#we have conquered the world with promises that cannot be kept

[highinmiamiii]

NO FEELINGS - ch. 1

a billy butcher x reader story

years after a wild love in 90s London, Butcher runs into his past flame at that same grimy Nevada steakhouse he’d told Hughie about. Where he’d wanted to go with Len since they were lads. Tension, unspoken history, and unresolved feelings simmer as both grapple with what they've become.

(A/N): this is just a short little vague introduction. feedback is appreciated as always—let me know what you think! and if you’d like to be added to the taglist, just drop a comment. thank you for the support, i cannot wait to get really started on this. prelude chapter set in 90s london soon…

Butcher slid into the worn leather booth of the topless steakhouse, the place he’d told Hughie about. The one he’d always wanted to visit with Lenny. He wasn't sure what drove him here now, maybe the weight of unfinished promises, or the itch of an unfinished life, maybe a celebration for finally having the key to end this all. Kessler—his ever-present darker conscience—sneered from across the table, leaning back like he owned the place.

“Celebratin', are we? Makin’ a toast to not being a dead man... yet?" Kessler’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Maybe crack a cold one open to that virus, eh? Damn good reason to have a drink.”

Butcher ignored him, waving down the waitress instead. The place smelled of grease, burnt meat, and the faint, familiar scent of desperation—Nevada in all its glory. The steakhouse was a dive. Dim lights, gaudy neon signs, waitresses in barely-there outfits serving patrons who barely looked alive. It felt appropriate, a place where he could fade into the noise and booze.

His mind kept drifting back to Lenny, to the promises they made as boys. But Lenny was long gone, and Butcher was still here. Breathing. Existing. Barely.

“What’s the point, mate?” Kessler drawled, a smug grin tugging at his lip. “You’ve come this far, might as well end it on a high note. Wipe ‘em all out—‘every last one’ like ya said, whoever’s left. Ain’t no room for savin’ the day, Billy. That ain’t you.”

Butcher lit a cigarette, ignoring the imaginary weight of Kessler's presence. He hadn’t come to make decisions tonight—he just needed a moment to exist outside the war he was fighting, the war inside himself.

That’s when the waitress appeared. He barely looked up from his drink as she spoke. A raspy, tired voice offered him a menu, but it wasn’t her voice that caught him—it was the ink on her arm.

There, on her inner upper arm, was a faded “Never Mind the Bollocks” tattoo. The same damn Sex Pistols tattoo he’d drunkenly convinced the girl who he’d thought would be the love of his life to get years ago in London.

The memories hit him like a punch in the gut.

🇬🇧 London, 1990s 🇬🇧

They’d met at some dive punk show, a dingy pub filled with misfits, and she had been the loudest voice in the room. She wasn’t British, that much was clear. Her accent, her defiance—everything about her screamed rebellion. She’d saved for years just to get to London, to live the life she’d always dreamed of. But the reality was different. Money was tighter, dreams crumbled under the weight of the city’s indifference, and the romantic notion of freedom faded with every job rejection and overpriced rent.

Butcher had been drawn to her fire—an American girl with grungy style and stubborn resolve. She reminded him of himself. Bold. Fearless. But unlike him, she still had a dream. That dream had kept her going.

They’d spent nights stumbling through the streets of Camden, getting drunk on cheap lager, ranting about the world’s injustices. And then one night, after too many drinks and too many laughs, he’d dragged her to a tattoo parlor.

“Go on then, love, don’t be a priss, get the ink. Bollocks to it,” he’d slurred. And she had. The tattoo was a reminder of their wild nights, of a time when the world felt theirs to conquer.

But then Lenny had died. His world crumbled. Butcher became a ghost of himself. He stopped answering her calls. Stopped showing up. Not because he didn’t love her—but because the weight of grief suffocated any connection he’d had to the world, to her. Seasons faded, savings ran out, friend groups grew apart and suddenly she was back in the states, no sign of his presence or existence in sight but the small reminder of what they had, or rather, what could’ve been, on her left arm.

He looked up at her now, and something in his chest tightened. She didn’t recognize him—not immediately. He looked different. Older. Weathered. And she? She’d aged too, but there was still a flicker of that fire behind her eyes, dulled perhaps, but not gone.

Butcher felt Kessler smirking at him from across the table, his voice low and mocking. “Well, well... Looks like fate’s a real bastard, huh? Fancy seeing her here. What’s next, a reunion? Gonna sweep her off her feet again? You ain’t that guy anymore, Billy. We both know it”

He wasn’t. He couldn’t be.

The waitress set his drink down, her expression neutral, maybe a little bored. But her eyes lingered on him for a second too long. Butcher’s gut twisted. Did she know? Or was it just a flicker of memory, a hint of recognition buried beneath the years?

He offered her a smirk. “Nice ink.”

she cocks her head back, taking a long deep breath, knowing he’s likely noticed by now as much as she didn’t want him to. she’d spent so long trying to erase him from my memory, she felt so foolish for letting myself fall so deeply in love with him all those years ago. she rests her hand on her hip and adjust the very thin white tank top they had her working in, thank god no one had tipped me enough to take it off yet, this place was fucking dehumanizing. even more embarrassing to see butcher here after all these years, she never thought she’d see him again, thought they’d be separated by continent for the rest of time. Her eyes flashed, but she didn’t bite. “Old mistake,” she said, her voice clipped, as if daring him to say more.

“Looks like she remembers,” Kessler snickered in his head.

Butcher leaned back, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. “Aren’t we all just walkin’ mistakes?” He said with a deep sigh.

She didn’t answer, just shot him a look—a look with all the bitter undertones he deserved. But she didn’t say a word, and as she walked away, he could feel the weight of the past settling in the pit of his stomach.

“Last thing she wants is to hear from you again man” Kessler’s voice taunted in his ear.

Maybe. But for the first time in years, Butcher wasn’t sure he wanted to.

She walked away, heart pounding. She knew. God, she knew the moment she saw him. Those goddamn eyes and stupid cocky wide smirk she’d fallen for all those years ago. The snarky demeanor that kept her going until one day he was gone. The way his eyes widened when he saw the tattoo was a dead giveaway, but it was the way he carried himself—the same stoicism, the same haunted look behind those eyes. Billy Butcher, of course. Great.

She’d spent years trying to forget. And now here he was, like some ghost from the past, sitting in the sleaziest steakhouse in Nevada, looking like death warmed over. Part of her wanted to slap him, to scream at him for leaving, for abandoning her without a word after Lenny’s death. But she knew she had gotten too attached. It’d been what, a year together? How dumb of her to think or believe that it would’ve ever been more than a fling. She had to come back to America eventually, they both knew the jig would be up soon, she just hadn’t expected it to end so abruptly.

So instead, she swallowed the lump in her throat, wiped the grimy table next to his, and said nothing.

This wasn’t London. She wasn’t the girl she used to be. She’d been young, stupid, and hopelessly in love. Now she was just... tired. Working for tips in a place that smelled like old beer and regret, serving men who didn’t care enough to look her in the eye. This was what her life had come to. And seeing Butcher again only twisted the knife deeper.

But no. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he’d hurt her. Not yet. Not ever.

Butcher watched her walk away, a strange heaviness settling over him. The memories of London were sharp, but the reality in front of him was sharper. She’d changed. So had he.

“So what now?” Kessler whispered. “Stick around? See if you can fuck things up again? You’re real good at that, ain’t ya?”

Maybe. But something in him, something deep and stubborn, made him want to stay. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was something worse. Whatever it was, Butcher wasn’t leaving Nevada. Not yet.

He crushed his cigarette in the ashtray, his eyes following her as she disappeared into the back. Whatever had brought him here tonight—fate, coincidence, or just bad fucking luck—he wasn’t walking away from it.

Not this time.

current tags: @sickforbillybutcher

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Devotional Hours Within the Bible by J.R. Miller

Israel Oppressed in Egypt (Exodus 1)

After the funeral of Jacob, Joseph and his brothers returned to Egypt. Why did they not stay in Canaan? Was not Canaan the land of promise? Why was it that this chosen family were led off to Egypt, where ultimately they had to meet such experiences of trial and suffering? When we read on and learn of the hard lot of the Israelites in Egypt, their cruel bondage, does it not seem to us that it would have been better if they had not returned after the funeral of Jacob? But when we think of the matter more closely, we learn that the period of their stay in Egypt was not a mistake but part of God’s wise plan for the training of His people.

For one thing, Canaan was full of fierce tribes, who would not have allowed any strange people to live and grow up among them. The sons of Jacob and their families would have been blotted from the earth. In the providence of God, therefore, they were led into Egypt, where they could grow up into a great people, protected by the king, through the influence of Joseph. Then, in due time, when they were great in numbers, they came back to Canaan and conquered the land for themselves, driving out the people that had held the country.

Another reason for the removal to Egypt was that if they had remained in Canaan it would have been impossible for them to be kept separate from the nations about them. Yet this was essential. They were not to mix with any other peoples. The exclusiveness of the Egyptians, was such that it was impossible for them to mingle in intermarriage or even in social relations.

A still further reason for the transfer to Egypt was that Canaan was a wild country, crude and uncultured. It was necessary that the people of God should be educated, that they might be the teachers of the world, which afterwards they became. Egypt was at that time, the most advanced of all countries in civilization, in the arts, in education. Dwelling in Egypt, the people of Israel learned the things they needed to learn to fit them for their high position and their great mission.

We take up now the story of the Israelites in Egypt. It is something that even names live for thirty-five hundred years. It is suggestive, too, that out of the wrecks of human things in those ancient times, the names that are here presented are not those of kings, poets, philosophers, and conquerors but those of men who were in the line of God’s chosen people. The names of God’s children are the only really immortal ones. They are written in the book of life. They may be names of lowly people but they are preserved, while the names of the great of the same period, have utterly perished from the earth.

Long, long ages ago, a fern grew in a deep valley. It lived for only one summer and then fell into the earth and perished. As it sank down in the indistinguishable mass of decaying vegetation it murmured, “I shall be utterly forgotten. I shall have no record in this great world. My memory shall perish.” But the other day a teacher of geology, going about with his class, struck off a piece of rock with his hammer, and there lay the fern, every line of its beautiful leafage and veinage traced in the stone. So it is with the names and the deeds of those who live in this world to honor God and bless their fellow-men. Love never dies. Love’s memory never perishes. The things you do in the name of Christ and to give comfort, cheer, and help to others cannot fade out of the universe. Their record is written in imperishable lines in the book of God, and also in the lives into which the deeds have been wrought. Thousands who live in this world obscurely, and die, never thinking that they shall be remembered, will be surprised in the other world to see the record of every beautiful thing they have done, every gentle word they have spoken, every kindly touch they have put upon a human soul.

The story says there were souls in Jacob’s family. The Bible talks about people as souls. If you look at your concordance you will be surprised to find how common this is. Three thousand souls were added to the Church. On the ship on which Paul was when he was wrecked were two hundred threescore and sixteen souls. We talk about people having souls but a far better way to put it is that they are souls. We are souls and we have bodies. The children who sit in the teacher’s class and look up into her face are souls. They are going by and by into eternity, and will carry there the marks and impressions which she is making upon them these days.

It is well we should remember that we are immortal souls. We shall live forever, and what we do in this world shall never perish. It is worth while that we live every day at our best.

At length Joseph died. He died but he lives yet in the world. The story of his early days lives, and has for us all the interest and charm of a delightful romance. We read of his noble spirit, uncrushed by adversity, unembittered by injustice and wrong, keeping sweet, courageous, and loving, through all the thirteen years of cruel injury and wicked treatment. Joseph lived nobly, and then died.

We grieve when a godly man dies. But why should we? If he has filled his years, few or many, with beautiful living, dying is not a disaster. Joseph lived gloriously, and now the influence of his unconquerable life is still going on. Everyone who reads his story thoughtfully, gets new inspiration for beautiful and victorious living. All that Joseph wrought, all the impressions he made upon human history yet lives. Good done in the world is imperishable. They tell us that a word spoken into the air goes quivering on and on, forever. We are certain, at least, that every good word spoken and every good deed done leaves an impression on human lives which shall never die out. Every life that is pure in its purpose and strong in its strife, makes all lives better, truer, and stronger.

Not only did Joseph die but the whole generation to which he belonged passed away. However long one may live, the story always closes with “and he died.” Whether beautiful or marred, whether good or bad in our life and character, we must come to the same end death. There are those who do not like to think of this, and never put death into the plan of their life. Then when death comes it finds them unready for it.

Then came a change of dynasties in Egypt, and the new king did not know Joseph, and so had no remembrance of what Joseph had done. Thus it is ofttimes. Nations and communities are ungrateful; the good that men do is too often forgotten. It is not best to count too certainly on the lasting gratitude of the people whom we benefit or try to help. Many times those we serve at greatest cost heap injustice upon us or do wrong to us. However, the possibility of ungrateful treatment, should never check the outflow of our beneficence. Even if men do forget, there is one place where all our good work is kept in mind. Every tear, every sacrifice, every smallest service, Christ remembers. If we but learn to do all our work for Him, though men forget us and wrong us we shall not fail of the final reward. The world can never rob us of the true reward of faithful service. It may withhold gratitude but no earthly ingratitude can intercept the Divine blessing. Joseph is no poorer now for the ingratitude of the Egyptians. He helped shape the history of the world. Think of the countless thousands of lives he preserved from famine. His beautiful character has been for many centuries one of the world’s brightest ideals. His influence is felt wherever the Bible is read. What does it matter then, that the new king sought to blot out the name of Joseph and every memory of him? Today his is one of the most honored names in all history, and his work in the world will abide forever.

