#to keep going or sink into his inevitable condemnation

[midnight-mismanagement]

I’ve been thinking about That Church SceneTM and idk I think what hit me hardest was how Spike is talking about his former pre-soul mindset and how naive it is. He says “and she shall look on him with forgiveness and love and everyone will forgive and love and he will be loved” because while pre-soul he knew he was a monster and he knew he had done horrible things, he was okay with those things, he was a vampire after all, but he felt horrible for what he did to Buffy, but even then he still had a bit of hope. From the outside looking in, Angel’s soul seemed like the “button” for the “be good” switch. It would be the “piece that would make [him] fit” so he would be the “kind of man who would never [hurt her].” The “be a man not a monster” switch, that would make him be able to tell right from wrong and never hurt the people he loves anymore. But...the soul is not a “be good” switch. I don’t really know what the soul exactly is, since it’s never really concrete in the lore, but it doesn’t just make him fit, it doesn’t turn him into what he wants, but what it does do, is make him much more aware of himself and what he’s done, and he comes to the realization that no, there is no forgiveness. There never will be, he will never be worthy of it. He is condemned. He says “it’s okay now, right?” with hopeful despondency because he knows it will never be okay. Spike has always wanted acceptance, and love, and he sought it from places he would never get it, and now he knows he will never get it because he shouldn’t.

So when he goes up in flames by the end in heroic sacrifice and all that jazz, he’s happy he even got to have an ending like this, he’s finally doing something right. And when he comes back in Angel, as a ghost with no ability to affect the world around him (except annoy the crap out of Angel) he feels he is on borrowed time. In the moment of burning up, he didn’t have to think about if he would end up in hell or the aftermath, but with Pavayne toying with him, tugging him in to hell, it’s a slow torture of what he’s known all along, even if he didn’t fully want to face it. He is still condemned. And yet, given what he believes to be the one opportunity to stave off the inevitable for however longer and get a body, he still chooses Fred’s life over his own. And Fred tells him “you’re someone worth saving.” She doesn’t condemn him. She believes in him, like Buffy did, and this time it’s someone he doesn’t have a rocky past with or romantic feelings with, she just sees him for him and wants to help. And in the end he gets a body while she loses hers, and it’s because Angel and Spike did the “right” thing because it’s what Fred would’ve wanted. I think soulless him would’ve saved Fred, even if it meant condemning so many others. 

And on the day he thinks will once again be his last before the big suicide mission showdown (which he was the first to volunteer for), he doesn’t call Buffy to give her the pain of finding he’s alive only to die again, instead he goes to a bar and reads his poetry, the window into his shameful, soft soul that was stamped on and laughed at the last time he was a human, and hopes for acceptance. And he gets it.

[hieromonkcharbel]

“Great is the mystery of godliness: God was manifest in the flesh, justified in the Spirit, seen of angels, preached unto the Gentiles, believed on in the world, received up into glory” (1 Tim 3.16). We are all successors to Adam who fell like Lucifer. To the one created in the divine image, the idea of divinization comes naturally. The question is, how to achieve this purpose, this mission. If we are created beings and not First- and Self-Beings, it is preposterous to suppose that we can become “equal” to God, bypassing him. Our life is based on “the appearance of God in the flesh.” If belief in our divinization is imprescriptible for us, then the way to divinization lies in adoption of the life of God who manifested himself to us in our form of existence. We must indeed absorb his word, his Spirit, into ourselves—become like him in all our manifestations. And the more complete our likeness to him in this world, the fuller and more perfect our divinization. Saint Paul says, “He that is joined” (through prayer and communion) “unto the Lord is one spirit” (1 Cor 6.17), and so we pray:

“O Lord Jesus Christ, only-begotten Son of the Father, thou art our hope. With thee and through thee lead us to the Father . . . Have mercy upon me, a sinner.”

Eternal life in the bosom of the Holy Trinity—that is the purport of the summons. But this “kingdom suffereth violence, and the violent take it by force” (Mt 11.12). Self-constraint is imperative “because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it” (Mt 7.14). And when we Christians refuse to go along with those who “do not find it,” because they do not want it, conflict arises. We become unwelcome sons of this world. Such is the lot of those who love Christ. When the Lord is with us all our suffering in this world no longer terrifies, because with him we have passed from death into life. But hours—long periods even—of being forsaken by God are inevitable. “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” (Mt 27.46). And if with this we are rejected by other people our despair may go very deep indeed, and we cry unto him who himself was tempted and so is “able to succor them that are tempted” (Heb 2.18):

“O Lord Jesus, save me, I sink, as thou didst save Peter” (cf. Mt 14.30).

In the ascetic feat of prayer we each of us go as far as is possible for us. It is not easy to find ourselves or to define the limits of our strength. Those who are led by the Holy Spirit never cease condemning themselves as unworthy of God. In moments of deep despair they do move away for a while from the brink of the abyss where they stand in spirit, in order to allow mind and body a breathing-space before returning anew to the abyss. But whether he rests or whether [he is] in a peaceful period, there always remains a sort of wound in the depths of the ascetic’s heart, which does not allow him to lapse into proud ideas about himself. Ascetic humility becomes more and more rooted in his soul, becomes characteristic, as it were. Sorrow and sickness are the nature of our earthly progression. Otherwise, none of the sons of Adam would keep up in humility. But those who do endure are vouchsafed the gift of Christ-like humility (cf. Mt 11.29), which Staretz Silouan says is “indescribable” for it belongs to another, higher plane of being. Acquisition of this gift is possible only through constant thinking of Christ and prayer to him:

“O Lord Jesus Christ, Great and Holy God, do thou thyself teach me thy humility . . . I pray thee, have mercy upon me, a sinner.”

So then, our nature can be recast only in the fire of repentance. Only tearful prayer will destroy the roots of passion in us. Only invocation of the Name of Jesus can cleanse, regenerate, and hallow our nature. “Now ye are clean through the word which I have spoken unto you. Abide in me . . .” (Jn 15.3; 17.17). And how are we to abide? You are given my Name, and “whatsoever ye shall ask of the Father in my name, he may give it to you” (Jn 15.16).

“O Lord Jesus Christ who only art without sin, have mercy upon me, a sinner.”

St. Sophrony

On Prayer

[d-andilion]

is it love?

back for @whataboutthebard!

prompt: wuv - sweet confession of feelings

(valskier, T, modern au, established relationship, meeting the parents, fluff, love confessions, 2.3k, read on ao3)

Dinner is coming along unexpectedly well. Usually, any meal where Jaskier is involved in preparation is an inevitable disaster, but Valdo has been careful to keep him away from the big-ticket items. His main job has been opening packaging and throwing it away later. Aside from a small disaster involving a glass jar of tomato sauce (Valdo thankfully had a spare), he’s been successful.

Valdo crosses the kitchen with the finished pot of pasta noodles in hand, silky green sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, and dumps its contents into the colander Jaskier very helpfully placed in the sink for him. He mutters about the steam ruining his hair, but his mess of black curls looks the same to Jaskier. With the army’s worth of products Valdo puts in his hair every day, the frizz he’s worried about is probably impossible. He just wants to look nice, Jaskier understands. It’s a big night.

Jaskier has never actually met a significant other’s parents before, but he knows it’s generally considered a major milestone. They’ve been together for nearly six months now, so Valdo asking Jaskier to meet his mother wasn’t unexpected. Nervewracking, on the other hand, it very much was. Jaskier has been buzzing on the edge about it all week and as the moment of truth draws nearer, he feels like he might vibrate right out of his skin.

Not-at-all-frizzy hair aside, Valdo has been infuriatingly calm about the whole thing. He’s spent the last few days talking Jaskier off the ceiling despite the fact that it’s his mum causing all the ruckus. Even now, he stirs their pasta and checks on the pre-made breadsticks in the oven with calm and poise. 

Jaskier recenters the napkin holder on the kitchen table for the third time and looks back at his annoying relaxed boyfriend. “Are you really not worried about this at all?”

Valdo pauses, spoon still in hand, and hangs his head with an exasperated sigh. “Jaskier.”

“She could hate me.”

“She will not hate you,” Valdo says, firm but patient. “My mum is half-mad, she’s going to love you.”

“And you aren’t concerned in the slightest about this going well.”

“No.”

Jaskier slaps his hands dramatically on the table in front of him. “How?”

Valdo sighs again, more thoughtful this time, and sets his spoon down before turning to face Jaskier. “She’s just… not that kind of mum.”

Jaskier cocks his head curiously, still fiddling with the napkins. Valdo crosses his kitchen to Jaskier in a few long strides and shoves the napkin holder out of Jaskier’s reach with a chiding tsk. Before Jaskier can pout, Valdo begins running his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, nails scraping the back of his head the way that makes him want to purr like a cat.

“Not that she doesn’t care,” Valdo continues, still stroking Jaskier’s hair, “but she trusts me. She trusts me to know myself and what’s right for me. Even if by some miracle she didn’t like you, she’d be civil because I like you. So long as I’m happy, she’s happy.”

“She sounds amazing,” Jaskier says, leaning into his boyfriend’s touch.

Valdo snorts. “Don’t tell her that.”

He stills his fingers and tugs lightly at Jaskier’s hair, urging him to look up. Jaskier meets those big brown eyes with his own and something warm settles in the center of his chest. He’s been finding that feeling more and more when he and Valdo are together. It doesn’t make his nerves disappear, but it calms him easily. He slides an arm around Valdo’s waist to pull him closer.

“My mum is going to love you and you are going to love her,” Valdo says softly. Then he smirks. “If anything, I’m worried that I’ll be left out.”

Jaskier laughs at that. “You are not.

“I am!” Valdo exclaims. “I’m condemning myself to spend the rest of my days being ganged up on by the two of you.”

Valdo leans in for a kiss, pressing his smile to Jaskier’s for half a heartbeat before slipping out of his grasp to stir their supper. There’s still a grin on Valdo’s lips and light blush painting his pale skin, but he looks otherwise unphased by the words that just came out of his mouth. Jaskier, on the other hand, is reeling.

The rest of his days?

He might not have meant it like that. They both have a flare for the dramatic. Jaskier has certainly said things to that effect before, but this isn’t trivial banter about whose turn it is to pick the movie or whether Jaskier stole Valdo’s blue jumper (he did not and he refuses to search his closet of principle). This is about their lives together, their future. Jaskier and Margaret Marx, ganging up on Valdo for the rest of his days.

Is Valdo really thinking that far ahead? Does he think they will be together months and years into the future? Is he thinking forever? It’s been a good few months and things have been going great between them—better than great. Have they really been going forever great?

But Jaskier keeps watching his boyfriend stir another round of spices into their dinner, cheeks still pink because it takes forever for his blushes to fade, and the questions vanish from his mind. He knows he could do this forever. He could smash jars of tomato sauce and recenter the napkin holder and let Valdo soothe him when he’s being neurotic every day for the rest of his life. And he might just get the chance.

~

Margaret Marx is undoubtedly a host unto herself. Jaskier wouldn’t call her mad, exactly, but if he’s ever met a woman like her, he can’t recall it. And one would recall such a person.

She’s tiny, barely over five feet tall, and thin as a rail. Her straight, slate-gray hair falls down to the small of her back, flowing when she walks, along with her bright yellow floor-length skirt. Her wrists are covered with beaded bracelets and her neck is adorned with chunky pendants.

When Valdo told Jaskier his mother was a lawyer, it conjured an image of the stiff characters the Pankratz’s have always employed. Fitted suits, leather briefcases, dismal senses of humor. Marge—she insists Jaskier call her Marge—looks like she should be selling healing crystals in a beach town somewhere, and yet somehow he can still picture her commanding a courtroom with ease.

Watching her move about the kitchen beside her son, helping him set the table even as he harangues her to sit down, is an enigma all its own.

It’s hard to imagine Valdo could have in any way come from this woman. He’s her direct opposite; towering over her modest height, black curls artfully mussed beside her sleek gray curtain, pale as the driven snow compared to her generous tan. Even his gestures set him apart from her, always so measured, where she seems to float around the room on a carefree breeze. 

Yet, even with their many, many differences, there’s a familiarity between mother and son that feels entirely foreign to Jaskier. They lay the table and plate dinner in perfect harmony with all the airs of people who have performed this task a thousand times before. Jaskier is certain he’s never seen his own mother lift a plate before, much less scoop food onto it and set it on the table in front of him the way Marge does. He wonders if he ought to feel a tug of jealousy, and maybe it’s in there somewhere. But right now, watching Valdo smile and roll his eyes under his mother’s light teasing, Jaskier only notices a bloom of warmth in his chest.

Dinner is delicious, and talking to Marge is easy as breathing. Every so often, Jaskier feels Valdo’s hand on his knee under the table, giving him a reassuring squeeze. The evening is going swimmingly, just like Valdo promised him it would.

The conversation turns from school to careers to friends, and inevitably, to family. Valdo and Marge are mostly on their own, but Jaskier is drowning in sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins. He tells Marge about his niece and newborn nephew, and she demands to see pictures at once.

“I don’t know what I would do with so many relatives,” Valdo says between bites of his breadstick while she coos at Jaskier’s phone.

“It’s easy to manage when you avoid most of them at all costs,” Jaskier says with a shrug.

Valdo stops mid-chew, looking guilty, and Marge has a glint of sympathy in her eye. Jaskier hadn’t meant to bring down the mood. His nonexistent relationship with his family has been a fact for so long, he forgets to be bothered by it most days.

“Better we make our own family anyway,” says Marge, patting Jaskier’s hand. It wasn’t sympathy he saw in her eyes, he realizes. It was empathy. 

“I did it,” she continues with a grin. “Soon as I finished school. I changed my name and never looked back. I found my own people.”

“Really?” Jaskier asks.

Valdo snorts. “Of course she did, have you seen her?”

“Watch it you!” Marge exclaims, poking her son playfully in the side.

Valdo laughs, scooting out of his mother’s reach. He’s so soft right now, Jaskier thinks. Warm and open and relaxed the way he only ever is when they’re alone together. How many people have the privilege of seeing Valdo like this? Jaskier has a feeling that, at present, the only two are sitting in this room. 

Jaskier reaches out under the table and lays his hand gently on Valdo’s thigh, earning him his own private little smile. What a precious thing to be trusted with. More than gold, than jewels, than any round of applause.

“Even this one was a choice all my own,” Marge says, reaching again for Valdo’s side while he wiggles out of reach. “I wanted a baby and I was tired of waiting around for someone to have one with, so I went and had one myself.”

Jaskier feels a bit in awe. He knew Valdo’s mother was the only one in the picture, but he had no idea she’d chosen to have a baby all by herself. Could he ever be so brave? So sure of himself, so unafraid of the world and its challenges?

“I wouldn’t have had it any other way.” Marge looks at them contentedly. “Got me the best kid anyone could ask for. You’re a lucky one, Jaskier.”

Valdo groans dramatically and Jaskier laughs along, but he meets Marge’s eye for a moment, trying to convey everything he can’t say aloud right now. 

I know, he tells her. He’s precious to me, too. 

~

They finish dinner and dessert along with a few glasses of wine each before Marge decides to turn in. She excuses herself to the spare room, but not before reminding them that the walls are thin and she would very much appreciate them keeping it in their pants tonight. Valdo turns beet-red while Jaskier chokes on his own tongue. Marge is amused and unapologetic as she shuts the door behind her.

“How did you manage to get the coolest mum in the history of mums?” Jaskier asks when he finally recovers.

“She isn’t that cool,” Valdo says with a heavy eye roll. He stands to start clearing the table and Jaskier follows suit, collecting their empty wine glasses. 

“My parents wouldn’t allow my sister and her husband to share a room—even the sitting room—until they were in a Gods-honoring marriage. This includes a seven-year relationship and the period during which they were engaged to be married. They had a small child together, Val.”

Valdo snorts. “I think that says more about your parents than my mum.”

“It definitely does,” Jaskier concedes. “She’s still cool.”

“If she were cool, she would learn to keep her nose in her own business. I still can’t believe she said that.”

Valdo’s blush creeps back up his neck as he remembers their conversation. Just as they were finishing their meals, Marge asked them both rather bluntly if they thought it was love. Valdo was absolutely mortified and changed the subject at once, but Jaskier was surprisingly calm. He’s been bouncing that four-letter-word around in his head for months now if he’s honest and it doesn’t scare him at all. It feels right.

“She’s just looking out for you,” Jaskier says.

“She’s just being meddlesome like usual,” Valdo replies with a pout.

Jaskier chuckles and they clear up in silence for a few beats. He can hardly blame Marge for her comments, flustered as Valdo was over them. She saw right through Jaskier tonight. Maybe Valdo isn’t ready to say it yet, but Jaskier is.

“It is, you know,” Jaskier says, pausing by the sink while Valdo stacks dishes inside.

Valdo doesn’t look up. “What is?”

“It,” Jaskier replies. “This. Us. It is.”

“Is what?”

“Love.”

Valdo’s head whips up at once, his eyes blown wide, and their plates clatter in the sink as they slip from his hands, but neither of them is focused on the dishes right now. 

“I love you,” Jaskier tells him with a soft smile on his lips, and fuck, it feels so good to say it. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I just wanted you to know. You don’t have to say anything—”

“I love you, too,” Valdo breathes. His cheeks are still pink and his shirt is a little wet from the sink, but right now he’s the most beautiful thing Jaskier has ever seen.

“Great.”

Valdo chuckles light as air and steps into Jaskier’s space, wrapping his arms around Jaskier’s neck. “That’s your big line?”

“I think I’ve pulled my share of big lines this evening,” Jaskier snarks back. His hands find their familiar perch on Valdo’s hips.

“That’s no excuse,” Valdo mutters. Then he pulls Jaskier into a kiss, slow and sweet, and whispers those three words against Jaskier’s lips. It makes them both smile like idiots.

Jaskier laughs breathlessly, touching his forehead to Valdo’s. “I love you, too.”

~~

w.a.t.b. masterlist

[the-iron-orchid]

BOOK  VII: THE CHARIOT

Chapter 4: The Dark (1182 words)

Warnings: Explicit chapter. Domination/submission dynamic, mild degradation, semi-public, handjob, edging.

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Julian sinks to his knees before me; his height is such that it makes him only half a head shorter than myself. But that is of no consequence. His submission, and my acceptance of that submission, is what matters here.

This is what truly pleases me - his desperation, his willingness, his helplessness to resist. It is as natural for me to take control as it is for him to yield it. It is this essential duality that brings us together, something as inevitable as the pull of one lodestone for another.

Even this is not enough to make him stay with me. But it is enough to keep him here, in this moment. Having discovered this, or perhaps re-discovered it… I will take what I can get, before it is gone.

I lift his chin in my fingers, and he looks at me in turn, his eye heavy-lidded with his desire. I bend forward slightly, bringing our lips into contact once more. He presses himself up to me with a pure hunger that seems to infuse his entire being.

“Jinana, please…”

“I can’t read your mind, Julian. You have to ask.” 

He flushes so violently that I can feel his skin heating itself under my hand. “I… I want you to… touch me. Let me take that much with me - the memory of your touch, your kiss.”

It doesn’t have to be this way. He condemns himself with his own stubbornness.

“To touch you? That covers a lot of ground, Julian. You’re going to have to be more specific.”

He makes an inarticulate sound, then his gloved hands fumble after my hips, pulling me to him. As once before, I feel an obvious and heated hardness pressed to my thigh, and he shudders against me.

I plunge my right hand into his hair, taking a firm grip at his nape, tilting his head back so that he is forced to look at me. I run the thumb of my other hand lightly over his lips, and he parts them, taking the digit into his mouth and sucking eagerly at it.

“Show me how much you want me to touch you.” With a soft moan, he begins to rock his hips against me, as he did the night before, rubbing himself against me through the fabric of our clothing.

“Just like a dog,” I laugh, and he makes a strangled little sound. “How cute.” I know what he wants; he wants to be punished, even as he is pleasured. He wants me to demean him, to use him; it’s what he feels he deserves. What he wants most, however, I will not give. 

He has not earned it.

I release him, taking my thumb from his mouth. My hands fall to his shoulders, and he lets himself be pushed back against the nearest piling, landing with legs akimbo. I advance upon him, one hand again seizing his nape, while the other yanks open his collar. He hisses in his breath as I deliver sharp bites to the skin, his own hands running over my back, my hips, my legs. My lips find the place where the mark hides beneath his skin; my teeth cause it to reveal itself, briefly.

Julian’s hand clutches at mine, taking hold of it, dragging it down his body. He groans as our joined hands encounter his restrained erection, trapped under those close-fitted trousers of his.

“My goodness,” I tell him. “So worked up already.” I don’t feel like fussing with the sash tied about his waist; a snap of my fingers causes it to instantly unwind itself, falling aside, and he grunts in surprise. “You’ve been with a magician before,” I say. “Surely it is not so startling?”

But he is more concerned with tugging up the hem of his voluminous shirt, unfastening the top of his pants and spreading them open. It is too dark for me to be able to see much, but my hand finds the peculiar coolness of his skin, following the trail of hairs that leads down his flat belly.

That coolness quickly becomes heated as I continue, my fingertips running over the softer, more delicate skin of his rigid cock. Julian’s hips press urgently to my touch, and I find that I like this, too. I pull his head back with my grip on his hair, bringing my mouth down on his even as my other hand strokes him. He gives a low whine in his throat as I bite roughly at his lower lip.

His pleasure and his pain are at my command, willingly given, and once again there is that sense I had before, of something that is correct. I move my hand more quickly, encircling him as best I can - my hands are small, and he is not. Julian begins to groan, his mouth moving under mine, trying to push his way into my own. His body squirms and undulates under my touch, fascinating me.

If only there were more time to explore this, to understand - but he is committed to his course.

His breathing is coming harshly now, the tension in his frame rising to a crescendo - and I abruptly cease my motion, causing him to give a sharp cry of frustration, to mutter and plead under his breath even as his hips lift to try and seek my touch.

“Oh god, Jinana, please -”

“Beg me for it.” Again, I have surprised even myself with this command. But Julian simply accepts it, immediately loosing a torrent of groveling words, until the resumed motion of my hand takes the power of speech from him again.

Interested, I repeat this process a few times, until his entire body is quivering with denied need, until his entreaties have become a disjointed, fevered repetition. Only then do I take him to completion, his back arching, hips jerking, the cries he makes muffled by my own mouth.

He seems rather dazed as he comes back to himself, his breathing ragged, his limbs trembling. It is, of course, a simple matter for me to remove all evidence of this encounter with my magic, and any marks I may have left on his skin are long healed.

Let him have only the memory.

Julian remains where he is, sprawled against the piling with pants and shirt in disarray, jacket rucked up from his waist as he catches his breath. As tempted as I am to rise, turn and walk away - he surely deserves it - it feels wrong, somehow. I do not have it in me to do this and to leave.

I help him to rise on unsteady legs, to put himself back together. His shaking hands fumble with the sash, and I take this task over for him; soon he is presentable once more, as if this thing had not occurred between us.

But it is reflected still in the way he looks down at me, and in the way his hands cradle my face as he tips it up to him one last time, for one last kiss, longer than breath can hold.

[heliads]

Guns Blazing, Tides Rising (Part One)

When Kaz Brekker announces that they’ll be working with a certain Tidemaker to help with the latest heist, Jesper knows it’s not going to end well. He and Y/N L/N have a fierce rivalry, although feelings may change over a night.

series masterlist / part two

Jesper is almost one block away from the Crow Club when he senses that he isn’t alone.

Technically, he hasn’t been alone in a long time. There is no place to get away in Ketterdam, no alley left uninhabited or room without a listener. It’s certainly nothing like Novyi Zem, where you could find miles of farmland with nobody to talk to and nothing to do. No, the Barrel has never been somewhere to stay away from people.

This, however, is a different kind of presence. Jesper only notices it now, and he has no idea how long the Wraith has been following him. Sometimes he thinks she does it on purpose, walking behind him, footsteps silent as ever, just to see how long it takes him to figure out that she’s there. Jesper halts in his tracks, raising his voice to the hooded figure no doubt a pace or two behind him. “I know you’re there, Inej, and if I turn around just now you had better not do that thing where you wait two inches behind me just to make me jump.”

There is silence, as expected. Jesper turns in a slow semicircle, ready for the inevitable, yet he still stiffens just slightly to see Inej standing behind him. Jesper has been in the Barrel for a long time, and gotten used to the skulking and sneaking of the various goons. He fancies himself at least somewhat capable at figuring out when people are following him, but for some reason, he cannot do the same with Inej. Not at all.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “You did the thing.” Jesper finishes lamely. Something almost like a smile tugs at Inej’s lips. “That’s not exactly my fault. I’ve been waiting for you to notice me for a while. I’ve practically been stomping my heels against the cobblestones.” Jesper groans. “You have not. You’ve been as silent as ever, and you know that.” Inej ignores this, jerking her chin behind her, back in the direction of the Slat. “Your Crow Club endeavor will have to wait. Kaz needs you.”

Kaz Brekker needs him. “What a surprise. I’m very useful, as it turns out. Couldn’t this wait a little longer, though? I’ve heard they’ve got a new dealer over at Makker’s Wheel.” Inej just turns around, starting to walk back towards the Slat. No matter how hard Jesper tries, he cannot hear a single footstep echo against the stones. “This is more important.” Jesper raises an eyebrow. “More important than earning the Dregs money by supporting a local establishment? He doesn’t need to worry, you know, I’ve got money.”

Jesper grimaces at the look of incredulity starting to color Inej’s eyes. “Alright, it’s not a lot of money. But it is at least enough to buy a round or two. Besides,” Jesper continues, eager to shift the conversation away from his less than prosperous gambling habits, “Why did Kaz send you? He could have just delivered a note.” Inej lifts a shoulder, even the slightest of shrugs a graceful movement. “I told you, this is important.”

Jesper is intrigued by this. “Whenever you say ‘important’ more than once, it’s always good. Is it another heist? Extortion? Maybe a good clash of rival gangs?” Inej rolls her eyes. “I’m not supposed to tell you anything. That was the whole point of me going.” Jesper sighs dramatically. “You could tell me a little bit. I wouldn’t even mention it to Kaz.”

Inej instead lets her eyes trail upwards, towards the ramshackle glory of the Slat which is visible down the block. “You’ll get your information soon enough.” Her voice grows quiet, quieter than usual. It’s practically impossible to hear over the clack of footsteps on stone as pigeons and gang members alike rush to finish their business before it grows too late and the thieves come running. “I will say one thing, though. While we’re still away from prying ears.”

Jesper leans closer, fascinated. “What is it?” Inej looks up at him, and Jesper realizes that she looks almost regretful. “Don’t be too upset.” Jesper waits for more, some explanation to this excruciatingly vague statement, but nothing happens. “Don’t be upset? What, is Kaz going to cane me to death?” Inej tilts her head to the side. “There’s a plan, and it will involve some things that you won’t be too fond of. That’s all I can say for now.”

Jesper wants to pry a little further, even if he senses that the Wraith will remain silent, but the door to the Slat is already in front of him, effectively stopping any conversation. The Dregs may be Kaz’s gang, but loyalties can always be changed. Jesper has wandered the canals long enough to know that all secrets should be kept to locked doors, and even allies can turn against you. Some conversations are best when they’re not shared at all.

Jesper looks around for Kaz in the main room of the Slat, but he doesn’t see the dark-haired boy anywhere. Instead, Inej inclines her head towards the rickety set of stairs at the back of the room. “He’ll be waiting for you in his office.” Jesper moves to ask her something, anything, about what else is waiting for him there, but before he can even open his mouth to speak Inej has disappeared. It’s fascinating- Jesper hadn’t even turned away or looked elsewhere, yet she had vanished right before his open eyes. He hadn’t seen her go, just witnessed her blink away into the shadows.

