart) father and his adored (smartest) son, all others can go home now.

Like, no, that’s not how that works. A room full of geniuses does not suddenly become a room full of ONE genius and a bunch of random and irrelevant cuz they’re dumb non-geniuses the second someone deemed King of the Smarties enters the room. That’s not a thing. Stop acting like that’s a thing, fandoms. Nobody’s intelligence is actually threatened by the presence of more than one character with notable intelligence. Also fuck off with the adoration of notable intelligence like people have more value the more decimal points of pi they can recite off the top of their head. That’s not a more evolved human being, that’s just a nerd. Nerds have value but no more than people who like, chose other life pursuits aside from nerddom.

(Not actually intended as a slight against nerds, just for the record. I say that as both a self-described nerd and also a self-loathing nerd and also lol I’m not a nerd. Look, I’m a very nuanced person okay. I put the complex in complex organism).

But the point here is not just that people are weird about there only being one true genius allowed per ensemble, its that people are WEIRD about how in order to ACTUALLY be smart, you need to like.....accurately match the factory specs for “this is how a smart person looks and behaves.”

And Scott and Dick do not look and behave that way. The sheer number of times - and similar ways - people try to completely discredit the idea they have more than one brain cell by pointing to times they’re being INTENTIONALLY goofy and being like “oh yeah, would a smart person do THAT, hmmmm”.....

Its like...yes? LOL. There is no law that says that a smart person can not be a goofball, or that they are no longer smart if they fulfill a certain quota of actions deemed ‘dopey’ by the official arbiters of smartness.

Similarly the way people like to point at stuff like “my mom buys the groceries” when the writers BEHIND the characters were intentionally trying to play up a comedic moment rather than make a sealed declaration of IQ, and be like, “see, would a smart person be THAT dumb, hmmm?”

First of all, yes, even going off the same canon people try and cite as proof Scott and Dick are too dumb to actually be smart.....you can literally find similarly ‘dumb’ moments for every other TW character....the Sheriff expressed incredulity that Stiles didn’t know what a pendant was, and Lydia was like wtf how are you this dumb at Stiles when he asked if she read the movie the Little Mermaid because he didn’t know there was also a book.....Allison made the same mistake about bestiary as Scott did because the writers were so impressed by that joke they literally had to do it twice....and do not get me STARTED on the number of moments I can point to in comics AND movies AND cartoons where everyone from Bruce to Tim to Jason to Damian and more, like, make utter bonehead moves or utter completely bonehead sentences.

Despite what rumors of my being an ancient eldritch being might have some believe, I did not actually know Albert Einstein personally, but I can still with complete confidence say I GUARANTEE that at more than one point in his life, even he did things that might have been pointed at by time-travelers on vacay as evidence that geez, old-timey smart people were really dumb, huh.

And I think we would all agree that Albert Einstein was actually a very smart man.

But yeah, point is, both Scott and Dick are very smart characters who for a lot of reasons - including personal choice, as in, they don’t really see the appeal in conforming to standards of what a smart person is SUPPOSED to be like (especially when those standards have a weird amount in common with tendencies often described as elitist or condescending or like, having or pertaining to the qualities of an asshole) - like, they just don’t typically behave or conduct themselves in ways that match up with a lot of the assumptions people have for what ‘makes’ a genius or what that’s supposed to look or sound like.

And because they don’t SEEM like they’re that smart, a lot of effort then gets put into insisting that they’re definitely not, and they can’t be, because see look how dumb here and here and here.....which then leeches over into other aspects of the characters and their stories and dynamics, and then combines with the issues resulting from Point 1 and Point 2 and probably two more I’m not thinking of at the moment but are definitely there so that by their powers combined.....fandom summons Captain Dumbass to take over most interactions with these particular characters. And thus repeatedly and insistently engages with these two and their stories only in very dumb, very limited, and VERY annoying ways.

[buticancarryyou]

Fic Writer Questions

@wincestismyheart thank you for tagging me in this. I love these kinds of things. Sorry it's taken me over a month to do it myself! Ha!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

I have 27 works currently. I've deleted a few over the years.

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

207,118. That's actually crazy to think about.

3. How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Predominately, Supernatural. But I do write for Skam and its Remakes as well (Skam France and Druck currently).

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

1) The First Time I Saw Your Face (263 Kudos, 4k, wincest) - I posted this one in 2019 crazily enough, so it's semi new and its also the only fic I have on ao3 that I attempted no promotion of. So how it ended up with the most kudos, is a mystery to me. This fic was a WIP for so fucking long and 2019 was a good year writing wise for me, so I was able to finish it up and post it. It's actually very endearing to my heart, because it's an over-compassing story in short glimmers of their love story from Sam's birth until Stanford!Era / Pilot.

2) Two Hearts, One Home (230 Kudos, 5k, evak - skam) - The first published fic for these two and it's literally just fluffy and porn. For some reason when I write them, I turn into a porn writing champion, which is a strange turn for me--as I usually struggle with it! Written in 2019.

3) Close Your Eyes & Make A Wish (203 Kudos, 7k, Datteo - Druck) - The first Druck fic I ever posted and it's a recanting of one of their episodes. I love Matteo and David so fucking much and they will always live in my heart. So happy I wrote this piece. Also written in 2019. (see what I mean about it being a good writing year?)

4) To Rise, We Must Fall (197 Kudos, 11k, Wincest) This was written for the 2014 reverse big bang. It was my first dip into challenges and I'm happy it exists because it gave me courage to attempt other challenges. I def don't think it's the strongest thing I've ever written, but I love it because it's Boy King related.

5) Treble Clef Confessions (191 Kudos, 1k, Elu - Skam Fr) - The first and only thing I ever wrote for Skam France. I don't anticipate writing anything in the future for them, but I do love this short little piece that reimagines a scene. This was also written in 2019.

5. Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

Oh yes, I absolutely do. I am so grateful for any comments I get, because unfortunately they are few and far between. I wish my readers left more tbh, because they just fuel my desire to keep writing. So I definitely love to take care of those that do, just to also encourage them to do the same for others.

6. What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

There's two that I think of, but I'll go with the one that has had more responses from the fandom. Everything's For You was written in my earlier tumblr days for a tumblr challenge. The prompt was basically to imagine: “Dean says time is different in hell, but what if it’s not? What if Dean really spent 40 years in hell before Cas put him back to 2008? Write what 40 years without Dean may have looked like for Sam.” And well, things get a little sad.

7. What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

I feel like I try to make sure all of my fics end on a happy note, just because I like to make the angst so severe throughout the fic. Lol. But the Skam piece I am currently working on and isn't posted yet, is def going to be the happiest. So look out for, A Weekend To Remember.

8. Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you've written?

I haven't written one yet, not to say I never would.

9. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

I wouldn't say hate, but I have had people challenge the way I write and say it's too flowery. People also try to correct the way I write Brother in Wincest fics with a capital B, but that's my creative freedom as a writer. They're not just brothers. They're Brothers. <3

10. Do you write smut? If so what kind?

I do write it, but it really depends on the fandom I guess. When I write for Sam and Dean, I feel like the smut I write is few and far between. Not that it's hard to write, or that I don't enjoy it--but I enjoy writing them without it. Sometimes I feel like it means just as much without it, because that's just them. But then I put my Skam glasses on and I'm suddenly on a smut roll.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge. I hope that never happens; I wouldn't handle that very well.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No, but I would be open to it under the right circumstances.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Nothing posted, but maybe between friends--yes.

14. What's your all time favorite ship?

Def, Wincest. I don't care how far away from SPN I get, I walk by a flower stand and see sunflowers and with always instantly be reminded of Sam. I'll see wanderer things and think of Sam. I'll see leather candles and think of Dean. I'll see an impala on the road and think of the boys on the road in the middle of the night. I will always see them everywhere and they will always be a part of me.

15. What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

Probably the 900 J2 fics I've started. I want to finish one, but I usually get distracted and start something else.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I think for me, it is dependent on how well I know a character...because if I know them like the backs of my hands, I can really get into the vein of them and write them well. The worst feeling for me is when I can't feel a characters voice as I write.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Probably that I get distracted entirely too easily. An idea will come up and I'll be all about it, write 10k of it and then think of something else. And then it'll sit in my drafts as a WIP for years, staring at me with pleading eyes and I just try my best to not think about the 'what-ifs'.

18. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I try to stay away from it if I can, because to me it is distracting.

19. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Unpublished Nsync fanfic for sure. LMAO. But second fandom would be Supernatural.

20. What's your favorite fic you've written?

There's so many things I want to say, but in this moment, I can't help but think of: A Brother's Lament (A Slow Death). It was written for the spnj2bigbang for 2016 and it's probably the longest fic I've written, being that it's 46k. It is a love story to Dean's slow and maddening deterioration after Sam's death in Swan Song. Of how he tries to live the life he promised, but finds that he physically cannot do it. It's sad and violent, dark and upsetting, but I put my whole heart into it and it's not even the most well received thing I've written--but I fucking love it so much.

Tagging: @sammichgirl @nyxocity @hellhoundsprey and @homo-pink because they're some of my favorite writers. <3

[thathopelessromantic]

Reckless Good (6/?)

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia/My Hero Academia Fic Rating: Explicit Chapter Rating: Teen+ Pairing: Todoroki Shouto/Midoriya Izuku Note: Thanks again for your amazing support so far! I really appreciate all of you and your comments have been making my weeks since posting <3 This fic will be going on a short hiatus...I'm not sure how long it will be but July has been shockingly busy this year and has only continued to get crazier so I need a little more time to write more of this fic 

Todoroki Shouto had accepted his fate as a public figure when he became a pro-hero, but there are some parts of his private life he would like to stay private. When he gets invited to be a speaker in a college lecture series, he goes to the meeting with one goal: to give the coordinator a piece of his mind and finally put an end to people hounding him for information about his family.

The last thing he expects is the curious, and quirkless, hero- and quirk-study professor, Midoriya Izuku, who has no interest in his family’s history, and, somehow, even more ties to the hero industry than Shouto. Intrigued by the professor, Shouto tentatively agrees to the lecture series, unknowingly intertwining their futures.

But the more Todoroki sees of Midoriya, the more questions he has. When a villain attack leaves them living together until the culprits are apprehended, maybe he’ll finally get some answers.

AO3: (x) Beginning/Chapter One: (x) Previous Chapter: (X) TDDKBB2021 Companion Art: (X)

It’s been three days since the debriefing, and Shouto hasn’t been able to think about much else besides the weirdness of everything that happened in the meeting. Even now, standing under the scalding spray of his shower, he’s going through the motions, but his mind is in the hallway outside the conference room with Ingenium.