The new king entered on a course which was intended to check the growth of the Hebrews. He was a wise king, and feared that this growing people would by and by become a formidable power, if allowed to increase in the future as it had been increasing in the past. So he set to work to counteract the alarming increase of the Hebrew people. He did not know that he was contending with the Almighty. Tyrants do not see the invisible Being who stands behind the frail people they seek to destroy. They are continually resorting to cunning and policy to outreach God and carry out their own schemes. They consider it dealing wisely but the end always proves it to be the most wretched folly!

There is only one place in the Bible where God is said to laugh, and that is when the kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together against the Almighty King. How foolish it is for puny man to contend with the omnipotent Jehovah! Men go on with their diplomacy, their scheming, imagining they are carrying out their own ambitious plans to final success; but they really are only like children trying to dam back the rising tides of the sea by their little embankments of sand. It is the worst of folly to contend with God. The only wise thing to do in any case is to fall in with God’s purpose and to work in full harmony with His plan.

Instead of checking the increase of the Hebrews, the effect of the king’s oppressive measures, was to make them grow all the more. This has been the history of all persecution. It has served only to strengthen the Church and multiply it. The first great persecution of Christians soon after Pentecost, instead of exterminating the little company, only scattered the disciples abroad to carry the gospel into hundreds of new centers. It was like the effort of the wind to put out a fire it only blows the few coals in every direction to kindle new conflagrations. “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church.”

So with all trial. Grace in the heart cannot be crushed out by afflictions. It is like those roots which, once in the soil, cannot be exterminated but which grow all the faster and thicker the more you beat and dig them and try to get them out. This truth has two bearings. It shows how utterly futile it is to contend with God, for when we oppose Him we really only help to carry out the purpose we seek to defeat. Then, it ought to bring a sense of wonderful security to the Christian who is exposed to wrongs or to trials of any kind. They can never really injure him, if he cleaves to his Lord. “We know that all things work together for good to those who love God.”

We are all in bondage naturally, and until our chains are broken and we are brought out by Christ we are under this terrible taskmaster. Sin’s bondage is hard, and it makes men’s lives bitter. It grows worse every day and never easier. Unless men are delivered from it in this world it will end in eternal bondage. But God has mercy upon souls in this cruel slavery, even when they have no mercy upon themselves. He has compassion upon those who are bound and crushed by Satan’s taskmasters, and comes with deliverance. Jesus is the great Deliverer.

[diegodsthings]

"My mother was a slave, My Mother is sicked and couldn't even work, so, ever since I was old enough to remember, I was working in the black smith shop and stable. My body was always covered in ash, coal, horse manure and was always white or black, they gave me the nickname "Askellad" it means "covered in ash". My Father was a from powerful family from long land, Long land is a Long and grassy islands, My father love booze, woman and killing people, He was a Viking just like does you'd find anywhere else. I heard he had lot of kids like me in random women here and there, but he only named the older kids he had with his legal wife, he probably didn't know what his other kid looks like. I heard my mother was one of my father favorites slaves when she was younger, but after she feel ill, he treated her like a dog, for me life has always been hard, but it was different for my mother, My Mother often told me about the hero, Artorious, one of our ancestors, she told the story many times, The legend was about a general who save my mother’s homeland, from being invaded by savages 500 years ago. my mother believe the legend prophecy that hero would be resurrected, she believed that he would return to free her from illness and enslavement, She kept repeating it so I started to believed it too, She said that "far to the west in a land cross the sea, where ordinary people cannot reach, there's lies paradise where the hero Artorious lives, A paradise where peace, prosperity and eternal life is promised, the hero is still there now, healing his battle wounds, someday he will come leading an army to destroy the savages and conquered the world" my mother’s family was kept waiting for him, they waited for 500 years, The hero is not appeared yet" Askellad laugh and said "Kid just think about it, if our ancestors really living in such a nice place, he'd never choose to comeback in a word like this" Askellad laugh "Damned old man just continue the story" Thorfinn said. Askellad drink and continue the story again "When I was 11 my mother's heart is finally snapped, we are on the black smith shop. Off all the things that could happen she thought that my father who just passing by was the hero Artorious, then my father picks up his sword and going to kill my ill mother. then I realized in an instant, if Artorious was not going to come to save my mother in that moment then he's never going to come, do you understand kid? someone was do it, A person, not a hero, not A god. I pick up a sword and fight my father to save my mother, it's weird I had never used a sword before but it felt suit and comfortable in my hand, I knew how to swing it, I thought of it as proof that I had the blood of that Damned father bastard flowing though my veins. we fight sword to sword and I fell, and he pointed his swords to me and he said "you, are you her child, are you my child?" saying it calmly and I say yes, he said that I have a potential and I'm going to live his place now with my other brother, after living to my father's place all I do is train, how to fight and I become close to my other brothers.”

Page 2

[sunshine-tattoo]

Owl House Theory Time!

Phillip's brother (who i am calling William for now), was the strong one. Always on adventures and getting into trouble. Longing for a world more exciting than the simple life of a colonial village.

Philip was the little brother. The weaker one. The shy, book-loving kid who was always underestimated due to his frail body.

William was probably the one to lead them into the portal, out of sheer curiosity.

He adores this new world and fits right in, just like Luz.

But Philip hates it. This world is even more dangerous than the one they left behind and the magic makes him nervous due to his upbringing.

Still. He has Will to protect him so that helps.

He and Will spend years trying to build a portal home, but then (probably in eclipse lake) Will tells Philip that he doesn't want to go home. He has fallen in love with both the boiling isles and with a local witch. (Who is the ancestor of Eda. The child she and Will have together is her great great great something grandparent.)

The two brothers fight and in the process causes a cave-in that kills Will.

Philip is devastated. Not only did he lose his beloved brother, he's now on his own in a harsh world.

Over time, he becomes depressed and isolated. His distrust of magic only grows.

Slowly he is possessed by some kind of evil entity. The thing whose voice we as the audience can sort of hear speaking under his voice.

It convinces him to destroy wild magic at all costs.

Eventually, he gets all the materials to make Hunter. A clone of his lost brother. Whether he plans on finding his brother's spirit and putting it in the new body or just wanted a piece of his family back, I don't know.

As for his curse, and where he was for 400 years, I think he spent a lot of time in that goopy nowhere place that Luz's incomplete world took her. It corrupts his body and mind, but kept him alive for centuries.

His final plan is to fuse the boiling isles and the human world. This will wipe out wild magic, as it cannot work in the human world.

But the plan will also sacrifice a lot of average witches, as the power needed will drain them of their magic and life-force.

Which is why he is so desperate for witches to join covens. The coven tattoos not only cut off other magic types, they act as controllers. As we saw with Raine.

The ones who survive the world fusion will help Belos conquer the human world. Potentially awakening the titan too.

(Tho honestly I doubt it'll work. Even without magic, humanity has evolved A LOT since he left. We have a soooo many weapons, Phil.)

Not sure who the collector is yet. Maybe just a super powerful witch?

But they definitely come from an island other than the current one. We can see that in the owl beast's memory from when it was captured and turned into a curse.

Maybe the evil entity is the other dead titan. The bug/ lizard one that was defeated by our titan in the mural from king's tower.

It wants to rise again and conquer and is using Belos as a pawn.

Whatever the case, I think that the series will end with the destruction of the evil entity (whatever it is).

Belos will probably die in the process but is redeemed at least a little and apologizes to Hunter for not being the caring family he deserved. He passes on, saying he can see William waiting for him.

The coven system will be dissolved and wild magic will be allowed to flow freely again.

The portals between the boiling isles and the human world will remain open permanently, allowing people from both sides to mingle and exchange cultures.

Raine regains their memories and they share a kiss with Eda.

Luz reunites with her mother, but tells her that she plans on staying on the boiling isles.

Camila, having seen the amazing work she did in defeating the evil entity, says that she understands and is proud. Luz promises to visit all the time.

Vee remains with Camila and lives peacefully in the human world. Camila now says she has two daughters, one in this world and one in the other. (Honestly treating it like a kid who is at boarding school.)

The final shot of the series has Luz and Amity holding hands, all their friends by their side, going into the human world to explore it together.

[mystic-shadows42]

Uhtred Imagine: Love & Treason

“How’s the dress look?” 

“Exquisite, my lady,” was your response. There was never a day that Æthelflæd ceased to be graceful. She was everything one can imagine of a princess. She was born privileged and never had to see what laid just outside these walls, not as you have.

“I’ll be needing extra sheets for the bedding.” Æthelflæd was distracted by looking over her new dress in the mirror.

“In regards to what, my lady?”

“I’ll be requesting Uhtred’s presence. We are in need of discussing what this marriage will entail.”

Your heart raced at the mention of Uhtred’s name but even more so at the notion of Æthelflæd’s request.

“My lady, forgive me but it will be seem improper at least not until you two are officially married.”

She turned her head towards you. There was usually no question of her actions on your part but with your love’s name leaving her lips didn’t sit well. None of it did.

Whenever you and Uhtred would meet up he’d just tell you not to think about it and continue on to kiss you and caress your soft skin until you both would have to depart.

There was always the lingering thought that Æthelflæd will be his wife one day. You would have to watch them dote on each other whether for appearances or not. He could fall in love with her in time.

Then one day you’d have to care for their children. You’d be made to sit silently watching their lives unfold. If fate were kind, they’d allow you to leave and perhaps find love again.

“I trust you to sneak him in here and be discreet no doubt,” Æthelflæd spoke, breaking your leering thoughts.

“Of course. I’ll fetch the sheets immediately after my duties are fulfilled.”

Endless scenarios lingered on your mind long after your duties were over and you held the sheets in your hand. Silent tears cascaded down your cheeks like an ever-growing river trying to break free from the dam that held them in.

Your breath hitched when firm hands held your waist.

“It’s just me,” Uhtred chuckled. He nuzzled his face by your neck. No matter what you felt on the matter, his presence was always a calming one to your racing heart.

He wrapped his arms around you from behind and inhaled your scent. “I’ve missed you. When I didn’t see you by Æthelflæd‘s side I didn’t know what to do with myself. She noticed I was distant.”

“Uhtred.” 

His body stiffened when he heard your solemn voice. He backed away and turned you to face him. When he saw your face cascaded down he lifted your head and drew near when he saw your tears.

He cupped your face with his hands and you placed yours over his forearms.

“No, don’t cry.” He wiped your tears with his thumbs. He had a smile on his face as he slowed his movements. “You are beautiful, even when you cry.”

You sniffled a low chuckle. “Beautiful? I am wearing a worn ragged dress and crying. I am anything but beautiful.”

His eyes became stern. “You are beautiful. Now say it.”

“Uhtred-”

“Say it or we’ll stay in here all day.”

You looked in his eyes watching how his were looking at yours intently. He always had a way of breaking you out of your own mind.

“I am beautiful.” You said each word slowly and carefully as to fully satisfy Uhtred’s wish.

Once you said it, Uhtred then kissed your lips slowly while keeping his eyes closed. He withdrew from you slowly with his eyes still closed, relishing the moment. There was hardly any time for the both of you with the wedding drawing near.

He opened his eyes and licked his lips. “How is it that you do not know your worth?”

You grew confused at his words. “What do you mean?”

Uhtred took a strand of your hair and played with it in between his fingers. You smiled at his action and did the same to his hair. Before him, you had never seen a man with hair as long as his.

“I would give my life for you.”

You stopped your movements and dropped your hands from him. Uhtred knew what you were thinking and pulled your body impossibly close to his so you were against each other.

“I do not like when you speak like that. Your life is not worth mine nor will I ever want you to give it, whether spoken or not. You are too important to me.”

You were always brought up to believe that one should never speak of their life lightly. You loved Uhtred with all your heart. It pained you to be deprived of him. 

“My love for you is far greater than anything else. You were an unexpected surprise when I came here. I cannot imagine living without you by my side.”

He smiled at you and it lightened your heart to see it was only directed at you. There had been countless of those similar smiles that he shared with Æthelflæd when he courted her through the gardens. Ones that made you doubt his love for you, but at the end of the day, he always came back to you.

You shared your bodies with each other and while you both laid in bed you’d share stories with one another. Though the next day, it’d repeat like any other.

You’d wait all day just to see him but he’d have to remain focused on Æthelflæd rather than you in public. Uhtred would sometimes brush your hand against his or catch you whenever you became clumsy.

It was all very subtle to everyone else but to you and Uhtred it was a small victory to at least touch one another on the days that kept you apart.

Uhtred touched the soft silk sheets that remained by you on the shelf. Before he had came into the small closet, you had been fiddling with the expensive fabric wondering if Uhtred would be laying in them with Æthelflæd. You had let out a humorless chuckle while his attention was on them not knowing what they’d entail later.

“My lady Æthelflæd wants me to sneak you in her chambers tonight.” Uhtred stopped touching the fabric knowing what they’d be used for. He sighed and placed your heads together.

You closed your eyes relishing being in his presence.