Jesper stares at the empty floorboards where Inej had once stood, then, squaring his shoulders as if preparing for a particularly nerve-wracking round of cards, begins to ascend the flights of stairs. He pauses once outside the door to Kaz’s office, touching the hilts of his pearl handled revolvers for luck, then pushes open the door and steps inside.

Kaz is waiting for him, standing at his desk and running through a map spread out across the wooden surface. He looks up when he sees Jesper enter, straightening to nod once in greeting. Jesper’s eyes travel to Inej, who had somehow beat him up the stairs and is now perched, catlike, on Kaz’s windowsill.

Kaz doesn’t bother with pleasantries or questions about Jesper’s day, as per usual, just dives into an explanation. “There’s a mercher living down near the Financial District. He’s like the others- snotty, pretends to be pious, unseasonably rich for someone who just arrived at his title, but he’s strayed too far from his gilded walkways and tried to start restrictions on Fifth Harbor.”

Jesper lets out a snort. “Merchers. Always getting too big for their tie pins.” Kaz ignores this. “Under his new plan, we’d have to pay out reparations to him and also ease back on coaxing pigeons into our establishments. There’s no way in hell that would ever pass, but this mercher just happens to have some pretty significant blackmail on key members of the Merchant Council, and they’ll pass whatever bill he wants so long as he keeps his mouth shut. Unfortunately, we can’t kill him directly, but we can break into his mansion and steal his proof of the Council’s less savory transactions. Without the blackmail, the Council will never pass the bill, and we’ll be fine.”

Jesper raises an eyebrow. “As easy as that?” Kaz lifts a shoulder. “There’s a slight complication. This mercher, Joeri ter Steege, has a certain thing for oceanside views. He’s found himself a nice little inlet near the water’s edge, and access to his mansion is only available by boat. This means that any attempt to access his house would mean we would travel by water, and any boat could easily be sighted by guards that patrol the area.”

Jesper squints at Kaz. “What do you mean, only available by boat? If he’s living in an inlet, shouldn’t there be some dock connecting it to the mainland?” Inej flashes him a smile. “The merch has got himself a moat.” Jesper stares. “You’re kidding me. You’ve got to be kidding me. This merch is so extravagantly wealthy that he’s gone and got himself a moat? Ghezen’s hand, maybe I should become a banker. The things I could do.” Inej hides a laugh. “The moats you could build.”

Kaz’s hand tightens around his crow’s head cane. “Regardless of the merch’s terrible landscaping decisions, the fact remains that access will be practically impossible. To get across, we’d need a boat, and any boat would be sighted by guards. That’s why we need a Tidemaker.” Jesper’s smile starts to drop from his face. Suddenly, pieces are starting to fall into place. Inej’s warning. Kaz’s mention of a Tidemaker. Jesper shakes his head. “Don’t tell me you got the one Tidemaker I’m thinking of. Please say you brought in somebody else.”

Kaz opens his mouth to either condemn this or save Jesper’s skin, but then a voice rings out from the newly opened door and Jesper’s spirits sink into his boots. “Afraid not, Fahey. They’ve brought me.” Jesper turns around, finding himself face to face with a girl just walking into the office, hand loosely wrapped around the wooden doorframe. She tosses him a smile as if they’re old friends, when it couldn’t be further from the truth.

Jesper whirls back around to face Kaz. “You didn’t. You’re really trusting her? Y/N L/N?” Kaz shrugs. “She’s the best there is, unfortunately. We need to remain hidden, and she’s the only one who won’t rat us out or let us drown.” Y/N walks further into the room, letting the door close behind her. “I appreciate the vote in confidence, but don’t worry about me. I can get you in and out, no problem. Well, the only problem will be you, sharpshooter.”

Jesper feels the sudden need to grab one (or maybe both) of his revolvers and let fly with his bullets. Can a Tidemaker wash away a hail of ammunition? Jesper’s assuming not. Kaz taps his cane against the floor. “Let’s not reach to violence just yet, Jesper. Wait until after the extraction is over.” Jesper throws one last glare Y/N’s way. “Trust me, I’ll have no problem with that.” He can wait, after all.

The problem with Y/N L/N is this: she keeps finding a way to meddle with everything he does. First, Jesper was on a heist by himself, breaking into a stronghold of the Dime Lions to snatch up an encoded message left by Pekka Rollins. He was doing fine until a wave of water cascaded in through the windows, knocking him aside and thoroughly drenching the paper. It was useless now, both to Rollins and to Kaz. Y/N had only bothered to toss a wink across the room before leaving, allowing her wave to soak Jesper’s boots while she was at it.

The second time was during a shootout. She’d been hired to the other side, although Jesper hadn’t known it yet. Jesper was just about to fire upon the lousy goon who’d hired her when she’d used her powers again, this time specifically intending to ruin his guns. His precious pearl-handled revolvers, soaked through with water. It had taken him forever to get the saltwater out of every crack and groove in the metal, and during all of that time he’d vowed to himself that he’d be the one to darken her doorway and make Y/N regret ever stepping foot against him again.

Jesper had won the third time. This time, he was the unexpected guest, and she was seconds away from drowning an entire swath of gang members to protect a secret. She was just raising her hands to move the water into place when a gunshot sounded from out of nowhere and she was knocked sideways, hand already raising to the stain of red starting to bloom out from her arm. It wouldn’t kill her, unfortunately, but it was enough to give the gang members time to escape. Some of them were Dregs, after all, and Jesper had some friends to protect. That isn’t to say that he didn’t walk away with a smile, just that he had multiple motives.

Needless to say, he didn’t exactly have the best history with Y/N L/N. And now Kaz was asking him to have her back during a heist? It sounds like a joke. Unfortunately, Jesper has a sinking feeling that there’s no getting out of this. If he’s going to have to depend on Y/N for his life, things might not exactly go according to plan. He has no idea where Y/N’s loyalties lie, he reasons, but Jesper thinks there might be more to it than that.

The group meets up at the water’s edge. The canals bleed into the harbor here, and Jesper can just make out the lights of Joeri ter Steege’s mansion across the glittering black of the waves. He can also make out a slight tension in Kaz’s grip on his cane as he takes in the sight of the undulating water, but that isn’t for him to notice. Y/N melts out of the shadows, a blue lining on her coat the only indication that she might still cling to Ravkan traditions for Grisha. “Well?” She asks, walking past them as if not expecting an answer, “Are we ready?”

Y/N spreads her hands and the water of the harbor flickers and shifts on the surface. As Jesper watches, Y/N steps forward, and the water solidifies under her feet as if she’s walking on glass instead of the tides. She pushes her hands apart, and the area of solid water expands until it’s large enough to act as a bridge. She turns to the rest of the group. “We can walk from here. It’ll be faster than a boat, and far more quiet.” 

Kaz nods, beginning to walk after her on the bridge of water. Before his feet leave the ground, his mouth moves once. “No mourners.” Jesper nods. “No funerals.” They won’t be able to speak as freely at the mercher’s island, so this will do best. Jesper considers the unmoving waves one last time, then follows him. He’s half expecting Y/N to let the water liquify under his feet just a little bit, out of spite, but it holds. They continue along the harbor, and if Jesper turns his head he can see the bridge rippling back into normal water after they pass by it. It raises the hairs on the back of his neck to see his escape route disappear so quickly, but Jesper does his best to quiet the voice of warning. Kaz would never bring Y/N in if he thought she would betray them, and even if he did, Kaz would have another way out. That’s just the way Dirtyhands worked.

All the same, Jesper feels a little better when his heels land on solid ground once more. Kaz doesn’t have to say a word, just points at the roof. Jesper nods, remembering the plan. He and Y/N split away from Kaz and Inej, heading towards the roof for their line of entry. When Jesper had heard this part of the plan, he had complained viciously. Why should he have to go scale the building alone with Y/N? Why couldn’t Inej go instead? In the end, it hadn’t mattered- the plan needed them both there, so that’s where they would go.

Jesper doesn’t exactly have Inej’s skill in climbing, but ter Steege makes it easy. There are balconies and handholds practically everywhere, as if the merch is offering free mansion climbing lessons to anyone interested. Jesper supposes that one would be less concerned about robberies if you had a moat, but still. You have that much money, you might as well pretend to make it hard for light-fingered con artists.

Soon enough, Jesper and Y/N are standing on the roof, staring down at the fourth skylight from the left. This is where they’ll enter, once it reaches eleven bells and it’s time to move. Now, however, all they can do is wait as Kaz and Inej get into position. Jesper carefully sits down, letting his long legs prop up against the tiles of the roof. Y/N sits next to him, staring up at the sky. The moon is out tonight, the pale light illuminating her eyes and dusting her cheeks.

Distantly, Jesper realizes that he’s never seen her like this- letting her guard down for once. He’s not shooting at her, she’s not trying to drown him, it’s almost like a peace offering. Y/N must be having the same thoughts, because she turns to face him. The moonlight still stays on her face, as if unwilling to let go. Jesper has the sudden thought that he wouldn’t want to do the same either, if he had the opportunity to linger here, then shakes himself mentally.

Y/N’s voice is quiet, a whisper cutting through his thoughts and scattering them to the wind. “Do you ever wonder what would have happened if we hadn’t been fighting when we first met each other? Would we have been friends like you and Kaz?” Jesper chuckles in spite of himself. “If you think Kaz Brekker makes friends, I’m starting to think that you’ve suffered a head injury.”

Y/N rolls her eyes. “He trusts you. That’s rare.” Jesper shrugs, conceding this. He keeps speaking, though, even when he has just decided to remain silent. “I think we could have been close. We have similar interests.” Y/N raises an eyebrow. “Money? A good time?” Jesper flashes her a grin, easy as flipping a coin and landing it square in your palm. “Exactly. See? We already understand each other perfectly.”

Y/N lets out a short laugh at that, moonlight still teasing at the corner of her lips. Jesper’s eyes linger longer than they should. Curse his tendencies to start rivalries with the prettiest of enemies- it’s beginning to get him into trouble. Y/N’s head tilts towards the tides below, and then she stands. “It’s time. The bells are about to ring.” Jesper mourns the moment lost, then stands and takes his position by the skylight. He waits for the bells to begin to toll, then grabs his revolver, spinning it back and forth in his palm like a nervous tic before firing four times at the corners of the window, exactly where the locks will hold.

He doesn’t miss the way Y/N’s eyes track the spin of the gun, or the admirative tug of her lips into a half smile. However, now is no longer the time for schoolboy glances, and Jesper kneels at the window, carefully removing it from its frame. This is their entrance, and they would do well to hurry along.

The plan almost goes well. Almost. They manage to break into the mercher’s office, stealing the documents and meeting up with Kaz and Inej to get out, but just as they’re about to cross through the main atrium of the mansion, a loud dissonance of bells breaks out. An alarm. Jesper sees identical looks of panic reflected on every face- this was not supposed to happen. Not at all. They don’t hesitate, just run. Jesper’s lived in the Barrel long enough to remember this one lesson: when you can’t count on gangs or anyone to have your back, your feet always will. Just remember to keep moving.

They’re almost to the water’s edge when the shots ring out. Guards have followed them out of the building and fire even as their feet pound down the beach. Jesper’s revolvers are in his hands before another second can pass, bullets aimed with precision as he runs. They’re almost to the water when he hears a sound from behind him that draws all breath from his lungs. From here, it almost sounds like a cry of pain. It’s soft, as if someone’s trying not to draw attention, but Jesper hears it nonetheless.

He turns around and his stomach clenches with horror as he realizes he was right. Y/N is stumbling, clutching a terrible scarlet stain across her chest. It’s deep, too deep, and far too close to her heart to be safe. Y/N has time to fling her arms up, casting out the bridge of water once more, before she falls to the ground. All of a sudden, Jesper’s vision tunnels. He can only see two things: Y/N, hand limp over the spreading blood, and the guards, pistols still smoking.

Jesper’s shots ring out again and again. He can’t hear anything other than a buzzing in his ears, something that might be his pulse or just a sign that he’s gone mad. To be honest, Jesper’s not sure that he cares. Bullets careen through the air, curving around pillars and corners to reach their targets. His da would panic to see him, grab Jesper by his shoulders and tell him to be more careful. Anyone could know now, could see the way the bullets fly through the air as if guided by an invisible hand and figure out what that means, but Jesper doesn’t think about that for a second. All he can think about is revenge, and making sure that every single body falls to the ground.

Jesper’s haze leaves him, and he realizes that all of the guards are dead. All of them. Then his guns are back in their holsters, and he’s scrambling towards Y/N. When he picks her up, she feels cold. Too cold. Blood is staining his hands now, turning the long fingers red, but he barely notices at all. His heels flash down the beach, then onto the water, which is still solid. It must be killing her to keep this up, but she’s still doing it.

Jesper swore that it took far longer to make the trip over the harbor, but it feels like he’s barely taken a few steps before he’s on the other side and the water bridge is swallowed up by the tides once more. Kaz and Inej have just made it onto the other side, and their eyes widen at the crazed look on Jesper and the bloodied form of Y/N in his arms. Jesper doesn’t have time to consider this, and he shouts at them as he runs. “Get a healer! Get somebody- Nina, maybe. Anybody.”

Inej takes off into the streets, but Kaz remains, giving Jesper a particular look. “I remember you saying something about how Y/N was your rival. This is your chance, you know. The Barrel can be a ruthless place, and nobody would suspect you if she never made it back.” Jesper has the feeling that this is a test, some challenge placed before him to see how he’ll respond, but he can’t find it within himself to care. Jesper has always had an affinity for the odds, but this once, it’s not enough. “No. I’m getting her out. I need a Healer.”

Kaz steps back, allowing Jesper to pass, but not before he sees the appraising look in his eyes. Kaz nods once, briefly, and then Jesper is around the corner and sprinting headlong towards the Slat. A Healer is indeed waiting there, and holds out her arms to receive Y/N. For a second, Jesper’s arms clench around her body, unwilling to give her up, and then he forces his arms to relax and she’s gone, carried away into another room.

Jesper is left with the blood staining his shirt and the decision staining his conscience. If Y/N died, was it his fault? Should he care this much? He’s not sure that question can even be answered. The Healer comes out eventually, nodding at him. She’s not ready to have visitors, or at least she won’t be awake to see them, but that doesn’t stop Jesper from disappearing into her room the second the Healer leaves.

Jesper feels his throat close up when he sees her. Y/N is lying stiff and unmoving on a narrow bed, breath unnaturally slow and eyes closed. It’s strange- he’s seen her fiery and powerful, glowing as a Grisha does after they use their powers, but now she looks seconds from death. Jesper’s feet carry him woodenly over to the bed, and he stands there for a moment before reaching down and taking her hand. He doesn’t expect to feel anything at all, yet there’s a slight pressure and her eyelids flicker open.

“What, trying to finish the job?” A slight smile cracks Y/N’s lips, and Jesper feels like he could cry out in relief. Maybe it’s time he takes up Inej’s saints after all. “You’re alright?” She nods, although even this small movement appears to hurt. “As well as one can. I think I have someone to thank for that, though.” Jesper nods slowly. “Yeah, the Healer was great. We should keep her around just in case.”

Y/N laughs, the sound undamaged even as her blood still stains the bandages. “You’re impossible. I’m talking about you.” Jesper’s cheeks feel hot. “Oh.” Now this is unreal- usually he’s the one eliciting blushes, never the other way around. “I couldn’t just leave you there, you know.” She nods once, smiling, and then her eyelids seem too heavy to stay open and she starts to drift off to sleep once more. If Jesper happened to stay with her even after her eyes shut, and even if a kiss just happened to be pressed to her cheek, well, that was nobody’s business but his own.

[ibis-gt]

"Are you cold" for the writing prompts!

(maybe with borrower!Luther if you'd like?)