“I’m sorry about lying to you regarding Architect,” Ingenium had said solemnly. They’ve grown and their costumes had both changed since then, but without his helmet on, head bent to discuss something quietly, Shouto was reminded of the in-class exercises they used to do in high school. Off to the side in a hallway, as if creating a strategy. Somehow adult-Ingenium had gotten even more serious than his high school counterpart. “I know it was wrong to mislead you, but I knew he meant no harm. I knew he could help with Kou.”

“How?” Shouto had asked, but even then he had a feeling he knew the answer.

“…I’ve worked with him before,” Ingenium admitted. “I know the law, but he…he just wants to help people. And he does good hero work.”

Ingenium couldn’t say afterwards if he thought Architect would still somehow help the case. He knew he would want to, but with more people involved, and more people who knew he had been there before, it would be harder. Shouto can’t articulate exactly why, but somehow knowing he might be what brings more scrutiny towards Architect makes him feel…guilty? It’s not his fault that he didn’t know, nor is it his fault Architect is technically doing something illegal, but he feels guilty anyways.

Shouto’s phone chimes just as he steps out of the shower. Even before he checks it, he knows it’s a new text from Midoriya. While Shouto has thought of little else but the weirdness that had transpired at the debriefing for the last three days, Midoriya has acted as if it never happened. He had been quiet the rest of the day afterwards, but the next day Midoriya had picked up their text chat where they had left off as if nothing had happened. The few times Shouto tried to broach the topic of Midoriya’s behavior at the debriefing, his contacts with heroes, the vigilante Architect, anything from the debriefing, all he got was an abrupt subject change or radio silence for a few hours. After a day and a half of the back and forth, Shouto gave up pushing the subject. For now.

Shouto slings a towel around his hips and grabs his phone off the counter. There’s a new picture attached to the message. Midoriya’s scarred hand holds a large navy book out in front of the camera. The sidewalk serving as a background and the blurred edges of the image suggests he was walking somewhere as he took the picture.

I found a copy of the book!! The text underneath reads.

Shouto can’t make out any title in the picture, but he knows what book it is anyways. There was only one they had really discussed in-depth that would warrant such an excited text. It was an early study of dual quirks. Apparently, according to Midoriya, some of the information and conclusions they came to is now outdated but it is still considered one of the best introductory texts for understanding how dual quirks come about with inheritance. He had been suggesting it to Shouto practically since they had started their text conversation.

Another text comes in before Shouto can come up with a reply.

I can keep this copy in my office, if you would like to come by for it sometime.

Shouto wouldn’t mind going by the professor’s office again. It wasn’t that far out of his way, and it would be a good excuse to see him and talk to him some more – either about quirks, or whatever the hell was going on at the debriefing in an environment he can’t escape so easily. But as he mentally goes through his schedule thinking of a time he might be able to get there, it would be at least another week, if not two.

Shouto grimaces, running a hand over his face.

between normal wrk nd this new case itll be a while…

Of course I understand you’re busy! Oh unless you wanted to read it sooner

Shouto glances at the time. He still has almost two and a half hours before his next shift starts. It would be enough time. Probably. Depending on how long it takes to get Midoriya to agree. He has an idea but he knows Midoriya isn’t going to like it.

are u in musutafu now?

Yes. Of course! I could drop it off at your agency!

i was thinking just my apartment

Shouto puts his phone down to find something to wear. He doesn’t usually wear normal clothes under his uniform, but he figures he has a little while before he needs to change into it. He expects to get a flurry of messages protesting his suggestion as he finds and pulls on a pair of sweatpants, but a full three minutes pass before his phone chimes with another message. It just reads: what, lacking even Midoriya’s usual proper grammar and capitalization.

Shouto snorts. He knew he wasn’t going to like it.

im at the hospital on guard today and ill be out of the office the next few days. it would be quicker

That does set off the flurry of texts he expected the first time, Midoriya insisting that wasn’t necessary and he didn’t need to read it that quickly and a few that just said no a few times. The texts are still coming in, the notification that he’s typing still lit up on the screen, when Shouto presses the phone icon next to his name and starts a call.

The phone starts to ring. And then continues to ring for so long, Shouto thinks he’s going to go to voicemail, when Midoriya suddenly answers. There’s a shuffle on the other line for a moment.

“Entro-er, Todoro…hello?” Midoriya says.

“Hello, Midoriya,” Shouto replies.

Shouto’s simple greeting seems to knock Midoriya out of his stupor, because he immediately jumps back into his protests, picking right back up where he left off in his texts. Shouto waits until he has to stop to take a breath.

“I figured you would really frown upon me texting you my address, so I thought I’d call. Do you have something to write with?”

Midoriya sputters for a moment before he sighs. “You…yeah, go ahead.”

Shouto blinks in surprise. He really expected more of a protest than that. Still, he rattles off the address before Midoriya comes to his senses and changes his mind. Midoriya has him repeat it once, just to be sure he copied everything down correctly.

“Okay. I guess I will see you in a few minutes,” Midoriya says, sounding resigned.

Shouto almost laughs at the tone. “You don’t actually have to bring it to me if it’s any trouble. I can get it from the office eventually.”

“No, I don’t mind and it’s not that far out of the way actually,” Midoriya admits. “I’m a little concerned by your complete disregard for privacy or self-preservation but otherwise, it’s no trouble.”

“‘A lack of self-preservation and privacy’ is pretty much in my job description.”

Midoriya sighs. There’s some quiet mumbling Shouto can’t make out through the phone before Midoriya seems to give up on arguing the point for the moment and says his goodbye.

Shouto plugs his phone in by the bed to charge until he has to leave. Monarch and Momo still haven’t let go of the last time his phone died while he was on duty and he’s sure even being away from the agency for the next few days won’t save him from their ire if it happens again.

Shouto is still toweling off his hair when there’s a knock on his door. He glances at the clock on his wall, but even without the visual confirmation, he knows it has only been a few minutes since his call with Midoriya had ended. It was unlikely he found his apartment that quickly. He throws the towel over the bar in the bathroom and grabs a t-shirt on his way out of his room.

He opens the front door, expecting to see one of his neighbors in the hall. Instead, it is Midoriya staring at him from the other side of the door. He looks almost the exact same as the first time they had met with his thin, crooked wire frame glasses and oversized leather satchel hanging at his side. Though he had replaced his ill-fitting cardigan with a Froppy sweatshirt and a jean jacket over a button-up. Midoriya’s eyes scan over him quickly, pausing briefly at his middle before jumping back to his face and then to the space next to his head.

“Hello,” Midoriya manages quietly.

Shouto tugs the bottom of his shirt the rest of the way down.

“Hello. I…wasn’t expecting you to find the place so quickly,” he replies simply.

“Um, yes, it was closer than I realized too,” Midoriya finally looks him in the eye again, only to look away a moment later to bow his head. “I’m sorry, I should have announced myself somehow.”

“It’s fine, Midoriya. I’m glad you didn’t have to go too far out of your way.”

They stand in an awkward silence for a moment before they both seem to remember themselves and try to speak again.

Midoriya fumbles with the leather bag at his side, searching for the book. “Right, I’m sure you need to finish getting ready for work-” he starts to say.

At the same time, Shouto steps back, opening his door further. “Would you like to come in?”

Midoriya stares at him in surprise for a moment before his gaze jumps to something behind Shouto, brow furrowing.

“Todoroki, do you live alone?”

“Um, yes?” Shouto glances over his shoulder but doesn’t see whatever it was that Midoriya must have seen.

He turns back around, but Midoriya is still staring hard at something in the distance.

“Midoriya, what did-"

A loud crash of breaking glass cuts off the rest of Shouto’s question. Midoriya reacts a second before him, grabbing Shouto’s arm and throwing them both down the hall, away from his door as flames erupt in the apartment behind him.

They tumble to the ground. Shouto lands hard on his back as they roll for a moment, the floor below him and Midoriya landing heavily on top of him knocking the air from his lungs. One of Midoriya’s hands cushioned his head in the fall, but he pulls it back quickly as if Shouto burned him.

Midoriya quickly lifts himself up, carefully checking Shouto over. “Are you alright?”

Shouto nods, not yet ready to try speaking again. The sound of a vicious fire cracks behind them and the smell of smoke is already starting to fill the hallway. Whatever was thrown has a fast-moving fire and Shouto can feel the heat even from a few feet away.

“Will your fire alarm alert the authorities?”

Shouto pushes himself to a sitting position . “Don’t have a fire alarm,” he chokes out. They really need to move. “They go off too easily.”

Midoriya stares at him for a moment like he’s lost his mind before realization dawns. “Right your quirk would probably make that a pain. Okay, I’ll call for help. But we need to get as many people out as we can before they get here.”

Shouto climbs to his feet, using the wall to hold himself up for the moment. Everything seems to feel okay, so he doesn’t think he’s injured, just winded. Midoriya looks worried but he still scrambles to his feet a moment later.

“I can get my upstairs neighbors out,” Shouto says.

“I’ll help everyone below evacuate,” Midoriya offers before Shouto has barely finished speaking. He takes off for the stairwell, glancing back at the last second. “Be careful, Todoroki.”

Shouto stares after him for a moment, incredulous. ‘I’m the pro in this situation,’ he wants to remind Midoriya. ‘And probably marginally more fire-resistant than you.’ “You too,” is all he manages instead as the stairwell door swings shut behind Midoriya. Faintly, Shouto remembers another time he watched a civilian run head-long into trouble, but he brushes off the otherwise long-forgotten memory. It was so long ago, he’s not sure what dredged up the old memory, but dwelling on it won’t help anyone right now.

Shouto forces himself away from the door and his desire to go after the apparently reckless, mysterious, crazy-overachieving civilian he just let run into danger and heads for his closest neighbor. There are only three apartments on each floor. The one next to him has been empty for months, and usually both of the Fukudas were at work during this time of day, but he pounds on the door just to be safe, calling for them both. Smoke is finally beginning to fill the hallway and he knows it will only be another minute or two before the fire itself begins to crawl its way out of the apartment too.

Shouto breaks through the door, calling for either of the Fukudas to answer as he darts through the handful of rooms laid out in a mirror of his own familiar apartment. Satisfied that it is empty, he goes back to the hall heading for the stairs. He can feel his right side rapidly growing colder as his quirk tries to regulate his body temperature. The overheated air burns his already sore chest as he runs.