“Fate has not been too kind to us Uhtred. No matter how many times we are together,” you shrugged, “we cannot be together. You are not mine nor will you ever be. We are torn between two feelings. Love and Loyalty. I am betraying the lady Æthelflæd and the people of Wessex.” You pulled away to now look into his eyes. “Then there’s you. My one true love.” You took a shaky breath making your eyes start to tear up. “Understand that if we keep doing this, your life and your men’s lives will always be at stake. Your homeland will never be recovered and you will die a slow torturous death because of me. I can’t have that.”

Even as you spoke Uhtred didn’t seem as worried or afraid as you. He was eerily calm as he listened to every word.

He moved his shirt so his chest was exposed and placed your hand over his chest where his heart laid. The rhythm of his heart was soothing.

“I am alive because of you. My heart beats for no one else. I never want you to doubt us. This isn’t it for us. I will not let that be our fate when our destiny has yet to be told.” He brushed your hair back and kissed your neck. “They’ll sing songs about our love story one day.” He brought his hand up to your neck as he kissed your soft spot. You turned your head so he could have better access. “I have an idea that’ll solve all of this.”

“No, Uhtred. It can’t be anything that’ll jeopardize you. Promise me,” you spoke sternly. Uhtred was ambitious and you knew just how stubborn he can be when he has his mind set up but he was always true to his word with you. He nipped at your neck but you placed your hand on his exposed chest. “Quit trying to distract me.”

He brought your hand up to his lips as he kissed it. His eyes gleamed with mischief. “I promise that everything will work out.”

You placed your hand on his face and smiled at him. It made you happy to know that he was here and safe.

“I must be getting back. I’ve been gone for too long.”

He leaned down while you reached up to kiss him. He had his arms wrapped around you possessively as if he didn’t want to let you go. He dragged his hands down your sides and onto your hips then reluctantly let you go.

“Don’t forget to meet up at our spot tonight.”

You nodded. You wouldn’t miss your little late-night meet-ups for the world. As you headed towards the door you could feel that he still held onto the fabric of your worn-out dress.

You looked over your shoulder seeing him making a frowning face at your departure. It made you chuckle seeing the fierce warrior act like a child.

“Don’t be getting into any trouble now.”

He smirked at your response, but little did you know Uhtred already had a plan. It was a dangerous one but if all worked out then you two would be together.

After all, love conquers all.

[yukidragon]

Our Life Snippet - Clingy

As I mentioned in my asks today where I was gushing about Our Life: Beginnings & Always by @gb-patch, it’s about time for another clip of my fanfic novelization of this lovely game!

It’s been a while since I showed a clip of Step 3, so here is a slice from Errands! Thank you to @gb-patch​ and everyone else who enjoy seeing me gush and write about Cove and Jamie! You all make me so happy I cannot even!

Oh, and since this is Step 3 content, spoiler warning for those who haven’t played this far in the game yet.

...

Liz folded her arms over her chest and let out an amused chuckle. “We couldn’t have picked a more perfect trip. It’s been too long since we’ve had a true family outing.” She then gave a pointed look to her little sister and the baby boyfriend for emphasis.

The three parents laughed approvingly at the familiar joke. Jamie rolled her eyes at their mirth and the teasing note to her older sister’s tone even as she fought to keep from smiling herself. Her favorite next door neighbors had joined the Leimomis on this outing, which was what made it a ‘true family outing’ as Liz put it.

Cove offered Jamie a sympathetic smile when their eyes met. Some things never changed and some jokes never died, especially when it came to teasing them about their relationship. It was something they had both long since accepted. The fact that they had been holding hands since they left the cars behind naturally didn’t help lessen such teasing, but neither of them felt inclined to let go of each other.

Jamie finally allowed herself to smile as she squeezed his hand a little, her smile only widening when Cove returned the gesture. Teasing aside, she was bubbling with anticipation to explore the market and see what sort of hidden gems they might uncover. Sure, that meant wading through a sea of people to find them, but she wasn’t alone, so she didn’t pay them any mind.

The idea of spending a day traversing through such a dense crowd of strangers was not something Cove looked forward to, but at least he wouldn’t have to deal with them by himself. He could tune them out as long as he had Jamie by his side. Seeing her so animated with excitement as she looked around raised his spirits, and when she smiled at him, it was like the world around them no longer mattered anymore.

Cliff turned to the group as he clapped his hands together, the sound catching everyone’s attention. “Well, I’m ready to get started. I’ve got plenty of dishes in mind I could use ingredients for.”

It was easy to see that everyone held the same sentiment. Noelani and Pamla were especially excited as they shared a conspiratorial smile with one another.

“Yes, that’s a very good idea, Cliff,” Noelani said cheerfully as she turned back to the others. “This place is much larger than it seems. It’s difficult to visit each part in a single day.”

Such a challenge did nothing to diminish Cliff’s enthusiasm. “I’m sure we can make a decent dent together at least.”

“Actually…,” Noelani said as she let her gaze wander to the rest of the group. “Since there are so many of us this time, we could take different sides of the market.”

For a second, Jamie swore she saw a hint of mischief in Pamela’s eyes before her mom turned away to look at the stalls.

“Divide and conquer, eh?” Pamela said. “That sounds brilliant.”

The suggestion took the rest of the group by surprise. No one else had considered splitting up to be an option.

Pamela flashed the group a dazzling smile to banish any misgivings there were towards the idea. “Though, it’s a little unfair that there are four Leimomi family members and only two Holdens here, so I’ll go with you boys to even out the odds.”

“That’s fine with me,” Noelani said cheerfully.

Despite the upbeat attitude and smiles Noelani and Pamela showed the group, it was clear that they were the only ones excited for the idea. Liz pursed her lips in a frown, her brow furrowing, but she kept her mouth shut. By contrast, Jamie’s mouth hung open in a small ‘o’ of surprise. Cliff awkwardly scratched the back of his neck and his gaze wandered aimlessly, as he found himself at a loss for where to look or what to say. Neither was a problem his son had.

Cove tightened his hold on Jamie’s hand reflexively, drawing her attention to his frowning face. The grip wasn’t anywhere near painful, but it made his thoughts on them being separated crystal clear even before he spoke up. “I don’t like that idea.”

Noelani was nonplussed by the resistance, smiling at Cove despite his obvious disapproval. “Don’t worry, we’ll be apart for only a few hours, and then we’ll have something to talk about at the end of it.”

Cove wasn’t especially convinced. He had never been comfortable with plans being changed without notice, especially when he wasn’t even consulted about the change. Unfortunately, he could already tell that this was a battle that he wasn’t going to win. He could be stubborn with his own parents or peers, but when it came to the Leimomi matrons, he couldn’t dig in his heels with only the argument that he didn’t want to be separated from Jamie. His shoulders slumped in defeat, and he let out a sigh. Reluctantly, he nodded and released his girlfriend’s hand.

Liz let out a thoughtful hum and shrugged off her confusion. “Alright,” she said, her frown melting away into an easy smile. “I don’t get the point, but I also don’t mind spending the first part of the trip with Jamie and Ma.

Delighted, Noelani clapped her hands together in a brief show of cheer. “Wonderful. Are the teams ready to go?”

Like her sister, Jamie didn’t understand why their moms thought splitting up was a good idea. The entire point of both of their families going to the farmers’ market together was to enjoy each other’s company, wasn’t it? Splitting the group in half felt like splitting the fun in half too.

Actually, it would be even less than that if they expected Jamie and Cove to spend the day apart when they could be together.

If this was going to happen regardless of any of their opinions on the matter, Jamie knew that she had to at least suggest a compromise. “Can I be the one who goes with the Holdens instead?”

Jamie clasped her hands together as she looked between her moms hopefully. They would understand why she wanted to spend the day with Cove, right? He just got back from Nevada, and after he had been gone a long time to boot. It felt almost cruel to spend a day apart from one another when they didn’t have to.

Cove immediately perked up at the suggestion, his defeated frown turning into a hopeful smile of his own.

Unfortunately, the expressions Noelani and Pamela wore were not promising. Noelani pouted at their youngest daughter while Pamela merely shook her head with a grin.

“Sorry,” Pamela said. “No can do this time, kiddo.”

Jamie saw not even a flicker of reluctance between her parents, and the disappointment on Noelani’s face, however played up to keep the mood light, made her feel a twinge of guilt for suggesting she leave her ma’s group. Her shoulders sagged in surrender as a quiet sigh escaped her. “We won’t be split up too long, right?” she asked weakly.

A cheerful smile returned to Noelani’s face as she moved to her youngest’s side and wrapped an arm around Jamie in a little side hug. Her comforting gesture was rewarded with a lopsided smile from her daughter. “Yes, thank you, Jamie.”

With things finally settled, Pamela walked over towards Cove and Cliff, grinning in spite of the confused looks they still sent their way. “Come on, boys, we’re heading out.”

“Sure,” Cliff said.

“Okay,” Cove said with far less enthusiasm than Pamela. This trip had suddenly become a lot more of a chore than it started off as.

His gaze then turned to Jamie, and he offered her a soft smile when her eyes met his. He was drawn towards his girlfriend, stopping just short in front of her. The smile he wore wavered as he hesitated to leave. “Bye,” he said quietly, unable to hide the note of regret from his voice.

Jamie was no more thrilled to separate than Cove was, but she managed to offer him a small smile in return anyway. “Bye.”

Cove took his girlfriend’s hand in his once more and gave it a gentle squeeze, which Jamie returned. Her smile grew just a little stronger at his attempt to reassure her, which raised his spirits as well. He then dipped his face towards her for a parting kiss, his cheeks warming as his eyes drifted closed.

Jamie started to close her eyes as well in anticipation of the kiss, only to notice Cove suddenly jerk to a halt stiffly a few inches away from her.

The reason why became immediately clear as Cove twisted his head around to stare back at Pamela with wide eyes. She had seized the hem of his shirt and physically held him back. She gave another firm tug, urging him upright before letting go.

“No, no, no,” Pamela chided with a wide grin on her face as she wagged a finger at Cove. “Time’s a wastin’, Cove, and I’ve known you long enough to be aware that you’re one to linger. If I don’t stop you now, you’ll only drag your feet on parting ways more.” Her smile then turned mischievous as she shifted her gaze from him to Jamie and back again. “The two of you can snuggle and make out as much as you want later. We have important shopping to do now.”

Jamie felt her face grow hot from being called out so publicly by her mom. Cove outright gasped at Pamela, completely taken aback by what felt like a truly obscene thing for her to say.

Once Cove overcame the initial shock, he forced himself to ignore how fiercely his cheeks burned as he made an unimpressed show of rolling his eyes. “You don’t need to literally pull me away from Jamie. I’m not that clingy.”

Pamela made no effort to hide her snickering as she shook her head wryly.

The reaction wasn’t one Cove expected. He raised his eyebrows at her before he looked over at Noelani. However, the other Mrs. Leimomi refused to look him in the eye as she whistled in a supposedly ‘innocent’ manner.

Cove noticed the look Liz sent his way, particularly the sly smirk she wore that stretched from ear to ear. He whipped his head around towards his dad next. Cliff met his gaze, but could only offer a lopsided smile and an apologetic shrug.

It was only then when it dawned on Cove - everyone really thought he was that needy.

Finally, Cove dared turn to face Jamie, his eyes wide and pleading with the desperate hope that at least she didn’t agree as well.

To his relief, the look Jamie gave him was a sympathetic one. She then leveled a stern gaze to the rest of the group, folding her arms across her chest. “Cove is totally capable of being independent when he wants to be,” she said in a very matter of fact tone.

After all, Cove had recently traveled to Nevada by himself for weeks. Willingly separating from her for that long was the exact opposite of clingy. In fact, that was all the more reason for them to enjoy each other’s company as much as possible now. There was no reason for them to poke fun at her boyfriend for wanting to show her affection. How they expressed their feelings for one another was no one else’s business but theirs.

Unfortunately, it seemed that no one else saw it that way, and her attempt at chastising them for their teasing was met with a few snickers from her family. Unlike them, Jamie was not amused.

Cove, on the other hand, beamed at having his girlfriend’s support. Without thinking, he took a step towards Jamie, feeling drawn to her once more. Also, once more, Pamela snatched the back of his shirt, freezing him in his tracks.

Pamela attempted to suppress the urge to laugh, but a few chuckles escaped her anyway. “Actions speak louder than words.”

Caught newly embarrassed all over again, Cove struggled to come up with something to say in his defense. His mouth twisted and his cheeks reddened as he looked sideways at their families, who were having way too much amusement at his expense. “Yeah, well…” After a few moments of struggling, he finally had to look away with a frustrated huff. “So what?”

That admission had their parents and Liz bursting into laughter, much to Cove’s mortification.

Jamie felt her irritation grow when everyone started laughing at Cove. “Yeah, so what?” she said in a challenging tone. Before anyone could make what she was certain would be another teasing retort, she closed the distance between herself and her boyfriend. She cupped his cheek to turn his face back towards her and stole a kiss from his lips before her mom could stop them a third time.

Cove barely had a moment to register the kiss before it ended. It was so brief that he hadn’t had the chance to really enjoy it, much to his regret. He could only stare wide-eyed at Jamie as she moved back from him, though involuntarily, as this time it was Noelani pulling her back by the shirt.

“I believe you were saying something about being independent?” Noelani said, though her chiding didn’t come across as particularly authoritative since she was chuckling as she said it.