YES GOD i love huddling for warmth. football au time.

~~~

The inevitable had happened. The heating had broken down in the dead of winter. A thick covering of snow lay over the pitch, making practice difficult, so the team attempted to exercise inside. As members of the ailing Atlas F.C. jogged down the halls, their breath fogged in front of them. Guy’s poured out with a steady stream of complaints and curses.

“I hate this country. Fuck! Who let it get this cold? What loving god would condemn us to this? Jesus ‘aich Christ. You people are all insane, to be living here. I am going back to Meaux and you will never see me again.”

“Uh-huh,” Hugh panted, keeping pace with him. “Send us a postcard, eh?”

“I will send you a postcard. No one else.”

“Aw, you charmer.” Hugh’s face, already pink from the cold, flushed a deeper red.

While it was a lost cause to try and heat the halls, some team members had dragged in space heaters for the office and locker room. They did their best, radiating a gentle warmth, but couldn’t completely banish the cold. Cam was huddled in the manager’s office now, filling out the latest swath of paperwork. He was a big, solid, well-built man, and he did not get cold easily. In fact, winter was one of his favorite seasons, as it meant he wasn’t overheated all day. But this level of chill was a little out of his comfort zone. He was bundled up in an old wool coat with an Atlas F.C. scarf wrapped around his neck, pulled up the way up over his nose, an incongruously bright pink bobble hat perched on his head.

Cam stole regular glances at the desk across from him, where the head coach and assistant coach were curled up together. Being five inches tall, they felt the chill more strongly than anyone, and they were currently shivering in a little pile under a thick quilt that Hugh had made for them, just about the size of a handkerchief. The two were as mouselike in nature as they were in appearance, and frequently flopped on top of each other for warmth or to nap. But even their shared body heat and the blanket seemed to be doing little for them.

Cam tapped his pointer finger on the desk for a moment, considering. Then he pulled the scarf down so that his face was exposed and asked, “Are you cold?”

Two little faces turned up to look at him. There was a moment of silence, and then Boots, predictably, broke it.

“What the hell kind of question is that? Of course we’re cold. Good lord, man, it must be six below at least.”

Cam laughed. “Well, do you want to warm up?”

“Yes, but Honeysuckle says we can’t lay on the space heater,” Luther piped up. “Cos it’ll roast us like little sausages. Her exact words.”

“Fascinating. Well, c’mere, I’ll warm you up.”

Boots hopped up in an instant, stretching his arms over his head. “Finally! Thought you’d never offer, sitting over there hoarding all your body heat.”

Luther was less enthusiastic. He inched backwards, sinking deeper into the recesses of the blanket. Boots looked down and rolled his eyes. “C’mon, worrywart,” he muttered. “You’ll freeze to death on your own in there. And I’m not passing this up.” He held his hand out and waited.

Slowly, Luther emerged, keeping his eyes focused on Cam. He took Boots’ hand and got to his feet, shoulders hunched, fist clenched at his side.

Cam leaned over his desk and stretched his hand out, palm up. He could nearly reach all the way to them like this, but there were still about five inches between the tips of his fingers and the edge of their desk. They’d have to jump.

“Leap of faith, huh?” Boots murmured in Luther’s ear. Luther set his jaw and nodded.

Together, still holding hands, they easily cleared the distance, landing softly in Cam’s palm. His fingers curled in slightly, making Luther flinch, and then he retracted his arm as slowly as he could. Cam settled back down in his seat with a sigh. He lifted his other hand and began to cover the two, but stopped as Luther let out a little squeak of fear.

“Oh! Sorry. I was going to just, you know, press you between my hands a little. Nothing rough, I promise.”

“Don’t think we’re there yet,” Boots said, shaking his head. “How about you tuck us in your scarf?”

“My scarf?”

“Yeah, just right up by your neck. You’ll still be able to do paperwork and Luther won’t flip out and bite you. Right? Promise?”

Luther scowled at Boots but nodded. “I wasn’t going to,” he muttered.

“‘Course you weren’t,” Boots said, slapping him on the back.

Cam chuckled. “Sure, that’ll work. Careful, though, watch those claws.” He pulled his scarf down again, exposing his neck, and brought his hand up to his shoulder so they could climb on. He felt their little hands and feet scrabbling over him, their miniscule weight settling against his neck, and those curious tufted tails twitching back and forth. It was lucky he wasn’t ticklish, but the sensation still made goosebumps rise on his skin and sent a shiver down his spine.

As carefully as he could, Cam pulled the scarf up over the two borrowers. He heard a tiny gasp from Luther, then Boots making quiet consoling noises, and felt them shift as Boots wrapped an arm around his shoulder. They were so close, all those little sounds and movements that would have been imperceptible became magnified exponentially. Cam pulled the scarf back up to his nose. He didn’t dare say a word, worried that his voice this loud and close would startle them. Instead, he picked up his pen and got back to work, trying not to notice how fast their tiny hearts were beating.

Inside the scarf, it was toasty warm. Boots sighed happily as the shivering tension went out of his body. With every exhale, Cam sent warm air gusting over the two of them. His pulse was steady and slow, a comforting rhythm that made the skin of his neck throb. Boots’ eyes slowly drifted shut, and his consciousness started to fade out. Before he completely succumbed to sleep, he cracked an eye open to check on Luther.

Luther was in much the same position as Boots, arms wrapped around as much of Cam’s neck as he could manage, legs tucked in, held in place by the scarf at their backs. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be breathing easily. A tiny, secret smile played at the corner of his lips, and his expression was totally relaxed and at peace. Boots couldn’t stop a little smile of his own, and he let himself drift off to sleep at last.

[a-written-dream]

Chapters: 1/1

Words: 1,788

Fandom: Merlin (TV)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)

Characters: Merlin (Merlin), Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Future, Gen or Pre-Slash, Rebellion, Arthur Knows About Merlin’s Magic (Merlin), Cybernetics, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Captivity, Identity Reveal, Evil Uther Pendragon (Merlin), Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, pretty canon-typical though, POV Merlin (Merlin), The Merlin Melee Challenge 2021, Fights, Rebel Leader Arthur

Summary: Because they had been captured and suddenly Arthur was no longer just Arthur, he was Arthur Pendragon, son of everything they fought against.

Or: In a world years into the future, Merlin and Arthur fight against the tyranny of Uther Pendragon with an entire rebellion by their side. But Arthur hasn’t been entirely honest and even locked up in a cell Merlin can’t help the burning feelings of betrayal and anger. - For @merlin-fic-server’s Melee Challenge. Prompts: ‘I wish I’d told you’, punk, coin & Russian Violet

The metal is cold against Merlin’s back and against the skin of his wrists, even though he’s been pressed against it for the better part of an hour. He wonders briefly if it’s on purpose, if they keep the cell so cold to inflict more distress and discomfort. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was.

A florescent light flickers above their heads, and the only sound in the small space is their breaths bouncing off the walls. There are dents in the door from where Arthur tried to break it down, but even with his strength the door didn’t budge, and with the power-dampening cuffs around Merlin’s wrists, Merlin’s magic is all but useless. Arthur kept trying for a formidable amount of time, but when his hand gave off a sickening crunch of metal, he screamed in frustration and punched the wall for good measure before sinking down onto the floor.

Metal scraps still litter the floor around Arthur’s legs where he’s sitting in the corner now, a long time later, the fight all but drained out of him, head in his hands. The silence is heavy and thick and awkward, tense with Merlin’s anger and confusion, with Arthur’s guilt and anxiety.

“I wish I’d told you-“

Arthur’s voice is quiet and yet it seems to echo and boom within the metal box they’re locked into. It startles Merlin out of the apathetic calm he’d been lulled into by the silence. They’re waiting for their inevitable executions, and yet the sound of Arthur’s voice makes a white hot feeling of betrayal course through him.

“What,” he interrupts, “that you were leading a rebellion against your father? Believe me, Arthur, I wish you had too,” he snaps.

Because they had been captured and suddenly Arthur was no longer just Arthur, he was Arthur Pendragon, son of everything they fought against.

Arthur winces in his corner, running his hands through his hair. “No, I-“

Merlin doesn’t let him finish, too angry to keep the words bubbling to the surface down any longer. “How could you keep this from me? From all of us?” Merlin has been by Arthur’s side for years, fighting with him, protecting him, supporting him, and yet Arthur’s kept something as monumental as this a secret. “How could you not tell me?” Why did you not trust me?

“Why?” Arthur snaps, finally looking up to meet Merlin’s gaze. His blue eyes flash with anger, and Merlin is sure his own dark purple ones are just as angry. In Merlin’s fury, they unhelpfully provide him with the weaknesses in Arthur’s protective plating, with information on just where to send a spark of electricity and magic to shut down Arthur’s entire power system and deal the most damage.

Merlin blinks the detailed blueprints away. He has them memorised, but even betrayed and angry and hurt, he would never do anything to harm Arthur.

“Does it matter?” Arthur continues, voice hard and cold and wounded. “Does it matter that he raised me? That I grew up trying to be loved by a tyrant? That it took me years to finally understand the extent of his atrocities and his crimes? It sure doesn’t make me blind to them, now.” There are tears in his eyes and guilt in his voice. “Sure doesn’t make me blind to the horrific things I’ve done in his name, done to people like-“ you, he doesn’t finish. Like Morgana, like Mordred. To people with the ability to infuse their tech with magic. “I hate him, Merlin, and I hate that I still love him, but nothing, nothing, could ever make me see past the things he’s done, the things he is still doing to his own people, to my people, to our people.” He grits his teeth and clenches his eyes shut, brow furrowed in a painful frown. When he opens his eyes and looks at Merlin again, he looks so very tired.

“I tried to kill him on sight, when I first understood, really understood. I screamed my throat raw as I condemned him from the cell he put me in, and then I decided that I would do everything in my power to make sure his rule comes to an end. I can’t continue to watch people suffer under his hands, no matter how much my wretched heart still aches for his love and approval. I can’t let him continue to slaughter innocent people simply because they exist in a way that doesn’t appease him or because they disagree with him, even if I can never atone for what I’ve done. I will live with the guilt for all my life but I couldn’t, can’t, continue to live without trying to right the things he’s wronged.”

Merlin can’t do anything but stare at him, for a long stretching moment, watching as Arthur holds his gaze and swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. This, this is why they follow Arthur, why the whole rebellion would be willing to lay down their lives for him, because Arthur is a man who hurts with injustices he’s grown up never knowing but has intimate knowledge of, because he sees wrong and does anything he can to make it right, because he’s willing to go against everything he’s been taught to believe and everyone he’s been taught to love to save people he’s never met. Because he’s willing to kill his own father if it means the rest of the world gets to go on living.

“You should have still told me,” Merlin says quietly, his chest aching at the pain in Arthur’s eyes.

Arthur averts his gaze, clenching his hands into fists in front of him. The sound of metal grinding against metal fills their cell.

“I didn’t want you to see me any differently,” he admits quietly.

Merlin���s heart throbs with hurt. Does he not realise Merlin could never? Does he not know the world could turn and end and he would never see Arthur like anything other than the best, the most important person he knows?

“Arthur,” he says softly. He doesn’t continue until Arthur lifts his gaze to look at him. “When I look at you, I see a man who is honourable, compassionate, and kind. I see a man who would do anything to change the world for the better – even go against the father who raised him. I see my best friend,” Merlin watches Arthur grit his teeth and blink the wetness from his eyes, “and I couldn’t see you any differently even if I tried.”

Arthur gives him a hesitant, forced half-smile, hands relaxing against his bent knees.

“I’m hurt you didn’t trust me enough to tell me,” Merlin admits, and Arthur glances away, shame pinching his brows together. “But I’m not angry at you for being someone’s son.”

When Arthur looks back at him, Merlin smiles. “We cannot help who we are born as, only who we choose to become, and every day I have known you, Arthur, you have chosen a path that is good and just and right, that goes against everything you’ve been born into and raised to believe, to be someone who is kind and fair and understanding. And that makes you the greatest man I’ve ever known.”

Arthur’s eyes are brimming, but he’ll never let the tears fall. He never does. There’s a smile on his lips though, and this time it’s soft and small and real.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he says quietly.

Merlin smiles at him again, and he hopes it’s reassuring and forgiving. “The rebellion would do well to know.”

Arthur shakes his head. “They wouldn’t follow me if they did,” he says, as if he truly believes they wouldn’t, as if he doesn’t understand all the reasons each of them have to stand by his side.

“They would,” Merlin tells him, certain and sure. “Sure, there might be backlash from some, but most of them have followed you for long enough to know that it doesn’t matter. They trust you with their lives, Arthur, with the future. Not because of where you come from, but because of who you are. You have proven time and time again that you are willing to lay down your life for the cause just the same as the others, that you will sacrifice everything you have to give for a better world if you must, that you will not hesitate to go through hell to get us there. They don’t doubt your loyalty to them or to the world we’re trying to create, and it won’t change with this truth. They follow you because you are a thoughtful and caring leader, no matter the circumstances of your birth; the only thing that binds you to Uther is your blood and your name. They know that, just as well as I do,” he says. He’s grinning now, the edges of anger only a drop left simmering in his stomach. “You are the rightful heir to the throne, but more importantly, you are their chosen leader, and they will follow you because they choose to do so. Trust them like they trust you.” Merlin holds Arthur’s gaze with steady eyes, and he wonders if the fire he feels in his chest is as clear to Arthur as it is to Merlin. “It matters where you come from only because the world deserves to know that even the son of Uther Pendragon will not tolerate his tyranny or bow beneath him.”

Arthur swallows again. “I don’t know if I can do it.” He looks at Merlin, conflicted and uncertain and scared. But Merlin can see that he’s made up his mind, probably long before Merlin told him to. Perhaps he just isn’t ready to face it alone.

“I’ll be there every step of the way.”

Arthur’s smile is tentative and grateful.

“Thank you, Merlin.”

There’s a beat of silence where all they do is smile at each other, and then Arthur closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, flexing his broken fingers. When he opens his eyes again, the fight and the purpose that had first pulled Merlin in shines with the brightness of a hundred suns and Merlin grins so widely his cheeks hurt.

“So, how do we get out of here?”

Metal scraping against metal catches their attention as something slides underneath the door. The brass object on the floor is flat, thin, and round and they both look down at the coin, hundreds of years old and completely useless in a world where physical currency hasn’t existed for well over a century. They only know one person who still carries those around.

They turn to grin at each other.

“Gwaine.”

[robininthelabyrinth]

Complications (aka trans!Jiang Cheng with a kid) - ao3 or part 1, part 2, part 3

-

A-Lian was as good a name as any for the brat, Jiang Cheng supposed. 

He’d been spitefully thinking of additional names ever since Nie Huaisang, that busybody, had decided on the name he liked best, but unfortunately Jiang Lian had a better ring to it than any of the others he’d come up with so far and he wasn’t quite petty enough to condemn his son to a disharmonious name just out of spite.

Assuming A-Lian stayed a son, anyway. Jiang Cheng was still curious as to how the Nie sect had managed to get cursed with an entire generation of women – Nie Huaisang had let slip a few hints that it might’ve had to do with a very fat celestial bird that hadn’t appreciated a comment that had, truly, been meant as a compliment, and anyway they would have made for excellent drumsticks, and honestly the more Jiang Cheng heard about this story the more he wondered if marrying Nie Huaisang just to hear the full version might possibly be worth it – and obviously he wasn’t about to let the Lotus Pier continue to ignore the issue of misaligned reincarnations any longer.

Something he’d have to start enforcing once he was back on the war front, he supposed – which was going to be very soon, if he had his way about it; he was sick and tired of the (nearly completed!) post-pregnancy isolation period.

He couldn’t wait for the relative peace and quiet of an active battlefield.

Of course, the second he thought that, A-Lian started making ominous grumbling sounds, because babies were apparently psychic. Why had no one ever mentioned that?

“You can’t be hungry again, brat,” Jiang Cheng told A-Lian firmly. “I literally just fed you.”

He probably just wanted to burp again, so Jiang Cheng picked him up and started patting him with one hand, using the other to fish out Nie Mingjue’s most recent letter. The other sect leader was quite possibly the most relaxing person he’d ever corresponded with: his letters were practical and to the point, with no extraneous fluff that Jiang Cheng would feel obliged to respond to. 

More importantly, it gave him an update on how his sect was doing, which was all for the best – Nie Mingjue had kept recruitment open for him, which he hadn’t needed to do, and that meant that each letter now contained not only battle strategy and requests for final decisions but also lists of the talent (or lack thereof) of new recruits so that he could make a decision on their admittance as tentative nominal disciples. Final admittance would have to wait until he returned, of course…

He hadn’t gotten a letter from Nie Huaisang yet.

That was to be expected, he supposed. Nie Huaisang had insisted on sticking around for nearly two weeks following the birth to make sure Jiang Cheng didn’t mysteriously expire from complications – the doctors had rolled their eyes a little, but Nie Huaisang’s mother had died from an infection that hadn’t been spotted in time and Jiang Cheng understood his paranoia – and he’d only reluctantly agreed to go, which meant he was probably dragging his feet.

Anyway, just because Nie Huaisang had agreed to tell Wei Wuxian about A-Lian didn’t mean that he could necessarily find Wei Wuxian. His shixiong could be anywhere, after all; contributing to the campaign, of course, but not necessarily in the Jiang sect’s camp…

Ah, yes. Just what Jiang Cheng’s day was missing: the stabbing sense of inadequacy and failure, with a nice slice of the sinking suspicion that his leadership was so bad that he couldn’t even convince his own shixiong to follow him and therefore everyone who was following him was simply humoring him.

“At least you seem to like me well enough,” he muttered to A-Lian, who gurgled happily at him now that the unfortunate burping incident was behind them. “You keep that up, you hear me? You may be a brat, and little more than a blob with arms and legs, but you still have to like me best.”

Nie Huaisang insisted that A-Lian was a gorgeous baby, but Jiang Cheng was having some trouble seeing it. Obviously A-Lian was a baby superior to all other babies, undoubtedly through sheer dumb luck (maybe it skipped a generation?), but he kept worrying that he’d done something wrong, either during the pregnancy or the birth or the care he’d been giving him, and that he’d end up damaging A-Lian for life.

It was easier if he thought of A-Lian as a very resistant blob that would always resume its original shape.

…he really wished Nie Huaisang would write to him and tell him what’d happened when he told Wei Wuxian.

He knew that Wei Wuxian would take it personally, but he wasn’t exactly sure how. Would Wei Wuxian be angry with him? Disappointed, that Jiang Cheng hadn’t just lost his core to the Wens, but his chastity as well? Disdainful that Jiang Cheng had been so desperate for family that he’d decided to carry the child to term, even knowing that its father was their parents’ murderer - that he himself had helped murder the father in turn? Upset, because Wei Wuxian had done so much to rescue him and care for him and even help him get his golden core back, and in return Jiang Cheng did nothing but create another burden that would fall on his shoulders?

Or worse – would Wei Wuxian feel like a failure, too, the way Jiang Cheng always did, and all because he hadn’t been able to save Jiang Cheng from the obvious consequences of his own stupidity?

(It wasn’t that Jiang Cheng hadn’t known when he’d allowed himself to be captured that he’d be tortured and most probably killed, and yet somehow it had never occurred to him that they would do what they did to him – he’d been a man so long that he’d forgotten, just like everyone else in the Lotus Pier, that he’d ever been regarded as anything else. He still didn’t regret the choice he’d made; he’d known that Wei Wuxian would do a better job of avenging his parents than he would and he was right about it, too, wasn’t he?)

Jiang Cheng was so immersed in dark thoughts that he almost – almost – failed to notice when A-Lian started reaching for the ink. Well, flailing around in the general vicinity of the ink, anyway.

“Don’t you even dare think about it, brat. Do you remember bathtime? You don’t like bathtime, and if you get yourself covered in ink, there’s going to be even more bathtime…”

“Jiang-xiong! Jiang-xiong! Are you and A-Lian awake in there?”

It was Nie Huaisang.

He’d returned in person instead of writing a letter; was that a good sign or a bad sign?

“Even if we weren’t, we would be after your yelling,” he shouted back. “What are you, an elephant?”

“A bull!”

“You’re too prissy to be a bull, except for the bullshit you always keep spouting!”

Jiang Cheng waited for Nie Huaisang’s response, which would inevitably be dripping with innuendo, and blinked when there wasn’t anything. That was strange; it wasn’t as if there was anyone here that Nie Huaisang would be embarrassed to –

Oh no.

“Can we come in?” Nie Huaisang asked from outside his door.

Jiang Cheng’s suspicions were confirmed at once when he heard that dreadful ‘we’. Nie Huaisang had returned not with news but with company – company Jiang Cheng still wasn’t sure he was ready to see.

“…fine,” he still said, because there was no point in holding it off any further. He braced himself for Wei Wuxian to sweep into the room like a hurricane.

He was not expecting Jiang Yanli to walk in instead.

“Jiejie!” Jiang Cheng exclaimed, and – damn him – felt his eyes start filling up with tears at once. He’d wanted so badly to have her with him during this excruciating process, and she’d even offered, writing him a letter full of concern about the ‘complications’ he was apparently struggling with. But she’d been safe in the Jin sect and he wouldn’t have been able to bear the guilt if something had happened to her on the way to see him.

And that meant he couldn’t say anything, not even in letters that were safe, not even in code, because if he’d so much as breathed a word about what was actually happening, she would have insisted on coming no matter what.

“A-Cheng!” she exclaimed, and rushed over. “Oh, A-Cheng, why didn’t you tell me…”

“I wanted to you to stay safe,” he sniffed. “Travel is so dangerous, and if something happened because of me –”

“Oh, A-Cheng…” She wrapped her arms around him. “I just wish I’d been here for you. You must have been so scared!”

“I have nightmares that say he was mostly just really angry,” Nie Huaisang put in, unhelpful as always; Jiang Cheng didn’t even bother to spare him a glance.

“You were here,” he assured her. “You sent me soup every week; I ate that when I couldn’t keep anything else down –”

A particularly vicious surge of late-onset morning sickness. It’d been a bad ten days.

“You still should’ve told us,” and that was Wei Wuxian, standing in the door next to Nie Huaisang with his shoulders up by his ears defensively, but Jiang Cheng was curled up in his sister’s arms so even if Wei Wuxian was horribly disappointed in him he would be able to handle it.

With Jiang Yanli there, he could handle anything.

“Probably should have,” he agreed, because Wei Wuxian was right. Opting to carry A-Lian at all was a stupid risk to have taken in the first place, given the likelihood of dying in childbirth and leaving the Jiang sect without a leader during their time of need, but – well, that’d been a risk he’d accepted the first time around when he’d given himself up to save Wei Wuxian. It hadn’t seemed so bad the second time, even though he knew he risked wasting all of Wei Wuxian’s hard work in rescuing and getting his core back. “Didn’t, though. You want to hold the brat?”

“Of course I want to hold the brat!” And when Jiang Cheng looked over, Wei Wuxian was smiling. Smiling. “I have to hold him! He’s my shizi!”

“What are you naming him?” Jiang Yanli asked as Wei Wuxian reached over to pick A-Lian up.

“…Jiang Lian,” Jiang Cheng finally admitted, and any embarrassing comments Nie Huaisang might have had to say about it – Jiang Cheng expected whooping in triumph, to be perfectly honest – were drowned out by A-Lian abruptly howling in indignation that this strange person had dared pick him up.

“Jiang Cheng! Jiang Cheng! The baby’s crying!” Wei Wuxian wailed. He sounded like a baby himself.

“Oh for the – give him here!” The second A-Lian returned to Jiang Cheng’s arms, the crying stop and the baby settled back down. He looked a little smug, even.

“It seems A-Lian likes A-Cheng the best,” Jiang Yanli said, covering her mouth with a smile. “Can I try?”

There were still tears, though not quite as many.

“He’ll get used to you eventually,” Jiang Cheng said, as if he wasn’t preening at his son’s excellent taste. “If you stick around, that is.”

“As if you’ll be able to get rid of us,” Wei Wuxian huffed, and that made something warm and happy and glowing appear in Jiang Cheng’s chest. “You know, it’s really unfair, Jiang Cheng! I put in all this work and effort into developing demonic cultivation and inventing all sorts of new things, and in a mere ten months you managed to make something even better.”

Jiang Cheng couldn’t help the laugh that broke free, his heart singing happily – Wei Wuxian didn’t hate him, wasn’t disappointed in him, was happy for him. “It wasn’t really something I was actively working on.”

“Rude. No need to rub it in.”

And just because Jiang Cheng was Jiang Cheng, he had to affirmatively check: “You’re not upset, are you?”

“Only that you robbed us of the opportunity to spoil you rotten,” Wei Wuxian said. “Oh, and for having Nie Huaisang tell me about it – I only found out because he and his brother were betting on the gender.”

Jiang Cheng twisted around in Jiang Yanli’s arms to glare at Nie Huaisang.

“I lost,” Nie Huaisang said, as if that would make things better, and weirdly enough it sort of did. “Never bet against da-ge.”

Jiang Cheng thought about it and nodded. That seemed like a good rule, no matter the circumstances – and anyway, if that meant that Nie Mingjue was there when Wei Wuxian was told, that was all the better. As far as Jiang Cheng was concerned, there was nothing in the world that Nie Mingjue couldn’t handle.

He wished he could one day be even half of what Nie Mingjue was. Confident and self-assured, an excellent sect leader beloved by all, a war leader and a filial son, righteous and terrifying…

“I hope he won something good off of you,” he told Nie Huaisang, who grimaced at him in a way that suggested Nie Mingjue really had won something good. “You deserve it.”

“You have no sympathy for me,” Nie Huaisang whined.

“Forget sympathy for you, what about sympathy for me?” Wei Wuxian put in. “‘Oh, hi, Wei Wuxian, nice to see you, been a long time, guess what, your shizi’s a boy!’”

Okay, that sounded really funny actually. Jiang Cheng kind of regrets missing it.

He smirked at Wei Wuxian, who saw it and made a rude gesture in return.

“It was traumatizing,” Wei Wuxian said with a sniff. “Really, truly. Shijie, you need to make me some soup to help me get over it.”

“No way,” Jiang Cheng said at once. “If she’s making soup, she’s making it for me.”

“You’ve apparently been getting her soup every week for the past few months; I deserve it more!”

“I’m the one getting my chest gnawed off by a wild animal three times a day –”

“I can make enough for both of you,” Jiang Yanli said patiently. “Nie-gongzi, is there a kitchen..?”

“I’ll show you the way,” Nie Huaisang said with a grin. “I’m eager to see how this famous soup gets made. I had to beg Jiang-xiong for three weeks to get a single spoonful, and it was worth every minute of it.”

“You flatter me…”

They left together, and Jiang Cheng used the opportunity to scrub the tear tracks off his face as best as he could.

“It really was pretty traumatizing,” Wei Wuxian said, pointedly only looking at an increasingly sleepy A-Lian instead of seeing what Jiang Cheng was doing. “Not as traumatizing as the lecture Chifeng-zun gave me afterwards about how badly I’ve been behaving.”

“Badly?” Jiang Cheng said, frowning. “What do you mean, you’ve been fine; the effect your demonic cultivation has been having against the Wens alone –”

“No, I haven’t been,” Wei Wuxian said, and his tone was uncharacteristically serious. “Not because of the demonic cultivation, but because I haven’t been standing by your side the way I promised I would.”

“You’re doing your best,” Jiang Cheng said firmly. “You have demonic cultivation now, and that means you can do a lot more things – it makes sense for your to be at the front line.”

“I’m not saying that I shouldn’t be at the front line. I’m saying that I promised you that you’d be my sect leader, that I’d follow you, and instead I keep treating you like you’re still my shidi. Making decisions on your behalf, insisting on doing things my way because I think I’m right…” Wei Wuxian shook his head. “I got used to doing things that way, all these years. But things are different now. You’re my sect leader. Decisions like how to best deploy me are your decision, not mine – if you want me by your side instead of on the front, I should do that; if you want me to lead the Jiang sect cultivators, I should be doing that. I can try to persuade you that my plan is better, but in the end, if I’m going to be part of the Jiang sect, I need to accept that it’s your word that’s final, because anything else would be disrespectful – and I don’t want to disrespect you, Jiang Cheng. Sect Leader Jiang.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jiang Cheng said, words sharp but only because otherwise he’d have to acknowledge that he was crying again. He hadn’t even known he’d wanted to hear that from Wei Wuxian until he had – he hadn’t realized how important it was that Wei Wuxian finally acknowledged him, that Wei Wuxian thought he was capable of being sect leader; he hadn’t realized how much his feelings had been tangled up by the fact that Wei Wuxian still treated him as if he was just a foolish child that didn’t know better. “Everyone else can call me that, but you call me Jiang Cheng, okay? Always.”

He reached over and grabbed Wei Wuxian around the shoulders, drawing him into a tight one-armed embrace.

“Watch the baby,” Wei Wuxian said, as if he wasn’t hugging back just as hard. “Don’t drop my shizi because you’re not paying attention.”

“I’m not going to drop him,” Jiang Cheng said, grateful for the mostly-a-joke. “Does that – does that mean you’re coming back to the Jiang sect? For real this time?”

“Yes,” Wei Wuxian said. “I am. No more running around outside, I promise.”

Jiang Cheng’s hands were busy, holding his shidi in one and his son in the other, so he had to bury his face into Wei Wuxian’s shoulder to help stop the flow of tears. “Wei Wuxian,” he said. “You really don’t – you’re not angry at me?”

“Why would I be angry at you?” Wei Wuxian said, pulling back and frowning at him and then frowning even more when Jiang Cheng made a flailing sort of gesture with his head towards A-Lian. “For - for that?! Jiang Cheng, it wasn’t your fault you got captured!”

It sort of was, actually, and Jiang Cheng has always been a terrible liar; he shouldn’t have let his insecurities get away from him enough to even ask, because now Wei Wuxian’s eyes were the ones filling up with tears. He’d never been an idiot.

“You didn’t,” he insisted, and his hands were white-knuckled where he grabbed onto Jiang Cheng’s arms. He was probably leaving bruises, and neither of them cared. “Jiang Cheng, tell me you didn’t! Don’t – in the marketplace, when the Wens were about to find me – Jiang Cheng…!”

“Someone needed to avenge our parents, and you were the better choice!” Jiang Cheng blurted out. “And I was right, wasn’t I? You did it! You even invented demonic cultivation –”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Wei Wuxian exclaimed. “There wasn’t any other way out of the Burial Mounds, and now I’m stuck, Jiang Cheng – you don’t understand, it’s not just, I don’t – I can’t – it’s demonic cultivation or nothing for me, and when the war ends, when it stops being useful and starts being horrifying, the entire cultivation world is going to turn against me, and I can’t bring you down with me –”

“Why are you talking like it’s the only type of cultivation you can do anymore?” Jiang Cheng demanded. “How can one type of cultivation block you from doing another? That doesn’t make any sense – even if it did block you, you could just stop, it’s not like you don’t have a golden core –”

Wei Wuxian didn’t say anything.

“You have a golden core,” Jiang Cheng said again, more urgently this time. “Wei Wuxian, you have a golden core, right? You didn’t –” He was starting to panic. “It was Wen Chao that threw you into the Burial Mounds, wasn’t it? He said it himself that that was what he did, and where there’s Wen Chao, there’s Wen Zhuliu – did he melt your core? And I took your name when we went to Baosan Sanren’s mountain, I took your birthright away from you –”