Shouto is already shouting as he reaches the next floor, hoping to alert as many of his neighbors as he can. One door opens as he throws himself down the hall, an older woman looking at him suspiciously through the crack in her door. For once he’s thankful for his unique appearance because he sees recognition dawn on her a moment later, even without his hero suit.

“A fire started on the floor below, I’m trying to evacuate everyone on this floor and the next, if you have anyone home with you, get them!”

The woman nods in understanding, throwing her door open and running back into the apartment calling for someone. Shouto goes to the next closest apartment, banging on the door and calling for anyone who might be inside. The door to the apartment next door opens and a man looks out.

“What is all the racket about? They went to their parents for the week, no one is in there.”

“The apartment is empty right now?”

The man glares at him, but Shouto pushes on before he can start an argument with him. The first woman comes out of her apartment with her grandson and a small dog in tow. “Sir, there is a fire on the floor below. We’re evacuating everyone.”

The man still looks like he wants to argue, but a moment later the sound of sirens grows louder as help arrives on the scene and that seems to be enough to convince him to cooperate. The three tenants follow him up the stairs to the last floor. Two of the three doors are already open, the tenants looking out obviously wondering what all the noise is about. The woman and her grandson greet one of the two women, immediately filling them in on what’s going on. Shouto goes to the last door.

“She’s at work,” one of the women calls to him. “She lives alone. Except for a cat.”

Shouto nods his thanks for the information. “I’ll go in to get the cat. Do either of you have a window that faces the front of the building?”

The other woman raises her hand. “I do!”

“Please take everyone into your apartment, clear a space in front of the window if necessary and I’ll be there in just a moment.” Shouto instructs. He waits just a moment to make sure everyone is complying before he forces the last door open. The cat in question makes itself known immediately, rushing to the door crying for attention before it realizes he is not their owner. The cat turns tail and darts deeper into the apartment.

Cursing, Shouto uses ice to create a small blockade in the hall that leads to the bedroom and bathroom, limiting the cat’s escape routes as he darts after it, sliding across the hardwood floor leading into the hallway. He catches himself on the wall just as the cat skids to a halt before the ice, trying to turn quickly but the floor is more slippery than its accustomed to and Shouto manages to grab it as it struggles to find its footing. He gets a few heavy scratches across his arms for his trouble, and the cat does its best to escape his hold, but he manages to get it out of the apartment. He wishes he had his tool belt on him, where he might have something that could contain the cat better, and make it easier to transport, but even if the fire-resistant fabric had lasted this long, it wasn’t worth it to try and get back into his apartment for it.

He rejoins his neighbors in the other apartment. Along with the three from the first floor, there are the two women from this floor, one of whom clutches a still-sleeping baby to her chest. From the window he can see the ambulance and two fire engines that have already arrived. And based on the sounds in the distance, the police and at least one more ambulance would not be far behind. Someone offers to take the disgruntled cat from him as he throws open the window.

Smoke is billowing from a window on a lower floor, obscuring his line of sight for a moment as the winds shift. Shouto swears under his breath, he can feel his neighbors growing anxious behind him, but he knows he needs a clear shot of the ground for this to work. It takes a few minutes for the view to clear enough for him to see a good landing place. By then a few people from the lower floors have started to evacuate, and he can see the first responders meeting them as they come out. He can’t tell from here if Midoriya is with them yet, though he has a feeling the answer is no.

Pushing his concerns aside for the moment, Shouto takes a deep breath to focus. Even after all these years of playing catch up, he still has a much better control of his right side than his left, but the overheated air is already putting a strain on his right side as it keeps his body cool. He creates an ice ramp, or perhaps more accurately a slide, from the window to the ground besides one of the fire engines. It’s as far as he dares to go to keep the slide from being too steep without also becoming too thin. He reinforces the part connected to the building and as much of the underside as he can from where he is to keep the fire from melting it down.

He turns back to his gathered neighbors. The adults gathered look unsure at best, if not down right afraid, but the young boy looks excited.

“It’ll be cold going down, but you should be perfectly safe,” Shouto promises. “Who’s first?”

Shouto helps the first woman up to the window. Once she is down safe, the woman with her baby goes, climbing up by herself first before Shouto hands the infant off to her. The young boy volunteers next before his grandmother can stop him, scrambling up to the window and then asking Shouto to hand the dog up to him. The older woman goes next, clutching the terrified cat tightly to her chest as she disappears down the slide.

Shouto waits until the older man safely reaches the bottom after her before he prepares to go down himself. Taking one last look back before he drops, he sees the smoke begin to curl around the edges of the apartment door.

 The fire chief stops Shouto first once he’s down, thanking him for his help evacuating the civilians and asking about the conditions inside. Shouto gives as much information as he can about the fire and where it started. He ignores the concerned expression the chief gives him as he explains how it began. He knows it seems like an attack, and a targeted attack at that, but he doesn’t want to focus on it just yet. Eventually, the chief figures he’s gotten as much as from Shouto as he’s going to for the moment and sends him off towards the paramedics.

Shouto dodges them for the moment, finding the neighbors he helped down first to make sure everyone actually made it down unharmed. Everyone seems okay, the baby somehow still blissfully asleep and the young boy excitedly asks Shouto if he can go down his ice slide again some other time. One of the first responders found a carrying case for the cat until they could get ahold of its actual owner. He recognizes a few of the other neighbors gathered around from the lower floors. A few have shock blankets on and one person is perched in an ambulance with a paramedic attached to an oxygen machine, but there don’t seem to be any major injuries.

Midoriya is arguing with a paramedic, insisting someone else is in more pressing need of care when Shouto finally approaches one of the ambulances.

“What’s that saying about doctors being the worst patients?” Shouto asks.

Midoriya jumps, startled by his arrival, though he quick recovers from his shock to glare at Shouto.

The paramedic throws his hands up. “Entropy, please try and talk some sense into him. This is the fourth time he’s refused care.” The paramedic turns back to Midoriya and waves a warning finger at him. “I’m running out of other patients to look at.” He warns before storming off.

“Are you alright? What happened?” Shouto asks once they’re alone. Midoriya mostly looks okay, his glasses are missing and he’s a little sooty and disheveled, but Shouto figures everyone probably looks about the same in that regard.

“Nothing,” Midoriya starts to say as someone nearby loudly clears their throat over him. Midoriya scowls. “I think I might have landed on my hand funny earlier, but it’s fine, probably just sore.”

Shouto frowns. “You should at least have someone look at it, just in case.”

Midoriya opens his mouth to argue but a ringing phone cuts him off. He fumbles with his phone for a moment, struggling to pull it out of a pocket with his opposite hand. He winces as he finally pulls it out.

“Shit.”

“What?”

“It’s a video call.” Midoriya doesn’t elaborate anymore. He shifts around before he answers, holding the phone up at an angle that keeps his arm and the ambulance mostly out of the camera. He pastes on a bright smile. “Hi, Eri.”

“Oh Izuku, are you okay? I heard you were involved in a fire. Are you injured? What happened?” Dr. Aizawa asks in a rush, her worried face fills the screen. Red eyes move quickly, obviously taking note of Midoriya’s disheveled apperance.

“I’m fine. Everyone’s fine. We’re not sure exactly how it started yet,” he lies. “But no one was hurt.”

“Where are you? I’ll go-”

“No,” Midoriya cuts her off. “I’m fine and I’ll come by the hospital later so you can check me over yourself if you’re really that worried, but I’m fine. And I want to make sure someone is keeping an eye out for Kou.”

“You think this has to do with her?” Dr. Aizawa asks, surprised.

“I’m not sure yet, I would just feel better if I knew there was extra security around her.”

Dr. Aizawa nods. “Okay, Izuku. I’ll make sure someone has an eye on her at all times. I’ll call you later to check up on you.” She says. “And I’ll know if you don’t let the paramedics check on you so don’t even try it this time.” The call ends before Midoriya can refute her last statement.

“I’m supposed to be taking the next shift on the hospital,” Shouto realizes. “I still had another two hours before my shift began when you arrived, but I should let someone know.”

Midoriya offers Shouto his phone. Before Shouto can step away, the paramedic returns with his arms crossed.

“Ready to cooperate?”

Midoriya looks miserably over his shoulder at Shouto but lets the paramedic force him into a seat.

Shouto calls Momo on her private number.

“This is Creati.” Momo answers stiffly after a single ring.

“Momo, it’s Shouto. My phone is…I don’t have my phone right now. There was just a fire-”

“At your apartment building. I know I just got the alert. Are you okay? You were still home, weren’t you?”

“Yes. I’m fine. No one was injured, but they’re still putting out the fire and I’m pretty sure my apartment is gone. It started there.”

Momo takes a long time to reply. “Your quirk?” She finally asks, but she sounds like she already knows the answer.

“No. I think…It seems crazy, but…” Shouto hesitates. He lives on the third floor, but crazier things have probably happened to him. “I think someone threw something through my window to start it.”

Momo curses under her breath. “I was afraid of that. You haven’t heard from anyone else, yet, have you? There was another attack, across town. Not a fire, but a building came down. A few civilians were hurt, and…”

Shouto tries not to lose his patience with Momo as she hesitates.

Finally she sighs. “The latest report from the police just came over the radio. Mr. Smith was one of the only heroes in the area. He was severely injured while helping trapped civilians. Paramedics rushed him to the hospital a few minutes ago. No one’s sure of his status yet.”

“Fuck.” Midoriya was right. “This is about Kou. The girl from before you have to-”

“I know your schedule, Shouto.” Momo interrupts. “As soon as I got the alert I let them know you might have been targeted. Someone has already been assigned to your guard shift and they’ve added extra security to the hospital.”

Shouto feels himself relax for the first time since the fire began. If there’s one thing he can count on, it’s Momo to be on top of things. “Thank you.”

Momo replies with a quiet hum of acknowledgement. “Is there anything else I can do for you right now? Do you need anyone else at the scene?”

“No, everything seems pretty well in hand for now. But if you could let my mother and sister know, that would help. They’ll see it on the news eventually, but even if my phone survived the fire it will probably be a while before I can get it to contact them myself.”

“Of course, I’ll make sure they know you’re alright. Can I contact you on this number again?”

Shouto glances back at Midoriya. He’s, miraculously, still sitting in the ambulance doors letting the paramedic wrap his hand, but he also managed to call over one of the firefighters to discuss something about the attack. “Yeah, you can use this number again.”

“Let me know when you learn something more.”

“I will.”

“I’m really glad you’re okay, Shouto.” Momo says just before she ends the call.