Jamie was unrepentant for her act of defiance, her grin wide and proud, though she did step back at her ma’s prompting, if only to spare her shirt from further punishment. “Cove is, but I didn’t say anything about myself,” she said wryly. That comment along with her little display set off another round of laughter from the group, but it was worth it.

 Pamela shook her head with a wide grin. “I don’t know about that, but I think we both better keep the kids on a short leash if we want a chance of getting any shopping done before nightfall, ‘Lani.” She gave a little tug on Cove’s shirt for emphasis, much to his chagrin.

“I think you’re right,” Noelani giggled as she kept her grip on Jamie’s shirt firm.

Cove didn’t have any further defense for himself or Jamie, not with the way everyone was having way too much fun at their expense. Grimacing, he strode several feet from the group, his face red all the way to his ears. He wanted to move on from this teasing, even if it meant physically moving on and away from her. At least Pamela let him go despite her idle threat to keep him on a leash.

Seeing Cove start to leave washed the taste of victory from Jamie’s mouth, but she just had to accept it. “I’ll see you soon,” she called after him. When he glanced back at her, she smiled softly at him and gave him a little wave.

Despite how Cove still burned with embarrassment, the reminder that he had Jamie’s support helped him relax a bit. He nodded at her ever so slightly as he pulled his mouth into a bent smile.

“See you in a few hours!” Pamela said as she gave her wife and daughters a cheery wave.

“Take care of yourselves,” Cliff said with a nod of his head.

With that, the groups were divided. Pamela picked a direction and set a course for destinations unknown, leading the Holden men who followed not far behind her.

Noelani gave the departing group a grin and waved enthusiastically with her whole arm. By contrast, Liz gave a much more dainty wave of her own.

Jamie continued to wave goodbye as she watched Cove disappear with his dad and her mom into the dense crowd. Because of his height, she could still spot glimpses of his pale green hair for a little while, but all too quickly even that small sign of him was lost from view.

As her arm fell limply to her side, Jamie tried to banish all the negative feelings she had towards this turn of events. Sure, this wasn’t what she wanted, but that didn’t mean the trip couldn’t still be fun. Sure, it sucked that she wasn’t going to explore the market with her boyfriend, and that was the thing she was looking most forward to and now, poof, that wasn’t happening… but she would see him in a few hours. It was silly to feel sad or let down that they wouldn’t all be traveling together.

It wasn’t as though she was actually clingy like she joked.

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Love, fear, peace.

My Masterlist  

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: “I wanted to request an imagine where the reader and Ivar have a 4-5 year old daughter. And while Ivar is usually very cruel, he'll do anything for his little princess. And she asks to paint his nails and have him join her for a tea party, so he does, as long as it's a secret between them but the reader ends up seeing them and her thoughts on it? I'm in a big mood to read Ivar fluff”

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: A lil bit of angst, my best attempt at fluff, just soft stuff all around, probably ooc

A/N: My friends, may I interest you in an AU where all five sons of Ragnar are alive and happy? We call it ‘denial’ where I’m from, but yeah, in this universe they’re all alive, Sigurd married off to some Saxon Princess, Ubbe in Dublin, Ivar King of Kattegat and Hvitserk with him with a family of his own goddamit, Björn fuck-knows-where avoiding commitment like he was born to do, and that’s it. Ta-da.

Ástríðr is a name derived from the Old Norse elements áss "god" and fríðr "beautiful, beloved"

Taglist: (If you wanna be added or removed lemme know!) @youbloodymadgenius​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @1950schick​ @ietss​   @peachyboneless​ @encounterthepast​ @maggiescarborough​   @chibisgotovalhalla​ @receptionistfromhell​​ 

Hvitserk greets you with a kiss on your cheek, and you thank the gesture with a smile, though your eyes are scanning the main hall.

“Where’s Ivar?” You ask as he walks at your side, greeting a few people with false smiles and courteous nods.

Hvitserk only shrugs, “I thought he was with you.”

“No, we were supposed to talk with one of the earls about the effect of a high tide, but he wasn’t there.”

“And how was it?”

“Dull,” You reply sincerely, “But I have an idea of where my husband is.”

The other man betrays a smile, “Can you blame him? It is hard to say no to her.”

Oh, you know that. She has him -and you- powerless to deny her anything since she first came to this world.

Try as he might to deny it, to keep the idea of the ruthless king that loves nothing alive, to mantain the façade of how nothing makes Ivar the Boneless falter; your daughter is an adorable force to be reckoned with, capable of making even the King of Kattegat surrender.

It is no secret, for you or any soul that encounters your husband, that Ivar loves his family, his wife and daughter, like nothing else.

The world will never forget the battles he’s won and lost, the wars he started, the kingdoms he reduced to ash, the lands he conquered. The world will never forget of all he did in the name of his ambition, in the name of his fame.

But the world will never forget what he did in the name of love either. Countless deals made, countless fights, countless plans devised and even more sacrifices made so that he could grant his daughter the safeties she deserved; so that he can give her the world and, when time comes, have her step sure, knowing the very earth and the very skies are hers.

You don’t know how much time has passed when you blink past the sleep that weighs on your lids. You find yourself as you were, resting comfortably on a seat that has progressively become just a pile of pillows and furs since the start of winter.

You still feel the comfortable weight of Ivar’s head on your lap, and you can make out his voice speaking quietly. Looking down you find him talking to the small bump on your stomach, the evidence of your child growing inside of you.

At the feeling of your fingers running through his hair, Ivar looks up and offers you a smile, before scooting even closer to your stomach.

“Tell your mother to go back to sleep. You and I aren’t done talking, Princess.”

A part of you is tempted to taunt him about how the might Ivar the Boneless is so smitten by a child not even born yet, but you choose instead to bask in the softness in his expression, in the happiness that curves his mouth.

Still, after a few moments, you offer, “They could be a Prince. Ivarsson.”

Your husband hums, presses a kiss against your stomach and settles again on his back with his head on your lap.

“We will have sons, I know,” He tells you, smile faint as he closes his eyes, “But first, we will have a daughter.

He speaks with such certainty that you cannot help but huff a laugh. Still, it is a nice thought, to have a Princess to call your own, a little girl, blessed by the Gods.

“She will be just like her mother, and she will be ours to spoil and take care of.”

“You speak as if you wouldn’t spoil our sons, Ivar. Someone else might believe that lie, but not me.” You tease, eyebrows lifted.

“Mhm, but a father grows jealous of his sons, and their fame, their triumphs.”

“No daughter of mine, or of yours, will be content without her own triumphs and conquests.”

“I know,” He replies without hesitation, proud smile widening and eyes opening to gaze up at you, “Like I said, she’ll be just like her mother.”

It was never a secret, a surprise, for you to witness Ivar love your child before she was even born; to feel his joy and his anticipation and his love in the way he spoke of that daughter you’d have, and all the sons and daughters that would come after.

You learned to love him years ago, and found beneath the cruelty and venom and bloodthirst a man that loves intensely, that willingly gave his heart to you to keep safe the day he made you his wife. So his love doesn’t surprise you, his devotion to his family doesn’t make you falter.

There were still many things that made you falter, that made you see everything with new eyes, during those months while you carried Ástríðr and in the years you’ve been fortunate enough to have her.

One of them was how the sons of Aslaug, much to your surprise and despite all their other failings, had been raised to be utterly devoted to their families. Hvitserk was almost giddy at the possibility of a niece or nephew that he could keep close to him, unlike Ubbe’s children all the way in Dublin. Ubbe, always the father figure, visited more than once and kept watchful eyes not only on you and his brother, but on everything, as if from Dublin he could look over all of you like he did while growing up. To your surprise, even Sigurd, past the animosity between him and Ivar -and all the disagreements he has had with you over the years, of course- sent word from Northumbria wishing you three the protection of the Gods.

Another of those discoveries, sadly not as heartwarming, was to witness the burden your husband carried and not being able to do anything about it. The more easily-soothed fears, like what your daughter would think of him, or whether she would be born healthy, were quietened by your voice promising him over and over that any child of yours would love him like no other, or by the soft kicks of your daughter against where his palm rested on your stomach, making tears shine in Ivar’s eyes every time.

There were deeper fears, and fears that plagued you too, that you couldn’t so easily soothe. The whisper in the back of his mind that happiness is nothing, that everything you love eventually you lose, that all his cruel ways and his mistakes would one day cost him what he holds dear. The blue eyes of the man you love, so used to seeing what others cannot, so used to planning ahead and seeing the world like his enemy does, seeing a world where at any time his fame and his conquests could cost him your life or your daughter’s.

For a man as cruel and vicious as Ivar, it is easy to forget he is not something otherworldly, some demon like the Christians say, some beast like your own countrymen claim. Sometimes, in all his rage and all his chaos, it is easy to forget he is a husband, a father, a man.

And like any man with a beating heart, especially a heart so wholly owned by his wife and daughter; Ivar fears.

Ástríðr blinks big and strikingly blue eyes, and you smile widely, unable to keep yourself from bringing your daughter closer and pressing a kiss on her head, delighting yourself in the familiar and comforting smell of your baby.

“Good morning, little one.” You whisper, and she coos in response, as if she understands.

“Is she…is she alright?” Ivar asks, moving closer to you and looking at her over your shoulder.

“Of course she is,” You smile down at your daughter, your finger tapping the tip of her tiny nose. “Our beautiful girl, she’s more than alright. She’s perfect.”

“She was…coughing.”

“That’s something babies do, Ivar, she’s fine.” You reassure him, only slightly bothered by the fact that he woke you up because your daughter coughed. You adjust your grip on Ástríðr, let her nuzzle against the column of your throat and find her sleep again.

Ivar drops his head to your shoulder, sighing against your skin and laying quite a bit of his weight on you. You sit there, your daughter against you and your husband letting you hold him up as he releases a tension you didn’t realize was there, and feel a pang of something in your heart.

After a few moments, you hold back a sigh, you try biting back your worry, and whisper, “You should sleep, love.”

“Mhm,” Ivar mumbles, but it is an argument, even if he doesn’t find the words to voice it yet. “Later.”

He has taken the awful habit of not sleeping at night. Each night when you settle in bed with Ástríðr nestled close to you, and Ivar holds you both close in his embrace; he remains awake, vigilant and expectant, watching the shadows for ghosts and enemies. You’ve noticed him faltering during the day, worsening his pain by not letting himself rest like should.

And it has only been worse since Hvitserk has been gone.

You know there are few people Ivar trusts fully, even fewer he entrusts the safety of his wife and daughter to. With just being here, Hvitserk granted his brother a peace nothing else can, a certainty that there was someone’s back to lean his own against, a promise that he could lower his guard and rest assured he wasn’t alone.

It is just a matter of days before Hvitserk returns, but you refuse to let Ivar run himself ragged.

So, you use your and not holding Ástrídr to wrap around his waist, and slowly move the three of you, as well as you can manage, back to lay on the bed.

With a slightly startled breath Ivar opens his eyes, focuses almost frantically on you and Ástríðr. You sigh again, but make use of the loss of his weight against you to settle against the pillows, holding your daughter better against your chest, your hand covering her back and holding her gently.

When you’re certain she’s comfortable, you lift your free arm and run your fingers through Ivar’s hair.

“You’ll rest.” You order, your eyes on your husband’s. He wants to argue, you know he does, a war between exhaustion and stubbornness, but it seems the pull is strong enough to even make him cave.

Ivar settles on your opposite shoulder from your daughter, his hand warm and rough as it settles over yours on her back. You chase tension off his back by running your hand up and down his back, and as both he and your daughter sleep safe and warm against you, you allow yourself a whisper of gratitude to the Gods.

You never knew what the Seer had meant when he told you so many years ago that ‘he can only use one hand and chooses to hold the sword, and for that you’ll need to hold the shield’, but now, as you hold your world close against you, you dare think that you understand the Ancient One’s words.

Eventually, the fear of something stealing her in the middle of the night passes. It always returns, that irrational fear he has that he will lose it all, that frantic paranoia that if he doesn’t plan, if he doesn’t prepare, they will take you both from him.

But as Ástríðr grows healthy and lively, the fears dwindle, or maybe they just change. And for a man that scorned the very uttering of the word, Ivar finds peace.

Through the halls, you follow the familiar sound of Ivar’s war cry, though quieter, and the adorable giggles of your daughter. Walking into your rooms, you make sure to remain hidden as you watch Ivar on the floor, holding himself up on his arms, mocking a taunt towards your daughter, daring the little shieldmaiden to attack.

A part of you is glad that this is a secret, a side of your husband, of your family, that the world will never know of. The world needn’t know of how easily Ástríðr makes her mother and father cave to her every wish, the world needn’t know of how fiercely and uncondicionally she is loved; only she needs to know of it, andn you and Ivar have made sure she lives a life knowing how loved she is.

You lean your shoulder on a pillar near the door, arms crossed over your chest but still betraying a smile.

Ástríðr brandishes a wooden sword at her father, big eyes strikingly alike Ivar’s when she focuses and finds her determination.

“I will defeat you!” She exclaims, the seriousness in her expression making your chest warm.

“You’re just a shieldmaiden, you can’t defeat me!” Ivar replies without missing a beat, faking a monster’s swipe with a hand that tries grabbing at her small foot.

Your daughter jumps out of the way with a squeal, but quickly furrows her brow adorably and lifts her chin, stubborn and arrogant.