“Jiang Cheng, no! That’s not what happened!”

“You told me to tell her I was you!” Jiang Cheng exclaimed, because what else could it be? Baosan Sanren was a true immortal, powerful enough to fix a golden core, but everyone knew that her disciples weren’t allowed back onto the mountain once they’d left – the gift she’d given him, reviving his core, that must have been a once-in-a-lifetime offer. “I told her I was you so she’d heal me and now she won’t heal you; I did to you what Mother was always afraid you’d do to me –”

“I lied!” Wei Wuxian cried out, and he sounded as if his heart was being torn out of his chest. “I lied, Jiang Cheng, stop trusting me so much! There’s no Baosan Sanren, no mountain; just me, making stupid decisions on your behalf again, because I’m arrogant, because I think I know better, because I –”

“What did you do?” Jiang Cheng said. His lips felt numb. His whole body felt numb. “Wei Wuxian, what did you do –”

A-Lian burst into tears.

That knocked them both out of their self-absorption, turning at once to see what was wrong with the baby.

“Did we jostle him?” Wei Wuxian asked anxiously once they’d gotten A-Lian a little calmer. “We didn’t hurt him, did we?”

“I think we were just being too loud,” Jiang Cheng said after concluding his inspection. “And anyway, he’s kind of a blob right now – you pinch or pull at him and he goes back the way he used to be. The doctors all say that babies are very flexible.”

“A little bun,” Wei Wuxiand agreed. “With just a little dusting of sesame on top.”

Jiang Cheng looked at the very few scraps of black hair A-Lian had managed to grow. “…he does kind of look like that, doesn’t he? Come on, A-Lian, calm down, it’s okay, we’ll stop yelling, we promise –”

“Really?” Wei Wuxian said. He sounded skeptical. “You’re going to stop yelling?”

“Shut up, you sound like Nie Huaisang. Don’t think you’re getting away without telling me what you did…you gave me yours, didn’t you?”

No wonder his core had felt different, stronger, when he’d woken up – he’d assumed it was Baosan Sanren giving him a gift, but in reality it was only that Wei Wuxian was a better cultivator than he was, that he’d strengthened himself more.

No wonder, too, that his core had felt familiar – he’d pressed his ear against Wei Wuxian’s belly a thousand times, feeling the warmth of it, and he’d mistaken that familiarity for it being his.

Wei Wuxian nodded, and Jiang Cheng scowled. “Can it be reversed?”

“Absolutely not,” Wei Wuxian said at once. “For one thing, I wouldn’t agree; for another, it was only a fifty-fifty chance of it working successfully the first time, I’m not taking that risk again. Anyway, I have demonic cultivation now, and if we traded back, you’d need to be the demonic cultivator, and what would that do to the Jiang sect’s reputation?”

Jiang Cheng hated it when Wei Wuxian had a point.

“Especially now that we have an heir,” Wei Wuxian added, reaching out to rub A-Lian’s head. “You’ve got to make sure the Jiang sect is thriving so that you’ll have something good to hand down to him.”

Jiang Cheng really hated it when Wei Wuxian had a point.

“I can’t believe you did that for me,” he said.

“I can’t believe you got captured for me,” Wei Wuxian rebutted. But that wasn’t the same at all, it was –

Okay, maybe there were a few superficial similarities.

“At least that explains why you’ve been so distant,” he said, shaking his head and smoothing A-Lian’s minimal hair down as the baby started to fall asleep again. “I thought you just didn’t trust me to be a good sect leader…”

“What? No! Jiang Cheng, you’re a great sect leader. I just didn’t want to risk dragging you down.”

“How can you drag us down? I’m literally using your golden core to lead the sect!”

“It’s yours now,” Wei Wuxian said. “I built it up, but I can’t decide on how you use it – everything you’ve done since then, that’s still yours. You know that, right? It’s all still you. Your achievements, not mine. Saying it’s mine would be like saying that every person that Chifeng-zun has ever defeated was actually the triumph of whoever forged Baxia for him.”

Jiang Cheng would murder anyone who dared to say something like that, except he’d never get the chance to because Nie Huaisang would have ruined their life before he’d even gotten started.

“Fine,” he said. “But you’re still not dragging us down. We’ll just have to be careful, that’s all – we can even use it to our advantage: whenever we need something to happen that we can’t really admit to, we have you do it, excuse it as being because of the influence of your demonic cultivation, and tell everyone we’ll get right on fixing it right away. Just the way Father used to do with Mother’s temper tantrums.”

“…wait, those were staged?”

“Well, some of them were, anyway,” Jiang Cheng said. He was mostly sure. “But you have to run anything really crazy by me first, okay?”

“Right,” Wei Wuxian said, nodding. “Uh – does that count past actions?”

Jiang Cheng wasn’t even surprised. “What’d you do?”

“Promised a safe harbor to one of the branch families of the Wen sect?”

Jiang Cheng might be gullible where his shixiong was concerned, but he wasn’t dumb. “Wen Qing and Wen Ning? They’re the ones that helped you do – what you did.”

Wei Wuxian nodded guiltily.

“Well, in that case, I can hardly turn them down, can I?” Jiang Cheng said, pretending to grumble. “That’d make me ungrateful. Fine; I retroactively authorize your offer, they can come be guest disciples at the Jiang sect –”

Wei Wuxian hugged him again.

“If you wake the baby up again I will kill you,” Jiang Cheng said, but he hugged him back.

“I think they’re done,” Nie Huaisang’s voice drifted in from the door, and they both turned to look.

Jiang Yanli’s eyes were red, suggesting that she’d been listening – and Jiang Cheng hated that, hated that he’d ever caused her pain or sadness; his jiejie deserved the best things in life, always, not more pain and disappointment and everything he brought with him. But true to form she didn’t say anything, only smiled and said, “I knew A-Xian and A-Cheng would talk it out eventually.”

“Bet you didn’t predict the baby,” Nie Huaisang chirped, and then cowered when all three of them glared at him. “Sorry, sorry. Please ignore me.”

“In the future, there will be no such secrets, understood?” Jiang Yanli said to them, with more steel than usual in her soft voice. “A-Xian will tell us before he does something crazy, and A-Cheng won’t not tell us when something important happens –”

“Well, it’s hardly likely to happen a second time,” Jiang Cheng protested, but not very strongly.

“Hey, don’t be so hasty,” Nie Huaisang said. “We could want more kids after we get married.”

“Wait,” Wei Wuxian said. “When did –”

“We are not getting married!” Jiang Cheng bellowed. It was a good thing that A-Lian apparently found Jiang Cheng’s yelling soothing, or else he would’ve woken up again. “Nie Huaisang, stop telling people we’re getting married!”

“I don’t tell people we’re getting married, I only tell you!”

“That’s not better!”

“Wow,” Wei Wuxian said to Jiang Yanli, voice deliberately pitched obnoxiously loud. “It’s almost like they’re married already –”

“Wei Wuxian! I will throw something at your head, just watch me!”

“Just don’t throw the baby!”

[lailannajacobs]

If You’d Ever Had A Real Boyfriend, Maybe You’d Know What To Do With A Fake One | GIBP IV

Pairing: Fey!Loki x fem!reader 

Chapter Summary: You experience your first council event and get to know Loki a little bit better. 

Warnings: pure fluff

Word Count: 12.5k 

A/N: I know this took quite a while to come out, but I ended up writing far more than I’d intended and I spent a lot of time editing to try and get the fake dating as perfect as I possibly could. I hope you don’t mind the length so much and I’d love to know what you think of the chapter!! <3 

You had wanted to spend the whole hour in the bath, scrubbing the stupid Junabee from your hair, but Loki had given you an hour alone and you weren’t about to waste it soaking in a tub; no matter how luxurious or tempting it was. You’d chosen a dark silky blouse and fancy but comfortable pants, quickly noticing that Valkyrie had made a slitted compartment in the leg for your dagger. You hadn’t spoken about it with her and you didn’t know if that was her way of ominously warning you to stay safe or simply that she’d gotten a better read on you during your afternoon than you’d thought. Either way, you were glad to have it there.

Even though they clashed with the outfit, you’d kept your boots on underneath, refusing to part with them. You weren’t in the mood to get blisters from shoes you’d never worn before and needed to to know you could run and move if need be. Your steps were silent on the floor — another reason you’d kept on the boots — hopefully imperceptible even to Fey hearing. Leaning your ear against the door, you waited, listening for movement in the hallway. Nothing. Your hand was tentative on the handle. You gently pulled open the door and stepped out, eyes scanning the hallway. You bit back a groan.

Loki was leaning against the opposite wall, freshly changed into a dark suit, the cut and style similar to the likes of human fashion and his dark hair combed back. You were momentarily surprised he owned something like that, but with the mountain of clothing you received from Valkerie only hours after meeting her, you should have guessed she would have made something for him as well. It was a clever move on his part, and you wondered if it was him or his seamstress who had decided on the suit. Regardless of who’s idea it was, the clothes fit him so perfectly, even you couldn’t deny that he was incredibly handsome. The thought made you scowl. He raised a brow.

“I thought you were going to be back in an hour,” you blurted then quickly realized how suspicious you sounded.

He shrugged, “I lied.”

The silence stretched on after his words and you turned them over in your mind. He knew you would try and leave. It was the only reason he would have lied about something so unimportant. And you stupidly believed him. You ran your tongue over your teeth, trying to hide your frustration — at him, yes, but also at yourself. You should have known that after sneaking off this morning he’d be watching you even more closely. If you’d have stayed put, maybe you could have gained his trust enough to search the palace on your own. Now, you’d only made everything harder for yourself. There was no way he trusted you before, but he sure in the Seven Hells didn’t trust you now. You should have known better than this. You had to be better than this. You felt tears burn behind your eyes and you struggled to keep ahold of yourself.

He cocked his head, looking at you more closely now, as if he could see beneath your skin if he tried hard enough. You avoided his gaze, watching the trees swaying outside through a nearby window until you were sure your voice wouldn’t crack when you spoke.

You tried to turn the tables on him Instead of trying to defend your own actions, and muttered, “that wasn’t very nice of you.”

He seemed to find that funny, his intense stare breaking as he pushed off the wall and approached with slow, lazy steps, “and what were you about to do, sweetheart?”

You took in a deep breath; pasted on a coy smile. You had to calm down and get your act together if you wanted to get through this. And you were going to get through this. For yourself. For Nat. You had no other choice.

You closed the door behind you.

“Find you, of course,” you replied sweetly.

His head dipped in a slow nod, lips pursed as if he was trying to fight a smile. You didn’t for a second think that he believed me.

“Well, sweetheart, you found me,” he crooned.

You couldn’t fake any kind of enthusiasm, the words dry when you said, “lucky me.”

“Lucky me,” he countered, lips curling into a wicked grin. His eyes were bright and taunting as if he was winning a game you weren’t aware you were playing, “and now that you’ve found me, what are you going to do about it?”

His voice had dropped so that his question sounded like a dare, words laced with danger and promises of something more. Your breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten now that he was leaning against your doorframe. You looked up haughtily, holding his gaze as you searched for something to say in return, but you had nothing. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and raised a brow, that insufferable smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Annoyed and all too aware of how close he was standing, you snorted and pushed past him. It wasn’t the most elegant or articulate, but it was the best you could come up with.

“Anything I should know about this party thingy?” you asked, hoping you could get back onto solid footing with some distance and a neutral question.

He was silent as he strolled beside you and you had to look up at him to make sure he’d heard. The only reason you didn’t repeat the question was the pinched look on his face and the way he began by saying, “I won’t lie to you,”

You stopped short, your hands on your hips. He paused and turned. When you didn’t back down, he nodded as if he’d just remembered lying to you less than an hour ago.

“Not about this,” he explained, though you weren’t comforted in the slightest by his answer. He was obviously comfortable lying to you and seemed to have it in mind that he would need to. Obviously, as king, he wasn’t going to tell you most things, but you wondered what that meant for your fate and Nat’s.

You kept walking, not wanting to get distracted and make a big deal about something you couldn’t change. For now. You motioned for him to go on.

“The council isn’t going to like you,” he replied bluntly, “they’re all part of the generation that burned down the temples of the old gods and almost half supported the discoveries that led to the war on purity.”

You closed your eyes for a few steps and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in your chest. Several decades before Hayle inherited the throne, Dark Elf scholars from Alfhiem discovered that magic flowed through the Nine Realms like currents in a massive loop of energy. They had found that the each specific mutation that differentiated the races attracted certain currents of energy and allowed those mutation to interact with and manipulate the magic of the currents. Humans couldn’t interact with any.

Then, when Odin later took the throne, a human scholar named Brock Rumlow was found guilty of capturing and testing on as many of the other races as he could get his hands on to try and imitate the mutations to give himself more power. Odin had taken the opportunity to turn as many of the other realms as he could against humans, burning the temples the humans had built when they had believed the magic had come from the gods. They had set out to eradicate the ‘lesser race’ — humans who had no power and would inevitably try to steal everyone else’s. Anyone who had sided with Odin despised humans and were a threat to them, even hundreds of years after they had lost the war on purity.

You were in more danger here than you’d realized.

“Great,” you muttered. Then a terrifying thought occurred to you that he might actually agree with them, “if they’re part of your council, why haven’t you gotten rid of them?”

He looked down at me in surprise, “kill them?”

“Kick them off the council,” you snapped, “you were king for at least a little while. You could have changed that.”

You stopped yourself from saying that he should have changed it. The actions of one human should not have been enough to condemn the entire race for future generations and every other race that had sided with them. But you should have known when Asgard had abandoned everyone good in the war that they didn’t care for anyone other than themselves.

Loki remained silent as a beautiful Fey woman crossed you in the hallway and nodded politely as she walked past. Her eyes lingered on you and the space between you and Loki so you stepped a little closer to him as you walked, your shoulders practically touching. When you were certain she couldn’t see you anymore, you stepped away from him, afraid he could feel your anger radiating off you in waves.

“Their positions are for life,” he said with a shrug, “and unfortunately, that’s a long time.”

“Unfortunate,” you scoffed, then muttered, “maybe you should have considered the first option gave you.”

His steps faltered slightly, “I beg your pardon?”

You knew he’d heard with his Fey hearing.

“Nothing,” you chirped.

He looked at you warily before continuing, scanning your body from head to toe as if he was looking for the dagger you’d pulled on him the day before.

“Thankfully, the head of the court is impartial,” he finally said when he seemed satisfied you weren’t going to try anything, “and the ultimate decision is his. My advice to you is to ignore the rest of them and focus on making this convincing.”

You nodded. His plan made sense, but there was so much that wasn’t on your side simply because you were human. If this was a fight, you were starting it blindfolded and with a hand tied behind your back. You clenched your teeth, frustrated. He’d conveniently forgotten to mention how desolate our situation was before you’d agreed to it. Though you hadn’t really agreed to it. It would be a long time before you forgot the way he’d casually threatened your life and the pain he’d caused last night.  

“If you knew all this, then why in the Seven Hells did you drag me into this?” you snarled, unable to keep the emotion from your voice, “wouldn’t it have been easier to use someone who was Fey? I’m sure Valkyrie would have been available.”

You weren’t sure why you’d called out the seamstress, but now that you had, you wouldn’t mind him explaining some of the million secrets you knew they were both keeping from you.

He didn’t seemed fazed by your outburst, his face almost more impassive than it was before, “easier maybe, but it would have been too obvious. The fact that you’re so unexpected makes it the most believable.”

Your anger was dropped to a simmer for a moment when you wondered what he meant by ‘too obvious’. What kind of past was between them? Maybe something was still there and this whole situation was coming between them. Maybe your deal was ruining a perfectly decent relationship. You decided you didn’t care. You weren’t here to become invested in their lives. You had other — more important — things to worry about.

“This hallway leads to the council’s banquet hall,” he continued once he realized that you weren’t going to say anything else on the subject, “if ever I’m not here to escort you, this is the easiest way to get from our rooms to the hall.”

“There are other ways?” you asked, thinking that the better you knew the layout of the palace, the better your chances were of finding the Hand.

He glanced at you side-long, wary of your question. With reason, but you weren’t about to confirm that.

“I mean, what if I’m not coming from my room,” you supplied, hurrying along.

“You can always ask for help,” he said. His face took on a serious quality that you hadn’t seen on him before, “the walls have ears here. Unless you’re in your room, know that I’ll be able to hear you if you’d like help.”

You didn’t know what to think about that. You’d been talking pretty freely about your deal, even though it had been in hushed tones most of the time. But that meant that whatever you said could be overheard by anyone. You were going to have to be even more careful than you’d first thought.

He nodded as if he could read your mind and honestly, with the minute demonstrations of magic you’d seen so far, you weren’t sure he couldn’t. You didn’t know anything about Fey magic and because of it, you were even more at a disadvantage. If you were going to have to spend a few moons here then you were going to have to learn more about it. Maybe even put your pride aside and ask him about it.

“Do you think you can make it convincing in there, sweetheart?” he asked, pausing a few steps away from a set of double doors. You’d been so lost in thought that you hadn’t realized you were already at the banquet hall.

“YN,” you grumbled, “and I think I can manage.”

“Good. Then I think we should hold hands,” he said.

You rolled your eyes, though you were glad he’d had the decency to accept your terms and ask you first.

“How romantic. And original,” you laughed, though there was no humour in the sound, “did you come up with that all on your own, prince?”

“You did want a heads up,” he ran a hand through his hair, “and funny thing is sweetheart, love isn’t original. Or so I’ve heard.”

“Never been in love?” you couldn’t help but ask.

“No,” he kept his eyes on the door ahead, not giving anything away, his voice steady when he asked, “have you?”

A crazy kind of laughter bubbled in your chest at the irony and impossibility of your situation. Afraid it would turn into full blown panic, you managed to push it far enough down to say, “no. Looks like we’re perfect for this.”  

He rocked back on his heels, the corner of his mouth barely twitching upward, “I knew there was a reason I chose you.”

“I broke into your palace, I don’t think that counts,” you scoffed.

He offered his hand, “I let you.”

“Keep telling yourself that, prince,” you said, your frustration back as if it had never left. You tried to ignore that familiar itch blooming at your tailbone, “you people are so overconfident and arrogant that anyone with half a brain could break into this place.”

“And yet, here you are,” he pointed out, that infuriating smirk growing.

You crossed your arms, tucking your hands tightly against your body to hide your growing temper, “not because of your charm.”

He leaned in close, lips almost touching your ear when he whispered, “you’re no peach either, my queen.”

“At least I’m not a spoiled brat who coerces helpless humans into miserable bargains,” you whispered back, head snapping to face him and your composure slipping away faster than usual. We were so close now your noses were practically touching and you made sure to take a step away from him.

He shook his head and you felt a shimmer of magic surround you like a bubble. You looked around as if you could physically see it, but obviously nothing was there.  When you looked back at him, Loki’s eyes were ablaze.

“Like you’re helpless, YN. You obviously don’t like me and that’s fine, but don’t think for a second that I’m clueless. You can fool them, sweetheart, but not me.”

You let out another humourless laugh, easing the pressure in your chest slightly, “and there’s that overconfidence and arrogance I was just talking about.”

“Are there any other insights about me you would like to share?” he asked, that bored expression quickly replacing any sort of emotion you might have seen on his face.

“Not right now,” you snapped.

He huffed a sigh, “then we should go in.”

You took his hand. It was a rough, warrior’s, easily engulfing yours.

He smirked.

“Shut up,” you growled, tempted to rip your hand away, “this is a necessity.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he pointed out, though there was no doubt in your mind that he knew exactly what he’d done to get under your skin so easily. Just the thought infuriated you more.

“This is never going to work,” you muttered.

He paused, voice taunting when he said, “not with that attitude it won’t.”

It took all of your restraint not to punch him in the arm with your free hand. He was so cavalier about all of this that you had trouble believing he took any of it seriously. How were you supposed to get the book when this was over when his vanity seemed to take precedence over everything else? He raised your hands and placed a slow kiss on yours, his intense gaze never leaving you. You glared at him and could feel his lips twist into a smile on your skin. Before you could snap at him for being an arrogant prick, he pushed open the doors and was on the move again, tugging you along with him. You did your best to keep up with his long strides through the smaller hallway that led to fancy looking doors at the end. You didn’t know if you were late or it if it was you dreading the party, but it felt like he’d picked up the pace.

You kept repeating to yourself that the walls had ears and that you had a job to do. You had Nat’s face etched into your mind — the sheer panic, wide eyes and gaunt face of the day the two of you had gotten captured. You had to get her out. You had to. Which meant that you couldn’t go around hating the man you were supposed to love. At least, not blatantly you couldn’t.

“I couldn’t be happier than to be here with you in this moment, Loki,” you said as you approached the doors that looked even more impressive up close, “there’s no one else I’d ever want at my side.”

He stopped with his hand on the door and looked over at you with a curious, but slightly amused expression on his face. He leaned over so that his shoulder barely brushed up against yours and said, “commendable attempt, sweetheart, but you might want to remind your face of your intentions if you want anyone to believe it.”

Then he pulled you into the room with him before you could say anything else. You did your best to wipe the scowl from your face. It wasn’t easy to do when this was the last place you wanted to be, but every pair of eyes were on you so you had no choice. And there were a lot of them.

The banquet hall was filled with Fey in elegant evening wear, male and female alike, all dissecting you as if you’d intruded on their private event. The room was smaller than you thought it would be, though it still had high arched ceilings, wide stained glass windows and a long table set up in the back with an impressive spread of food. A quick scan of the crowd gave you the impression that there were almost fifty Fey here but not one friendly face among them. Your legs suddenly felt like jelly and you were surprised you were somehow still standing.

Loki looked down at you and raised a brow. It was a silent challenge as if he thought you were intimidated by his court — that you couldn’t keep up. The arrogant look reignited the furry that had been doused by the judging stares and brought you back to your senses fast enough that you didn’t stumble after Loki when he walked you toward the centre of the party. Because of course you were going to the centre of it. Where else would you go?

“Nice to see everyone,” he began, shooting them all courtly smiles, though he lingered slightly longer on the five men who stood a few steps apart from the others. Their tunics looked similar to most of the other men, but you could tell their designs were more carefully tailored for their bodies and the fabrics better suited for the cut of the shirt and pants they wore. These men exuded power and confidence, and you could only assume that they were the council members that you were supposed to impress.

But the council of stuffy old men that you’d been expecting was nowhere to be seen. Only two of them appeared to be over the age of fifty, all the other in their early thirties at most — though you didn’t doubt that most of them were at least a few generations of humans old. All were Fey, and objectively speaking, all of them were quite handsome. Their looks were sharp and angular, traditional of the Fey and alluring in the way that they were surrounded by an air of magic. But the moment you looked into their eyes you knew you didn’t want to be in the room with them any longer than you had to. These men might not have been cruel at the beginning of their lives, but any kindness that might have once lived within them was long gone. And judging by the way their lips puckered in disgust, Loki had undersold their hatred for humans. You didn’t know if Asgard had ever had a human queen before the war, but you’d been warned they weren’t keen on it now. You just hadn’t been ready for them to look at you with more disgust on their faces than most of the people in Odin’s realm did — that was, those who bothered to look at you at all.

“We didn’t realize you were back from your travels, prince Loki,” the Fey man in the middle sneered.

“I arrived yesterday, Tywin” Loki replied curtly, his face impassive as he ignored the jab, “my court was aware.”

You tried not to stare back and forth between the councilmen and Loki. You had assumed that the council and his court were interchangeable, but obviously if they had been, these men would have been aware of his return — his return from where though? And if he had arrived yesterday, then you’d gotten to Asgard not long after he had. Maybe if you’d gotten here sooner you wouldn’t be stuck in this mess…Regardless, you couldn’t help but wonder if your arrivals were a coincidence or if there was something more going on to this whole situation than just a fight for his crown? There had to be a million things he wasn’t telling you, but would any of those things affect your end of the bargain? There were too may questions you didn’t know the answers to and you had to keep your face neutral before your rising worry ruined your scheme and your chances of getting the Hand before it even started.

“And who is this human you’ve brought with you?” Tywin asked, never once giving you any of his attention. He spoke the word as if you were a shameful object Loki had brought with him to use to taunt the council rather than a living, breathing, conscious being.

Loki lolled his head to the side, shooting you a lazy look you took as a signal to answer the Fey’s questions.

You lifted your chin, staring them all down one by one, and spoke slowly, pronouncing each syllable clearly just to make sure they got it, “YN YLN.”

The man’s lip curled, but he didn’t get a chance to speak.

“She will be my queen,” Loki declared.

There was no hesitation or doubt in his voice. It didn’t matter that he needed their approval to take the throne or that they had clearly pointed out that the title no longer belonged to him, he was above these people. They answered to him. Even masked by the bored look on his face, the authority in his voice was so strong, you found yourself believing it. And judging by the frustration on their faces, they did too — even if it was begrudgingly.

“We’ll discuss the technical aspects later,” he decided, his tone suddenly flippant as if he hadn’t just commanded the whole room into silence, “tonight is not meant for business.

He cut through the middle of the crowd and led you to the banquet table at the back of the room, dismissing the rest of the council. The silence lingered and followed you to the table, but slowly, the chatter began again, taking on a life of its own. You let out a since once the music had started again and their gazes were no longer boring into your back. Loki let go of your hand and offered you drink.

You must have looked at the pale red liquid suspiciously because he said, “it’s safe for humans.”

You hated that he seemed to be able to read your expressions so easily.

You grabbed the flute form his hands, the liquid sloshing in the glass before you downed it in a few quick gulps. The taste was sharp and not overly sweet, and went down smoothly. Which meant you had to be careful. You were human. Although your abilities would inherently handle the liquor better than most humans, that was what you were at the moment. Human. One too many drinks and you might do something incredibly stupid.

“Don’t look too pleased to be here,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. You thought it looked like he wanted to tear his hair out, but the look flashed by so quickly you were pretty sure you’d imagined it. He shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. The arrogance on his made you sure that you had.

He handed you another drink, “try not to spill this one.”

“I hate this place,” you whispered.

“Mingle,” he whispered back, “then you can leave.”

You blew him a kiss and stomped off. It was a pitiful attempt at love and you knew it. You needed to do a better job at pretending to be his queen, knowing that if you didn’t, you would never forgive yourself. But of course, the things you knew and the things you did rarely matched up. It was the reason you were a human stuck in this stupid mess in the first place.

Loki stared at you from across the room but didn’t approach. You tried to keep from rubbing your temples. You’d been in Asgard less than a day and you were already exhausted. You chalked it up to stress, not wanting to admit to yourself what the real was and rolled your shoulders back. You smiled at a passing Fey woman. She smiled back. There. That wasn’t so bad. You had a job to do. Loki wanted convincing? You were going to make it so damned convincing he was going to let you spend the whole day sleeping in tomorrow. You tried not to grind your teeth at the thought that you still needed someone to ‘let you’ do whatever you wanted. You down your drink, set it on the table and grabbed two more from a passing waiter. Once you got this done, you wouldn’t need anyone to let you do anything. You were going to be free again. Nat was going to be free. You could this. You spotted Loki across the room and off you went. You could do this.

Only you didn’t get far. A member of the council stopped you with a hand clamped around your arm. You flinched at the vice-grip. If the Fey man noticed your discomfort, it didn’t bother him enough to let go.

“You’re quite pretty for a human,” he leered, drawing you closer.

He was the youngest of the council members by far, looking about Loki’s age. His sand coloured hair was cut short and styled in a way that showcased his pointed ears and accentuated his ocean blue eyes. He was tall and square, holding himself like a warrior. You didn’t doubt he was one. Nothing about him was kind. Everything was rough looking. The humans had a myth that the other races were all carved from stone by the gods and brought to life through their immortal breath, but this Fey looked like they’d forgotten to polish him off, the lines around his eyes harsh and unfeeling.

It took all of your restraint not to shove him off, only the thought of Nat fending off jerks like this in Flaik keeping your anger in check. You were trained for this. That training might have been buried deep beneath hundreds of years of memories but it was there and it was time you dug it back up and used it.

You patted his arm, your cheeks forced into a smile, “interesting that a man such as yourself would say that.”

HIs lip curled in disgust as if he was insulted you hadn’t swooned over his pathetic excuse of an insult, “why’s that?”

“Because I thought the Fey were supposed to have perfect eyesight. Quite pretty doesn’t cut it for your future queen” you ripped your arm out of his grasp and strode off to where you’d last seen Loki, but he wasn’t there.

Great. Of course he’d left you to fend off these vultures yourself. One day you were going to punch him and you weren’t going to be sorry about it.

“Nicely done,” Loki whispered, standing so close you were practically touching.

You almost jumped out of your skin. You had no clue where he’d come from.

“Don’t patronize me,” you snapped, shoving one of the two glasses at him,  “I don’t need it.”

He peered down at you, but didn’t try and defend himself, “understandable, but you may want my advice. If you can avoid Helio, do. He might be the youngest on the council but that doesn’t mean he’s any better than the rest of them.”

You snorted, “nice court you’ve got here, prince.”

“It’s a lifetime position, remember?” he said, nodding politely to the guests as you walked along the fringes of the party.

You knew he’d told you that before, but this time you deflated, feeling like you’d agreed to a situation that kept getting far more hopeless that you’d realized. He stopped and gave you a little shrug like he knew exactly how you were feeling. For once, there was nothing condescending in his expression and he genuinely seemed to understand. Maybe he did. He needed this to work too. But then again, maybe he didn’t. He was only loosing a title and not the person he loved most in this world.