Me too, Shouto thinks, looking around at all the people gathered in front of the apartment. He and Midoriya had managed to get everyone out, but if Shouto had been alone he might not have been quick enough. Hell, if he hadn’t been answering the door at just the right time, he might not have been able to save anyone at all. He would probably be right beside Mr. Smith in the hospital. I just wish it could be said for everyone.

Shouto returns to the ambulance, passing the cell back to Midoriya. Midoriya takes one look at his face and knows.

“You heard about Mr. Smith too?”

Shouto nods. “Creati already sent word to the hospital for extra security and for someone to cover my shift watching Kou.”

Midoriya cracks a small smile. Other than the one he wore to briefly pacify Dr. Aizawa, it’s the first smile Shouto thinks he’s seen from him all day. And bizarrely, it puts him at ease for a moment, lifting some of the weight of the attack.

“Remind me to send her a huge thank you gift when we finally get out of here,” Midoriya says, and even though Momo is just doing her job in her own efficient, overachiever way, he knows Midoriya is serious.

Midoriya moves over, offering the extra space for Shouto to sit down. Another paramedic almost immediately descends on them, finally checking Shouto over for shock, smoke inhalation, over-extended quirk usage, and other injuries. Other than the handful of cat scratches that they clean and bandage, he comes out with a clean bill of health. Midoriya is comparing their injuries, complaining that his “bruised wrist” didn’t need more bandaging than Shouto’s cuts, but while his tone is light, his eyes keep focusing on something in the distance, his attention obviously not on their conversation. Shouto can practically hear the wheels turning in his head as he thinks.

The fire chief eventually joins them as the fire dies down and more of the firefighters exit the building for the last time. “Thank you again, Entropy, for your help evacuating tenants before we arrived. And…Midoriya, was it?”

“Dr. Midoriya,” Shouto corrects when Midoriya simply nods. Midoriya elbows him in the side, but Shouto ignores the jab.

“Dr. Midoriya, thank you for your help as well. That was very brave of you. A number of the tenants I’ve spoken with were extremely grateful for your assistance.”

Midoriya shrugs a shoulder, as if he had truly done nothing of note. “I’m just glad I was in the right place to help, at the right time.”

“Do we know anything else about the fire yet? Or the building?” Shouto asks.

“The fire is mostly out, we just have a few more people inside checking for any hidden fires or areas that weren’t extinguished completely the first time. As for the building…it will take a little while longer to properly assess all the damage but the third floor where it started, and the second and fourth floors, took the most damage. At the very least it will be a day or two before it’s safe for the tenants to move between the floors to get their things.” The chief explains.

Shouto expected about as much, honestly he was prepared to hear worse, but it doesn’t make it easier. “Thank you for letting us know.”

The chief nods. “Of course.”

Shouto turns back to Midoriya as the chief walks away. “Can I borrow your phone one more time?”

Midoriya politely, but unnecessarily, turns away as Shouto crafts a text to Momo.

the tenants will b displaced for at least a few days. can we do smthing abt accommodations for them?

It only takes Momo a few seconds to reply.

Of course. Send me the number of people and their contact information and I’ll take care of everything.

A second text comes in almost immediately.

Will you need something too? You could always stay with me and Kyouka. Or I’m sure your mother would be happy to have you for a few days.

Shouto stares at the message for a moment. “Shit.” He hadn’t been thinking about himself. Obviously he couldn’t stay in his apartment. But he wouldn’t want to be housed anywhere near his neighbors, in case whoever attacked tried again. But that would put his friends, or family, in the same line of risk.

“What’s wrong?” Midoriya finally turns back, looking over Shouto’s shoulder. “Was there another attack?”

Shouto shakes his head. “No, sorry to worry you. Momo just reminded me I’ll need a place to stay for a while. I don’t want to risk a hotel or some public housing, if they try to attack again…”

Midoriya doesn’t need him to finish his thought before he nods in understanding. “And you don’t want to stay with your friends or family for the same reason. There’s too much of a risk they will try to target you again.”

Shouto groans, running a hand over his face. Maybe Midoriya was onto something with all his concerns about ‘privacy and self-preservation.’

“Stay with me.”

Shouto’s head shoots up. He thinks he had to have misheard, but the serious expression on Midoriya’s face suggests otherwise.

“What?”

“You can stay with me. No, you should stay with me.”

Shouto feels like he was just transported to a parallel universe. He was actually fairly confident his role as the only one to suggest ridiculous things in this newly-started relationship was already established.

“I-No. I couldn’t ask that of you.”

“You’re not asking, I’m insisting.”

Shouto ignores him. “I can stay in the dorms at the agency.”

Midoriya rolls his eyes. “That’s an extremely short term solution, at best. And a huge risk. If these villains have kept close enough tabs on you to find your personal apartment and attack it, it would be child’s play to figure out you were staying in your office, with a publicly available address, and target it too.”

“You would still be at risk,” Shouto says, baffled as to how Midoriya somehow managed to miss that very important fact. “The same way Momo and Kyouka or my family would be, I can’t put you in that position.”

“Todoroki,” Midoriya says, deadly serious. “You are not a very social hero. It is common knowledge who you are close enough with to consider a friend. And your family has been in the spotlight for years. Staying with any of them is an obvious and dangerous choice. I’m a nobody. No one knows me, no one knows you know me. Also my house is…private, secluded. Even if someone does eventually figure out you’re there, it will take much longer than any of the other places. Enough time that we can come up with another plan.”

Midoriya reaches over and takes the cell out of his hands. “Now, unless you have a more convincing argument, I will text…” he looks at the phone for a long moment as he trails off. Shouto has no idea how he can casually insist on Shouto staying with him and in the same breath be visibly uncomfortable texting a different hero. “I will text…Creati and tell her you have a place to stay. You should go collect everyone else’s information for her.”

Shouto stares at Midoriya in disbelief while he pointedly ignores him and struggles to craft a text to Momo. He only finally moves when Midoriya all but shoves him off the ambulance step, claiming to be unable to type while he was being watched.

“I…can’t make sense of you,” Shouto finally admits. Midoriya has baffled him basically since the moment they met and he’s beginning to think he might never fully understand him.

Midoriya looks up from his phone with a curious expression, as if surprised by Shouto’s admission, before it transforms into a smile Shouto has never seen before, but that he wants to pull from him again and again.

“I like to think that’s just a part of my charm.”

[pongnosis]

I’m sorry to bother you again but are there any little scenes/headcanons that you never got to add into Devil? What are your favs?

It’s absolutely not a bother! The answer will probably be a little disappointing, though. There were a ton of ideas that never made it in, but the vast majority of them remained a line or two in my notes. Of the stuff that actually got written ... most of what I never got to add in was stuff where the plot took a different turn - things like the bare bones/main scenes of the alternate ending where Alex chose the CIA options, or snippets of an AU where Yassen chose to break Alex and turn him entirely into Orion after Santa Catarina. Bits of some of it got reused elsewhere if possible, and the rest of the discarded scenes are generally stuff that just ... didn’t fit in. It was too slow, too detail-heavy, or just didn’t quite fit the flow of the chapter. Most of the important scenes and headcanons made it in (with the exception, I believe, of the undercover agent on Santa Catarina - that was Nathan, Johann’s bodyguard, who was with the CIA, but it never fit into the fic to mention it.)

If you do feel in the mood for Yassen deciding to break Alex ‘for his own good’, I’m happy to share! It’s less of a rough first draft and more a collection of main scenes that I had to get down in writing before it would leave me alone. It’s somewhere on the discord server, too, but ... way, way back. God knows where. Warnings for Yassen deciding to break Alex through isolation:

Alex wakes up in an unfamiliar room wearing nothing but loose trousers and a t-shirt. His last recollection is leaving Malagosto with Yassen; refusing to stab someone to death, accepting however many weeks in Dr Three's care, and Yassen telling him he won't have to -

- And nothing. Drugs do weird things to memories sometimes; resistance to interrogation taught him that. It could have been days ago. It could have been hours. He has no way of knowing.

There is no daylight in the room, no windows, just the constant, low, artificial light of the lamps. There is no running water anywhere. There's a toothbrush and toothpaste and a sink, but no tap. There's a chemical toilet and disinfectant gel with a horrible, hospital-like smell to it, but nowhere to actually wash his hands. No shower. Nothing but a plastic jug of water and a cup that goes with it. To Alex's best estimate, it's enough to last a day and not much more.

The door is locked. Alex tries it twice, just to be sure. He can probably fit a single sheet of paper between the door and the frame but that's it. The walls are solid and probably soundproof.

It doesn't feel like Dr Three's style, though Alex could be wrong.

He has no idea of the time but he stays stubbornly silent. He won't beg to be let out, he won't talk, and whoever is behind this – Yassen, it has to be – can just go screw themselves.

With no shoes on, he's smart enough not to kick the door.

Eventually he settles down, resting against the wall. There's nothing else to do. The floor isn't comfortable but then, neither is the wall. His mind, already bored, is happy to supply any number of horrific possibilities as to why he's there. Alex is sure that's Yassen's plan in the first place and makes a pointed effort to ignore them.

He starts by mentally reciting every country and capital he can remember. Then he tries in alphabetical order, followed by doing the same in French, Spanish, Russian, German.

He can remember a surprising amount of song lyrics when he thinks about it, which just makes it all the more annoying when there's part of a single verse that he can't recall.

Alex spends a long time trying to remember the first lines to Total Eclipse of the Heart, and considering how many times Jack's played the damn thing -

Alex has just started on his third attempt at trying to remember all of Bohemian Rhapsody when the door opens and Yassen steps inside. Alex is on his feet seconds later, stiff and sore and furious.

Then he takes a closer look. There's something about Yassen's body language that has Alex instantly on edge. Something that reminds him of … he's not sure, but he knows it's nothing good. Gentle, almost.

“Orion,” Yassen greets, breaking the silence.

“Alex.” Probably not the best time to be stubborn, but Alex doesn't care.

There is something in Yassen's eyes – pride, pity, resigned determination – and he touches Alex's chin lightly. “Not anymore.”

Alex sneers. “What, you didn't have the heart to just shoot me, so you'll lock me up?”

“Something like that,” Yassen agrees.

----

Alex gets the point when he lets his anger get the better of him and hurls the jug at the door and calls Yassen every name in the book.

There is no food or water that evening, night, whatever time it is. The floor is still damp but dries fast in the dry, air-conditioned atmosphere. Alex goes to sleep thirsty and wakes up with a mouth that feels like sandpaper and saliva that acts like glue.