Gods, Ivar is right, she looks so much like you.

“I am Ástríðr Ivarsdottir, I’ll always win!”

“Ah, you will, won’t you?” Ivar teases, letting go of the role of whatever beast he was supposed to be, grabbing onto your daughter and falling on his back with her in his arms, lifting the girl up and making her giggle. “Mighty shieldmaiden you’ll be, my sweet.”

“I know.” She replies without hesitation, startling a laugh out of you.

Two pairs of blue eyes turn to you, and Ástríðr wastes no time in calling out for you, squirming her way out of her father’s grasp and skipping towards you.

You kneel on the ground and welcome your daughter’s enthusiastic embrace, even if it was only this morning you last saw her.

“Did you defeat him, little one?” You ask her, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Of course I did, mama.” She replies, almost offended. Of course, look whose daughter you’re asking about a victory in battle, imaginary or not.

You catch Ivar’s eyes and whatever intent you had on chastising him for leaving you to deal with the earl alone vanishes at the softness in his gaze at he looks at you both.

Not many know of Ivar the Boneless’ love. Even fewer know of his fear.

But there’s only a few lucky ones that have seen his happiness, his peace.

You two share a look, a look that speaks not only of gratefulness for one another, but of gratefulness for this perfect blend of the two of you, of your stubbornness and his drive, of his eyes and your hair.

Ivar betrays a small smile and his eyes go to the discarded wooden sword at his side.

“Oi, shieldmaiden!” He calls out, and Ástríðr turns to him without hesitation. “You never leave your weapon behind. It is the one thing, besides your mother and me, that you can trust blindly in this world.”

Ivar motions for the sword, and your daughter dutifully goes to pick it up, only to be ambushed on the way, Ivar’s eyes trapping her to his chest.

She is startled, and lets out a loud and adorable laugh as her father once again drops to the furs at his back, his smile blinding.

“You see? If you’d had your sword, no monster would have gotten you.”

Ástríðr grumbles an argument, but Ivar only snorts a laugh. His eyes lift to yours, and he lifts his hand, calling for the touch of yours, calling for you to join them.

You sigh, but still walk to them and stretch on the furs near the fire, accepting the embrace Ivar offers you when he lifts his free arm.

You nuzzle your nose against his throat, reaching with your hand and taming Ástríðr’s wild hair.

“Do you think one day I could defeat a dragon, like the warriors you tell me about?”

“Mhm, of course. You’ll be the most famous shieldmaiden who has ever lived.” He promises her, pressing a kiss against her hair, his arm tightening and trying to bring you closer even if it is impossible.

___

I struggled a lot writing this, I don’t really know why bc it was a lovely request. I tried my best :)

I hope you liked this, lovely anon! And I’m sorry it took me so long to get it done! I love you!!

[couchpotatoaniki]

The Queen’s Consort

You love him dearly, but a servant cannot marry their Queen. Luckily, you’re not one to give up so easily, despite what others might think.

Pairing: Servant!Namjoon x Queen!Reader Genre: Royal AU, ‘Secret’ lovers AU, fluff, slight angst Warnings: smoking, swearing, mentions of misogyny Loosely based off: I’m a bit of a history nerd, so this is a weird fantasy mash-up of the reigns of the English Tudor Queens, Mary I and Elizabeth I Word count: 4.5k+

Pungent smells of rose perfume and sweet vanilla filled the room, a cloud of cigar smoke mixing in occasionally as it lay in the atmosphere.

You exhaled after another puff, feeling the tension in your muscles ease with every deep breath. Namjoon drank the sight of you, eyes closed, head tilted back, light grey smoke escaping past your puckered lips.

No matter how many times he sees this, he thinks, he won’t ever get used to it. Normally seeing you in tight corsets, confining gowns, adorned in pretty, expensive things.

But this picture of you is the prettiest.

No fancy makeup, no fancy jewellery, no fancy dresses.

Just you, in a plain nightgown as you smoked a cigar that lay loosely between your fingers, the firelight flickering across your glowing skin (blemished from the years of stress and fighting, but gorgeous nonetheless), and occasionally taking sips from whatever alcohol was in your chalice.

Today was whiskey.

As inappropriate as it is, you never minded him seeing you this unguarded. It was your time to unwind, and Namjoon helped you do just that.

In this room of paintings, you two sat on velvety golden chairs in front of the roaring fireplace and let go of the day’s troubles.

The real world was just on the other side of the door, a twist of the brass doorknob and you two would revert back to a Queen and her servant.

But in here...

In here, in this sanctuary, you were you and Namjoon was Namjoon.

Staff and all those who worked within the palace grounds knew exactly what the two of you were. How much you two meant to each other.

Whispers went about but neither of you paid much heed, even if it caused more than its fair share of trouble at times.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Namjoon asked, noticing how your relaxed brow returned to it’s familiar scrunched-up look.

Chuckling, you kept your eyes closed as you exhaled once more. “You know very well I don’t need money.”

“Okay then,” he huffed, “a kiss for your thoughts?”

One eye opened at his proposition, brow above it quirking as you smirked. “Holding those lips hostage, now?”

A large hand enveloped one of yours, giving it a tight squeeze as he sported a lopsided grin of his own. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

You loved seeing him smile, trying to etch the curve of his lips, the dip of his cupid’s bow, the two tiny valleys of dimples.

Using the thumb if your other hand, which had placed the dying cigar on a nearby glass ashtray, you caressed the knuckles of Namjoon’s hand. “Nothing, my love. Just the same as last week.”

The muscular man leaned in closer, whispering faintly in your ear, “and remind me of what that would be...”

His breath smelled of the exotic fruits he just finished eating and all you wanted to do was see how many you could taste on his tongue.

“How much I love my country,” you teased with a sly look, something you loved to do, and you knew that he did too. Probably why his lips lingered over yours, barely brushing together, and before you could kiss him properly, Namjoon abruptly pulled away.

Sat back in his seat, the taller man chuckled at your rouge cheeks and furrowed brow. “I promised you a kiss, only if you told me what you were really thinking.”

As much as you cared him, what had been lingering in your mind was not something he should know yet. Not how stressed you were, not how your advisors had pressed for you to marry someone soon and sire an heir, now that you were of age.

While one faction--led by Seokjin and Jimin, the Secretary of State and Lord Treasurer respectively--had pushed for you to marry the sole Astopian Prince, Jungkook, another faction of advisors (led by Hoseok, the Captain of the Royal Guard, and Taehyung, the Lord Chamberlain) wanted you to marry a noble from the country you govern.

These were you’re most trusted and efficient advisors, but the headaches they have been giving you make you dread to think of how much worse it would be with others in their position instead of them.

Sure, you’ve met the Prince who hails from the Jeon dynasty that has ruled the Astopian Peninsula for many centuries. Conquering copious amounts of land despite not being coronated yet.  An over-talented man with an ego too big for you to handle.

Safe to say you weren’t a fan of the idea of being tied to the childish person.

And then the nobility...

All those beasts wanted were two things: the jewelled crown on your head and the golden throne you occupy.

It was one of the reasons why the advisors were so pushy lately--people wanted your strength and your nation, and with no direct legitimate heir, your position became more unstable.

It was shown when you had to squash rebellions to overthrow you with a distant cousin or half-sibling you had no idea existed until you heard of their claim to the throne.

Either Father sure was promiscuous or they did well to cover their lies.

But there was only one man right for you, and he was happily tasting the strawberries you had requested just for him. Servants couldn’t get the quantity or quality of food of your palette. Filled your heart to see him try all the things your taste buds had now grown used to.

“May I lay with you? Just for a little while?”

He didn’t ask why. He didn’t need to.

Not because you were his Queen, but because he understood you. Knew you had more weight on your shoulders than any other in the country.

So Namjoon did what he he could to ease the burden, letting you lay your head on his chest once you both moved to your bed. Calloused fingertips, rough from a hard day’s work, brushed between silky strands of hair that cascaded down.

“Namjoon…” You could feel his hum vibrating through his chest as he continued to run his finger through your locks, gently untangling them. “Would you marry me?”

If he was shocked from your sudden question, he did not show it.

In fact, he wasn’t surprised at all. Despite how well you were trying to keep it from him--he would have to commemorate you for your efforts--he was still a part of the servants workforce. And servants talk.

“If we could... then yes.” His lips pressed against your scalp for a sweet kiss, mumbling, “would marry you in a heartbeat.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I love you.”

“Sometimes love isn’t enough for a marriage to work.”

Namjoon knew what you meant. A classic example of this case would be your parents, the previous King and the late Queen. Your mother slandered for being unable to bare any healthy children save for you, the rest of them unable to live past five years of age.

Their marriage was one of love, you had heard, but after her complicated fertility issues and the pressure of a nation on their heads, things turned sour.

You saw how two loving parents become bitter and died cursing each other with their last breaths.

“You’re right... but we’ve been able to work together well before we fell in love. We’re familiar with each other, how the other works. Their needs and wants. I won’t let us end up as a heap of melted wax, our passion and care for each other burnt out. And I know for a fact you won’t either.”

You heard him through the rumbles in his chest, finding the warmth of both his body and his words comforting to you.

“Be mine and mine only,” you muttered as your lids grew heavy, shutting from exhaustion.

Noticing this immediately, Namjoon chuckled to himself.

“As if I was made for anyone else.”

“--and make sure to increase the taxes on the fishermen in certain areas of the coast as well as lessen them in others. I hear the marine life is becoming scarce these days along the eastern seaboard and to replenish it, we should encourage the fishermen to avoid those areas of concern.”

“Yes, your majesty. That sounds like an excellent solution,” Seokjin said, though not at all surprised you came up with it (even if it sounds simple when you say it out loud). To him--as well as the rest of your court--you did more than an exceptional job at governing your state.

You were the best monarch they had seen in a very long time.

Only, there was one issue, and you were well aware of it.

Breathing slowly, you looked at your council, dreading the words you were going to say next, because the touchy topic was going to be brought up sooner or later.

“Is there anything else on our agenda today?”

The Lord Chamberlain cleared his throat. “Other than the daily workload, there is only one matter left for discussion, your majesty.”

“And what would that be, Taehyung?” you sighed, slight hint of sarcasm laced in the tired tone you spoke in.

“Your marriage.” Seeing you roll you eyes only fired him up more. “You really need to decide! Do you want to completely secure your throne?”

“What about marriage is so important that my throne is insecure without it?” you burst out, not being able to hold in your frustration. “There have been Kings in the past who have lived their entire reign in peace without tying the knot with another, so why me?!”

“Because your a Queen, not a King!” Jimin yelled back, his old habits of arguing with you while you two were younger beginning to kick in. “We all know you’re more than capable of of ruling by yourself, but others still have their old-fashioned way of thinking! They believe that without a legitimate heir from you, your throne is theirs for the taking!”

Hoseok rested his hand on the red-faced man’s shoulder, pushing him back down in his seat from which he left as he argued with you. “What we’re trying to say, your majesty, is that the world’s attitudes are years behind ours. They’ll keep coming for your head if you don’t produce a legitimate heir, and the only way you can do that is if you marry.”

Grunting with frustration, you stormed out of the room, rushing to your bedchambers.

Felt lightheaded. From the advisors, from the world, for the corset restricting your breathing. Too many thoughts rushing through your head, you didn’t see Namjoon following behind you with concern hidden beneath a blank expression.

It was only until you stopped to open the door to your bedchambers did you realise he was right behind you. “Leave me to rest,” you spoke firmly, remembering to maintain the roles of servant and Queen even if you two were at the boundary of sanctuary.

Wanting to say more but being unable to have the freedom to say it while you both were in the doorway, Namjoon simply sighed and stood outside as you closed the door on his face.

Threw yourself on the bed, hoping for some miracle that will allow you to knock out there and then.

First, you needed to breathe. You needed air into your lungs to stop the dizziness.

“In... Out...” You hear someone speaking from your mind, louder, yet more soothing than the rest. Namjoon’s deep voice lulling you from a past memory.

“In... Out...” You followed as instructed, listening to his advise to settle your pounding heart.

“In... Out,” you repeated alongside his voice in your head, finding your beating organ relax bit by bit until it returned to normal.

Squeaking of the hinges had not brought you out of the trance you were in, but the dip in your bed under a person’s weight did.

“Don’t mind me,” Yoongi said as he lay beside you, his arms crossed behind his head, “your servant let me in.”

“Of course he did,” you smiled. Namjoon knew that if he was not allowed to comfort you, then someone else would have to in his stead--and there was no one better than the Foreign Secretary.

Yoongi--like some of your councillors--had grown up with you. He knew you like the back of his pale hand, and he was the only advisor you completely trusted.

Others had lost that level in pursuit of their own ambitions; he was the only one who fought against you appointing him for his role, wanting to stay in the shadows--something he had grown accustomed to.

Only when you explained that his real job would be your Spymaster did he agree. It was the shadows he was used to, and you weren’t going to fully rip him away from his comfort zone.

After a few minute of laying side by side in silence, you began to spill your thoughts.

“No one has any idea how painful this position is. Nor how bothersome getting the throne was in the first place. Now they want me to marry and relinquish my power after everything I had sacrificed to get and maintain it. Want nobles and Princes that would just overrule me and ruin this nation I brought back from the ashes like a phoenix.”