He extended his hand. You tried to control the jittery feeling that was spreading through your limbs and through your body, making your breaths more and more shallow. Instead, you tried to focus on the fact that what you were doing wasn’t impossible. Improbable, yes, but not impossible. It would only become impossible if you didn’t take his hand and work with him. You didn’t have to like him. Seven hells, you didn’t even have to trust him. All you had to do was stop letting every little thing discourage you and do this with both feet in. You’d find a way to get the hand. You and Nat had gotten through worse. This time would’t be different. It couldn’t be.

You took his arm instead and stood a little closer for effect. The gesture put a little smile on his face. It was the perfect look to convince the council he was besotted and you knew you should do the same. Remembering the lessons from your childhood, you smoothed out the tension you knew must be on your face and told yourself that you hadn’t messed anything up yet. You were human in a Fey’s realm. It was only natural to be a little tense. You could play the part. You could lie just as well as he could.

“What’s the goal tonight?” you asked, voice low so that you wouldn’t attract any unwanted attention from the fey stealing glances at you.

His face was pleasant when he said, “I just need you to be seen.”

“With you?” you tried to clarify, a little put off by the way his tone didn’t match the look on his face.

“No. Just seen,” he brushed back your hair, leaning in so close that you shivered when his lips brushed against your ear, “I don’t trust any of them,” he whispered, “and neither should you.”

You wanted him to say more, but you understood enough to know that making sure you were seen by all the council was a failsafe to make sure nothing happened to you. If they all knew who you were and what you looked like, none of them could claim ignorance if you were kicked out of the palace — or worse. You tried to swallow the lump in your throat. Yesterday he had made your deal seem like a piece of cake. Now you were sure he’d lied. Only the worry that your life might be on the line kept you from lashing out in anger.

“If I die, you don’t get to be king,” you reminded him through clenched teeth.

Loki backed off slowly, his movements measured and controlled, “if you died, I couldn’t imagine ever being sane enough to properly rule a kingdom.”

His words were a subtle reminder that despite your distance and the noise in the room, everyone here had Fey hearing and could listen in if they really wanted to — and they probably did. You mentally slapped yourself. You were going to have to start thinking before you spoke.

“Your words are too sweet,” you said, shooting him a pointed look, “but you’re far too strong to lose your sanity over  a human, especially that our love will live on for far long than I will.”

He seemed to realize his mistake and pressed a kiss to your forehead. You narrowed your eyes at him and he shrugged with a little smirk.

“It is your everlasting love that will make me the best king I could possibly be,” he looked like he was enjoying himself far too much and you waited warily for his next words, “after all, sweetheart, I know you’d scale any building for me.”

You placed your hand on your heart for effect. It was better than punching his arm.

“And yet your love is so irresistible, it’s almost as if I didn’t have a choice in the matter,” you shot back.

He grinned.

“Aren’t you two sweet,” a male voice sneered.

You almost groaned. This had to be another councilman. Loki smirked and mouthed tell it to your face before he turned so that you were facing a man who resembled a boulder both in shape and wit. You were glad it wasn’t Helio again, but this one didn’t seem much better. Still, you managed somewhat a decent smile.

He didn’t wait for either of you to speak before continuing.

“I’d heard a rumour a few moons ago that we were going to have two kings instead of a king and a queen rule Asgard this time. But I don’t know where such a rumour could have come from, especially that you two have known each other for…” he was waiting for an answer, looking between you with a smug grin. You doubted he could have made it more obvious that he was hoping to catch you in a lie because these people didn’t believe you were in love. Whether that was because you were human or because you weren’t the right sex, you were no longer sure. You snuggled even closer to Loki and looked up at him with an expression on your face that you hoped showed nothing other than love.

Loki licked his lips, teeth scraping against his lower lip as he tried to hold back laughter. Your gaze inadvertently dropped to his mouth for too long before you looked back up into his bright eyes. Judging by the strange expression on his face, you weren’t doing a very good job at conveying love, which only made it harder not to scowl.

“Every day I learn something new about her,” Loki crooned, “it feels like we keep meeting over and over…like we just met yesterday.”

There was a victorious little glint in his eyes that you hoped the councilman interpreted as love. All you saw was a challenge to keep up.

You widened your grin, partly afraid it might look a little crazy but going with it anyways, “and yet, at the same time it feels like we’ve known each other for an eternity. I can’t remember what it was like not knowing him.”

You both turned back to face the Fey man and he narrowed his eyes, trying to see beneath the act. You tried to snuggle in a little closer, but with Loki’s hands in his pockets, there wasn’t much more you could do to get closer. He seemed to realize that in the way he stiffened slightly, but neither of you moved, afraid too much fidgeting would make the councilman see something he wouldn’t have otherwise found.

You were afraid the Fey could hear your heart pounding and you waited for him to say something. Finally, it was Loki who spoke instead.

“YN, I would like you to meet councilman Lucius Bonnefort. Lucius, meet your future queen.”  

Lucius grit his teeth. He hadn’t been given a command, but the order from his king was clear. He was to treat you with the respect of any other Fey here. Loki raised a brow, waiting. It looked like Lucius might turn his teeth to dust he was gritting them so hard.

“Pleasure,” was all he muttered before sulking off.

You looked up at Loki and found a frigid expression on his face. His council may have been challenging him but at least they still respected him. The harsh lines on Loki’s face didn’t soften. Maybe it wasn’t respect. Maybe it was fear. You’d gotten a glimpse of his power last night that you didn’t want to relive. Maybe they knew better than to cross their king.

You strolled and mingled with some of the other party guests, but none of the other council members came to see you. It was clear they wanted nothing to do with the two of you, and although Lucius seemed to have bought your answer, you weren’t convinced any of them bought your act. It wasn’t like they wanted to, so why would they? The two of you standing close together wasn’t going to change any of that.

You stopped yourself from rubbing your eyes, trying not to let show how discouraged you were becoming. You’d never been in love. You’d never even had a serious relationship or anything that lasted longer than a couple nights. If this was going to work, you had to think. You couldn’t rely on your own experiences to get you through this. You needed something big. Something that would convince them, without a shadow of a doubt, that you were at least a real couple.

You glanced around the room, looking at all the people who refused to make eye contact with you. As much as you hated it, you needed them to look at you. And you needed to make sure that you did something big when they did. An idea began to take shape in your mind. You didn’t like it, but you were pretty sure it would work.

“Mind if I break one of our rules?” you whispered as softly as you could, catching Loki’s attention.

He leaned back, an amused look on his face. The dip of his head was barely visible but enough to give you the go ahead. You took the drink from his hand and grabbed a knife off the table behind him. Loki observed every movement curiously, no longer seeming quite so bored with the event. You gently tapped the knife against the glass, the hollow ringing echoing throughout the room. It wasn’t hard to get everyone’s attention when more than half of them had been stealing glances at you all evening. You placed the knife gently on the table and you free hand fluttered up instinctively to the pendent resting under your shirt. The weight of it was a strangely comforting reminder that what you were about to do was for the right reasons.

“Hello everyone,” you cleared your throat, hating the way your voice trembled, “I know a toast is a bit of a human tradition, but I was hoping, since I intend to be your queen in a few short moons, that I could say hello with a little tradition of my own. I just wanted to say what a pleasure it has been meeting all of you and I hope to get to know you better in the future. I love Loki more than any of you can imagine, and I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life here!”

The speech was premature and overconfident at best, but it wasn’t only a statement to prove that you be queen, it was also a message to Loki. You might have gotten caught off guard when you’d broken into the palace, but you were going to walk away with the Hand. You could play these games better than anyone here. You had no choice to, and you had the skills to prove it.

The tentative clapping wasn’t even done when you turned around, placed your drink on the table, grabbed Loki by the face and pulled him in for a kiss. He stiffened under your touch, lips frozen in place. You panicked. What did you just do? You were about to pull away and try to come up with a credible excuse for what had just happened when finally, his hands slipped around your waist and he pulled you closer, kissing you back. You melted into his touch. His lips were soft and gentle, and he let you lead the kiss until you pulled away slowly. You stared into his eyes, not quite sure that you’d actually done that. Loki didn’t say anything, his body oddly stiff. You couldn’t read his expression so you stepped back, his hands lingering a little longer before he let go.  Unnerved by this strange version of Loki, you bopped him on the nose with the tip of your finger, surprising yourself with the gesture. His eyes narrowed but you only grinned, taking your little victories where you could get them.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening!” you announced, reaching around him for you glass and raising it.

You were met with a few wide eyes and bewildered looks, but thankfully, everyone raised their glasses and took a sip. You nodded and smiled, meeting a few eyes before turning back to face Loki. His courtly smile masked whatever he was feeling, and you had no idea whether he was furious or not. He extended an arm. You took it but you didn’t know what to think.

This time, as you walked through the party, you got a few smiles and a few nice to meet yous. You shot a winning smile to a fey man as you passed. Not sure what to do with it, he immediately looked away, flustered. The reaction eased some of the pressure on your chest, but you knew the party was far from over. And judging by the way Loki was deathly silent, you were also going to have to contend with him later. He pulled you into a dark alcove at the far end of the banquet hall, the sounds of the party falling away. Apparently he thought sooner was better than later.

“So that’s how we’re doing this?” he demanded.

You had to crane your neck to look up at him you were so close, your chests practically touching. His eyes were emeralds on fire, and with the ghost of that fake smile still on his lips, the effect was terrifying. Despite the number of the drinks you’d downed, you were aware enough to be wary of it.

“I warned you first,” you blurted out. Hating how defensive you sounded, you took a deep, steadying breath but the way it closed the distance between you did nothing to calm your nerves. If anything, it was almost as if your magics were creating an electric current between your bodies. You didn’t know if he could feel it so you ignored it, “I made the right call. Look at them.”

He learned over you to see around the corner, looking at the crowd who was still talking about your little toast. He smelled like mint and summer nights and you tried not to breathe in the pleasant scent.

He settled back into the alcove and raised a brow, “all for the greater good, right sweetheart?”

The words were spoken like a threat rather than an observation, dangerous and cunning. You swallowed, wondering what you’d just gotten yourself into. Actually, you knew what you’d gotten yourself into and you were doing a damned good job of it. If he thought he could intimidate you out of doing your job and securing the Hand then he was very well mistaken.

You jut your chin up, your faces inches away now, “exactly. Maybe you should keep up Prince Loki.”

He chuckled, his breath tickling your cheek. You mimicked his arrogant brow lift, waning for an answer. He said nothing, leaning in even closer. Your breath hitched and you wondered if he was going to kiss you just to spite you.

“If you’re going to make this a competition,” he whispered with a wolfish glint in his eyes, “then I’m willing to play, sweetheart.”

He pulled you out of the alcove before you had a chance to reply. You didn’t know if you’d just made things harder for yourself, but you’d definitely made them more interesting. Though you weren’t sure more interesting was what you needed.

The crowd parted for you as Loki cut across the room and you cursed your short legs for having so much trouble keeping up. He led you toward the only Fey here who actually looked like an old man. His sharp cheekbones and tight skin had gone soft and wrinkly, and the long hair cascading down past his shoulders was as white as his long beard, both of which resembled the frozen landscape of Niflheim. The fey looked thoughtfully between the two of you as you came to a stop in front of him, the corner of his eyes crinkling.

“You two are certainly something,” the fey said.

“That’s love,” you gushed, taking the lead on the situation.

Loki placed a quick kiss to your temple before making the introductions. The fey was Eamon Loveless, the head councilman and the one who would have the final say on your relationship. For some reason, probably to get back at you, Loki had brought you to the most important person in the room. You straightened. You could do this.

“Prince Loki,” Eamon was looking at you when he spoke, “I must say, when you told us you’d found your future queen, I hadn’t been expecting Miss YLN. You hadn’t quite painted a clear picture.”

You weren’t sure what Eamon was accusing him of, but Loki didn’t look worried. With his hands still in his pockets as if he couldn’t be bothered to take them out, he gave a little shrug.

“I didn’t want to influence your opinion before meeting her,” Loki explained, “but I imagine you could only have been pleasantly surprised.”

Eamon smiled, “I’m glad you’ve found someone else who makes you happy.”

Loki’s arms tightened at his side, squishing your arm in between his. Any more and it would hurt. You tried not to look up at him in surprise. There had been someone else? Who? When? Immediately, Valkyrie flashed through your mind.

“YN is magnificent,” he grit out, obviously affected by the comment.

Suddenly, the two of you were too stiff. Too awkward. You tried for a fond smile. Eamon’s expression never changed so you weren’t sure if you’d achieved it or not. You felt the panic begin to rise. Where was the Loki who had lied so easily to Valkyrie? Where was the king who’d commanded the room? Where was the prick who’s taunted you seconds ago? The silence was dragging on and you had to fight the urge to fill it with useless babbling. Instead, you lifted Loki’s hand from his pocket and interlaced your hands, giving yourself time to think.

“He’s too kind,” you finally said, addressing Eamon, “it was his kindness that first attracted me to him.”

“And how did you meet?” he asked.

Your heart flipped in your chest. You thought you had come up with something clever to fill the silence but really you’d just dug yourselves into an even deeper hole. You opened your mouth but nothing came out. Snapping it shut, you let out a sharp breath that you hoped he misconstrued for a laugh. If this was a competition, then both of you were failing miserably.

“Why don’t you tell the story?” you asked, looking up at Loki.

He looked down at you, eyes glazed over and you weren’t sure he even saw you. You dug your nails into his hand. Hard. The pain must have snapped him out of whatever thoughts he’d been sucked into because that smug little grin returned. You’d never thought you’d actually be glad to see it.

“It feels like it was yesterday,” his eyes were bright as if he found himself amusing, “I was in Midgard visiting King Earl and she was a maid.”

“So he thought,” you interrupted, doing your best not to glare at him. At least he was out of whatever that was, even if it meant he was back to annoying you, “I was actually a soldier in the king’s guard and I knocked Loki flat on his ass for his mistake.”

The fey’s eyes widened. Loki chuckled. He didn’t seemed bothered by your comment. If anything, it looked more like he was warming up to the idea of your little competition.

“That was only because I was stunned by her incredible beauty,” he explained.

“And my skill apparently.”

You thought he was going to offer another counterpoint, but instead he nodded, “it’s all true. Though I must say, normally we’re more evenly matched.”

Eamon nodded slowly, dark eyes taking in everything, “and what happened next?”

“I asked her to dinner,” Loki answered simply and you thought that was going to be that, but he wasn’t letting you off the hook that easily, “but she said no.”

“No?” Eamon asked, surprised.

By now your little story had gathered a small crowd and everyone was looking at you expectantly. The human who’d turned down the future king of Asgard. You couldn’t glare at Loki, fearing you’d give something away, but you knew he was grinning, watching you squirm. You’d told hm to keep up. You should’ve expected that a king would play to win.

You shrugged, “I didn’t think we’d have anything in common. And I was busy.”

The last comment earned a few chuckled from the crowd and you lifted your free hand, palm up, as if to say what could I do about it.

Loki took over, “the next time I went back to Midgard, she realized that maybe she’d been too hasty to turn me down, and she asked me to dinner instead.”

“When someone looks this good, how are you supposed to say no,” you laughed, lifting onto your toes and kissing him on the cheek, “and he was so eager, it was adorable. He said yes immediately.”

He turned and stared at you as if you were the only person in the room. You were caught off guard by the intensity of it and you couldn’t look away. It was a dangerous game you were playing. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. You smirked.

“Eventually, we did go to dinner and got to know each other better,” he continued, turning to face the ever growing crowd, “turns out we had a lot more in common that she originally thought.”

The crowd laughed at his callback and you almost sighed with relief. The councilmen might not have bought the act yet, but at least the other nobles were beginning to seem convinced.

“It wasn’t love at first sight,” you murmured, knowing you didn’t have to speak loudly for them to hear, “but I think it’s something so much better than that,”

He tilted his head and looked at you with that half smirk and a glint in his eyes. If you didn’t know any better, you almost would have thought he was impressed. You grinned, hoping your smug look of victory came across as loving. You were good at this, and most importantly, now he knew it too. Just because he needed a queen, didn’t mean he couldn’t easily replace you if this wasn’t working out. You weren’t going to give him any reason to change his mind.

The councilman’s face was still silent and impassive. All you could hear was the heavy beat of your heart as you waited to see if he’d bought any of it.

A gentle smile softened Eamon’s expression and you almost squeed Loki’s hand with relief.

“You two seem to complement each other quite nicely,” Eamon said, “almost as if you were fated to meet.”

This time your smile was genuine. The orange moon was still far away, but at least you were headed in the right direction to get Nat out of Niflheim. Loki let go of your hand and wrapped an arm around your waist to pull you in closer. You tried not to be stiff, but it was hard when you were hyper aware of every place that your bodies connected. You’d never been affectionate, even with Nat, so you found yourself over analyzing your posture, wondering how credible you could really be. Loki on the other hand seemed completely at ease, fingers drawing little circles on your side.

“I’m positive you will like it here in Asgard, Miss YLN. Although I’m sure you must find our realm a little strange,” Eamon continued.

His words let you know you weren’t doing a very good job at masking your discomfort.

“I’m fine as long as Loki is here with me,” you tentatively rested your head on his shoulder. It seemed like the right thing to do.

“YN is fine no matter what,” Loki affirmed, “she’s the strongest person I know, fey and human alike.”

You wanted to scoff at such a lie, but it was cut short when you saw the admiration in everyone’s eyes, even the councilman. For some reason, Loki seemed to be able to sell love far better than you could and you looked up to see just what you were missing. His eyes were wide and filled with puppy-like innocence that didn’t at all suit the fey you’d met and spent time with. The crowd didn’t seem to agree. It was a good reminder of his skills as a liar and how little you could actually trust him.

“I must admit that I was worried when I saw that your future queen was human,” Eamon shot an apologetic smile your way, “but I must say that your confidence has inspired me, Prince Loki. I’m looking forward to seeing how both of you manage with your trials in the future.”

Loki tensed at your side, but you didn’t know why. Eamon’s words were a good thing. He wanted to see how you’d overcome obstacles in the future which meant that he wasn’t ready to kick you out of the palace just yet. That might have only made one council member, but you had to start somewhere.

“And we’ll do it with grace and dignity,” you beamed, your cheeks sore from all the fake smiling.

Eamon nodded and wished you a good rest of evening, and with that, the crowd seemed to disperse as well. You stepped out of Loki’s arms and walked off to the banquet table in search of food and a reason to stand facing the windows, desperate for a break in the whole act.

“I think that went well,” you murmured when you felt Loki walk up beside you.

“Not bad,” he agreed, “you’re almost as good at this as I am, sweetheart.”

You snorted, “better, prince. Better.”

“We’ll have to see about that,” he promised, “get ready. Here’s another councilman. Three down, two to go.”

You sighed and popped a small berry that looked like a grape into your mouth. You rolled back your shoulders.

“Ready.”

You both turned around at the same time, wide smiles on your faces.

“So that’s it then?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe to the banquet hall.

Your legs could barely keep you standing and you could feel the soft pulses of a headache coming on. The party was dwindling, but all of the council members were still mingling with the remaining guests. When you’d asked, Loki had said that he’d wanted to stay until they had all gone. All you wanted to do was eat a real meal and go to bed. If you could, you wanted to try and find the Hand first, but really, there was nothing you wanted more than food and sleep. But none of that mattered. You were stuck here.

“You look tired,” Loki remarked, but when you opened your eyes, he was scanning the crowd thoughtfully.

“Human,” you answered and hoped it was enough of an explanation that he wouldn’t press for the real reason.

“True,” he hummed, “I forget sometimes by the way you stare down the council as if you’re ready to fight them all at once. It’s not wonder none of the other guests were brave enough to approach.”

You were about to retort but realized he had a point. And you were too tired to say anything. You let your head fall back on to the wall and closed your eyes.

“I’ll work on it,” you muttered.

He didn’t say anything. Only when you opened your eyes a few moments later thinking maybe he’d left you standing alone did he say, “why don’t we head out?”

You pushed off the doorway, “yes.”

He chuckled and offered you an arm, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this enthusiastic.”

“Well, you’ve never threatened me with a good time before,” you took his arm, surprised by how familiar the gesture had already become.

“And what do you think I’m offering you now?” he asked.

“A meal and a bed, hopefully.”

He raised a brow.

You smacked his arm, “not yours.”

“So yours then,” he smirked.

You smacked him again or good measure.

“We’re not saying goodbye?” you asked when you noticed you were headed away from the party.

“We can always turn back.”

You pulled him along, “don’t you dare.”

Loki slowed his stride and let YN set the pace. She looked exhausted and he felt bad for not having realized sooner the extent of what he’d asked of her. He should have warned her earlier about the councilmen or at least given her more information about what she was going to expect but he’d been too afraid she’d decide the Hand wasn’t worth it and leave him stranded. And despite all that, she’d done amazing in there. She’d even made a party with the council bearable, which was something he didn’t think he’d ever say. It didn’t matter that she’d made her stance on the whole situation very clear by glaring at him every chance she got, the crowd seemed to love her. Which was far more than he could saw of himself. As soon as Eamon had mentioned Cortese he’d frozen up, lost in memories. The only reason no one had questioned his behaviour was because YN had brought him back fast enough that it wasn’t too suspicious and the fact that he was king. Or used to be. If he didn’t start acting like he was in love, all the power in the world wouldn’t make him king of Asgard again. Hela had made sure of that.

Despite having a million other things to do tonight, he wanted nothing other than an early night and a peaceful sleep. But with Hela whispering in the council’s ear day and night, along with the imminent war Gamora had foreseen, Loki hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in moons.

He looked over at YN who’d been quiet since they’d left the hall. She’d done more than enough tonight. He didn’t have to drag her with him.

“YN?”

“Hmm?”

When he looked down at her, he realized her eyes were closed and that she was letting him guide her. Loki was only surprised for a moment before he remembered always seeing her with a glass in her hands. Obviously what she was feeling wasn’t trust.

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

Her brows furrowed but her eyes still didn’t open, “when?”

“Right now.”

That got her attention.

“Eat and sleep,” she replied without thought.

She didn’t say it aloud, but Loki knew she also wanted to be alone. He could see it on her face and the way she’d let out a small sigh when they’d first walked into the silent hallway. He understood the need more than she could imagine.

“I can have dinner sent up to your room…or we can do something else if you prefer?” he added quickly when her face pinched into a strange expression he couldn’t read.

“No,” she blurted out and then stated more calmly, the first option’s fine. Are you joining?”

He shook his head, “only if you’d like me too.”

She seemed to hesitate, looking at the walls as if they physically had ears.

He saved her from having to find a clever way to turn him down, “actually, I have things to take care of tonight and I have to return to the banquet hall. Do you know the way back to your room?”

She nodded so quickly Loki almost laughed. She was a terrible liar. He didn’t know where the performance in the council room had come from, but he had no doubts she was lying to him now. The prospect of being on her own seemed to have rejuvenated her. She straightened, cricking her neck from side to side and scratching over her shoulder. She obviously wanted to take a look around — without him around of course.

“Explore or don’t,” he said, truly meaning it, “the council knows who you are now, so no one will kick you out of the palace if they see you snooping around.”

“Who says I’ll be snooping?” she yawned for effect, “I was planning on getting an early night.”

This time he couldn’t help but laugh, “sure. Goodnight YN. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Her face fell.

“Don’t worry, it’s only breakfast,” he reassured her, omitting the fact that they had a meeting after breakfast. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. It was no secret that she didn’t trust him. He didn’t blame her. He was lying and he didn’t trust her either.

“Only with you?” she clarified.

“Only with me,” he echoed.

That seemed to appease her and she was about to leave when something occurred to him. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

“Can I ask you a question?”

She paused, “only if I can ask you one.”

“Fair enough,” he amended, “would you spar with me some time?”

Loki had been surprised when she’d said that she was a soldier and he was more than a little curious to know how many of her lies had been based in truth. She’d shut down all his earlier attempts at getting to know her better and he was certain she’d do her best to keep it that way. So he figured he would have to be more clever about it.

He was surprised, and pleased, when she nodded.

“I would like that.”

“Good,” he murmured, afraid that if he said anything else she might change her mind, “your turn.”

“What Lucius said about…” she didn’t finished her sentence but she didn’t have to. He knew what she was talking about.

“He likes to speak out of turn,” Loki paused, choosing his words carefully. There was no one else in the hallway, but this was information that his future queen should have already known, “some of the council members haven’t always been supportive of the fact that there was an equal chance that there could have been two kings on the throne or a king and a queen. Even if fate decided to bring you into my life, those council members still seem bitter about my personal preferences..

She nodded slowly, taking the information in. There wasn’t much other than a thoughtful expression on her face and Loki was relieved. This whole thing would have been finished if she had reacted any other way.

“Has there ever been two kings or two queens in Asgard?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he smirked, “but love is love. And in Asgard, that’s the only requirement. There’s nothing they could say or do about it.”

Her face softened and she took his hand. The gesture surprised him, even more so when she gave it a little squeeze, “as it should be. Goodnight prince.”

And then she walked off in the wrong direction.

When he pointed that out, she looked back over her shoulder, an innocent smile on her face that didn’t match the mischief in her eyes, “just taking a little detour, don’t worry about it.”

He was probably going to worry about it later, but he watched her walk away. He’d promised himself that he’d give her as much freedom as was safe for her and his realm. There was no way she’d find the Hand on her own, so he had to trust that she wasn’t really and threat and that she’d be safe after what he was about to do.

When he couldn’t hear her steps anymore, he turned back to the council room. No one reacted when he walked in.

Hela had made her move less than a moon ago, but the council had taken that opportunity whole-heartedly to remind him that he was no longer king. He was only a prince temporarily in charge of the realm, but he wasn’t going to lose his position. He refused to let his people fall into Hela’s hands. Loki had never wanted the crown, but now that he’d had it, he was going to make damn well sure that he kept it. His brother had asked for that much.

“Listen closely.”

Loki didn’t need to shout. His voice carried throughout the room, his tone reminding them that he had once been their king. And with reason. He was far more powerful than everyone in this room, even some of them combined.

“No one touches YN,” he warned, his words slow and deliberate. He found every set of eyes in the room, making sure they all felt seen, “she will be your future queen. There is no doubt about it in my mind. And she might not have a long lifespan, but I have a long memory. You will treat her with the same respect as you did my mother. You’ve been warned.”

He didn’t give them a chance to answer and walked back out of the room. Loki didn’t think any of them would go outright and kill her, but he knew enough of them were power hungry bigots to do something stupid. Thankfully, the council was still wary of him even if he wasn’t their king any more. He could rest easier knowing they’d been warned and his own court was keeping an eye on YN most of the time. It wasn’t a foolproof plan, but he wasn’t going to lock her up or stop her from roaming the palace, even if it did cost him his title.  

He strode through the palace, not sure where he was heading and not sure what to do with himself. His whole body felt two sizes too small and he couldn’t shake the feeling. There were so many other things he had to do, but he couldn’t make himself decide on one. Only the thought of his bead was appealing, and even then, he was too restless to really consider it.

“I saw your queen,” Nebula said, falling into step beside him.

She was still dressed in her commanders uniform, dirt smudged over her eyebrow. She’d been sparring with the soldiers again. Not that he was surprised. She been so grumpy this morning that he pitied his army; though at least he knew they’d be prepared to face anything. There were very few things that were more terrifying than his commander when she was angry.

“Where was she?” he asked.

Nebula’s voice was clipped, her mood no better than it was this morning, “roaming the halls, looking incredibly suspicious.”

Loki threw up a magical sound bubble that would contain their voices. Knowing how suspicious it looked, he didn’t like to do it often, even if it was now the second time he’d done it today, but he knew she wasn’t about to let this go. Feeling the magic, she waited until it snapped into place.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” he said with a laugh, knowing that just because they couldn’t be heard didn’t mean they couldn’t be seen.

Nebula crossed her arms, keeping up with his long strides, “she wants the Hand, Loki.”

He waved away her worry, “it’s safe.”

“What makes you think she won’t get it?”

He shot her a look. They both knew who was guarding it. There was no way anyone was getting it — human or otherwise. His answer didn’t seem to satisfy her.

“Who says she’s not a spy?” she continued, her voice rising with irritation, “who says she’s not here for the book to give it to Hela? Who says we even have the right woman?”

Loki tried not to pinch the bridge of his nose. Nebula was right to be concerned; there was a reason he’d appointed her as commander. Still, he found himself saying with more confidence than he felt, “I wanted to know how to prevent Hela from winning over the crown and it gave me her name. She has to be the future queen.”

“Did you ever stop to consider that maybe we need to kill her and not work with her?” Nebula demanded.