He doesn't work out that day, just does slow, careful stretches that won't make him sweat.

He's hungry, too, but the thirst is overwhelming. When the door finally opens sometimes in the 'evening' and Yassen appears with a new jug of water and a plate of nutrition bars, Alex doesn't move.

Yassen doesn't put it down but arches an eyebrow in a silent question, and Alex knows without being told that if he gets it wrong, Yassen will leave again.

A healthy adult can go for a week or more without water. Alex isn't an adult but he knows Yassen will have a good idea of what he can handle, and two days without water probably won't kill him.

Yassen's words to him before his first meeting with the executive board comes back to him, unwanted.

Be respectful, obey, never argue.

Yassen doesn't care that he's the one that locked up Alex. He doesn't care that Alex has every right to be angry and throw a fit. He doesn't care that Alex is a teenager and not exactly known for forethought and rational actions.

Thirst battles with pride. Yassen never moves. Finally the man seems to lose his patience. It's more a minute shift of muscles than anything else, but Alex can read it just fine.

Alex swallows. “- I'm sorry,” he says before he can stop himself, before Yassen can leave, and his words sound hoarse to himself. They make his throat hurt, too.

Yassen nods and holds out the water, and Alex accepts it very, very carefully. He forces himself to drink slowly – there's plenty, but he doesn't want to waste it – and when he puts it down, the plate is on the floor, and Yassen is gone again.

--------

The nutrition bars are vanilla flavoured; the cheap sort that's made of chemicals in a lab somewhere and added to everything from discount candy to the sort of milkshakes that come in plastic jugs.

By day five. Alex is ready to throw up from just the smell of chemical vanilla. It takes longer to eat those bars every day. The only reason he manages is because of hunger and the fact that if he doesn't, the smell will stick.

He dumps them in the chemical toilet in a fit of anger on day six. He gets no food on day seven. None on day eight. By the time day nine rolls around and he finally gets food again, that vanilla smell is the best thing ever.

Alex gets the lesson loud and clear.

Be respectful.

------

Yassen greets him with 'Orion' every time but says little else. He answers if Alex asks, but only sometimes. If Alex gets angry, Yassen will leave. If he stays respectful, he will have company for at least a little while.

Yassen calls him Orion. Alex corrects him. It becomes a habit, though Alex's heart isn't really in it. He's tired and bored and lonely, and it's not like Yassen doesn't know about his objections.

On day eleven, Yassen appears with the usual food and drink, for a given definition of the term.

“Orion.”

Alex wonders why he bothers. For the first time, Alex can't be bothered to correct him, too tired to care.

“... Whatever.”

-------

The reading material that appears is Dr Three's most recent work, a two-thousand page monstrosity on torture.

Alex doesn't want to read it but the boredom has become a creature of its own, gnawing slowly at his sanity.

He opens the book.

It takes him three days to finish it. When he does, Yassen spends a long time testing him, question after question on what he's read, and Alex answers to the best of his ability. It's better than the silence.

There is fresh fruit with his dinner that night; apples, grapes, sweet oranges. Alex forces himself to eat slowly and savour it. He eats everything but the stems and peel – and honest, he even tried a bite of that. At least it's not vanilla.

He loses track of the days eventually. He's not sure how. He got to twenty-something and then … forgot. Lost count. Was it twenty-two or three? His mental calendar break down after that. It's not like that matters, either. He's not getting out any time soon. Maybe never, some deep, dark part of his mind acknowledges.

[powerhh]

Hi, I hope you're well! It's me, TomorrowsHero from AO3. I've been throwing around the idea of writing a chatfic of my own (for Pokemon SwSh, not BNHA), and I was wondering, as someone who has a few already, how much time you spend sweating over your portrayals of everyone? I know I probably shouldn't, but I feel compelled to get everyone right. Anything you do to help with that feeling? Thank you!

hi!!! i’m so sorry i haven’t gotten to answering this ask for a while!! i saw that you sent me another one with the same question (which i’m grateful bc i got a notif for that one, but not this one) and didn’t have the time to answer it instantly and then it slipped my mind lmao. i’ll not respond to the other ask you sent considering it’s mainly the same question, but i’ll answer the things you added in that question here as well. also, im honored that you asked Me for advice on chatfics, im very glad my fics have left an impression on you!!

alright so! this is gonna get long, so buckle up bc i actually have a lot of thoughts (contrary to popular belief) when it comes to writing my chatfics and you can take out whatever you find helpful from this:

the first mindset i have when writing my chatfics is the “if the opposite has never been stated in canon, there’s no reason this couldn’t be a thing”-mindset. like, say todoroki has never said in canon that he enjoys listening to cascada, but he has also never said that he Doesn’t listen to cascada. this means it wouldn’t break his established character to throw in a random interest like that. it doesn’t break the character, but it adds some flare, which is where the comedy comes from. a serious character stays serious, but the funny part is them having unexpected soft spots and interests, because the reader is so used to the seriousness. a very powerful character having their own interests not at all related to what makes them powerful, or even insecurities to give them even more depth. it’s all about finding the core attributes of the character and staying true to that to some extend to not make the character feel like someone completely different, and then going HAM with everything else. as you probably have noticed, i take a LOT of creative liberties with side characters, especially with my pro hero bnha fic, Daily Lives of Pro Heroes, because most of the characters are more or less blank slates to go wild on. actually that’s another point:

use the side characters that barely have any established interactions or interests!! they’re perfect to drive story and situations forward that wouldn’t go anywhere with the main characters because of their already very existing characterization that you don’t want to kill fully!!

to answer a part of the actual question? a lot of my characterization may seem really surface-level and random at first glance and like i’m fully shitposting, but i usually have it decently sorted out. i Do follow what has been said in canon to some extent, but if i don’t like something or if something appeared later, i see no need to follow it religiously. people aren’t here for canon, they’re here for comedy. i like following the general mood and vibe of the characters, then exaggerate it at some points and also add some depth to the characters by giving them random and sometimes even meaningless interests to make them seem more like, you know, real people. i let my portrayals grow with the fic and derail more as i go, to give the reader more time to get used to MY characterization and canon of each character. so like? do spend some time giving each character you’re going to use some base values and points you find important in the portrayal.

i have a bunch of situations and conversations in my chatfics that are pulled directly or are closely inspired by my own life events or ideas ive had (i do a lot of dumb shit), and also a bunch of convos and situations that are closely inspired by my friends and things that have happened in actual group chats i am in. 

another thing i feel is pretty important to make the chat feel more alive and relatable is making them not Only talk about random and wild situations. there has to be some kind of downtime and some more mindless chatting, or even a character feeling down or sad, because groupchats aren’t Always wild and funny. a perfect example is actually when someone stole parts of my bnha chatfic and posted it on wattpad. the thing is that while most of it was stolen, the person changed some things and also removed a lot of the small-talk and less Wild situations, which ended up changing some of the situations and removing a Lot of of my characterization, which made the characters feel less relatable and just flat. clearly the person hadn’t understood why i wrote the characters like i did and managed to ruin that by simply cutting and pasting their favorite segments of the fic, without paying any mind to what the other parts contributed with.

it comes to actually writing the chatting, you may not have noticed, but i actually have slight different ways i write every single character. this is honestly inspired by my times of being a homestuck fan (lmao) and the many different group chats i’ve been in, and it Does make a difference even if people don’t fully notice exactly what it is. sometimes there are too many characters to have very distinct differences and still match the characters, but i usually spend a good amount of time thinking about what tone i want each character to have when typing and how to achieve that. if i take my bnha chatfic   Yikes™ again as example, you may notice that tokoyami always starts what he’s saying with a capitalized letter, but doesn’t fully care about proper punctuation after that, it’s like he has auto capitalization on. iida is the type to take his time and actually write with proper punctuation. ashido is very!!! excited!!! and uses a lot!! of exclaimation marks!!! kaminari writes in lower caps and doesn’t use apostrophes on words that should have them (like doesnt instead of doesn’t etc, with some exceptions where the sentence would get too confusing without them). sero is similar to kaminari but at least bothers with the apostophes.  note: sometimes i obviously personally slip up and forget what i’ve decided for each, but there IS a thought behind every single character in All of my chatfics lmao.

anyway!! that got long and it’s not even all i wanted to say but it’s all i have time for right now. take whatever you want out of this, but i hope you find something helpful. it’s 4am so i fully don’t know if i make sense, so feel free to DM me or send another ask for clarification or more questions!! also, ive told you many times before, but thank you for reading my fics!! <3 

[clumsyclifford]

i would love to read a mashton fic based on vegas, which is an idea that has been in my head since you sent it in for the playlist! i particularly like the lyrics “from coast to coast, I’ll make the most / of every second I’ve been giving with this crowd, / without a doubt, you’re all I dream about” but i would be happy no matter what you wrote

right okay well i have plans to one day write a longer better vegas fic but im capitalizing on the fact that you sent me specific lyrics from the song and just writing around those lyrics so. for the moment this will have to be enough im sorry maggie u deserve more

-

Michael loves performing more than most things.

There are certain people who take precedence — his band, for one, although that feels a little bit like cheating because his band are the reason he can perform — and his family, of course, and a case could be made for Niall Horan, and there are also a few things here and there — a chocolate milkshake at an American diner at three in the morning smack in the middle of the Northeast, the signed-by-Billie-Joe Father Of All… limited edition vinyl framed on his wall at home that’s been played exactly once, a proper pint from the bar they went to when they first arrived in London.

By and large, though, performing beats all. 

There’s an energy that is absolutely unmatched, and no matter how many times interviewers ask, Michael will never be able to put into words the way it feels to play to a crowd who are shouting your lyrics at the top of their lungs. Nobody would understand how it’s possible to get onstage feeling tired and grow more alive the longer you play, feeding off the ardor of the people, entirely detached from the usual concerns of whether or not you’ll remember how to play your part. Michael’s a good guitarist, but onstage he becomes something else, something fucking massive, a piece of something much bigger than himself.

The high lasts only for about a minute after he comes offstage, and then everything else hits him at once; the exhaustion, the sweat, all the notes he’d missed, the pounding in his head from the screams that are dulled but not deafened by the in-ears. They all crash at different times but they always crash soon after the show ends, and Michael’s usually first.

So there are a lot of reasons Michael doesn’t want to come offstage. And if anyone asks, he can offer a wide range of these answers, anything about the rush of performing, about not wanting to feel the weariness of the tour just yet, about feeling more sure about this show than anything in his life, and those wouldn’t even really be lies. They just wouldn’t be the whole truth.