Attempting to gulp down the lump rising in your throat, you just couldn’t stop.

“After the shitshow my parents and my forefathers had turned this place into, I returned it to it’s rightful glory. It became a mythical beast because of my efforts, and now they demand I marry a man who would mistreat me and my people, as if we were mere deer or rabbits rather than powerful, fiery birds of the sun.”

Silent tears rolled down the sides of your face, the muffled drops on the sheet being the only sound indicating to your advisor that you were indeed crying since his eyes were closed.

“What do I do, Yoongi?” you begged in a small voice, not to an official of your court but your childhood friend. “How can I marry someone who cares more for power than they do for me? More than my people? How could I marry when the whole of my heart belongs to another?”

“Well, that’s easy,” he replied--already knowing exactly who you were talking about--not even opening his eyes as you turned you head to see him, awaiting his explanation. “Just marry the person your heart belongs to.”

Glaring at him, you spat, “if it was that easy, don’t you think I would have done it already?”

“Don’t lash out at me like you did to Taehyung and Jimin. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You’re my advisor and you fail to give me advise--”

“I just did--”

“Advise that I can use.”

Opening one eye, he looked at your annoyed face. “I told you before that I didn’t want to be an advisor.”

“Well I couldn’t just let you stay in the gardens your entire life. You need people skills, and to do that, you need to socialise with things that can actually speaks,” you threw your arms up, gesturing to nothing in particular just to emphasis your point, tears dried. “Besides, I prefer your company and council over the rest.”

Yoongi was not one for taking compliments--it was an unusual and unfamiliar task for him, especially if it didn’t come from you--so he stayed silent from the next few minutes.

“Who said it? That you can’t marry the person you love?”

You snorted at his stupid comment. “Everyone, Yoongi. Everyone.”

“Really?” He clicked his tongue. “That’s strange. I’ve never heard anyone say those words to you directly, and I’m the Spymaster.” He saw how you gnawed on your lip, eroding away the ruby lipstick until you finally got what he said.

Rapidly propping your body on your elbow, you snapped your face to look at him. “Are you suggesting I just marry who I want anyway?”

“Well, yeah, that is what I said at the start.”

Sent him a pointed look. “You know there’s gonna be a lot of opposition.”

“So? You’ll face opposition if you choose one faction over the other. You already face it daily anyway, so I don’t see the point in fretting over it. At least this way, you can live your life with the person you love the most.” 

For the first time during the entire conversation, Yoongi’s face softened as he sat up with you, taking your hands in his as a comforting gesture. They weren’t Namjoon’s hands--certainly weren’t as big or warm--but they did the trick.

“Listen, the only reason they’re pushing for a marriage with a nobleman or a foreign prince is because they want to milk this opportunity for all it can be. An advantageous marriage, that’s all they’re looking for.”

“But their main issue can simply be resolved with an heir.”

“Exactly. You can have a legitimate heir with the person you love, regardless of his status. All you have to do is marry him.”

Bursts of happiness bloomed in you, showing your smile and rosy cheeks, in your thumping heart and rushing blood. Unable to contain it, you pounced on your old friend. “God bless you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Don’t thank me,” he chuckled, with his own ruddy cheeks, “Besides, I never approved of those half-baked fools they offered to you. Especially Prince Jungkook.”

Releasing him from your tight hold, you looked at him fondly. “Would’ve been a pain in my ass if I really had married him.”

“Mine too,” he shuddered at the thought, “Rather have someone I know marry you than an arrogant stranger that I have to learn how to speak respectfully to.”

“You should be used to it!” You lightly hit his arm. “You’re the Foreign Secretary! It’s your job to talk to arrogant strangers.”

“And I dread every meeting,” he grimaced.

“...so it would be wise to change the systems in the areas that are being raided. For those most at risk, use all you can to protect our citizens. Place more guards and use stronger, more-resistant building materials for reconstruction, and also see if you can build an underground shelter for the people to take refuge in, stocked with supplies.”

“Wonderful, your majesty,” Seokjin said, scribbling down what you said in his little notebook. “We’ll begin that immediately.”

“Good,” you said, leaning back in your chair, which was significantly bigger and fancier than the others. “Is there,” you sighed, still not ready for the conversation to come. “Is there anything else on today’s agenda?”

“You know very well what we’re going to say, your majesty.” Your eyes landed on Jimin, who was much more calmer than last week.

“Yes, I know.” Briefly, your eyes shot to Yoongi, who was sat opposite to you on the large, round, spruce table. Puff of air pushed out of your lungs as you cracked your knuckles as a way to release the tension in your fingers. “How about this? State your cases; who you nominate to be my husband...”

Taehyung was smart, so he caught your hesitation. “But..?”

“But I have conditions of my own. Two, to be exact. Nothing exactly difficult.”

Hoseok scratched his head, feeling somewhat happy you’re not avoiding this topic as usual but also slightly suspicious.

“You main argument for me to get married is so I can have a legitimate heir, right?” Mumbles of agreement erupted around the room. “Good. So my first condition would be that whoever I marry won’t be King, they will be my consort.”

“But that’s unorthodox,” Seokjin piped in, more as if it was a passing thought than a counter-point.

“So would you rather me marry and then be overruled?” Your brow quirked, challenging them. Standing, you looked around, leaning your weight on the hands on the table.

“All of us here know that I am more than capable of ruling--you even said it yourself, Jimin. I know I can handle the weight of the country on my shoulders. Have been since I was 15, and I won’t allow some officious idiot ruin what I’ve build from the ground up.”

None of the advisors said another word on the matter since they knew you were right. Their Queen knew the country inside-out and having another person who had less experience or was not so familiar with the customs of the nation become more powerful was certainly a recipe for disaster.

“Very well,” Seokjin muttered. “Your second condition, your majesty?”

“This one may be a bit more challenging for you to follow, but it is just as important as the last.”

“And that is...?” Hoseok pried.

“After I choose, there will be no arguing. The monarch’s word is final and you should treat it as such. Once the decision is made, all of you--regardless of personal opinions--will have to greet the Consort with respect since they will become a part of the Royal Family.”

Carefully crafted words made the others oblivious to your plan. All but Yoongi.

“I think it’s safe to say that we all agree to your quite reasonable conditions, don’t we?” Taehyung looked around the room to see if anyone would object to his statement and, luckily, no one did.

Sitting back down on your seat with a silent groan, you waved your hand to signal the start of the debate. “Finish this matter by noon.”

With no further need for delay, the talks began. Seokjin, Jimin, and a few others opted for Prince Jungkook on the basis that he held power and knowledge, while trade and relations between the two countries would be much better.

An argument that you could handle without being married to him by simply being his friend and whatnot--but you of course kept this to yourself.

Various others began to offer you more local choices of husbands; lords, earls, dukes and the like. Hoseok and Taehyung both wished for the Duke of Lysia as he held a lot of support from the people, understanding of the country and culture and had retainers for your army should you need them.

It was as if they had forgotten you had no need for more love from your people since almost every single one already supported you. Also letting the fact that it would be treason if the Duke didn’t raise his retainers for your army upon your orders slip their minds.

But as the two sides died down, you looked at your Foreign Secretary. “You’ve been awfully quite, Min. Do you have someone’s name to put forth?”

“Yes, I do, your majesty,” he said quietly, appearing to be uninterested but you knew better.

Chuckling beneath your breath at his coldness, though never letting the smile become visible, you cocked a brow. “And who would that be?”

“Kim Namjoon. Your personal servant.”

“This is preposterous!” Jimin yelled, slamming his fist on the polished spruce.

You lifted your hand up to silence the Lord Treasurer, glaring eyes reminding him of your second condition before returning to question Yoongi. “On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that you both love each other.” He tilted his head to the side, yawning.

“Also on the grounds that he too is familiar with the royal customs and culture of this country, not to mention that he normally overhears what goes on in important meetings--excluding this one, of course. You confide in him and he has never broken your trust, despite how well he is within the servants--who often tend to chatter amongst themselves. He knows the ins and outs of the place and already unofficially aids you in decision-making.”

He licked his lips. “And, most importantly, he is fertile so you can sir a legitimate heir.”

“But what about his lack of power?” the Captain of the Royal Guard countered.

“He knows how to move with the people. The lad keeps his ear close to ground and is smarter than he looks. Besides, none of this matters since he’ll be a consort anyway, not a King.” Yoongi lazily shot back, killing Hoseok’s argument.

Silence grew over the room as each pair of eyes looked in your direction, already knowing the decision deep in their hearts. “A five minute recess is required.”

The advisors all stood as you did, only taking their seats again once you had left the room and the double oak doors shut behind you.

“How was the meeting, your majesty? Was awfully long this time. Any difficulties?” Namjoon enquired, not knowing what exactly went on.

Without answering him, you walked to a nearby empty room, with him trailing just behind. Turning on your heel, you held his arms, intensely looking in his eyes. “Did you mean it? When you said you would marry me if you could?”

Knowing that the two of you were hidden in a temporary haven, he gazed lovingly at you, caressing your cheek with his rough hands that only seemed to sooth you. “Of course I did, my love.”

“And if I could make that happen? Today? What would you say?”

As if he ate multiple salted crackers, Namjoon found his mouth dry up instantly. “What?”

Seeing his hesitation, you fought back the bad thoughts, the lump in your throat, the storm brewing in your stomach. “What would you say?” you pressed again, much harder than last time.

“I-I...I can’t.”

Tears tried to spring into your eyes, the sheer willpower you had to stop them from showing made your eyes burn. “Why?” Your tone turned stiff and stone-cold. He hated that--hearing you talk to him without emotion.

“Because it would mean I would have to become King. Although I want to lessen the burden you carry by your lonesome, I can’t take away the power you fought so hard to keep. Can’t be a ruler this nation and you deserve.”

Water began to spill as you closed your eyes, a sigh of relief escaping past your lips as your legs gave out under you. Luckily Namjoon was there to catch you. Lifted you from the ground and place you gently on a nearby chair. “You should really explain before you finish.”

His brows furrowed, kneeling down in front of you as he looked up to see your soft smile that had his heart beating just a fraction faster. “Should know better than to doubt my love for you at this point,” Namjoon whispered against the cold skin of your hands that he held in his own warmer ones.

Chortling lightly, you leaned to rest your forehead against his. “I really should, shouldn’t I?” Biting the lower flesh of your lip, you continued. “Would you reconsider if I said you’d only be my consort? Not a King?”

Could feel his lips stretch into a smile as it was still pressed against your knuckles. “If that’s the case, then definitely.”

“Good,” you grinned, standing up as you noticed the time on the clock. Wiping away the tears, you checked to see if you were decent in one of the mirrors.

Giving his hand a reassuring squeeze, you kissed his cheek. “Time to tell them my decision.”

[cyberiade]

Tropetember day 3: Whump

Silence is much more terrifying than any noise

Genre: Angst: hurt/comfort, whump Warnings/Tags: Loki suffers and has his magic blocked, Odin's behavior resembles the behavior of an abusive parent, and he misgenders Loki. If you think this might trigger you, I think reading something else might be better! Summary: Loki is cursed by their father and cannot hear the people who pray to them anymore. Word count: 1197 A/n: Loki's pronouns there are they/them, if you have a problem with it, fight me!

Odin's voice boomed through palace corridors, making those who heard it curl in themselves (or wish they were able to) and feel pity for the person his rage is directed at. Everybody who has ever hear of the god knew how he could make anybody's heart halt just by frowning, how he could make the bravest warriors shake in fear. In the furthest corners of his kingdom, where people were half-sure he wouldn't hear them, there were whispers about his years of conquering other realms, passed by word of mouth for generations.

Loki knew it all - after they found out what the man did, they travelled around all nine realms, searching and helping the victims of his other crimes. Yet, they stood right before him, unwavering, facing the Allfather's fury with a deadpan, not allowing themself to quiver, even mentally (no matter how much they wanted to).

"-not to mention how irresponsible, dishonorable, reckless, foolish-" they tuned his tirade out, listening to the whispered prayers, coming in a steady flow of sound, surrounding him, guarding like a blanket, offering something to hold on to even in the darkest pits of prison cells they was thrown in, when the Mad Titan had them under his control it gave them a reason to believe there was good to protect in the world they were supposed to attack.

To some, it might been selfish to do good only because somebody asked them to, and because it made them feel better, but Loki didn't care. A good deed was good, no matter what the intentions were.

They lost the track of time, lost in warm thanks, asks and tales of mischief their followers done, until they felt somebody shake their shoulders, saliva splattering over their face. Loki's senses slowly caught up to reality, seeing the man's furious face up close made cold spikes of terror run through their whole body.

"-that's it! You're going to listen to me when I speak! I'm sick of your disrespect!" he stepped away, his anger morphing to dissapointment, "I expected better of my son," Loki barely stopped themself from flinching, "and now I need to punish you. Again. Didn't you learn from your previous punishments? Where did that smarts of yours go now, huh?" The man took a few steps back and outstretched his arms. A golden glow sprouted from his hands, morphing into chains that started wrapping around Loki's head, then their whole body.

"I didn't want to do this, but you give me no choice, son."

Loki shut their eyes, grimacing in pain, unable to hold up their calm facade any longer. The white, hot pain spread around their body, consuming their own power and using it to bind their abilities. Loki clenched their teeth, not wanting to give the man the satisfaction of making them scream and beg.