The words were harsh, but valid. Yet Loki knew Nebula wouldn’t actually go through with it. As far as they knew, YN was innocent, despite wanting the Hand. And he was sure she was an ally, not an enemy. He couldn’t explain why he was so certain, but he’d decided it the moment he’d met her. However, it wasn’t like he could explain that to Nebula. She would need something far more concrete than a gut feeling.

“You’re being rash,” she continued.

He realized she was steering them toward the kitchen and his stomach growled in anticipation. He wasn’t sure how she did it, or if she was even aware she was doing it, but Nebula had a way of knowing what was best for their court, even if her harsh demeanour didn’t always make it very evident.

“Says the woman who wants to kill the future queen,” he countered.

“She wouldn’t be the future queen if you had thought things through,” she growled, stopping him a hand to his chest, “we’re walking a thing line here, Loki.”

“I know that! But I needed to present my queen today and she showed up just in time. Don’t you think there’s something to that?” Loki’s voice was rising and his control was slipping. The bubble around them almost dropped in the burst of emotion.

She poked him in the chest, but she’d lost all bite at his outburst. They were both tired and running through this blind. Arguing wouldn’t help any of them see things clearer.

“We had a backup plan,” she murmured.

“You would have been miserable as queen,” he shot her a smile, “especially that you would have to admit that you find me incredibly attractive.”

She punched him on the arm, “I’m a good liar.”

“Very true,” he laughed, “but this is the best option, Nebula. Trust me.” Loki wasn’t sure that he trusted himself, but he had to believe he was doing the right thing. And if he wasn’t, at least he knew his court was there to help with his mistakes — and to make sure he never forgot them, “and I’ll stay on my guard with YN.”

She sighed reluctantly, but finally looked convinced, “okay.”

“Okay,” he changed the subject, “what have the citizens been saying?”

“They’ll fight if it comes to war again. I tried to reassure them that nothing was wrong and that we were just gathering information, but they know something’s coming. They can feel it,” Nebula shrugged, “Hela’s arrival’s made them all uneasy.”

He nodded slowly and sighed, “better they’re wary than oblivious.”

“They’d better be wary,” Nebula said with a printed look, “you have a human for a future queen and she was stupid enough to agree to the trials. You’d better hope you were right about what that thing meant when it gave you the word YN.”

Loki could only nod and let the magic bubble drop. He was about to follow her into the kitchen when he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. The hallway was empty, but he could have sworn he’d seen something. He listened closely, waiting to see if whoever it was might give themselves away.

“Are you coming?” Nebula called from the kitchen.

He heard the banging of pots and decided he’d better go inside before she decided to start cooking and accidentally set the palace on fire. With one last look around, he walked into the kitchen.

[lightsinthedistancee]

How To Disappear, Part 2: Poe Dameron x Reader

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader

Word Count: 4.2k

Summary: “He likes to believe that you’d slipped from his grasp, lost in the flurry and obstacles of a Galactic-wide war, as quick and as natural as leaves scattered to the wind.”

“But he knows that’s not true.”

Poe deals with the aftermath of his and Reader’s relationship, as well as who he is.

Warnings: Profanity

A/N: This is the second part to my work ‘How To Disappear’ from Poe’s POV. It’s a second part, not a chapter, so there isn’t necessarily a complex narrative connection, so you don’t really need to read the first part to understand this. However, there are some connections, so you can read that first part here, if you want.

34 ABY, Four Years Earlier Than Present, Resistance Base, D’Qar

“Poe. Calm down.”

He can sense you standing a few feet away from him, your figure tense and tentative, a silhouette against the softly lit night outside.

There is too much surrounding him. Too many blaster shots, too many roaring ships, too many bangs. All encapsulated within his mind in the middle of a silent room.

The overstimulation of his senses nearly makes him want to whimper, makes him want to scream. But he suppresses it. He buries his head in his hands, and grips and squeezes and tugs in an effort to ward off the feeling.

“Poe.” Your voice sounds as if you’re at the end of a tunnel. “Poe, can I touch you?”

He’s not sure if he nods or not, but he feels your fingertips all of a sudden, making him flinch back.

“It’s just me,” you murmur. “Can you hear me?”

His eyes remain clamped shut as memories of blood and death and pain run through his mind.

“Poe, I want you to nod if you can hear me. Can you do that?”

Your voice is soft, gentle, like you’re talking to someone wounded. He fights something mechanical in his head in order to make his body respond to his brain, to make his chin bob up and down once.

“Good. Can you open your eyes for me?”

He doesn’t want to. Maybe it’s the darkness that’s allowing his flashback to be expressed with an acute vividness. Maybe it is the opposite: that when he opens his eyes, everything he is imagining will be there in front of him.

But he fights that too. And with a seemingly tremendous effort, his eyes snap open, exposing the warm brown to the room.

It is just a room. No carnage. No ruins. But he can still hear sounds. Perhaps if he sinks down into himself far enough, he can see a corpse in the corner, a discarded blaster on the ground.

“Tell me some things you see, love,” you murmur. “A few.”

His breath shakes as his eyes scan the room. You lean against him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “A brown chest of drawers.” He takes in a deep breath, slowly letting it out. “The door. My boots. My traveling bag.”

“Now something you can hear.”

“Wind.” An eerie howling. A roar of a ship that he tries to shake from his head. “Cicadas.” A constant chirp that reminds him of the outdoors, of lushness and life. “Water running through pipes.”

As he takes more deep breaths, reality seems to cement itself once more. Excess noise ceases, returning to its most basic form. Nature, structure, and life.

He finally tilts his head up, catching sight of himself in the full-length mirror across the room. He is hunched over, sweating, trembling. Pathetic. You beside him, looking down at him in concern.

And all of a sudden, without warning, one thing floods his mind, invades his thoughts: humiliation.

The thought of himself—a Commander who’d led forces into war—shrunken down makes shame wash over him.

Your hands feel too much like a pity as he imagines nonexistent condemning thoughts going through your head.

“Get off,” he hisses, jerking away in an instinctive response, and you’re forced to rest a hand on the bed in order to steady yourself.

Your eyes widen as he walks towards the door. “Poe, where are you—“

“I don’t know.” And he’s gone.

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

Present, 37 ABY, Galactic City, Coruscant

Soft skin, soft hair, and a presence too soft to even remotely entice him.

That is all Poe knows of the unfamiliar girl who lies asleep next to him in the unfamiliar hotel room, her bare back exposed to the cool air.

His head throbs, an inevitable repercussion to his drunkenness the night before. Too many drinks and too many flirtations, he thinks, turning over to get a thorough look at his bedmate, a look not constantly interrupted by desperate kisses and touches, not hindered by darkness.

His first thought is that she vaguely looks like you. Same color of irises, same figure, same color of locks. But perhaps her skin is a little smoother, her hair a little softer, her lips a little fuller—differences so numerous that perhaps, to the objective viewer, she is almost an “upgrade.”

But she is not you.

Personality aside, you would not be lying next to him. You would not be on the other side of the bed instead of nestled in his arms. You would not still be there, letting him feel you in the most intimate way possible.

As he stares at the ceiling and ponders why exactly his mind has chosen to relive that memory of you in particular, he mulls over a single idea stained with guilt: he was the one who had broken you to pieces.

But does that really matter anymore?, he wonders.

He tilts his head to the side, Galactic City greeting him cheerfully through the window. Sunny and busy and alive. He knows you’re out there somewhere, somewhere among all the buildings.

The end of the war had brought a re-established New Republic to the Galaxy. The Senate and court had gone to Coruscant. The military had gone to Chandrila.

But Poe is far from Chandrila’s Hanna City—perhaps still close, for he is still in the Core, but nonetheless, he is millions of miles apart from his duty and home. This is not his element. This place is a land of lying politicians, a land of organization that pales in comparison to the militaristic uniformity he is accustomed to. All he wants to do is get out.

But today is supposed to be a happy day. Today is when the spoils of war are supposed to truly be reaped. Today is the trial of one General Armitage Hux.

Despite having traveled the distance already, a small part of Poe does not want to go. He knows that you’ll be there. His reluctance isn’t even due to the awkwardness that will arise—it’s from the impending pain that he knows will come.

Seeing your face. Hearing your voice. Being forced to have an actual conversation with you.

He knows that looking into your eyes will only be an agonizing reminder of the night that had made everything between the two of you go up in flames and fall back to the ground in ashes.

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

35 ABY, Two Years Earlier Than Present, Resistance Base, Ajan Kloss

“What is your problem?” Your voice is raised, your form tense.

He watches from the window, where his eyes trace the horizon. For a second, he cannot even remember what he’d said. When he does, even then, he is unsure if his memory is correct. It was certainly something incendiary…something mean.

He is even unsure of how the two of you got here. Maybe you’d said something about him needing to see a therapist or something about how self-destructive he was. Everything—the minutes, the days, the words, the touches, the fights—it all blends into one now.

You’re talking on, but he isn’t listening. He can feel your presence emitting fury, but something within him stops himself from paying you any attention. Deep down, or perhaps maybe somewhere just below the surface, he knows that you deserve his attention, his love, his patience, for even when the explosive fights occur, and he drives you away in tears, you still return to him.

“Poe!”

The yell snaps him out of his haze, and you’re standing closer to him, arms cross. Eyes hard, but bottom lip trembling. He sees recognition cross your face as it hits you that he hadn’t heard a word of your speech.

You shake your head, a bitter laugh leaving your lips.

“Do you even give a shit anymore?” you ask. “About any of this?” You gesture to the two of you. “Or are you just going to wallow the rest of your goddamn life away in self-pity, hurting yourself because you won’t get help?”

“I don’t want help.” His voice comes out flat, emotionally over any feelings your fights with him elicit.

“Yeah? You don’t?” Your tone takes on one a of a venomous mockery. “You’re just going to keep hurting everyone around you like a spoiled child?”

At that, his head snaps up, feeling the urge to throw something, to hit something, something close to him, something—

He stops the thought, wisely opting for the verbal approach instead and suddenly turning around. The top of your head barely comes to his eyes. “Do. Not. Accuse me of hurting people around me.”

You stand your ground, daringly pulling the figurative strings between the two of you tighter and tighter. “You don’t see that you’re hurting me?”

“I think it’s you who starts the predicaments that hurt yourself.”

At his words, he watches as your eyes widen at the coldness, as your fist clenches so hard that your arms shake. If you’d been angry before, it is nothing compared to now. “I’ve been nothing but patient with you, Dameron.” Your voice is shrill and uncontrolled, several pitches higher than usual. “Nothing but there for you. And I think it’s borderline maniacal that you don’t realize that you treat me like shit!”

His jaw clenches, his knuckles turning white as he grips the windowsill. When he speaks, it’s a yell, his deep voice booming in the small rom. “Well if you don’t like, then fucking leave!”

You stare at him a moment, your form relaxing into something more reminiscent of defeat. “Alright.”

And then you’re gone, never to return to him.

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

Present, 37 ABY, Galactic City, Coruscant

He groans as he carefully rolls out of the bed, getting dressed. The unfamiliar woman shifts at his action, groaning softly as she wakes.

“Hey,” she mumbles, watching him from the covers. His eyes catch on her, and Poe doesn’t even notice he has frozen until she gives him a weird look.

She looks too much like you. He’d noticed the similarities earlier, but now, he can’t stop seeing them. Maybe the similarities were the reason his drunken mind had chosen her in particular the night before, but now, he just wants her out of his sight.

“Hey,” he finally replies, a small, forced smile on his face. He very obviously glances down at his watch, muttering something about how he has to be somewhere—he doesn’t—but he needs out.

So he says a quick farewell, walking out the door before she can say another word.

As he rushes down through the lobby, a quick glance at his watch serves as a reminder for why he’d gotten so drunk the night before in the first place. It is an anniversary.

It was three years ago that the Resistance’s D’Qar base had been annihilated, that he’d single-handedly taken on a dreadnought, a small part of him hoping that he’d fail and go up in a ball of flames, that he’d put a blaster in his mouth, contemplating whether or not to pull the trigger.

He stops at a café on a whim, ordering some caf and sitting on the rooftop deck, looking out over the city. It’s a place that had filled him with so much wonder as kid. The sheer size of it compared to his Yavin IV colony had been almost too much for his young brain to comprehend. The million of ships had dazzled and overwhelmed even his wildest dreams. So as he sits there, he knows that he should be appreciating it more than he is.

But all the city does is remind him of you, and part of him wants to curse you out for ruining it for him. But he knows it’s not your fault. It is his. Most of it is.

It was also six years ago that he’d had his first major falling out with you. Although your relationship had hobbled on another year, that falling out was when it truly died. When he’d thrown that glass against the wall with a loud shattering noise, releasing his anger and fear in violence. You’d been scared. Terrified. Of him.

And the look on your face had broken him.

You could snap me like a fucking twig if you wanted to.

Those had been your words when you’d sobbed in his arms a day later over a discussion of that event. Perhaps the statement could’ve been an exaggeration, but in a situation with no weapons nor surprise to your advantage, maybe it could’ve been a truth.

He sighs, doing the one thing he does best: diverting his attention. He pulls a notebook out of his bag, opening it up to a complicated, increasingly messy diagram of the last remaining First Order stronghold in the Outer Room, littered with X’s, corrections, and annotations.

This stronghold had been the subject of the main strategy room back on Chandrila for months now. Seemingly impenetrable, complex beyond belief based on their sparse reconnaissance reports, both in structure and the terrain surrounding it. Dense foliage ruling out an air attack, ships posing too much of a risk risk of hitting the surrounding labor encampments. In short, it’s a headache.

He goes through two cups of caf as he thinks and strategizes, using up the time before the trial. And when that time comes, Poe takes a deep breath, his hand clenching into a fist as he stands.

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

Present (Cont.), Galactic Court, Galactic City, Coruscant

Poe had decidedly arrived at the trial twenty minutes late, missing the reading of Hux’s extensive list of crimes that he simultaneously does and does not want to hear in full. His reason for being late had succeeded. He didn’t even have to make eye contact with you.

The trial had been a success. Life in prison for the General. Poe is on a mental high as he walks through the halls of the ornate court building, it’s structure unmarred by war, unlike many of the buildings surrounding it. The war had been won two years ago. Countless lesser generals and colonels had already been convicted before the overwhelmed judiciary had gotten to Hux. But Poe did not fully believe that victory had truly been won—until today, when Hux had officially been brought to his knees.

Poe finally arrives in an empty hallway, leaning against the wall, letting out a deep breath as a bright smile plays out across his face. All of the pain, all of the suffering, all of the danger—it had all led to this, where the last remaining First Order higher-up had been put behind bars for life.

But as Poe thinks, a small component of the soft bustle in the distance begins to approach him in the form of voices, ones he can’t help but listen to.

“This blouse fucking itches.”

“Hmm…all the more excuse for me to get it off you when we get back to the hotel.”

A cross between a gasp and a laugh. “Don’t speak so loud! There are people—“

When Poe hears the familiar voice engaged in a rather suggestive conversation, it is too late to move and make a run for it, for he recognizes the voice. His mind doesn’t have long to linger on your counterpart’s words when he comes face-to-face with you.

It is certainly a situation where one could mutter a quick apology and keep walking, but the past dredges up an instinct to halt, to fully take into account the person standing opposite from him.

The sight of you takes his mind off the whole conversation. You look identical to the woman that had left him long ago.

The both of you had frozen, staring at the other. “Hey,” Poe finally chokes out.

Your companion is the lawyer from the courtroom who’d represented the state, looking very confused at the hesitant, frozen reaction you and Poe had had upon the sight of one another.

“Hey,” you whisper, barely audible.

The lawyer blinks, glancing at you when you throw him a look. “I…umm…left something in the courtroom. I’ll be right back.”

And then it is only the two of you once again.

“How are you?” You offer him a small smile, pulling the coat tighter around you.

“I’m…I’m well,” Poe says, scrambling for words. “You…you look well…and happy.”

It is the first conversation the two of you have had since the screaming match that had ended it all nearly two years ago.

“I am,” you simply say. “Much more so than before.”

Although the ‘before’ is never specified, he knows what you’re talking about.

“Haven’t seen you around Coruscant lately,” you continue, shifting uncomfortably in place. Even though there were a trillion beings on the planet, the circle of those in government was small, especially those tasked with rebuilding the galaxy.

“I stuck with the military. Been out on Chandrila.” A small pause. “I see you made your way into politics.”

You nod. “I have.” Your gaze flicks to the ground for a moment before resettling on his face with a seemingly newfound focus. “It’s a shame you’re not in Galactic City for good, Dameron. You’ve always been a good leader. The real fight is here now.”

“I know,” he sighs. “But this place isn’t for me.”

The lawyer makes a reappearance at that very moment, almost as if on cue, placing a gentle hand on your arm, mumbling something inaudible to you.

“I should…I should go,” you say quietly, shifting slightly to the side.

“Right,” replies Poe. “Good to see you.”

You give him one last smile before you round the corner.

He lets out a seemingly held breath, slumping against the wall, his grip weak on the files in hand.

“Was that that asshole you used to date?” He hears the lawyer’s voice faintly in the distance, no doubt thinking that Poe is already long gone, not lingering where he’d been.

“Yeah,” you reply, a pause sounding where there may have been a quiet sigh. “He’s not an asshole. Probably shouldn’t have pinned it on him as much as I did when I told you. Life just dealt him a bad hand of cards.”

Poe’s eyes shut at your words.

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

Dealt him a bad hand of cards.

He scrawls those words in the corner of his notebook in a disinterest of the previous task at hand. Letter to words to concept to supposedly the very essence of him.

He strings those ideas together in his head and simply stares.

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

Present (Cont. 2 Weeks Later), New Republic Base, Hanna City, Chandrila

“Get her in here.”

“W-what?” Poe chokes on his water.

His immediate boss, a general and a former Resistance colonel, stares at him blankly, his head momentarily lifted from the diagram of the First Order stronghold they were still trying to crack. “I said get her in here.”

Poe is not sure how he’d gotten here. It’d started with a mention of your name, then a confirmation of who you were, then a casual remark from his boss on how good a strategist you’d been back when the three of you had worked together in the Resistance.

“But she doesn’t…she doesn’t work for the military anymore,” says Poe dumbly, blinking. He hadn’t even wanted to see you back at the courtroom, but being forced to spend hours with you, in a room, bent over a map and strategizing…

“She still works for the government, right?”

Poe nods.

“Well then we can still get her here if she agrees. I want her take on this stronghold bullshit,” the general says. “Get to it, Dameron. Send her a formal letter of request.”

“I’m not an errand boy,” Poe protests. He swears that he can see the general roll his eyes at the words.

“It’s not an errand,” the general responds. “It’s a militaristic necessity. I want her in here by the end of the week. Go.”

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

Present (Cont.), Hanna City Gardens, Chandrila

Cherry blossoms. Red hibiscus. Calico flowers spilling over walls and trees, lush and verdant.

Those are among the things that capture his eyes as he strolls beside you through Hanna City’s gardens. In short, you’d accepted the request for you to come, and determined to ease the agonizing awkwardness, he’d asked you for a walk.

“We were one hell of a pair,” you say, coming off a laugh he’s pulled from you with some remark that he’d already forgotten.

He smiles. “We certainly were. Me in the pilot’s seat, you in the gunner’s…”

An air of comfort has settled in around the two of you, warm and inviting, lacking any of the coldness that had been present before.

“You place a lot of flattery on your piloting abilities.” The corners of your lips twitch.

“Is it flattery, though, if it’s true?”

You laugh, sighing, a bright smile on your face. “Classic Poe.”

He shrugs. “What can I say?”

You go still all of a sudden, your gaze turning to a small, bright yellow flower on the side of the path, speckled in orange and red. Your fingers caress it, tenderly tracing the petals.

“We did make one hell of a team,” you repeat, your voice quiet and nostalgic.

A silence passes where something else originates in the air, not quite awkwardness, but something far from the comfort that had previously been.

“Can I ask you something?” You don’t look up. He can only assume your eyes are still locked on the flower.

He shifts slightly on his feet. “Of course.”

“Did you ever love me?”

It is his turn to freeze, for his eyes nearly widen. He stares at your back in shock for a few seconds before his hands reach out, gently clasping your arm and turning you to him. Your eyes travel on for miles, the space within them boring into his consciousness.

“You know…,” he begins. “You were always so level-headed…so logical and sensical. But I think that question is the craziest thing you’ve ever asked me…”

He’s closer to you now, and you look up at him, your mouth in a small frown. “So you did?”

“More than anything,” he whispers, barely resisting the urge to wrap his arms around your waist and press his lips to yours. As you look back at him, he wants you to feel the same—he needs you to.

“Do you still?” you say quietly, a certain pain reflecting in your eyes.

Something in his heart constricts at your query. He takes a deep breath, pushing out a lie with an immense difficulty. “No.”

A small part of him—no, all of him—wants to find some protest leaving your lips, some semblance of tears in your eyes, some sign of reciprocation. But you do none of that. One simple word leaves your lips. “Good.”

Your words are like a slap to his face, stinging and angry.

You glance down at your watch, stepping back from the intimate position, preparing to depart for an event that you’d told him of earlier. But before you leave, you emit one more sentence, turning back to him, expression cold and suspiciously closed-off. “You’re a liar.”

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

Poe sits in his quarters the following evening by lamplight, evaluating some of your ideas on the plans. But he is distracted. Rejection is the only thing on his mind. He wants to be mad at you, at how callous you’d been, but were you really?

His eyes flip the page and flick to the words scrawled in the corner, ones he’d written two weeks ago.

Dealt him a bad hand of cards.

He grimaces. It feels like that idea is all he’s been trying to shake since he can remember. It’d followed him around, whispering behind his back, around walls, from the mouths of family, friends, neighbors.

The death of his mother. What a poor little boy.

Death of his grandmother. Seems like life’s got it in for the him.

One of his dearest friends: dead at sixteen with a bottle of pills next to them. Probably going fuck up the rest of that Dameron boy’s life.

You staring back at his blatantly hurt expression in the Hanna City gardens, a thought he knows that is going through your head: something along the lines of pitying him.

When Poe had run away to Kijimi or the New Republic or the Resistance, or when he’d yelled at you, when he’d lashed out at you—a small part of him believes that he did it just to prove that life hadn’t gotten him. That he was still strong. That he persevered.

But as he sits there, in his desolate, dark, and lonely quarters, for the first time in his life, Poe admits that life had gotten him. A reel of recollections plays in his head.

Reckless stunts pulled in the hopes of dying like a martyr.

Impassioned speeches fueled not by pride and courage, but by anger and hate.

Cruel words that led to dark scenes of you curled up in bed, sobbing.

The image of you walking away from him, two weeks ago, someone else on your arm.

He likes to believe that you’d slipped from his grasp, lost in the flurry and obstacles of a Galactic-wide war, as quick and as natural as leaves scattered to the wind. That no matter what either of you could’ve done, the two of you were destined to separate.

But he knows that’s not true.

You had not slipped from his grasp. He’d pushed you away—and had kept pushing you away every time you’d tried to regain your footing with him.

He sighs, walking to the window and staring at the city along the horizon, sparkling in the night.

He thinks of how it could’ve been had you still been with him—had you not disappeared from his life. Perhaps an apartment on the highest floor of Galactic City the two of you could afford. No more screaming. No more ruthless fighting. None of it.

As his eyes survey the distance, he knows one thing at the moment. He knows that if he could somehow have you again, he would never let go.

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

A/N (another one, I guess): I’m sorry this was so long; I tried to cut out a lot but I just couldn’t. I know I don’t have the patience for 4.3k words half the time, so I appreciate it so much if you read the whole thing. I really did want to include more about how Poe personally did deal with his PTSD after reader left and his reflections on why he is the way he is, but i didn’t want to add so many words of explicitly spelling it out; although, it is implied some throughout. And apparently this A/N is long too. Being succinct really isn’t my strong suit, obviously. Thanks for reading!

Tagging (including some people who commented on part 1): @paper-n-ashes​​ @mylifeisactuallyamess​ @writefightandflightclub​ @synical-paradox​ @dark-academics-and-florals​ @spider-starry​ (let me know if you don’t want to be tagged anymore on stuff)

Masterlist

If you wished to be tagged on future works, just leave a comment/reply below or see the form on my Masterlist for specific preferences. I’m probably going to try writing my first Javier Peña fic next, so let me know if you want to be tagged for that!

[thefanficmonster]

An Angel Through Time

David Milton (The Dark Pictures Anthology: Little Hope) x Reader (Female)

Warnings: Mentions of death and a near death scene

Genre: Angst, Romance

Summary: The unthinkable miracle of getting a second chance at love centuries after the first one slipped through his fingers is exactly what happens to David Milton when John’s students are taken back trough time and save him from certain death.

Requested by my dear friend @artlovingbre​ . Hello! I’m sorry to be posting your request so late, I hope it makes up for the wait. David is really an underrated character and I can’t thank you enough for giving me the opportunity to write for him. Please enjoy the read! Love, Vy ❤

Y/D/N - Your double’s name (same first letter as your name)

I feel someone’s grip on my forearm, encouraging me to open my tightly shut eyes. When I do so, I’m met with a terrifying scene. That evil priest is here, along with that little girl and two other men - one of which is a spitting image of Daniel. The priest is saying something but I’m too busy exchanging confused and fearful looks with Daniel and Andrew who have been dragged into this mess with me.

“What do we do?“ I ask, turning around just in time to see the other man push Daniel’s double over the ledge.

“NO!“ The scream leaves both me and Daniel but while I remain frozen in place he rushes to save the innocent man from the certain death awaiting him.

Luckily, he manages to grab onto him, I don’t know how he made it, I’m just glad he did. However, he’s struggling to pull him up to safety, having his double dangle above his faith.  Seeing the man who pushed him pull out a knife and begin to approach the ledge shakes me out of my trance and I rush over to help him myself, grabbing onto the rope that binds his wrists. Thankfully, with joined forces and a little help from Andrew who took a bit longer to snap out of his confusion, we pull the double back inside the belfry. We each lose our balance, falling to the ground, letting go of the rope that has cut through the skin of out palms.

I hiss at the irritating pain spreading through my hands, squeezing my eyes shut. If I had any doubt that this was actually happening, I don’t have it anymore. The pain is real. That scene was real. That man was real. This is all real and I really need to put myself together because otherwise, I’m not making it out of this place alive.

Oh God, the image I saw when I rushed to the ledge - below was a spiked fence this innocent man would’ve inevitably impaled himself on had Daniel not caught him when he did. My heart sinks just thinking of that happening.

“Hey, it’s over now. You can open your eyes.“ Andrew’s comforting voice reaches me through the fog of distress clouding my brain. I feel his gentle grip on my shoulder as if trying to ground me to the present, reminding me we left that behind.

Maybe not completely though. The first face I see is Daniel’s, thing is - a quick look to the left shows Daniel standing aside talking to Taylor. The person I’m looking at is his double. In the present. Here, with us, now. 

I look at Andrew who’s offering me a helping hand to get me off the ground. He understands all the bafflement from that simple eye-contact and I can tell he feels the same.

John and Angela ask us for explanations but how are we supposed to explain something even we don’t understand? 

                                                            *  *  *

How can this be? It’s them, it’s really them. Maybe it’s their souls looming over me as to shield me from harm. Maybe I have been compromised by the Devil himself. I have no answers, no way to understand what is right in front of me.

The late sister of mine - Tabitha and my deceased lover, Y/D/N. 

My eyes may deceive me or an evil force is using me as its plaything. I can not be sure of anything anymore. So help me God, I am miraculously alive. Or I maybe aren’t. This may be my soul reuniting with the souls of my condemned love ones. One was accused of witchcraft by our own kin - our sister Mary, and the other, my dear Y/D/N was a victim of reverend Carver’s sinful, poisoned with malice heart.

We were to be married, the joy of calling her my wife so close within my reach. I remember the night I asked her to marry me: the tears glistening in her eyes, the warmth of her embrace. The happiness that inhabited our home.

And how suddenly it was taken from us.

Y/D/N warned me of Carver’s advances and intentions towards her. I told her not to fear, that I would first throw myself in the arms of damnation rather than let any harm be done to her. I will never forgive myself for not doing more to save her from the horrible fate Carver decided for her when she refused his advances and stayed true to me and our love. She let out her final breath right in front of me, looking me straight in the eye.

Her final words shall forever haunt my mind and memories.

David, my soul will love you beyond death’s grip

This is her fulfilling her last words. She rescued me from inevitable demise. 

Like a guardian angel, using her love for me to keep me out of evil’s reach.

“Are you ok?“ She approaches me cautiously, almost fearfully. “That was a close call back there.“

“My eyes deceive me, no? Y/D/N, is it really you?“ I reach out towards her, fearing she is nothing but an illusion. Fearing I’ll never see her again the second my hand touches hers.

Her hand takes firm hold of mine as reassurance that I haven’t gone mad. “I’m sorry but I’m not. My name’s Y/N. I understand that you are having a tough time understanding this and believe me - we’re in the same boat there. Just trust us, we’ll....figure everything out, ok?”

Her voice - her voice opens the wound on my heart Y/D/N’s death inflicted on me. I hear the echo of the purest words I’ve ever heard spoken.

I most certainly do not feel safe nor do I understand what trickery was done to me for my soul to be sent amongst these people, but I believe they mean no harm. I have seen the face of evil - and it doesn’t look like them.

                                                              *  *  *

Daniel’s double, who I now know is named David, is coping with this surprisingly well. The confusion is still clouding his brain but he’s not nearly as freaked out as I would’ve been in his position. He hasn’t asked many questions, I think he’s still in shock. Regardless, he’s calm and...well, alive and that’s what matters. Every now and then I catch him looking at me with this sorrowful sadness in his gaze. I feel my heart sink a little every time I see it. He has mentioned another lady, Y/D/N I think he called her. I don’t know what relation he has to her, but he mistook me for her so I can only assume she’s my double. I’m honestly afraid to ask, I don’t believe I can handle what he’ll tell me. At least not yet.