Most of the reason why Michael loves to be onstage is the person sitting at the drum kit.

Ashton is twirling his drum sticks, effortless the way he always is during shows, a broad smile over his face while Luke sets them up for their next-to-last song. Michael takes the opportunity to tune up a little bit and watch Ashton. It’s one of his most favorite things ever, just to watch; he’d stare at Ashton forever if he could and still not have had enough.

Ashton glances up, catching Michael’s eye before Michael can look away, so Michael saunters over to the drums.

“How are you feeling?”

Michael gives a thumbs up. “On top of the world,” he says truthfully. His fingertips are buzzing with what could be electricity, and his guitar feels so light it could almost be floating. “You?”

“Same,” Ashton says, without faltering in his grin. “You’re sounding great.”

“You messed up a few times, but we’ll discuss it after the show,” Michael replies, smirking. Ashton flips him off. “I’m kidding. You sound awesome. Amazing. Like always.”

“Not always. I sound pretty bad sometimes.”

“Only when you’re singing in the shower.”

“I don’t sing in the shower!”

Michael holds up an air-microphone. “Sweet Caroline, bah-bah-bah!”

“That was one fucking time!”

“Yeah, and I’m gonna remember it forever, and laugh at you whenever I hear the song. So thank you.”

Ashton rolls his eyes; somehow he hasn’t stopped smiling, and in fact his smile is even wider. “You should probably get back to your station,” he says. “I think Luke’s stalling to start the song.”

As if on cue, Michael hears, “Oi, Mike! Is it social hour? Are we playing a show?”

Michael grins and winks at Ashton, then slides smoothly back to his microphone. “Sorry, sorry,” he says. “Ashton and I were just plotting how best to destroy you.”

“We’re thinking of putting you on a cooking show,” Ashton puts in from his mic. Michael loves him so much.

The crowd laughs. Luke just rolls his eyes, fond and unable to be cross when they’re playing a show, when this many people are here just for them, to hear their music, and across the stage Calum blows Michael a kiss. He catches it in the air and presses it to his heart; Calum grins and gives him the OK sign with his fingers.

“Anyway,” Luke says pointedly, and then he carries on with the show, introducing She’s Kinda Hot with very little additional preamble, and Michael starts to play it — the riff had been hard the first couple of times but now he could do it in his sleep, so instead of overthinking every note, his eyes roam the crowd, several thousand — a number Michael doesn’t remember but is absurdly high — people here to see them, to see him, some who have put in countless hours listening to their album and making signs and buying merchandise from them already. Michael feels like he’ll burst from the love, and wonders if it’s coming from him or from them. Or if there’s even a difference. They love his band, but not as much as he loves his band.

Ashton’s solo is his favorite part of this song. Not because he has a crush on Ashton. Musically, it’s the most fun, and Ashton has a really great voice for it, and he likes the little call-and-response part, and, okay, also because he has a crush on Ashton and this is basically his free chance to gaze in wonder while Ashton sings.

When the solo rolls around Michael turns his body to watch Ashton, shamelessly drinking in the sight; Ashton, a bandana barely keeping back his sweat-soaked hair and a glistening sheen of perspiration all down his face, neck, and arms, muscles tensing as he plays, tank top sticking to his chest. The lights from the stadium reflect strangely off his skin, giving him a gleaming aura that has Michael blinking sight back into his vision. 

Ashton is everything. He really, really is.

Halfway through the solo he catches Michael’s eye for just a second, and Michael doesn’t look away, caught up in the moment. Ashton smiles so wide his face could break from it and Michael feels that smile right down to his toes. The warmth stays in his chest, unbroken, untouchable.

They stumble off-stage, all four reaching out for full water bottles before they have to go back on for the encore. Michael’s off last — he’s standing farthest from where they come on — and the three others are already gasping out breaths between long chugs of water as he takes his own.

“Well, you all sound terrible, and I sound great,” Calum declares, one arm so tightly around Luke’s shoulders that Michael would be hard-pressed to try and separate them. Not that he’d ever feel compelled to. Ashton comes over and slings an arm over Michael’s shoulders, too, and Michael immediately squirms.

“Gross,” he says, “you’re all sweaty.”

“That’s how you like me,” Ashton says, pressing a kiss to Michael’s cheek.

“No PDA before we finish the encore,” Luke says loudly, pointing an accusing finger at the two of them.

“You’re just jealous that Ashton kissed me and not you,” Michael says. “Ashton, go kiss Luke. He’s feeling left out.”

“I don’t want to kiss Luke,” Ashton says, affronted. 

“I’ll kiss Luke,” Calum says. Before any of them can say anything about it, Calum pulls Luke’s face towards him and kisses him square on the mouth.

Luke looks like he’s been hammered between the eyes when Calum pulls away. “You’re such a sneaky little shit,” he says. “I have to go sing, you know.”

“I have to sing too!” Calum protests. 

“Wait a minute,” Michael says, feeling like perhaps he’s missed something. “How — what?”

“Does this mean I have to kiss you now?” Ashton asks Michael, a glint in his eye. “Because I’m not strictly opposed.”

“Stop it,” Michael says. “They just kissed!”

“They’re adults,” Ashton says.

“You’re not strictly opposed?” Michael says belatedly. “The fuck’s that mean? Are you for or against?”

“Shit,” Luke says, handing off his water bottle. “Gotta go back on. Encore time encore time encore time!” He races onstage, Calum in tow, and Michael groans.

“Worst band in the world!” he says as Ashton gives him one final, cheeky look before sliding away and returning to the stage. Michael follows after, playing the intro to She Looks So Perfect, which is as natural as breathing at this point.

The song goes well, and Michael remembers, having temporarily grown distracted, how fucking good this show has been, how the energy of the crowd is building up under his skin, making him practically vibrate with it despite the steady hands on his guitar. When the song ends, they take their bow and then head backstage. Michael finally takes a towel to wipe himself clean of sweat; the other boys do the same. Ashton gets two towels, because he’s always the grossest.

“So?” Michael asks, loping over to where Ashton is leaning against the wall, drying himself off. “For or against?”

“For or against what?” Ashton says innocently, but his face breaks into a ridiculous smile and he reaches to clap a hand around the back of Michael’s neck. “For, obviously.”

“Oh,” Michael says dimly, blood roaring in his ears. “Okay. Good. I mean, I hadn’t said for or against what, exactly. For all you know you’ve just agreed to my insidious plot to destroy the band from the inside or change our sound to EDM or something.”

“I’m in,” Ashton says immediately. “I’ll take down Luke, you get Calum.”

“I can’t take down Calum,” Michael says, forgetting momentarily that they’re not actually planning the downfall of the band. “He’s been my best friend for so long. I’m pretty sure that would be in violation of the bro code.”

“Okay, but taking down Luke wouldn’t?” Ashton asks, raising an eyebrow. “Fine. I’ll get Calum and you get Luke. Meet back here.”

“Wait, hold on,” Michael says, and picks back up the thread. “We’re not actually plotting the band’s destruction. You were going to kiss me, I think.”

“Was I? I don’t really recall.”

“You were. You said you were for it.”

“I believe my words were not strictly opposed.”

“You said for, obviously, like twenty seconds ago. Like literally twenty.”

“Hmm,” Ashton hums, tipping their foreheads together. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Ashton gives his biggest smile yet. Michael feels the corners of his own mouth tug upward to mirror it, and Ashton leans in, presses a gentle kiss to Michael’s lips, and pulls away. Michael’s buzzing all over, head full of AshtonAshtonAshtonAshton.

“Oh, hmm,” he murmurs, a little speechless, midway between the adrenaline high of the show and the total post-performance crash. Heavily leaning into Ashton, he says, “I’m gonna fall asleep in like five minutes but we will definitely continue this when I’m not about to be dead on my feet.”

Ashton pats his shoulder reassuringly. “I’m not strictly opposed to that.”

Michael smiles and decides: there are few things he loves more than performing, but Ashton Irwin is one of them.

[presumenothing]

wherefore // 几生轮回

unfinished nirvana in fire fic for @goodintentionswipfest​

(aka the kimi no na wa au that i posted the first part of in 2018 before being once again reminded that i am physically incapable of plot. sections i-iii are complete, rough outline follows afterwards)

i.

When Jingyan wakes up in another body, his first reaction is to be altogether grateful that he’s spent much more time at the borders and generally out of the capital than your average nobility. The slightest breath of unusually chilly morning air is enough to confirm that this is all the way to the border – of Liang and Da Yu, Jingyan suspects, much further north than even he’s ever gone.

(…well actually his first reaction is a flat startled “what”, right before he’d pinched himself to check if he’s still dreaming, but Jingyan figures anyone would’ve done the same anyway.)

The first bell of morning rings outside, and out of long habit Jingyan swings his feet off the bed and makes to rise before he can entirely realise what a terribly bad idea that is.

At least he manages to catch himself with a hasty hand on the bedframe. He’s even less coordinated than he was right after his growth spurt, when Jingyu-gege had kept a very straight face and not laughed at him at all.

That’s when Jingyan sees it: the ring of a silver bracelet around his ar– well, not his arm, but currently-his arm. Whatever.

He runs a light finger over the cool metal surface, over the deep grooves of an emblem that curls like flames and the shallower etch of a name. Lin Shu, it says.

Jingyan stands, properly this time, and goes to peer out the window, wondering if this Lin Shu can afford to take a day off. Whoever he is.

.

As it turns out, the answer to that is a resounding no, because Lin-Shu-whoever-he-is turns out to be the young marshal of this border army, as Jingyan swiftly finds out as he makes his way to morning drills.

Something he probably should’ve noticed right off, really, given the room he’d woken up in. Not large, certainly not by Jinling’s standards, but the noticeable lack of sharing made it a rare luxury in the barracks.

By the time he arrives at the training grounds, navigating purely on long-honed familiarity with army facilities, Jingyan’s already learnt to answer almost automatically to the many cheerful hails of “Young Marshal!” coming from the general outflow of people from the mess hall – many many more people than he’d been expecting, to be honest.

He doesn’t remember the actual numbers like Prince Qi probably does, but from personal experience Jingyan does know Da Liang’s border armies to be fairly impressive on the whole. Yet he’s never even heard of one this large, save perhaps Duke Mu’s army to the south.

It’s unmistakeably Liang’s colours they’re flying, though, alongside the same fiery emblem engraved on his bracelet, so Jingyan decides not to worry about it too much.