After an hour (or was it five minutes) of this torture, it all stopped. Was it not for the weather outside, Loki would think the time was put to halt.

They laid on the palace floor, trembling from the effort and pain, silent tears running down their cheeks. The binds were clutching their body tightly, they were definitely going to leave bruises, and if they weren't careful, the chains would probably draw blood.

It wasn't what hurt the most, though.

It was the silence ringing in their ears, cold, merciless, and so, so lifeless. They tried to reach out for the whispers, but nothing came, not even an equivalent to what Midgardians called static.

They reached for their magic, but couldn't feel it.

No. Even their father wouldn't be as cruel-

"Your tricks won't work anymore, not until you learn your lesson." After that, the man walked away, leaving them alone.

Frankly, Loki was surprised that he didn't stay and watch them struggle, but they were glad the man left. Being in that position felt humiliating enough alone, but they were sure they wouldn't handle being watched.

When they were sure Odin was away, they broke down in ugly sobs, eyes letting out a flood of tears despite being tightly shut.

They made their way through the golden palace floor, half-crawling with the little movement space they had left before they heard somebody's steps. They closed their eyes, the shame they felt skyrocketing, only darkening the blush caused by crying.

"Loki?" their brother's voice was quiet and unsure, if they didn't know any better they would say Thor was worried or even scared.

Loki tried to keep the pitiful whimpers from escaping, but they failed miserably. Suddenly in their was their brother crouching, brows furrowed, empathy swirling in his eyes.

"Is it okay if I pick you up?" he asked, and when Loki nodded, he added "Can I carry you to your room?". The Trickster nodded again, thankful for Thor breaking the dead silence in their ears, even if it sounded a little bit like it was underwater.

Loki didn't even feel the binds digging in their flesh as Thor picked them up. The trip to their room was a blur, only changed by their brother's encouragements and promises they are near their destination. They closed their eyes, and when they opened them again, they were laying on their own bed.

"Loki, do you consent for Mother to tend your wounds after you fall asleep?" they nodded again, but then opened their mouth as to say something, but nothing came. Thor wordlessly put a cup of water to his sibling's lips, silently prompting them to drink.

"Talk... t' me." Loki's voice was still raspy after crying (why didn't they notice when the tears stopped flowing? It didn't matter now...). "No sil'nce." To them, it was humiliating how they could say anything more, but Thor somehow understood, immediately starting to tell a tale of what his costume party Midgard buddies were doing. Loki has dozed off barely twenty minutes into the story, but Thor kept talking, knowing they were sensitive to sound even asleep.

"And then Natasha- Oh, hello mother," the God of Thunder stepped away, letting Frigga work her magic. She hummed a calm song under her breath while she worked the chains open, checking her offspring's vitals. Suddenly she gasped.

"He repressed their seidr." She covered her mouth, feeling nothing but terror over her husband's doing. Thor's eyes widened in shock.

"Is there anything we can do to help them, Mother?"

"I'm unable to break it!" she almost cried out, her voice full of sorrow. Loss of magic was painful for any sorcerer, but for one as advanced as Loki it was life-changing. She never felt more helpless than now: unable to help her own child, or even offer them a source of comfort.

She finished healing them, and exited the chamber with the intention to try and coerce Odin into lifting the spell, or at least leaving Loki a part of their skill. Thor stayed with them, talking until his throat was so sore he wasn't able to make any different noise than a glorified hum. Soon after, he dozed off, his snores the only sound in the room.

Before long, they all would learn silence hurts much more than any sound.

[5lazarus]

Masterlist of My Stories

My Writing

Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday, I post a snippet of what I'm currently working on.

On Mondays, I post the last lines of the stories I'm finishing up, as well as lessons learned from the previous week. I post this under the tag #last line monday and #lessons from the week.

On Wednesdays, I throw up a snippet of fanfiction. I post this under the tag #wip wednesday.

On Fridays, I write at least seven lines of my own stories, either poetry, essays, or fiction. I post this under the tag #seven line friday.

On Sundays, I post at least six lines of fanfic. I post this under the tag #six sentence sunday.

For more information about me, check out my About Me page. I don't answer personal questions unless I share an asklist, I don't take prompts unless I share a promptlist, and I don't keep anonymous asks on. I've also made two promptlists--one a writing challenge, the other a list of poetry prompts! Find my work archived and updated under hes5thlazarus on Archive of Our Own.

Below is a catalogue of my stories, broken down by fandom (Dragon Age, Harry Potter, Star Trek):

My Dragon Age Stories

There Is No Ithaca Three moments where Solas loses his home: Solas wrecks his revolution on the altar of Mythal. Solas returns from war to find Ghilan’nain incubating the Blight within their own home. Fen'Harel negotiates the end of the world with the Thaig of the Bastion of the Pure. Answers to various asks from brightoncemore's wonderful promptlist.

Ultramarine Sylaise attempts to trademark the color blue, initiating a civil war. Fen'Harel disapproves. Felassan, at this point, is just along for the ride. Highlights include: Andruil attempts to create biological weapons out of the conquered children of the stone and sell them to absolutely everyone, Mythal may or may not involve, Solas greatly disapproves, and everyone wants to kill Fen'Harel for disapproving. Also an explanation as to why Solas has to think before answering Sera on whether he has ever pissed magic by accident. Sorta a love story, sorta a comedy, sorta a story about political intrigue--but hey, Solas said Arlathan was even worse than Orlais! A big thank you to potatowitch and isomede for talking me through this and getting me to finish it--and for giving me the best ideas for it.

Overheard at the Hanged Man Thirty-one stories written in Nightmare-mode for Beyond the Veil's 2020 Artober Challenge, ranging through the entire series, from Arlathan before the Blight to the Chargers in Serault.

Alistair the Accidental Heretic Alistair gets bored during morning prayer and starts changing the words of the Chant as he sings. Mother Prudence and Knight-Commander Greagoir are less than pleased, and soon he finds himself tripping up over accidental heresy even within the kitchens of Kinloch Hold. It's not easy, being a half-elf templar with a conscience, because even having a sense of humor is heresy.

The Starkhaven Crier A portrait of two future apostates at ten-year-olds: Jowan and Surana are bored, get dragged to the Chantry for the good of their souls, and accidentally make the new girl from Starkhaven cry. Featuring Surana determined to be the one Dalish against letting the Maker come back, the self-hating mage in the Surana/Amell origin as the Starkhaven Crier, and the same Mother Prudence who sent Alistair to bed without supper. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Morrigan at the Crossroads Morrigan reaches her breaking point, confronted with the one person she cannot flee: her six-week-old son, who cannot be soothed back to sleep, struggling in the Crossroads. From a prompt musettta3 sent me.

Shartan's Riddle Surana talks Mahariel through writing Leliana, after Leliana leaves to work for the Divine. Shartan promised them a home, and Mahariel worries Leliana, devout as she is, cannot give it to her. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Winter in Amaranthine The Wardens' companions decide to leave, and Warden-Commander Arana Mahariel cannot find a reason good enough to tell them no. Meanwhile, letters between the Warden and Leliana get lost in translation, and Arana makes it worse. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Palimpsest Velanna and Sigrun fight some darkspawn, talk around the past, and write some letters. Written as a gift for hellbell, for the Sapphic Solstice 2021 Gift Exchange.

Phosphorescence A Despair demon in the Foundry district is clogging up the whole city with a miasma of misery. Justice runs into an old friend of his, during Anders' first few weeks in Kirkwall, and the three set to work. Heavy-handed allegory abounds, but, Justine opines, that’s the Dreamers’ fault. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Labyrinth "Anders made no attempt at escape during the years they were together." This story is meant to explore everything absolutely horrible about that statement. If the core part of Anders' identity is his refusal to submit to imprisonment, then perhaps listening to Karl was a violation of his sense of self. Things get better, and then things get worse.

Kirkwall Thunderstorm Family squabbling as the storm sets in, Hawke flees to face the thunderstorm head on, and laughs, because what's more to life than this, chasing a storm all the way down to the harbor? From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I've written in 2020.

Debutante Leandra manages Hawke's debut ball, and surprises herself by having a lot of fun. From an OC ask I decided to turn into a prompt.

Dregs Anders baits Varric, or Varric baits Anders, both drunk at the Hanged Man. There's no resolution to an argument when they're both just angry, thinking about dead mages. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I've written in 2020.

The Scent of Pomegranates Merrill brings a pomegranate to the Hanged Man, to try and capture some of the way her clan celebrated the new year. Fenris is oddly moved. Written for the DA Den's 2020 Holiday Gift Exchange.

Anders in Autumn Anders and Fenris, over the course of one gorgeous autumn in Kirkwall, find common ground, a common goal, and even tenderness, as the city grows cool and vibrant in the changing of the year. Justice returns to the streets of Kirkwall, one way or another, and it is as transformative and loving as justice truly is. An answer to an Artober challenge from cozy-autumn-prompts

Warp & Weft Anders wakes Fenris up in the middle of the night talking, and then not wanting to talk, about weaving. What they remember and what they have forgot climb into the bed with them. A gift for potatowitch.

Landlocked Merrill goes looking for Isabela after a night of drinking at the Hanged Man, and finds her considering the sun rising over the horizon at the docks. They're landlocked and the salt's drained them both dry, but maybe it's not all been a waste. They're shipless, not shipwrecked. Part of a personal challenge to write more femslash, after realizing how little there is in Dragon Age fandom.

Love and Red Ink Varric tries his hand at a more literary Bildungsroman about his youth as a Kirkwall bohemian. Bianca tears it apart, editing for his own good. Sometimes love is in the margins, your almost ex-girlfriend telling you--I wasn't that pretty, when I was that young.

The Most Boring Sex Party in All Orlais Josephine and Leliana both admit the night they met ended with someone's smallclothes pinned to the Chanter's Board--but what happened right before? Josephine says, “I have played the Game before, and understand its cutthroat stakes. But I must admit, I never thought I would witness the opening salvo of a coup at the most boring sex party of all Orlais.”

Catabasis Kirkwall's in ashes and Hawke and their friends are on the run. Varric might have ended the story at the docks, but the conflict continues. The question persists: should they separate? And what brought them together in the first place? From a series of prompts ellie-effie and musetta3 sent me.

The Domestics Alistair runs into an older elven woman on the battlements, watching the children play in the Skyhold courtyard below. They get to talking: isn't it nice that the mages get to keep their children now? Then, in the course of the conversation, Alistair figures it out. Alistair says, “I always wondered. What my life would’ve been like, if she could’ve kept me. I always kinda knew she didn’t have a choice. King’s bastards are the king’s, not whoever carried them. If she were a servant and if I’d end up in the kitchens or, better yet, the dairy. I really like cheese. But if she were a mage, I guess we never had any of that. Unless she ran away.”

The Bane of Red Crossing In the astrarium cave in the Storm Coast with Inquisitor Lavellan, Cole, and Solas, Sera opens a chest and finds a beautiful bow, named the Bane of Red Crossing. But what is the Bane of Red Crossing? According to the codex: "Ser Yves de Chevac used this bow in the Exalted March against the Dales – specifically, in the liberation of Val Royeaux, where the chevalier famously struck down the elven forces' commander with a shot to the throat at two hundred feet." Lavellan is not pleased, but does not know how to communicate effectively with Sera. Cole and Solas make it worse. Sometimes there is no adequate resolution, when you are faced with the instrument of your great-grandparents' destruction. Sometimes there is nothing that disinterested compassion can say.

To the Victor the Spoils In the Skyhold gardens, in Adamant's wake, Solas meets Loghain. A character study of two trickster-kings, speaking a little too honestly. As Loghain himself says, "The past is always with us. It’s in our bones and our blood and we wear it on our skin. You can think otherwise, but you’ll never get far without it."

Dead Man Hiking Solas broods over what has been lost. Dorian interrupts, and Solas dangles hidden knowledge in front of him like a carrot. They both take the bait, because, as irritable and sad Solas can get, "he wants to give wisdom, not orders," and Dorian loves to learn. Written for Beyond the Veil's 2020 Satinalia Gift Exchange.

So Much Lore! So Much Information! Dorian has a wonderful conversation with the Skyhold Librarian about improvements to the library's filing system and the innovations coming out of Minrathous when Vivienne comes by and points out he's just talking to himself. He's been waxing rhapsodic about the Tevinter equivalent of the Dewey decimal system to a spirit--or maybe a demon. So clearly they must investigate.

Dirthara Ma! May You Learn After the Exalted Council, Solas stops for a drink and a sulk in a quiet tavern in Ostwick. He is convinced no one will ever recognize him with a full head of hair and a beard. Then the Inquisitor walks in. The first in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series.

White Nights A year after Trespasser, Lavellan takes a new lover to a quiet inn in Val Royeaux. She steps out to the balcony for a quick smoke under the stars, looks over to the balcony adjacent to hers--and who is there but the Dread Wolf himself, slightly disguised, with a glass of wine? Despite themselves they talk, and do not stop talking. “Entertain me,” Solas says. “What ending will Master Tethras write for us? Because I do not know how to leave this gracefully. Though I suppose any ending is better than the last one, when I left with your arm.” The second and most comprehensive in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I've written in 2020.