We approach an old house. That’s a pretty generic description, considering all the houses in this ghost-town are old. This one, however, sticks out. It has clearly been shielded from the cruelty of time by many renovations. It simultaneously looks firm as a fort but also like it could crumble at any moment. It’s hard to explain, you’d have to see it to understand. Through one of the windows we see a faint flickering light, presumably from a lit candle.

“This is our house. What in God’s name has happened to it? Why is it so filthy?“ David looks the house from top to bottom with fear and hurt in his eyes. I see the tears threatening to roll down his cheeks and my heart cracks much like the foundation of the house.

“It may have been your hose back then. It’s no one’s now.“ John tries to explain to him, as delicately and carefully as one could, “It’s our only good lead, given there’s light in there.“

David shakes his head, “I refuse to step foot beyond that doorstep.” His statement is firm, not that we would’ve tried to change his mind regardless.

I look at the group who are exchanging puzzled gazes. I raise my voice to say: “I’ll wait outside with David, you guys can go in and do a sweep. If you find anything useful just holler, I doubt I won’t hear you.“

They slowly nod in agreement before entering the house. I watch as they disappear into the darkness of the hallway, paying close attention to the creaking of the floorboards that bend under the weight of their footsteps - giving me some indication of where they are in case I need to go in and find them.

There is a half-rotted bench in front of the house. It looks far from stable or useable but I decide to take my chances. I sit down and brace for impact with the ground but when that doesn’t happen I wave David over to sit down as well. He does so, though reluctantly - never taking his gaze of the house, the look in his eyes remaining as painful as when he first saw it.

“Y/D/N, she was the light of this home. Tabitha was to be wedded as well. She didn’t live to see that day. I couldn’t protect either of them.“ He rests his elbows on his knees, hiding his face in the palms of his hands. “I should’ve fought till the last undeserved breath for theirs. I should’ve done more.“

With minor hesitation, I place my hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him though I know my presence is fueling his sorrow. I’m an image of someone meaningful he lost, how can he even bare to look at me? “Who was she? Y/D/N?“

His hand reaches up, taking hold of mine and removing it from his shoulder. He straightens his posture, gently holding my hand with both of his. “My late wife to be. She was cruelly sent away from this world by the town reverend. He wanted to rid me of my life shortly after Y/D/N, but...” his attention travels to my eyes, “you saved me. I would now be nothing but a lifeless body if you hadn’t done what you did. I will forever be in your debt.” He squeezes my hand in an act of endearment that makes my heart flutter. “Though it pains me to look at you or the other woman,” he tilts his head towards the house, presumably referring to Taylor, “I can not take my eyes off you. This mustn’t be a coincidence. You are either her, or an angel sent by her. I am grateful to you regardless.” His hands uncover mine and he brings it to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on my knuckles.

I feel this overwhelming need to protect him, to always be by his side and never leave him. I have known him for less than two hours; he’s been a part of this time for just as long and yet I still feel so close and so attached to him.

“Don’t worry, David. My life isn’t getting stripped away and neither is yours. I can promise you that.“ I say reassuringly, nodding to put extra emphasis to my words.

                                                             *  *  *

The way she puts such faith on her words, on her promise, makes me recall how Y/D/N’s voice danced in the air when she’d tell me what our future looked like through her eyes. Every letter leaving her lips carried its own meaning, none less valuable than another. All so certain and concrete. A force to be reckoned with. A force to gain all my trust in a matter of seconds.

“Thank you, Y/N“

I shall put my life in these people’s hands and my heart in the hands of this angel that survived through the walls of time. This strong woman who risked her life to save my own. 

There’s no longer a doubt in my mind that she’s my second chance at love disguised as an angel. One Y/D/N’s soul sent me from the heavens where she’s looking down upon me from. I shall fulfill her wish - I shall love again.

[jojo-reader-hell]

Jonathan Joestar x Selkie!Reader: Seven on the Land, Seven in the Sea

Hello children here’s the selkie angst you didn’t ask for.

...

“And yet, niece, you are subject to our laws, as a being of the same nature with ourselves; and should HE prove unfaithful to you and marry again, you are obliged to take away his life.”

- Undine

...

“Oh Jojo! Yes! Yes I will marry you!”

Your hands, clammy and pruned, began to tremble. You released your fist and gripped weakly at the door frame, legs like gelatin when you heard a cacophony of giggles, and saw a man lift a woman with hair the color of golden beach sand into his arms for a kiss. The barking laughter of the elders echoing in your mind, stomach frothing with nervous bile.

Remember the laws of our people little pup: he belonged to you the minute the child was placed inside your tender womb by his essence. He cannot belong to another, and if he tries... he is condemned to die by your hand.

No... no... this cannot be happening... Why couldn’t your husband just wait for you to explain?! You turned away from the path, blocking the way to the door, turning and seeing a very familiar pair of watery blue eyes searching for the answer in your tear streaked face. Your little boy, your son Giorno, was still holding out the large jet black pelt you’d found. The picture of innocence. Blue black hair pressed wetly to his forehead as he obediently waited. A good boy, in every sense of the word. He didn’t understand human words, he was seven years a seal and a mere few minutes a human. You meant to show him as a surprise. Instructed your little boy to hold out his father’s new pelt and wait for him to come to the door when you knocked. He was then to say his first word, a call of his father’s name. At first the sight made you coo in delight, now it only made you wish to die. It was supposed to be a happy moment. A moment that would inspire joy once you knocked at the cabin door and the fisherman’s son Jonathan Joestar would open it to reveal his half selkie son holding out a seal pelt just his size, that he might join you both in the sea forever.

Oh! You can try to deny the jealousy. ‘Twill be a bitter poison to swallow that will consume your every waking moment. But the lust for blood will consume you, eat away at the heart that was once cradled in the palm of his hand, and you will inevitably partake in the ancient right to carnage. Serves you right for cavorting about with a human. Doesn’t it make you wish now that you’d have taken the harp seal as your husband? Dio would have made a devoted father to little Giorno. You know, once your human mate is dead you are allowed to take another in his stead.

You remembered your words... How proudly you lifted your chin and dared to look into the eyes of the elder selkie.

I’d rather die.

Yes. You’d rather be dead. Rather have stayed on land and let the dryness kill you and the baby than have to look through the salt stained windows of the cabin and see your husband’s lips locked with another, grudgingly you admitted his new choice was pretty. Beach sand hair, eyes as blue as the sea... Certainly not the stormy eyes of a seal woman that were shrouded as though in a dense fog. While it never bothered you before, you suddenly felt the chill of the sea wind creep into your bones, bare toes curling into the mud of the path as you took a stumbling step away. Your son barked, it was all he knew how to do, and you frightened him when you lunged forward on the path to cover his mouth, scraping the sensitive skin of your legs when you scooped him up into your arms.

Giorno barked at you once again when you waded out to the beach in a hurry, not paying any mind to the blood trickling down your legs. You understood him perfectly, it was a bark that meant he wanted his papa’s attention. You made a snuffing sound with your nose as you buried your face in his little neck, a sound meant for seal mothers to reassure their little ones. But he didn’t want his mother. He wanted his father and tried to open his mouth to call his name like you taught him, quickly silenced with the words gurgling in his throat as you dove into the cold gray sea.

No... no... Jonathan... dear Jonathan... why couldn’t he wait for you?? Why couldn’t he have stayed steadfast and faithful, understanding the message of the pearls and shells you’d left in place of the letter you didn’t know how to write. You didn’t know any way to let him know. It wasn’t possible for a selkie to live more than a few days on land. You were able to stay a little longer, because Jonathan had accidentally caught your pelt in his nets. By the laws you were bound to him as husband and wife. Whosoever took your pelt and returned it was by tradition proposing marriage. And because he was so sincere, so kind, you accepted. Happy as a clam to have been fortunate to be taken in the arms of such a handsome specimen of manhood.

“If you are my wife now... then this must be our wedding night.”

He’d told you this on a night similar to the one you returned on. It was just as the sun was setting. The cold wind from the sea blew in, his fire roaring and a cast iron pot of simmering fish stew bubbled in the fire. You’d been waiting patiently to be fed, your pelt wrapped loosely around yourself, unaware of how bewitching you looked when the spotted pelt slid down to expose your soft shoulders.

“Yes. I suppose it is.”

“Tell me, little selkie, do you know what happens on a wedding night?”

You did not know, but oh did you find out. You found out the consequences of such a night too, when your stomach began to balloon out even though you couldn’t keep down your fish anymore. Jonathan was too busy to notice. A fisherman’s life was hard, with him being at sea for weeks at a time and returning dead tired with barely enough food to feed the two of you. You tried to tell him yourself that you were dying. You just needed some time to return back to the sea, a seven year rest in the water and a seven year search for a pelt that he might come to your world without drowning trying to join you and the baby. If you continued living on land, you’d lose the child and your life, leaving the poor man a lonely widow without even a body to mourn. From sea foam you came, to sea foam you’d return if you kept up the facade of being a human for too long.

As you pulled both yourself and baby further down into the murky water, you tried to ignore the sounds of a creature swimming rapidly towards you. Pretending not to see the locks of gold and that damned gloating smile, you pressed Giorno closer to your chest and made into the shape of a torpedo, jettisoning yourself out of reach of the sea and landing with an undignified ‘plop’ on the hard pebbles of the beach. Your son sputtered, coughing sea water and choking because of the abrupt transition from breathing air to breathing water.

“You damnable tease!” Croaked a voice out of breath. “I’m only trying to help you-...”

“Go away Dio!” You growled a warning, lips pulling back over your sharp teeth. “This doesn’t concern you!”

“Of course it does! Am I not the fiercest hunter?! Did I not escort you here to protect you from sharks? In a few minutes you might have had another escort instead of me. Clumsy bitch, you’re bleeding!”

He heaved himself onto land, hissing at the pain of the pebbles pressing into his sensitive skin and hardly experienced enough to walk as he dragged himself towards you with an outstretched hand. You stood on wobbling legs and stepped out of reach, backing away as fast as the love struck selkie male could crawl towards you, his legs still clumsily pressed together because he never fully grasped the concept of his human half.

“He didn’t stay faithful did he?!” Dio laughed, between hissing at the pain of the dry land and hurling insults at you. “He’s going to marry that simpering wench and you’ll have to kill him on his wedding night, in your marriage bed that he defiled with another!”

“Go away!”

“You’ll be left a disgraced widow. Your poor son more of a bastard than he already is!”

“Begone!”

“You know I speak the truth! I was told to bring you the knife to carry out the deed. Take it you fool, take it and free yourself! Save what little dignity you have left and exercise your ancient right to revenge!”

He tossed the offending object towards your feet. The ceremonial knife. A razor clam honed to a fine edge and used by multitudes of heartbroken selkies to free themselves from their earthly bonds. It made you pause, seeing it lay there innocently while Giorno stared wide eyed at Dio. You looked at the child in your arms, and then once more to the razor clam. A feeling... insatiable lust... a hunger for the blood of your son’s father filled your heart, skipping a beat when you saw some of the blood from your knees dribble down onto the blade.

Temptation.

Pure, unadulterated temptation.

The same temptation he might have felt when he committed the sin of taking another...

Kicking sand in your wake, you carried Giorno far away, as far as your weak legs could carry the both of you. They didn’t get you far. Just far enough into the forest that you couldn’t hear Dio’s screams of your name, but you could still see the smoke curling from Jonathan’s chimney and smell the fish he was cooking as a meal to celebrate his betrothal. You couldn’t cry. Selkies cannot cry tears, only making you suffer all the more as your heartbreak had no where else to go but to sink deeper into the pit of your stomach. Giorno had long since stopped choking, opting now to whine weakly into your arms, unused to being on dry land for such a long period of time. You tried your best to rock him back and forth in your arms, mimicking the gentle motions of the waves in an attempt to soothe him.

But it was all for naught. There was nothing you could do to console him. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t give the black pelt he still held to his papa. Didn’t understand why you didn’t produce his father after seven years of singing him songs in your seal voice about the handsome young man that would net hoards of fish for him to eat, then cradle him in his strong arms and shower him with the affection he longed for. You knew even though he didn’t understand things as a human, Giorno wasn’t stupid. He saw the members of his pod paired and taking care of young, wondering why he had no papa to clean his whiskers after his meals or to teach him to catch slippery silver fish in his jaws. Giorno was instead fed on mother’s milk and stories of a papa that walked on two legs, a papa that couldn’t swim very well in frothing waters and that had promised a vow of everlasting love to his mother.

“P-papa!” His first words were raspy, his throat parched from breathing in too much dry air. “Papa!”

[nukyster-blog]

Changing course, chapter 1:

I started writing this story because I love Ivar, but disliked what he became. I loved him up to where Ragnar died, after that he became more of a villain than an anti-hero. For that, I wanted to give him a good hit of karma and figured making him a slave for Christians would be his worst nightmare. Before you continue reading, I’d like to address that the story will be graphic in the blood/guts/death/violence sense. I’m also aiming to get things as historically accurate as I can, but this is my hobby so if I make horrible mistakes, bear with me. 

Chapter 1) Changing Course .-.-.

Ivar had always been plagued by pain. Since the day he left his mother’s womb and drew his first breath, life had been an endless road of physical suffering. As a nursling, those insufferable muscle aches and stiff joints made him cry relentlessly. Endlessly. It would drive his brother’s up the walls; send their father overseas. He’d weep in his mother’s arms, only silenced by the warmth of her breast; his pain absorbing strength which turned him hungry. He’d endured remarkably, survived the first crucial years and eventually managed to tolerate the pain as part of his life. He learnt to see the inevitable suffering not as foe, but as an unwelcome acquaintance that needed to be ignored in order to get through the day. That mindset, combined with his stubbornness and willpower made it possible for him to keep his chin up and get through the day. It did not lessen his self loathing and envy towards his brothers. Blessed with strong and healthy bodies, their mere existence were three thorns in Ivar’s eye; the youngest son of Ragnar Lothbrok. The black sheep, the boneless; deformed from the waist down. 

His handicap planted a seed deep inside his chest and it spread all throughout his ribcage like poison ivy. It was blinding hate towards the world, to all who were capable to roam free and looked down upon him. Burdened by his physical limits his rage would at times rise high above his handicap, withstanding the pain to solemnly focus on destruction.  

Not a single soul forgot Ivar’s first victim. How he’d embedded his axe into the skull of another child. He remembered vividly how his tiny fist had trembled around the handle, how his mother pulled him tightly against her chest and rushed him inside. Hush dyrbare, she’d soothed him, her voice soft and warm, it’s not your fault, don’t feel regret, you are the son of Ragnar Lofthbrok, it’s only right for people to fear you. Her response was the only validation he needed. Ivar took the reassuring words of his mother to heart and smothered all forms of empathy. He was entitled to lash out to others and from that very young age Ivar found a coping mechanism; hurting the less fortunate. It wasn’t physically torture per se; his mother’s smothering grip enabled him to actually torture their thralls and peasants. He might be a useless prince, but he was a prince. His royal blood burdened him to keep their name up to certain standards, so purposely torturing their slaves was inexcusable. 

That did not mean Ivar would let any change go by to destroy the little belongings their thralls valued, pinch his nursemaid up to the point it left bruises, sink his teeth into ankles and throw a fit over the littlest of things. It was interesting to see that over time, he became quit infamous to the poor and powerless population of Kattegat. They saw him as a monster and that was much better than to be perceived as a crippled. So Ivar willingly took on the role of something dark and disgusting, he embraced being a monster.

His second act of bloodthirst happened during his pre pubescent years. The Seer had condemned a Christian to death by starvation. 

Curiosity made him crawl to their city centre in the middle of the night where he first observed the haggard form of a man, fiercely praying to it’s false God.

It was an offense, openly performing such devotion for it’s Christian God. Although the slave never laid an eye on him, Ivar resented the man with every fiber of his being. It wasn’t the poor man per say, that set him off, the poor thing simply represented defiance; praying to it’s Christian God in the centre of their town. What he later claimed as hate for the Christian, had simply been an excuse to unleash his rage. The wrath towards the entire world had been sprouting all throughout his chest and some of the roots must have reached his brain. Because what he did with his bare hands was inhuman. He destroyed the Christian, with his bare hands, knuckles and teeth. Like a meek lamb the man, awaited his death and did not fight when he was being slaughtered. It had been Ivar’s first intentional murder and it was hypnotic, addictive. Without empathy, it was easy to perceive the human body as a gigantic canvas; with endless possibilities. Destruction and pain was the purest form of art, of life itself. By ending it. Ivar loved every moment, every hair, teeth, every fiber of it. The iron taste of warm blood, the warmth of it running down his hands, chin and chest. He welcomed it, all of it and bathed in it. All for glory, all for Odin. All to make the world forget the crippled boy that wept for his mother’s warmth and see him for what he wanted to be. A monster, because he failed to perceive himself as a man, as an equal to his brothers. No, his weak legs would never place him in the same line as his brother’s. So, a monster then, was the second best choice. 

Ivar showed Kattegat another form of Boneless. At the first lights of dawn, the centre filled itself with exclamations of horrors and awe. The cobblestones were painted crimson and a flock of chickens were pecking at the intestines of the Christian. They lay spread throughout the centre, attracting flies and more bystanders. Ivar had just ripped out the tibia bones, leaving the muscles and skin lay wobbly and in a strange angle now that it’s inner skeleton had been removed. Ivar had been scraping the last bits of flesh from the bones with his fingernails when his mother appeared from the crowd and cried out in horror, falling down on her knees. 

From that day, his brothers looked at him differently. With disgust, yes, because he mauled the body of the Christian like a starved wolf. Which wasn’t far from the truth, honestly, he’d been hungry. Hungry for blood. And validation. 

From that day on, there was a hush whenever Ivar entered the Great hall, or any other place. Folks turned their head, acknowledged his presence. It was enough clarification for Ivar that being ruthless and malevolent paid off. Instead of being the handicapped son of Ragnar Lothbrok, he was the Christian slaughterer. Ivar the Boneless, now he was able to wear that byname with pride.

He’d carved pawns from the Christian’s bones and used them for his tafle game. During a game, he jokingly commented that he should’ve taken a knee bone too, it would have made an excellent king. Hvitserk chuckled uncomfortably, Sigurt’s eyes widened and Ubbe walked out. He’d loved it, pressing everyone’s buttons, making them uncomfortable and on edge. But eventually, his prepubescent act of monstrosity faded. 

That was why he felt blessed when their father asked him to join his raid in Wessex. Him, only him; Ivar the Boneless, joining their father on a raid. The Gods never favoured him and instead of glory, Ivar found despair. Their father, Ragnar Lothbrok willingly walked into the belly of the beast, with his hands raised high, unarmed and broken. Like a loyal dog, he’d crawled after his father, knowing full heartily in the castle of Wessex lay nothing but doom. Still, he’d rather die by his father’s side then end up dead in a ditch, from hunger and thirst. His father broke his promise, or rather King Egbert’s son did. The safe passage back home, which had been arranged turned out to be a lie. When he was dragged away from his father’s cell, a blunt object collided to the back of his head and pain temporarily blinded him. Quite helplessly, he’d been listening to Prince Aethelwulf arranging his deposit. The pain in the back of his head was severe. Pain throbbed so violently around in his skull that he wondered why it didn’t just crack open.

For the first day, the nausea was overwhelming, he could not keep anything down. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he lost track of time and place. Curled up, cradling his damaged skull he wished for his mother. Any form of light ravaged his brain, pounding, throbbing, like a rotting tooth right between the eyes. It took his sanity away, his coordination. The few altercation he had with Saxxons made him whimper and plead for salvation. But no relief came to his pain. Without power to fight back, Ivar found himself tossed into a ship hold, as if he were a sack of potatoes; nothing more than damaged cargo. The circumstances below deck were horrendous; human cattle packed up and wedged together as tightly as the overseers could cramp in. Ivar, half aware of his surroundings and halfway sliding into a deep pool of endless nothingness, flinched when fingers reached for his oath ring. A fist formed itself around his wrist like a bear trap and with that, the last bits of his hereditary was ripped off of him. The leather protecting his fragile lower limbs, gone, taken too. His necklace, also gone. Even his shoes and tunic were worth taking. The overseers sniggered at the sight of Ivar’s weak attempt to intervene and shoved him aside, like a thing. Like a nothing.

Their journey overseas started although Ivar wasn’t aware, which in his case was a good thing. The onerous space was filled up to the max, with minimal resources. There was barely any light, no personal space. Water was scarce and so was food. Hygiene became a problem after the ship set it’s sails and some of the unlucky ones got seasick. It did not take long for the cramped out area to turn into a sewage; the stench and heat insufferable. 

Ivar withstood the trials in silence, cradling his head in a fetal position. The pain in his head was all consuming. Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed the pain to go away. Over and over, until in the end, the rest of the world became detached. 

He could barely hear the people around him. Some prayed in foreign tongues, others whimpered. Somewhere afar, a young child cried. 

Eventually, he drifted into sleep, waking up by a sudden toss aside. Cries were lost beneath the thunder that rolled overhead. Their cage of wood and sails was mercilessly thrown into a storm. The waves resolutely grew in size. Their vessel rode the mighty swelling sea like a child’s toy, no longer controlled by the hands of men. 

The inhabitants below deck were violently thrown from the far end of the hold to the other. Bodies were being trampled, panic spread like the plague, festering into each and everyone’s head. Violence roamed among the poor souls in captivity in order to breathe. 

At one point, Ivar found himself suffocating. Never had he wished more for land, to feel the sweet green grass of his home against the palms of his hands. The sea, it felt like his rage from within. Like punishment, ready to tear itself through the wooden construction to claim their souls. His mother’s prophecy would come true. He would drown and never enter Valhalla, because there was no honour in this poor death. To be dragged down to the bottom of the sea with countless slaves. There was nothing heroic nor royal about this death. This was not the end of a Prince, yet it seemed inevitable. And although he fought the feeling with every last bit of strength he could muster, Ivar was petrified. For the cold water to seize his body, for his lungs to fill up with water, to feel his life slowly ebb away.  

In between the lightning, darkness prevailed. In between the darkness there were flashes of his fellow unfortunate souls, their faces overcome with terror. 

‘Is it Odin’, Ivar thought, ‘fighting with the Christian God?’ Was this his fault, for it was him who’d coldly, bloodily mauled a defenseless Christian? 

‘Please Odin, the All-father, do not allow a Viking prince to die such an unworthy death,’ Ivar pleaded, ‘if I survive this storm I promise you, I will make it worth your while.’ 

As sudden as the storm erupted, it disappeared. Along the dawn of morning, the ship anchored ashore. 

Sunlight burned his eyes, blinding Ivar momentarily as the portholes were pulled open by the overseers. Orders were being shouted in unfamiliar tongues, for those who weren’t familiar with the language, there was the beating of a whip. The human cargo was expected to exit the ship, rather sooner than later. 

Few bodies remained lifeless, passed away due to suffocation. One by one they were removed by the overseers; by simply being thrown off the ship. There was no honor, nor time to bury a slave.

When one of the overseers took hold of Ivar’s curled up body, he was surprised to find the slave to be alive. Surprise was rapidly replaced by irritation. Lashing his whip he struck Ivar across the face, making the poor young man hiss and hide his face. 

The overseer signaled another member of his crew to lend out a helping hand. Both grabbed Ivar underneath his armpits and dragged him up his feet. 

Both men grunted in annoyance when their slave immediately dropped back on the floor. One chuckled and nudged against Ivar’s deformed legs. The other one let out a long impatient sigh and kicked Ivar’s arms right from under him. 

Ivar’s chin merely had time to hit the wooden floor, before a familiar boot planted itself onto Ivar’s spinal cord, taking his breath away. 

The other overseer sank down on his knees, a knife playing between his fingers. Though rust had set on the handle and blade, it was strong and jagged, enough to cut a throat. 

The tip of the knife pressing against Ivar’s  Adam’s apple prevailed the pain in his head, the stiffness of his limbs and the heavy weight on top of him. 

“I can crawl you croaked-nosed bastard,” Ivar snarled, his hands bracing to carry his upper body. The overseers must have found it amusing, seeing him squirm on the floor like a spider being squished. To exaggerate Ivar’s deride, the boot placed on his back moved up to in between his shoulder blades, pressing him down firmly. 

The boiling rage inside of him, swept through his system, like an old favoured friend patting him on the back. 

In effort to remain silent Ivar gritted his teeth, his knuckles turned white from clenching his fists too hard. His eyes squeezed closed as his face contorted and he placed his palms down onto the splintery floor. Arching his back, the pain rushed through his body like an igniting fire, but he would withstand it, even if it was the last thing he’d do. Inch by inch, he pressed himself up while another man’s weight pressed him down. With every inch, his demolished resilience sparked back up and inwardly he roared when the overseer took the boot off his back, allowing him to carry his crippled arse out of this hellhole. 

Crawling like a worm from a bird, he climbed up the steps, one by one, while sweat trickled down his face and his right eye twitched from the explosive pain inside his damaged skull. 

On the upper deck, he briefly sank against a barrel, allowing his lungs to fill up with the salty fresh breeze. Grey clouds roamed freely above – hindering the sun and its warmth. 

Once Ivar caught his breath and expelled the headache to the far end of his brain, he risked a peek over the railing. 

Dejection curled around his chest with the grip of an iron straight jacket. The ship had anchored at a small harbour, bedded near a murky dirt road. A long line of future slaves were staggering towards carts pulled by mules. One man’s sanity must have drowned during the storm, the poor bastard broke the line and made a run for it. 

He did not get far, an armed horse rider strode after him, stabbing a spear through his neck. There was no escape, at least not now. 

And so Ivar the Boneless, son of King Ragnar Lothbrok, found himself obeying the commands of Christians, lost in a faraway land while his father was at the mercy of a mendacious king. His mother presumed him to be dead, lifeless at the bottom of the sea. So there wouldn’t be a soul looking for him. 

He came to Essex as a Prince, for fame and glory; yet resurrected as a nameless, crippled slave. Oh, the Gods played him the most lousy cards of all. 

.-.-.

A/N: So this was chapter one of my Ivar fanfiction, I’m thrilled to hear what you think of it so far. As I’m still very much on Ivar’s side, I’d like to point out that yes he murdered a person in a gruesome way, but he basically did it for validation. Ok, yes that fact might make it even worse, but the way I see it is that Ivar desperately wants to become ‘something’, that he’d rather be a monster than be the person he is. 

And now he’s not even a monster anymore, now he’s just a slave, that’s karma baby. 

Xoxox Nukyster 

[herinterface]

😘

a long, angsty meme.

1

her lips are perfect  &  full,   the way they are pursed carries the weight of the threat she poses,   the risk of this exchange coursing between them like electricity.      she’d never focused much on lips before,    just vessels for lines she had heard time after time   &  had to smile through for the benefit of whatever fool she was winding around her finger.       not unless they were quivering with fear,    or if they were telling her exactly what she wanted to hear-----  &   shaw’s were doing neither.           &  yet.      she was in parts entranced by them as she held the iron against her throat,   feeling the perverse desire to mark her,      hear the sweet hiss of the burn,     see how her body would flinch away---- or inch closer.    

but she had a feeling that it would take more than that to crack her,     &   idea after idea swirled in her imagination of all the things she’d like to try.       still,    the mark would look pretty on her face,    &    on her neck,      red   &    raw   &    in her custom form.       she delighted in the idea of leaving her with a souvenir,     &   as her free hand brushed her thigh she thought about how the mark would look on the smoothness of the skin there.     she wouldn’t forget her easily,     she’d already made sure of that   (   &  shaw had played on her mind like an infatuation with a toy she longed to have in her hands to play with,    so it was only fair that she returned the favour    ).  

though something told her that beyond those lips was a mouth that would be more accommodating,   surrendering to the push of her tongue as it glided across hers.     she had consumed her file like a novel,    had seen what she had withstood out in the field,     &  maybe it was just wishful thinking but she thought that she could get through to her this way.       or perhaps,    she just wanted to surprise her,   truly take her off guard as her body pushed between her legs   &   her mouth acted like a cruel weapon of its own.     sharp   &   wicked,    like glass in her mouth as she stole her breath,      &  when she felt shaw’s mouth respond,     she’d press the hot surface slowly against her bared throat.      

she thinks shaw would’ve liked that.     it was just too bad she had more important things to attend to.       but she was sure that even without the burn that she’d made just the impression she was hoping for.  

2

the samaritan fortress was left behind them    &     only with one bullet hole to show for it    (     though a more permanent mark had had her name on it if it weren’t for shaw playing white knight  ).       parked away,   in the back seat of the getaway car they had stolen,     the sun was slowly starting the rise.    with shaw’s leg hoisted between the front seats as she laid beneath her,    she only had eyes for her,    watching intently as release was painted across her features,    fingers working relentlessly between her legs.          unlike the drawn out foreplay of their prior engagements,     this had been urgent,     it had been nails scratching down her front,    fingertips burning into her waist as she fucked her to drown out the world around them,      dark eyes watching for her every reaction.     she had needed this,    the rush,    the familiarity of her body bending to her will,     covering her chest in teeth marks that would linger for longer  (  just   )  than she was gone.   (   so did she need more   ?  or was it just a fantasy brought on by the thought that something was being taken from her  ?   )