Either way it puts paid to his vague ideas of begging illness and staying firmly on the sidelines, though Jingyan finds to his pleasant surprise that this young marshal has trained some fairly competent lieutenants clearly capable of running the drills themselves.

It’s almost reminiscent of mornings in Jing Manor, honestly.

(And it could be worse, Jingyan thinks. “Young Marshal” is just a title, like “Your Highness” is, and after a whole life of answering to one it’s hardly a suffering to be addressed by the other – almost freeing, actually, even if he has to err on the side of caution by being much more taciturn than usual and hoping that the edge of exhaustion from sheer shock shows just enough to excuse him for it.

All said and done, though, Jingyan rather believes he’s done quite the good job of things.

Certainly better than whoever’s now in Jinling has probably managed, but as long as he hasn’t accidentally offended the Emperor or anything.

…Jingyan can only hope.)

–

ii.

This, as Jingyu-gege often says, is why Jingyan should never, ever jump to conclusions about things.

Admittedly this doesn’t backfire so much as it goes completely off the rails of his expectations, trundling like a particularly enthusiastic horse in the opposite direction.

Nothing terrible awaits when he wakes up back in his room the next morning, and a quick inquiry to Zhanying confirms that he definitely hadn’t entered the palace yesterday.

Jingyan breathes a deep if silent sigh of relief.

(A quick check of the outer walls turns up a scuff mark matching his shoe on the roof, so faint as to suggest that it’d only been left because someone obviously hadn’t entirely adjusted to his new height yet.

Fair enough, Jingyan thinks. He’d have done the same last night if he hadn’t been too tired from the sudden cold to sneak out and explore anywhere.

Maybe next time, he catches himself thinking, and pulls a face, because no, none of that.

That jinxes it right away, of course, as he promptly realises the morning after.

Jingyan stifles a shiver in the wintry sun, even colder now after a day in Jinling’s warmth, and thinks – really, Jingyu-gege would have a field day with this.)

.

Possibly the oddest thing about this, thinks Jingyan on the eighth day he wakes up at the border instead of Jinling, is that neither of them have ever thought to question, even once, whether this is really happening.

Or at least Jingyan hasn’t, and if Lin Shu’s wondered about it he hasn’t mentioned it either, at least not in the increasingly copious notes they’re leaving for each other.

They end up making a routine of things without much discussion about it, even though the setup in each of their rooms almost mirrors the other. Jingyan begins to stock more scrolls of paper and sticks of ink at his desk, keeps their correspondence in a hidden drawer within easy reach of his chair.

But Lin Shu apparently fears the cold as little as his relatively thin wardrobe would suggest, because his stationery inevitably is set up at the low table with only a cushion to sit on – admittedly quite a comfortable one, yes, but still unseasonably chilly for the stone floor.

Either way, what had started out as a simple way to update each other on the day’s events devolves into something else altogether, and Jingyan can even pinpoint the moment it happened: when Lin Shu had added also stop wearing my hair down you’re making me look like an idiot as an afterthought on the third entry, followed by oh and don’t eat hazelnuts squashed into too few inches of space.

Jingyan’s learnt enough of medicine from his mother not to take the second part lightly, but the first almost tempts him into putting a flower in Lin Shu’s hair just because.

But only almost.

Then you stop tying my hair all up like that first, he adds to his next summary, it’s giving me a headache.

The palace would give anyone a headache, he finds written almost musingly in the reply margin.

Jingyan rubs at his temple, and finds that he can’t even argue with that, really. So instead he pulls up a fresh sheet of paper and quickly outlines the basics of court etiquette, because the Emperor’s probably going to end up summoning Jingyan while he literally isn’t himself one of these days, if this is going to continue.

He has a feeling it will.

.

It takes Jingyan a whole month of alternating days to admit, not quite grudgingly, that he is rather impressed by the fact that Lin Shu is already the young marshal of such a large army at this age.

In his defense, he’d rather naturally assumed the worst when he first found out that Lin Shu was the son of the commander himself, but that was before seeing the genuine respect rather than mere tolerance he got from every last man in the army, even those thrice either his or Lin Shu’s age.

(It’s the Chiyan Army, Lin Shu writes back, the very turn of each stroke arrow-sharp with irritation. Chiyan! Army! Will you get it right, it’s not just any army!

And I’m literally a prince, Jingyan snipes back in his most practiced handwriting. Also, if you’re insulting my men…

Hardly. Zhanying deserves a pay raise and a better boss, Lin Shu answers, then adds, pointedly, Your Highness.

Probably just so he could use up the last bit of paper.

Jingyan scowls at that last scrawl before pulling out yet another fresh sheet and dipping his brush in ink.

As if he’s going to let anyone have the last word over him quite so easily.)

–

iii.

“I didn’t know you liked archery, Prince Jing-gege,” says Nihuang one afternoon when they’re resting in his manor’s study after an impressive practice bout. The young duchess Mu had gotten quite formidable enough to attract the rapt attention of the entire training field – or she would have, if Zhanying hadn’t promptly barked at all of them to get back to their drills right then.

(It’d almost tempted Jingyan into asking, really, whether Zhanying had noticed anything different about his fighting style on the days when it’d been Lin Shu instead.

Not that Zhanying necessarily knew anything, per se – but from the subtly helpful way in which his general had volunteered information that Lin Shu’s writings occasionally failed to convey, between the carelessly precise updates and snarky comments in the margins… Jingyan rather thought he did suspect something, at least.

Wei Zheng was the same, up north at the border, which was just as well.

Lin Shu doesn’t know how good he has it, really, that the Jing army has closer to seven hundred men than seventy thousand – all of whom apparently assume that their young marshal will recognise them. Which says something fairly impressive about Lin Shu, of course, but still. How fortunate for him.)

Both their fathers have been closed up in Yangju Hall all day long – all the palace servants had been dismissed, and he’d heard that even Xia Jiang and Xie Yu had been summoned in.

Whatever it is they’re discussing must be important indeed, he knows. It’s hardly unusual, for both the Marquis of Ning and the Xuanjing Bureau’s head officer to meet the Emperor, but Jingyan doesn’t think he’s ever seen the Duke of Yunnan even half as stern as when he’d arrived this time, both his children firmly in tow.

Mu Qing had been unabashedly cheerful as always, and easy enough to handle – Aunt Liyang had been more than happy to help. It wasn’t like two more kids running around the house would trouble her much further, anyway, what with Yan Yujin already practically living there half the time.

But Nihuang had declined her offer politely before asking to see the Jing manor’s grounds, which is how she’d ended up here, hands clasped behind her back as she considers the red bow in pride of place on his weapons rack.

At least the sparring earlier had worn away most of the tension in her features, though Jingyan can still see the trace of it in the graceful stiffness of her posture, and wonders silently if she too feels the same thing he does, the slight wrongness in the air.

He shrugs anyway, trying for relaxed. “I got back into practicing it over the past couple months. It’s quite a bit more enjoyable now that I actually have enough strength to draw the string back fully.”

Which is completely true, even if he’d only had reason to discover it because Lin Shu’s weapon of choice is bow and arrow, as Jingyan had found to his utter surprise.

Nothing like muscle memory when the muscles weren’t even yours to begin with – though he supposes that it’s a fair trade, since Lin Shu’s also had to up his own proficiency with swords and spears to match Jingyan’s.

Neither does he mention that he’d only bought this bow on a whim because it reminded him of the one Lin Shu used. A resemblance that the young marshal had swiftly noticed, from the way he’d filled entire swathes of paper with gleeful gloating, only punctuated by a brief note on how he’d restrung it and adjusted the tension to match.

(Jingyan had kindly reminded Lin Shu about the fact that he’d gone and taken one whole day off to go diving for pearls that time the Jing army had been at Donghai, apparently having completely forgotten that he wouldn’t be able to bring the pearl back with him anyway.

The answering blankness had somehow conveyed a very mulish silence nevertheless.

Jingyan had rolled his eyes before writing if you really want it back I can always ask a courier to bring it over, it’ll just take time to reach the border.

And money, came the reply, or do you think I’ve no idea how much it costs to send something from Jinling? Nah, just keep it and go spend that money on food instead, you’re like a stick.

You’re just jealous because I’m taller, Jingyan does not answer, because he can be the better person here, so instead he writes Tried my mother’s hazelnut pastries yet?)

Nihuang gives him an inscrutably knowing look, even though Jingyan’s plenty sure he hasn’t shown any signs of his thoughts. “Maybe you should teach Qing-er then,” she muses as she comes back down to sit at the table. “The way he’d always playing around, I don’t know if he realised that he’s going to take over Father’s position someda– huh.”

Jingyan glances up from where he’s pouring out another glass of cold water, and finds her attention apparently caught by the documents he’d left out on the desk. “What is it?”

At his nod of permission Nihuang lifts a half-familiar paper from the stack, and there’s a brief moment of alarm when he spots Lin Shu’s handwriting, though it fades when he realises it’s not one of their written conversations.

Luckily Nihuang doesn’t notice either way, too intent on reading. “This naval strategy…” she finally says, “it’s just like the one we received some time ago, when Yunnan was under attack by river.”

Jingyan doesn’t need to feign his surprise. “Really?”

Nihuang nods, smiling faintly. “It saved all of our lives.”

“Oh,” Jingyan answers a little dumbly, his mind spinning. All of this is quite real, obviously, everything has convinced him of that, but for some reason it hadn’t struck him how Lin Shu too existed in this same world as him, more than just another body he sometimes woke up in. Rather slow of him, he thinks wryly, Lin Shu would have a laughing fit if he found out.

The specifics of this paper escape him now – it’d been part of some grand point Lin Shu had been trying to make, he thinks, as if they didn’t both know he was just cribbing the strategy from Nie Duo – but Jingyan doesn’t even need to look at the paper to see that familiar handwriting half his own. “Do you know who sent it?”

Nihuang shakes her head, her expression clouding over. “Father refused to tell me who’d sent it, forbade me from even mentioning it to Qing-er.”

And as if everything’s just been waiting for this last piece to fall into place, Jingyan feels the thing niggling at the edge of his consciousness, just out of realisation.

“Jingyan-gege…” Nihuang says, slow and terribly hesitant, “what do you know about the northern b–”

“Your Highness!” comes Qi Meng’s harried shout from outside, and Jingyan has never been more infuriated with any of his men in his life. “Duke Mu is here, he says the Duchess is to go with him immediately!”

Jingyan looks across the table to find his own frown reflected fiercely back at him.

Nihuang rises, looking suddenly older than she is, and says, quietly, “Be careful, Jingyan-gege. I don’t know what’s going on but I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I,” Jingyan says honestly, and doesn’t press her for whatever it was she had been about to ask earlier. He stands to see her out. “You be careful, too.”

Nihuang nods firmly, then she turns and is gone.

(Spoke with Nihuang today, Jingyan writes before going to bed that night. I don’t think you’ve met her yet, she’s the daughter of the Duke of Yunnan.

You know, he finds written beneath it the next time he wakes up in his own room, it’s been a whole year and that’s the first I’ve heard you talk about any lady. And don’t say Xia Dong, she’s just terror manifest.

The raised eyebrow is clearly audible, even via text.

Jingyan snorts, grabbing the brush that sits ready and waiting, as always. Nonsense, he starts, then pauses for a moment before adding I think you’d like her.

He’s looking oddly forward to the reply, whatever it is: which one, and don’t say Xia Dong or even well certainly she’ll like me, all the girls do – though the last of that is nonsense, seeing as there aren’t really any more ladies hanging around the border pass than in Jing Manor.

But he never hears from Lin Shu again.)

–

iv.

Jingyan still finds himself in his room when he wakes up the next day.

And the next, and the next after that.

(On the eighteenth morning in a row he remains stubbornly stuck in Jinling’s oppressive warmth Jingyan punches the wall so hard it almost cracks cleanly in half – or maybe that’s just him.

Zhanying hurries up, voice tinged with ill-concealed worry. “Your Highness?” he says tentatively, except the words themselves feel like a shackle now.

Jingyan leans just slightly against the cool smoothness of the wood, and tells himself to breathe.

“Zhanying,” he says, finally, “what do you know about the northern border army?”

It’s the Chiyan Army, not just any old military! echoes Lin Shu’s voice in his head.

“…not much,” hedges Zhanying, and it clearly isn’t a lie but his eyes are also very wide.

The wrongness from before congeals into an ugly mess, settles decidedly in his heart. It’s the only thing he can be sure of not imagining.

Jingyan suddenly feels very tired indeed. “It’s nothing.”)

–

v.

And then he finds out in the worst way possible: far too late, and all at once.

.

.

.

would have been: jingyan finding out the truth about what’s been happening, which is fairly true to kimi no na wa canon except that it’s everything at meiling instead of a meteor extinction event. in jingyan’s present time he finds the lin manor in absolute disrepair, asks questions of his mother that make both of them sad, and eventually forces a bodyswap to save lin shu and the chiyan army by… using the pearl somehow? and how would he stop this single-handedly anyway? never quite managed to figure either part out. though on his side lin xie is shown to also have realised Something was going on with lin shu (like zhanying realised about jingyan) and even if he doesn’t buy the “hey i’m from the future” shtick, he at least would be willing to hear out someone with a good idea of what’s currently happening in the capital, which helps.

anyway there would’ve been one section where we finally get lin shu’s pov which is when he realises what This Bloody Idiot xiao jingyan is trying to do and curses up a blue streak. from there this could’ve had one of two endings:

a HE where jingyan succeeds, lin shu and the chiyan army survives, and they forget but eventually find each other again (after remembering when jingyan sees lin shu doing archery or vice versa).

or a BE where jingyan doesn’t succeed and we end up right back in the canon timeline, dammit guys. optional extra being that changsu remembers for some reason even though jingyan doesn’t… but sometimes, jingyan can’t help thinking that changsu reminds him of someone. a person he’d forgotten? angst ensues. the end.

[lutrain2020]

Meet the Creator!

Introducing: Seeking7 or Seeking!

Commission:  I don't offer writing commissions at the moment, mostly because I'm not sure how to conduct or present myself in the market. If anyone would like to request a certain fic or short story from me, however, I'd be glad to work out details with them. :)

Social Media: A03: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seeking7 FFnet: https://www.fanfiction.net/u/13334645/

Tell us a little bit about you!

Hiya! I'm Seeking7, or Seeking. I was born in Alabama and raised in California to a pair of the most hardworking Egyptian immigrants you've ever met, and the mixture of Arabic and American influence over the course of my life has had a profound influence on the way I look at the world. My favorite subjects are biology and english, and I aspire to become either an EMT or military medic after I graduate. In regards to hobbies (aside from playing copious amounts of Zelda), I love studying American and Ancient Israelite history, and I hope to one day learn ancient Hebrew and Greek so I can read the original biblical manuscripts for myself!

Is there someone who inspires you and your writing?

While my own brain can usually come up with a certain scene or idea that would inspire me to put paper to pen, it's the people I have around me that encourage me to keep writing. The people on FFN and AO3 who comment and leave kudos on my work mean the world to me (shout out to JoSeBach on FFN and MyWritingisMeh on Ao3 for leaving comments/reviews on each chapter of my fic "Mephibosheth"). The LU fans who come to my livewrites on the discord are so ridiculously encouraging and always let me know that my writing can actually be interesting to some people -- a fact that never ceases to astound me. But most credit goes to my younger sister. Even when I don't show her a work because it might be a little bit extreme or intense for her age, she always lets me know that she's sure it's good regardless. Her unconditional, unreasonable support inspires me to be that kind of person to other fic writers!

What got you into writing?

Three books in particular encouraged me to take writing seriously. "Crime and Punishment" was the first in this process, showcasing just how intense, beautiful, and profound a book with actually very little plot can be. The entire book takes place more or less in the head of a man wracked to pieces by guilt, and Dostoevsky's decision to focus on internal instead of external conflict changed the way I looked at literature. "East of Eden" was next. It wasn't just the book's allegorical nature or the Cain and Abel motif that astounded me - Steinbeck's vivid descriptions of everything from the human mind to sunrise in Salinas has had a profound impact on my own writing. I still reference the first few pages when I write! (actually, if you look at my fic "The Most Sincere Kind of Lie," the opening paragraph is heavily inspired by the first page of East of Eden!) Finally, the biblical Book of Job changed the way I look at dialogue and interactions between flawed characters. The whole book is almost written like an ancient screenplay and deals with heavy questions like the meaning of pain and the meaning of meaninglessness without offering direct answers - which inspired me to try and include those questions in my own writing and handle them in a similar, vague, interperative way.

What's your favorite part of the writing process?

After outlining a fic, I usually start out by writing them like a screenplay with all dialogue tags and action notes written off to the side. When sarcastic banter,  silly, lighthearted interactions, or intense conversations with a deeper meaning behind them start to come together, I can't help but smile. That usually gives the the extra inspirational boost I need to go back and flesh everything out so it becomes a story! (if you struggle with writing dialogue, message me on the discord and I'll be glad to tell you everything I know and send you the multitude of resources I have on the subject)

What's your least favorite part of the writing process?

Vetting works for grammatical mistakes turns writing fics into homework! I can't stand posting something and later reading just to find out that I forgot to capitalize a character's name, or that a comma is missing, or that Ao3 or FFN messed up the page breaks and I have to go back in and fix it. I'm not a perfectionist most of the time, but when I come to writing, I absolutely am.

Whats your favorite type of scene to write?

Intense philosophical debates and serious heart-to-heart conversations are by far my favorite kind of scenes to write, and that's because they're my favorite kind of scenes to observe and read! I always leave them feeling like I've gained something intellectually and emotionally, and it's my constant hope and dream to be able to impart the same kind of introspective thoughtfulness on the reader.  

What's the hardest for you to write?

Allowing or even plotting for a character to go off the deep end is always such a hard thing to write. Not for them to die, necessarily, but for them to completely lose their morals, priorities, and relationships in search for something selfish or temporary. Writing them making the same mistakes over and over not because they're stupid but because they don't care about the consequences is always hard -- it's like killing off a character and replacing them with the darkest, nastiest version of themselves. Basically, writing the opposite of character development is the opposite of fun. :(

What's your favorite genre to write?

Whatever the hybrid child of angst and fluff is called, that's my baby. I find that a combination of the two can make for a really interesting experience and give me more space to explore different faucets of each character's personality. It's also the perfect breeding ground for some intense, sincere conversations.

What fandoms do you enjoy writing for?

I don't write for a lot of fandoms, just Linked Universe, Undertale, and occasionally LoZ stuff not tied directly to our nine precious boys.

What's the work you are most proud of?

I've only gotten into LU very recently, so at the time of writing this I don't have anything from the fandom that's ready to showcase. I do have some cool Undertale stuff though, at least in my opinion! If you're interested in that, there are two fics I've poured (and am currently pouring) my heart and soul into that I'm extremely proud of. The first one is 'The Reason,' which is just a quick oneshot focused on Grillby being an amazing, hardworking dad, (https://archiveofourown.org/works/24354130) and the second is Mephibosheth,' my multi-chapter pre-canon fic about the lives of Asriel and Chara. '(https://archiveofourown.org/works/23804797)

Is there a specific scene you are particularly proud of?

Going again off the works I referenced earlier, a particular scene in the ninth chapter of 'Mephibosheth' had me patting myself on the back. I can't tell you what it is, though, because it's a massive spoiler. ;)

Is there something you had to work through that forced you to grow as a writer?

At the beginning of my junior year of high school I submitted two works into a competition I was confident I would win. No, not just win, I was sure I would get first place nationally. The competition never had many submissions and I knew that the works I submitted were pretty darn good. As you can probably guess, I didn't win anything. No medal or mention, nothing. I was in shock for a good few days and considering giving up writing completely. Then I realized how stupid I was being for assuming I was entitled to an award, for writing something only for recognition, and for thinking that I should give up on something I love so much just because it didn't supply me with the endorphin rush I thought it would. I made it a goal to improve as much as humanly possible afterwards, and I'm happy to say that I think I'm making progress towards that!

Do you have any fics inspired by real life stories?

Every gremlin-like thing the boys do in my WIP LU fic "The Most Sincere Kind of Lie" (by the time this is up, it'll probably be on Ao3) is based off something I've seen my brother and sister do. They're the embodiment of utter chaos and the manifestation of the primal urge to destroy, so they're great inspiration for Link shenanigans. Also, almost all of the banter in 'Mephibosheth' has taken inspiration from one of three places; conversations I've had with my grandparents, conversations I've had with my siblings, or interviews I've watched online. Inspiration for thought-provoking dialogue has to come somewhere that's not my own brain - there aren't enough brain cells to bear the brunt of that creative burden!

Where do you post your finished works?

I post on FFN and Ao3, both under the alias Seeking7. What's that, you say? You want a link to my profile? Well, who am I to refuse?? (AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seeking7) (FFN: https://www.fanfiction.net/u/13334645/)