she couldn’t deny that she felt an all consuming fear for someone else beside the machine   &  harold.    maybe it had existed for some time now,     buried deep beneath step after step of preparation  &  coy smiles .      the end of the world they once knew it was upon them.      but they would survive   &  that’s all that mattered.        

adrenaline seemed to fail her now,    the sting of her arm guiding her back to reality.     shaw was catching her breath beneath her,   eyes closed in a way that weighed down at her chest.       she gazed down at her lips,     parted   &   unaware,     wanting to take one more thing from her before this was all over.              but there was too much that her bruising kiss would surely say that she wasn’t willing to,   that would be beyond her control.         she felt it nagging at her,    no permeant place,   or things,   &   yet  there was permanence here    &   there was a dull ache that was steadily increasing as she was moments away from giving it up.        

&  then she heard Her  &  it truly was all over.

like flicking a switch her hands were on shaw’s arms,    sliding higher,     “  time to go.  ”   &  she tried to fake the confidence in her eyes,   the tight pull of her lips but it felt like she was swallowing defeat.    because they were.     she stared down at her,    &    with one last glance at her lips she turned her face,   taking in the rush of information She had to tell her before she too would be gone.       the loss of the warmth of her body was instantly felt    &   she rubbed the space behind her ear,     “   not long now.    ”   she felt the loss already.

3

a grimness spread through her bones,  sinking in to her very core as she willed her body to catch up to what her mind had accepted already.    her body betrayed her as every beat of her heart was louder than the next,    chiming in with regret.    harold’s attempt at convincing her of her ties to this world only made the internal dispute louder.             she had always thought that was one of the reasons she was chosen----- there was nothing  &  no one tying her down,   holding her back.   no place,   no people,       this was the purpose she was made for,    serving her.      

but he was right   &  she knew it.     she was leaving something behind this time   &  it gnawed at her,   the unfamiliar,   uncomfortable feeling.    but so was she,    they couldn’t all survive this.    without sacrifices they would never win,   not against an enemy that went through bodies like they were disposable.        

she thought about the last time she had seen shaw,    prior to that day,         leaving her apartment in the middle of the night with no goodbye,   because none was necessary.      she came  &  went,     goodbye gave voice to the constant state of things----     the left side of the bed that had become hers,       the takeaway containers piling in the bin after each visit,     the laptop she left on her coffee table.    

but a part of her regretted not following her out as she left the hotel room,    into the empty hallway.       she couldn’t say it,   but maybe she could’ve seen her eyes light up in that particular way they did,    one more time as she named a time  &   suggested making good use of the room they had booked for the night.       a moment of normal.        but then she would’ve gazed down at her lips,    as she had done when she was still in the room,     craving for something more before she met her inevitable end-----    to leave her mark,    to say what was unspoken between them for a reason.       words weren’t their preferred method of communication,        but she could have made it known through lips connecting with hers,   slow but firm,    confirming everything just one last time .          

but this was for the best.    she had a job to do    &   she couldn’t be held back on the human plane,  as much as harold might believe otherwise  .    she was the same but not the same as them,   she had a higher purpose.    he had done his job,   giving Her life,    &   this was hers.

& still,    she wanted her to know.      discomfort tightened her chest as she looked up at harold,     taking in a breath,      “  if you could give shaw a message...  ”       dozens of sentences flew through her mind like a hurricane,       but they were cut off.    

&  he was right again.    words weren’t enough.    

4

she knew what shaw was about to do.   of course she did.    back turned to her,    like she was about to walk,   to run,   to leave for good.       she knew the line shaw followed was wildly different to hers,   but similar in one respect----- where it ended.        but she wouldn’t,   couldn’t let it happen.     the mission---- was the most important thing,    &  She,    She was counting on them.    but there had to be another way.     sickness writhed its way up her throat,      colliding with the pounding anger   &  desperation.        a hand  &  a body that surged forward,    to stop her,   keep her here before she disappeared.    

&   she was stricken,    by the resoluteness she glimpsed in her features,   every fear confirmed.          she wanted to kiss her right then,    an instinct,   a deep urge from their time together.      force her lips upon hers like she always did,      her lips insistent,   commanding,     (   reminding her that she owned her body,    or at least a piece of it   )     convince her to stay in the way that normally worked for them.             but she never did own her.     it was always the other way round.      every time she pulled the rope tighter around shaw’s wrists she was condemning herself,    tying herself up in everything that was shaw,    like a drug she intentionally dosed herself with.        every possessive bite  &  mark she left behind were tethers,    anchors that drew her back time  &  time again for more.       it was pointless then.   she couldn’t convince her  (   she never could,   she had always been willing  )   &  she hated her for it.     but she would stop her,   she had to.    

she felt like this was limbo,    &  perhaps it was----- an elevator,   soon to be closed,     &  here as she waited,    shaw was neither here nor gone.      she was dangling,   anchor-less now,   adrift.    on her lips,  shaw,   don’t do it.    ,        let me find another way.   ,           you can’t.     ,  please,  sameen.      but she never got the chance.    

it made sense,   the kiss.   like the final unfastening of the cord between them.     but it was a goodbye,  it was a trick of the light,   so quick that it had stolen her breath    &    was gone.     she felt anger begin to well    &   not because it had been a ploy     (    her own advances had initially been of the same nature   )   but because it meant something,     the breath they shared as she tried to catch her own,      she was sure of it.     &  because she had done this to herself,   trapped herself here,   with these people----  with her.            &  once again,    she knew this would be the moment that she’d look back on,    when she could’ve done something.    

(  except this time she wouldn’t turn her back on humanity.    they would take the full force of her wrath because this couldn’t be over ).    

5

not a wink of sleep for either of them,    it was one of those nights.     she felt her emotions eating away at her,   so incessant that she felt they wouldn’t stop until there was nothing left.         but all she could do was steel herself   &  pretend like she was completely fine with this.    what what her plan with the machine entailed.    like she always was.  

she changed clothes slowly,   gaze straying to the woman in the bed,    her eyes finally closed.   she had to move forward,    &   she knew that her body would carry her feet over to that door for potentially the last time.     but she couldn’t say goodbye.     maybe she didn’t have the strength to,   maybe that’s what it had come down to every other time      (   though she knew she had never needed it as much as she did now,    now that she knew to vividly what she had to lose       ).       shaw had been strong enough to do it last time,    &  she knew what that had done to her.       she supposed though that this time the unspoken truth between them had risen to the surface  in the way that she held her close at night,      her nose running soothingly across her shoulder blade as she heard shaw’s uneven breathing.        shaw knew,    she was sure.     but that didn’t make it easier,    it wasn’t enough   ( she wanted to stay ).      she gazed at her,   as she sat on the bed after pulling her boots on,   watching her dozing lightly,   finally.    

she lifted her body,   palm sliding over shaw’s blanket covered leg as she walked around to her side of the bed.      her soft groan threatened to undo every ounce of her preparation.      eyes shined slightly as she crouched next to the bed.       she was worried for her,   but she knew she would make it,   with or without her.    her path was one that could never be veered from.      she settled her hand softly on her cheek,   fingers trailing down to her jaw,  to her neck as her mouth dipped to cover hers.        

a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes,    a deep breath in as she tasted her on her lips,      “  be good.   i’ll be seeing you soon, ”    &  at her questioning look her smile inched higher----- always leaving gaps for her to fill.      she let shaw touch her forearm,    &  in response her fingertips brushed the hair from her face,   eyeing each strand as they fell off her jawline,          “  get some sleep.   ”     &  as she stood she felt the weariness of having to leave things behind,   of hiding,  of running catching up to her,    but she supposed that ironically this plan was the answer to those prayers.         so she would bear it,     holding the truth behind her lips.      she had to believe she would come back.   

[sasorikigai]

Uno reverse card: Imagine if Commander Hanzo 1) ended up thrown far into the future to wittness Yang the last one standing and a broken person still standing and holding her promise to survive. 2) He's died. But pulled himself back into the world as Scorpion to see the hell it became after all these years with Yang yet remaining. 3) A terrible nightmare for Commander Hasashi of watching Yang die slowly to fight for his survival.

UNO REVERSE I DID NOT EXPECT || @yetremains || always accepting 

1) ended up thrown far into the future to witness Yang the last one standing and a broken person still standing and holding her promise to survive

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || How his own words would whisper their way into his head until he was just as airy and fleeting; nothing, but a wisp of smoke swirling through a dewy mist in the midst of verdant, stacked forest of people he had known throughout his lifetime. Warriors who survive trauma wear a certain vulnerability around them, and some are still hungry for prey, their tongues filled with lies to pull victims and innocents back into the void they have just escaped from. How Hanzo Hasashi will fall with the moments, both treasured and forgotten in the rapid path of his strenuous life, as he would fall into the the abysmal, vicious loophole of repeated destruction and hollowed loss, as the battering sandstorm will scoop the chambers of his heart and lungs hollow. He would let all the unfettered emotions seep in, with his mind’s voice perilously low and convulsing with visible tremor. He would too often let life think it was going to win, but little did it know; he bares serrated, glinting teeth, too, sharper than its and a heart that has survived terrible pain young. 

The untamed, towering behemoth embers are the catalyst of his own heart and soul, for even the most hardened warriors who survive trauma do wear a certain vulnerability around them, but this kind of vulnerability is from where the pyromancer’s greatest strength emanates. He was meant to be the last man standing, having endured the merciless barrage of losing everything in his grasp; starting with every one of Shirai Ryu, then his wife and son, even his own precious life and soul in the end as an ultimatum. 

While he does not have to unburden his soul for everyone; it will be enough if he does that for those he loves, as another moment, another eternal recurrence and chaos once again. Chaos that surrounds both, chaos that reflects their perdition; perdition that will haunt them to their inevitable grave. The shadows feel overwhelming again, as Hanzo fears not being strong enough to face her. “You are allowed to sink, I’ve been striving to stay afloat so long as I have forgotten about how it feels to dive into the beauty of darkness,” perhaps he had already been succumbed into the devastation, settler-colonial dispossession that would rob him of his sanity and threaten to sever his sustenance. And he would eventually capitulate beneath the swift, all those moments of shocking, quick, abrasive rapture that would come out of the blue, that is worse than any collisions and destruction he’d face. “I refuse to see you as a ghostly body on the same road, with all the dangling pieces of heart, as the unoffered love will only frightfully abloom further as the barren land within my own heart bursts open.” 

2) He's died. But pulled himself back into the world as Scorpion to see the hell it became after all these years with Yang yet remaining

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || The widowed dead spirit within Hanzo Hasashi begins his weeping, the forsaking god is sleeping, and Scorpion, savage ravaged keeper of infernal flames mark the humble hour of his own leaving. For the fog lifts at cusp of evening, conjuring feelings, the bottle he is drinking, memory best left to the side of the road, near the spot by the bridge, by the by, and a salt-swept bay, in his dreaming, seeping down concrete, so very lonely, the last survivor, somber and sweet, not worth marking, nor lamenting. The resurrected spectre of the Netherrealm’s undying fire continues to unravel of his despair; a fallen god’s weaved gold, shining, brighter than a supernova taking forth the falsified magnanimity of a wreathed hearth-fire turning into rushing crescent of a macabre grin, bubbling crimson until the shredding fragments of his heart runs dry.

In an afterwards of his catalytic annihilation, the valley of the mountains would permeate with squelched spillage running amok, and no quenching of solar flare would completely dry the sanguine stretch, as his sin would continue to feed the soil in scorched, charred blackness. And Scorpion’s bursting firestorm would intensity, and his being would breach through the stacked crevasse of the realms’ layers, as the coagulated pool would taint the Earth for eons, as muddy maroon would fade to the faint gray of his irises. Mother Earth could not bear the violence she had witnessed, but she could only ephemerally cradle him. Now, moss mimics the shape of a girl, wisteria bound; held fast to the mountain land. 

But a warrior’s hand would be thrown out, left to an eternity’s, reaching for another’s. Talia Jones Yang’s silhouette remains blanketed by roasted daisies and roses, red as blood. Perhaps she came to offer him either an excruciating, perpetual torment and damnation, or panacea to go through the hollowed chasm of his path, as he would breach through the condemned fate of existing as an intangible spectre, living in-between worlds, existing, yet forgotten as the scar tissues will continue to rupture from the clotted stage, festering and emitting suppurations as his throat becomes acid-kissed. Burnt sugar atonement, penance paid in rough tongue and bubbling scar tissue. Perhaps the female warrior was the withering, eroding fragment of Hanzo Hasashi, clawing through the indomitable eldritch magic of his nihilism and deadly vengeance, wrought unhinged towards the world that refused to support his existence. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

3) A terrible nightmare for Commander Hasashi of watching Yang die slowly to fight for his survival

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || Hanzo sees himself in the stream, his fingertips becoming nonexistent gossamer upon the shoulder of Yang’s reflection. How his agony would flare so bright, the black waters becoming molten, as the obsidian ripple of death-saturated mountainous tides whiten with the dust of his crumbling bones as they sculpt his face in the bleeding, macerated flesh. Amber and ochre baked, parched soil of his flesh causes the earth of his being to crack open; veins spreading, flowers wilting, fleshy fruit browning and shriveling. The ecosystem of his unhealed bruises building up underneath his soaked uniform, weighing him down like a hardening cement. One bruise for each memory, as he unravels trauma like he would of old, knitted sweaters and consume hopelessness between temporal respite, as Commander Hasashi struggles with all the stacked layers of fear and betrayal of his resilient will as he attempts to breach through the guarded gray, the swirling fog. 

It’s not the violent conflict between parts of the truth, but the quiet suppression of half of it, which becomes the formidable evil; there is always hope when people are forced to listen to both sides; it is when they attend only to one that errors harden into prejudices, and truth itself ceases to have the effect of truth, by being exaggerated into the semblance of falsehood. How he wishes to scoop out the turmoil hinder the storm of moribund death, of its serrated maw. 

The imagined susurrus of the sea becomes the soundtrack behind his safehouse summer, and it has become Hanzo Hasashi’s confession; a place to keep his heart safe. The water will always reach and run to the shore like the eternal cacophony of whooshing black hole. He hopes Yang could hear his voice in the silence; stuck in-between the inescapable give and take, a push and pull, a heaven and hell - spent living for love, as he would grotesquely feel guilty of gravitating towards the act of living. And he would drown in such concepts that has lost meaning; hunger, pain, anger, shame, regret, loss, and unease. In all sickness, discomfort, grief, which is deep and endless. As he would continue to dance around the diseases of his soul and hope to romance his death in the hopes of his life, as he continues to witness the varying vicissitudes of Yang’s death, Hanzo finds himself waxing and waning and waiting the iridescent black white of his viewfinder to dig further graveyards. 

This is the way of things; for every stagnation and motionlessness is just another death, and he is surrounded by the mangled, gnarled expanse of floating bodies. He would let go of his heart as he would drift away on a sea of moonlight, and dream to make a home in the shore of Harumi’s eyes, as built veins and tissues and cells - all disintegrate and crumble as legion of pain becomes Atlas upon his broken shoulder. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || 

[lollercakesff]

Rekindled

The first touch comes after Scarif. It's brief and painful and riddles up my arm like a stinging nettle, but it's there.

I manage to glance over my shoulder, the effort draining after so long in this hospital bed. Jyn rests her head in her arms, hair strewn across her cheeks and mended cuts spattering her skin. She's beautiful but I can't get the words up my throat and to my lips because a tube blocks their progress. It aches and my throat constricts and I tap my finger against her elbow again because the panic is chasing up my spine and threatening to tear me under.

"Captain," the droid greets as I become aware of the beeping alarms, the flickering light in the hallway. 

Jyn shifts at the noise, rouses herself, and glances around before sitting up like a shot. Her eyes fly open, wide and white, before she lurches to her feet and the touch of her hand against mine is gone.

I miss it like fresh air, my fingers reaching across the mattress as I try to bring her back. My eyes are pleading, surely, come back, but she can't hear me because the droid is barking orders and Jyn is pressed against the wall and there's a tube in my throat stealing my voice. She looks frightened and I beg her to look at me, to see me, but she can only keep her gaze high up, up, on the ceiling.

Please, my mind screams, my throat making strangled noises around the tube. I pat the bed again, harder this time, and Jyn finally blinks and looks over. Her eyes land on mine and the shock is electric, her whole being stumbling towards me as she realizes I'm awake.

"Cassian," she warbles, her voice shaking. Her hand wraps around mine and I cling to it, afraid to let go as the droid yells at her to stand back. She refuses and her hand lifts to my chin, to thread her fingers through my hair. "I thought you were dying," she whispers, pained.

I shake my head and try to lift my other arm but the movement hurts and my whole body tenses with it, shaking at the effort.

"Captain, you must refrain from moving. Your injuries are severe."

"Listen to it," Jyn urges, pressing my arm back into the mattress and then returning her palm to my cheek. "I'm here. You're alive. It's going to be okay."

The drugs the droid must be pushing take me over again and I feel myself fading fast, her touch on my skin the last thing I remember before I fade out again.

--- 

I learn quickly there are many types of touches that one endures when confined to the medical bay. There are guiding ones, instructive and determined, retraining muscle movements forced onto my body as I recover from the damage that Scarif has done to me. Some are probing, prodding and painful, jabs and measures of sensing if my limbs are still functioning. Others are disinterested, the ward droid who helps me roll over to avoid bedsores, the other droid who helps me eventually to the fresher.  

There are frustrated ones too, punches and kicks, painful thrashing as I push away helpful hands while I'm neck deep in a vicious dream or when I don't meet my recovery target. Those usually cause more damage, the rage bottled up in my chest making me shiver when I snap and let something fly across the room. The droids ‘tsk’ and the physical therapists give me exasperated looks, the unbroken condemnations causing more destruction than words ever could. They tell me not to get so angry, to calm my mind, but I can’t when I’m already using so much of my energy to just stay alive. They don’t understand how much I need those outlets too.

Rarely, I’ve noticed there are thankfully also soothing touches, like Bodhi's gentle squeeze of my shoulder after a long day, or Mon Mothma's easy pat on the back of my hand as she welcomes me back from the metaphorical dead. The best ones though, I’ve found, are Jyn's desperate reminders of her presence, the near constant fingers against skin, reminding me, reminding herself, that I'm here and I'm not gone. That I came back. Those ones keep me steady when the doctor tells me how many more days I have on the ward, when I find out that my follow-up surgery is scheduled for the next day and I’ll be back unconscious once again. I need those touches to remind me of good things.  

"It's late," I say one day after a particularly brutal rehab session, the cold of Hoth pressing in on us as she sits shivering at my bedside. Her lips are tinged blue and she doesn’t have the benefit of the warming blanket and mattress I’m curled up on, but she stays anyways with her fingers linked through mine. 

"Don't care," she responds and only wraps her hand tighter around mine. I squeeze her fingers and enjoy her company for as long as she'll give it. I don’t want to give up her touch. 

--- 

I'm released later to a double-bunk room equipped with its own 'fresher, the space small but economic, a retractable desk tucked in the closet and my trunk of clothes shoved at the end of a bunk. Jyn stands in the doorway as I hobble inside, looking for a trace of my roommate's things.

"Who is the other?" I ask quickly, working to come to terms with sharing a space with a stranger. I was never comfortable with sleeping around others but I’d overcome due to sheer exhaustion after days like today.

"No one as of yet. Draven ordered a private space for you to finish your recovery," she forces out and I don't believe her, my brow lifted in question. It's not likely that they would give up a bed like this, especially not when it could be occupied with some other soldier, but I don’t know how to challenge her on it and so I don’t, dropping onto the bottom bunk and looking up at her. “Do you want me to run and grab something from the mess? For dinner?” She asks awkwardly, still maintaining her distance. 

It seems odd, to watch her shift nervously against the steel, almost like she was trapped and I was her captor. The feeling churned in my gut and though I was hungry, I wasn’t prepared to subject her to discomfort longer than I needed to. 

“No, I think I want to lay down for a bit first,” I answer evenly to her quick nod. 

“Alright. I’ll just - “ 

“Did you want to join me?” It falls out of me unexpectedly, the question blundering out of my mouth before I could draw it back. I don’t - can’t - look at her and her inevitable rejection. I couldn’t do it. 

“We’re not huddling for warmth in the med ward anymore,” she answers tightly, her cheeks pink.

“Sure,” I pause, locking eyes as she twists her hands anxiously. “But do we have to be? Or can the request just be enough of a reason?” She stalls for another minute, turning it over as she clenches and unclenches her jaw before me. I hold my breath until I’m dizzy with it, the need for her closeness so intent that I feel like I’d crumble if she didn’t hold me together one last time. I need her. I want her. “It’s okay if you don’t. I get it,” I manage to grumble after her silence has gone on for a beat too long, the rejection stinging. 

“No - I do. I do,” she urges and steps forward, finally closing the distance. Once she does it’s like a magnet has come to life, her body sinking down beside mine as we sit with our thighs pressed together on the mattress. “I just - don’t know how to do this. Everything before this wasn’t - it didn’t mean anything.” 

“It doesn’t need to be more than just laying with me,” I whisper, glancing down towards her as she shifts and looks up at me through her bangs. “It can just be us, here.” 

“But what if I want more?” Her voice is strained and it runs a thrill down my spine, one that aches as it fumbles back up my insides and awakens a long dormant stirring. 

“Then we’ll figure it out. Together. But right now, just lay with me, please?” I counter and she nods, getting to her feet and pulling at the thin blankets covering the bed. I let myself fall back and crawl under them, my body giving up as soon as I’m horizontal once again. 

For a brief second I worry she’s going to run, her eyes flicking nervously around the room before she darts towards the closet. With a quick jump and a slap of her hand, another compartment pops open and she pulls out a thick comforter that she tosses over me. I smile in thanks and shove towards the cold wall, making room for her on the tight mattress. 

She pulls at my feet and removes my boots before dumping her own at the side of the bed, crawling in under the blankets and curling herself into my desk. Her cold fingers burrow into my collar and I sigh, my breath fanning over her head as she forces a breath out and her shoulders purposely relax against me. 

“Wake me before dinner rotation ends,” she whispers, her lips brushing along my shoulder. I let my arm settle along her hip and I nod, holding close to her, revelling in her touch along my broken frame. 

---

She recoils like I've burned her, like my touch has scalded her skin and the pain has forced her back and away. Maybe it has. Pain can be a mental game that wounds as much as the physical. We both know that better than everyone else in this miserable cold hell. 

She’s just come back from a mission in the Outer Rim and she looks a wreck, her face bloodied and bruised and her arm tucked in a sling. It hurts to look at her as she hobbles off the ship’s ramp, Kes Dameron at her back and ensuring she doesn’t fall over as she puts one foot in front of the other. 

“She took a hard hit to the head, Andor. We’re heading to medical - “ 

“No,” she hisses, pulling away from Dameron’s guiding arm. Panic spills over her face with the suggestion and she looks around for an escape, anything. I know the look well by now. 

“You’ve gotta go Sarge, this isn’t a request,” Dameron continues, grabbing her collar when she evades his hand again. The move is wrong, triggering, and Jyn yelps and bolts forward so quickly that she loses her footing and crashes down the ramp until she’s curled on the floor in the fetal position. 

My heart hammers in my chest as I watch it happen, my movements too slow to intervene until she’s already down. The best I can do is sink down beside her, my hands reaching for her shoulder as I try to keep her from injuring herself further. It’s wrong again and she thrashes out, a brutal scream ripping from her chest as she knocks her elbow into my chin. The contact is jarring and dizzying and when I finally get my head back on straight she’s already pulled herself to two feet away. 

"Jyn," I whisper, hands up. A sign of innocence, of offering.

"Leave me alone," she responds tightly, her voice high and her cheeks flushed. I'd only meant to help her, to offer her comfort, but she was pulling away like I was a threat ready to be taken down.

"You’re hurt. I’m trying to help you," I call as she reaches for her blaster, her eyes skittering around before landing on me and shuttering. "Talk to me. What's going on?"

"I can't," she whispers painfully, her brows tight. I don’t dare look away as Dameron silently orders a sedative, the other Pathfinder coming up behind her as silent as he can. 

“It’s going to be alright,” I assure her as the Pathfinder lunges and gets the plunger in her arm. She jerks and fights until her hands go weak, her whole body sinking down to the floor with the drug’s near instantaneous effect. I scramble to her side and lift her head into my lap, brushing her hair back from her face as we wait for the droids to bring a stretcher. “It’s okay. You’re safe Jyn. You’re home.” 

---

It takes four days in med bay and two weeks of Jyn sleeping alone on the top bunk for her to come back to me. 

Her mission had been rough, a fact finding infiltration and destruction of an Imperial outpost that had gone almost off the rails as soon as they’d touched down. The injuries she’d sustained had been as they were trying to bug out, a Stormtrooper had caught her off guard and pulled her into an office and it had taken too long for the rest of her unit to figure out where she’d been taken. The beating had been harsh and the memories stolen from her precious. At least that’s what I’d been able to gather from the reports, Jyn was unable to fill in any of the voids left for what had really happened to her behind that closed door and I didn’t press, not wanting to push her.

“Can I lay with you tonight? Is that weird?” She asks one night after coming out of the fresher, her hair damp and her thick wool sleeping clothes wrapped around her. I look up from where I sit on my bunk with my datapad, surprise prickling within me. She hadn’t made one move towards me since getting out of the med bay and I’d let her keep her distance, unwilling to break our careful agreement. 

“It’s not weird,” I answer because I have no other way to make it sound like I wasn’t desperate for her to join me, even though I was. She nods and steps forward, setting her things down on the desk before dropping onto the edge of the mattress. 

“It’s cold up there. I don’t remember it being so cold, before,” she admits and glances towards me before looking back at her feet. “So I figure body heat is probably good. If you don’t mind.” 

“Jyn,” I start, reframe my thoughts. How to tell her I missed her without pushing her away? “It’s a good idea. Do you want to lay down?” She nods and I put my datapad aside, shifting the blankets to open a cocoon for her. Sliding in quickly, she looks up at me as I linger, her gaze faltering as I kneel at the edge and our hands brush. 

“Cassian.” All at once her eyes widen, her lips part and she reaches for me, her arm wrapping around my neck in a painful hug that must hurt her still-healing shoulder. “I remember,” she whispers into my collar and my whole body relaxes against her, my arms coming up to pull her closer. “I remember all of it. All of you. Of us.” 

“Okay,” I murmur because to say anything else would give away the burning tears in my eyes and the rasp in my voice. She looks up at me then and leans forward, asking for permission before I close the distance between us. 

The kiss is seeking, soft and patient, a return of old lovers, a slow walk over an aged bridge. She sighs into it and her touch drifts along the back of my head, down my shoulders until I can feel her fully against me for the first time since before she left. 

“I missed you, I think,” she whispers, guiding us down onto the mattress. I follow because I’d follow her anywhere, our hearts linked together like fates intertwined. She cradles me against her and I debate rolling, pulling her above me, but she wraps herself around me and doesn’t let go. 

“You came back,” I mumble into her neck, my lips trailing over her skin. She sighs and tangles her hand in my hair, tugging lightly to draw my gaze back to hers. 

“Of course I came back. I just got lost,” she adds and I can’t stop the smile as I run my fingers along her cheek. “But you helped me back. You always help me back.” 

“You helped me come back too, after Scarif,” I respond and her lips curl up at the edges, her breath soft against my mouth. 

There’s not much talking after that, not as she tilts her hips below me, her hand dropping to tug my shirt loose and slip up against my skin. She grazes her nails against the scar along my spine and lets me kiss her until we’re both breathless, shivering and wanting. When she reaches to pull my shirt over my head we both turn our attention to disrobing under the blankets, truly huddling for warmth as the cool air in the room prickles at our exposed flesh. 

She doesn’t let me drift below to chase my mouth down her stomach, her hands solid on my shoulders as she holds me close. 

“I want to see your eyes as I touch you,” she says against my lips, rolling her hips as a hand slips down between us. She palms my length and I shudder, holding tight to her as I suck a bruise into her collar. A few swipes of her fist and then she’s pulling me on top of her, her legs spreading as I settle between them and she lines me up at her entrance. “I’ve missed you.” Her words follow me as I thrust myself inside her, sinking into the hilt as she clenches and clings to me. 

“I’ve missed you too,” I murmur as I try to keep my head about me. It’s hard when she whimpers, when she scrapes her nails into my skin and nips at my lip to drive me crazy. We take it slow as we work together, hands drifting and breaths mixing as we push and pull. 

When she cries out, heart rate spiraling as she comes apart below me, I can barely keep myself from falling apart as she drags me down for a blinding kiss. I come deep within her, my whole body wrapped up in and around her as she holds tight to my frame. Her touch along my skin is what brings me back from mindlessness, her hands drifting through my hair and her lips along my chin. 

“Jyn, I  - “ my throat swallows, the words tangled up like that tube after Scarif has returned. I want to say I love you and don’t leave me again but I can’t because that’s not who we are. But she must hear it in my head, or my heart, because she smiles and rubs her thumb across my cheek as her eyes flicker in the low light. 

“I know, Cassian. Me too.”