Ligaments Briala has loaded her dice when playing the Game. Gaspard throws her in prison, but her message goes out to both the Dread Wolf, keen to better his reputation for catastrophe amongst the elves of Orlais, and the Dalish Inquisitor, who is still reeling from the loss of her arm. “We do not necessarily know he is the enemy,” Leliana says. “And it is exciting, no? To have that rush of danger and destruction between every kiss.” The third in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I've written in 2020.

Out From Under the Dread Wolf's Eye Briala and Merrill try and steal an eluvian out from under the Dread Wolf's eye. It doesn't quite work, but that doesn't mean the day's a failure, not when there's dinner to be had and a connection to explore. Written as a gift for hellbell, for a prompt they gave for the Sapphic Solstice 2021 Gift Exchange, but not submitted to the collection.

The Domesticities Solas adjust to a new, gentle love that has gripped his heart and will not let him go: a Lavellan who heralds a world he did dream of, and learns how to survive grief and his own betrayal, learns how to surrender the high moral ground and focus on the domesticities. A series of Solas-POV ficlets from my story, Fen'Harel's Teeth, where Lavellan is a mother and leader in her own right, and barely keeping her head above the water of her own deep grief. Not in chronological order!

He Who Hunts Alone Solas will restore the Elvhen People as he knew them, even if this world must die. It is his only purpose as he understands it. But a magical accident leaves him in another world, where a version of himself has made a very different choice. Solas is forced to reckon with a desire he has never let himself explore. Inquisitor Tara Trevelyan, both his friend and adversary, is dragged with him, as they move from their world, to a world where Solas seems to have won it all, to another that seems both their worst nightmare. Inquisitor Tara Trevelyan: the rebel apostate mage, romanced Josephine Inquisitor Imladris Lavellan: the Dalish First, romanced Solas, featured in Fen'Harel's Teeth Inquisitor Brigid Trevelyan: the faithful Andrastian prophet, rogue and noble, Tara's sister, romanced Blackwall and then Cullen Written in tandem with my partner, batsy22-me, and likewise abandoned when we got bored of it.

Fen'Harel's Teeth First Lavellan, Imladris Ashallin, thought that her audience with the Divine against templars' harassment of Dalish mages would be a token protest, and that her people would use it to draw the city elves closer to the Vir Tanadahl. She didn't think her Keeper's calculations would catapult her to the top of the Chantry's leadership, manipulating the powers of Thedas to leave her people be. Meanwhile, Briala foments revolution in Halamshiral, using the eluvian network to sabotage the armies of Orlais. A new movement erupts in the Dales, and elves across Thedas look at this so-called "Herald of Andraste" and see Mythal's vallaslin. Fiona breaks the chains of mages across Thedas, and Fenris starts whispers of a new age in Tevinter--one where the slaves throw down their masters. A new age is coming, and all of Thedas look to Lavellan to usher it in. My baby, my never-ending story, my current work-in-progress.

My Harry Potter Stories

Harry Potter Daydreams Archiving my old Harry Potter headcanons from Tumblr onto AO3. These are not necessarily nice to the characters from canon, and focus what I find interesting--their flaws, and how that could create conflict in their lives.

General Snape Headcanons Archiving my old Harry Potter headcanons from Tumblr onto AO3.

Augury Gang Eileen's mother curses her, and she dies not too long after giving birth to Severus. Tobias, a millworker and a proud union man, does his best.

Snape in the City Instead of dying, Snape moves to New York. A Severus Snape/Narcissa Malfoy and Severus Snape/Regulus Black story.

An Incident at the Mill the millrat AU A series of vignettes on what could’ve happened if Tobias Snape had been badly injured in an accident at the mill, forcing Severus to drop out of Hogwarts before the Prank. Predominantly Lilycentric. Snily shippers, rejoice: most of the vignettes are from Lily’s point of view, featuring her as flawed, passionate, bullheaded, comfortable in her sexuality, quick to curse and quicker to laugh at herself–and with a complicated relationship to alcohol and the Wizarding World. A big thank you to eleniaz and deathdaydungeon for sparking the initial headcanons that became this series.

Saplings 1980 Albus asks Minerva to tend to the "tender new sapling" of a Potions Master. Minerva looks at the manic-triggered recovered Death Eater and thinks they're doomed for failure. Snape thinks she's right. A couple of friendship & mentorship & not-quite hurt/comfort ficlets, where Severus oozes despair and McGonagall fails, completely, utterly, to be of service. There are two pieces of fanart floating around Snapedom, one of Snape oozing, the other a comic eleniaz did years ago. Unfortunately I've lost the links.

Harry Potter and the Summer of the Stepfather In an alternate world where Neville Longbottom is the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter's parents divorce relatively amicably. Eventually, Lily starts dating again, and Harry finds himself actually enjoying the summer Snape stays over.

Last Round at the Hog's Head Thirty-one ficlets written for the 2020 Snapetober challenge.

Your Body's a Revolution Eight stories written for the 2020 Trans Snape Week challenge.

July 1977 Snape stews in teenage melodrama, eating lunch at a cheap fish-and-chips shop in Upper Cokeworth, beset by memories of a wasted ex-girlfriend, who couldn't be Lily Evans--what Bertha Jorkins saw behind the greenhouses, and what came after. Revised from an earlier account, cross-posted from fanfiction.net.

Maleficari's Mutinous Munitions Sprout grew the wrong kind of mandrakes--mandragora, rather than English mandrakes, and no one knew that there actually was an infinitesimal difference--so Severus needs to save the day before Lockhart can. A little of Slytherin cunning, a willingness to embezzle, and a sense of spite wins the day. Prompted by masaotheheckindog.

Honeydukes Horror Remus Lupin genially humiliates Severus Snape as he attempts to order chocolates. Some schoolboy grudges never get better, and nothing Severus can say will let him seem the better man. Prompted by snapescapades.

Weavers Bored before the start of sixth year, Harry goes through Petunia's old family photo albums. He demands some answers, and Dumbledore sends Snape. "He finds a photo of her laughing with a boy who is not his father, who’s got his long black hair and a hand thrown up, too, covering his face. She’s about his age in this photo, or a bit older. Carefully he slides it out of the plastic. There’s writing on the back: 'Weavers, Sev & Lily, 1976. to Baba O’Riley and the rest of our lives!!' The writing is familiar, spidery, almost indecipherable, and he squints because it reminds him of someone, it’s strangely familiar, and then he drops the photo in shock. Because he knows: that’s Severus Snape."

They Call This Closure? Severus comes to consciousness into a dream of Potter reenacting his worst memory-and then Lily Evans comes tearing in at age sixteen, rather than as the more mature adult his subconscious normally designs her. They call this closure? Officially dead, officially incomplete: and I call this closure?

Harry Potter and the Cursed Mark Triple-cross! Mitarashi Anko of the Village Hidden in the Leaves joins Severus Snape as one of Dumbledore's agents, seeking to train the Boy-Who-Lived to understand his mental connection to Lord Voldemort. Snape thinks that they really didn't need to hire a goddamn technicolor ninja to fill the DADA position, but at least it's not one of Fudge's underlings taking charge--wait, he has to put up with her anyway? More seriously, Anko and Severus discover a connection between their cursed marks and the Potter boy's scar, Dumbledore expedites the plot, and Voldemort weaves an insidious plot, inspired by Lord Orochimaru, to take over the Resistance--from the inside. Incomplete and officially dead.

My Star Trek Stories

Raktajino Kira Nerys stews over the history of Terok Nor and the Occupation over a cup of raktajino, soon after she meets Marritza, and Garak just does not know when to leave a bleeding wound alone. Written as a gift for batsy22-me.

Open Mic at Quark's Thirty-one stories written for Trektober 2020, ranging from TOS, the movies, to Lower Decks and Discovery. Includes Keiko joining the Maquis, Spock introducing Amanda to Saavik, Mariner and crew getting lost on a road trip, and more!

Splash Quark takes a dip in a hot spring. Odo follows. It is not, Odo insists, sexy. Regardless, Quark is going to enjoy tormenting him with mutual nudity, since he was the one who interrupted his bath, after all. Prompted by saathiray.

Lore and the Prophets Lore thinks he can sneak off Deep Space Nine and get through the wormhole without anyone noticing. The Prophets have other ideas. Written for the Star Trek 2020 Gift Exchange, for electricsunrise.

Jambalaya Before Worf's wedding plans take over the station, Benjamin Sisko tries to find out what happened during the Founders' occupation of Deep Space Nine, and why Odo won't look him in the eye. Of course he investigates in the guise of inviting everyone to dinner.

Tear of the Prophets Was prompted by saathiray to write about Kira Nerys repatriating an artifact sacred to Bajor from Cardassia, and this is what we got! The Shakaar cell leads a procession after Cardassia returns the Orb of Contemplation to Bajor, to collective joy. Kai Opaka says, "So I say to you my people, the survivors of atrocity and keepers of the wormhole—the Prophets cried for you millennia before you were made. They sent their Tears from their temple as a safeguard as to what was to come. And now that it is safe, now that we have won—their Tears are for all." Featuring Latha having an Orb experience, explaining why he became a vedek.

Jane Austen Book Club Dukat reads Pride and Prejudice to help him understand human relations (and fuck the Sisko). He thinks he’s being Darcy but really, he’s just Mr. Collins…and evil. Garak lends him a copy of Jane Austen and a horrific cravat, and really, it's all downhill from there.

Miscellaneous Stories

Fireworks, a feminist deconstruction of Naruto Sarada takes one look at the Uchiha legacy and decides she wants no part of it. Sakura, who has built herself a life independent of the husband who abandoned them, tries to reckon with how her daughter cannot actually decide the path her life takes. And Hanabi is happy to offer advice and consolation, as Sakura tries to talk her best friends into letting Sarada be a civilian. A feminist deconstruction of Naruto, where everyone is taken seriously and treated with the same love Sakura offers to all her friends. No character-bashing, just contemplating what could have happened if, when Sasuke left Sakura and their baby the second time, Sakura decided to file for divorce rather than wait for him to come back. Of course they still love each other. Of course it's not simple.

Same Time Next Week?, a Babylon 5 fanfic Vir and Lennier meet for their usual drink. A pre-relationship, lightest of touches, beginning of it all story.

Sunrise, Parabellum, a Disco Elysium fanfic Early Wednesday morning, before Harry's woken up and before they've closed the water lock and headed to the fishing village, Kim Kitsuragi gets up and wants a cigarette. He has a cup of coffee instead and contemplates his partner's newfound sobriety. Sunrise, parabellum: he gets up and prepares for war.

Dragon Eyes, an Avatar: the Last Airbender fanfic On a diplomatic mission to the Fire Nation, Katara leaves the children with Aang to have tea with Zuko and Mai. But the two of them have something they want to talk about. They've lived enough of fathers neglecting one child for the other, and they have seen enough. Katara wishes they had propositioned her, rather than bring this up.

Cages, an Avatar: the Last Airbender fanfic Mai visits Azula. It is not easy.

[ffangirlingsince2001]

Nothing Alike: IX

Description: Geralt of Rivia has been tasked with taking out a fellow Witcher who has decided to settle down in a town. She has no intention of leaving and Geralt is forced to take matters into his own hands.

Geralt x Reader

Warnings: (future as well as present) violence, angst, smut, fluff, language

MASTERLIST

The journey to the palace should have only taken three days max. And the Geralt should have been free to go about his business. However, the prince had other ideas up his sleeve.

Upon awaking the morning after the incident, he proclaimed with great elation that Y/N would no longer be allowed to ride on a horse.

“If she’s going to act like a dog, she shall be treated like one,” he had proclaimed with great enthusiasm, as if it had taken him all night to think of it.

It probably had.

So, instead of moving at the reasonable pace of horses, they were subjected to the pace of a stubborn, disgruntled girl who wanted nothing more than to throw a tantrum.

A thick iron collar was padlocked to her neck, and her wrists were shackled together. They had considered her ankles as well, but Geralt had claimed it would take them too long if she couldn’t take large strides (not that she was taking them anyway). The collar and the shackles were connected to one another by a long iron chain that led to the prince’s horse, and to keep her compliant, a crossbow was trained on her at all times.

Geralt was forced to ride directly behind her, a silent reminder as to what they could subject him to if he put a hair out of line. He was forced to watch as she dragged her feet, slowing down until the prince gave the chain a tug, sending her to the ground. For a moment, she was being dragged across the floor, shoulder digging into the soft soil. Then she would struggle to stand, a difficult task when your hands were bound, and the horse never stopped moving. Eventually, she would get it, and for a while she would keep up an appropriate pace, but the indignation always returned and the cycled repeated.

When they camped, she was kept away from the fire’s warmth and given only scraps, a desperate attempt to break her spirit. Every night she was led into the prince’s tent, an offer, a bribe that if she were to take, small ounces of luxury would be granted to her. Every night she was tossed back into the cold.

It was those moments when Geralt didn’t mind the pace, because if they were moving slowly it meant that she hadn’t become another piece of land conquered by royalty.

When they did finally reach the palace, it had been a week and a half, and Y/N had been silent for three days (to the great annoyance of the prince who had screamed for an answer). While they had not harmed her, just as his threat had made them promise, she had still been abused. Her cheeks were shallower than they had been when they began. Hair matted; face covered in dirt, arms covered in cuts and bruises from hitting the ground. They burst through the door, the prince dragging her prize behind him as he entered the throne room.

All eyes turned to them, some interested, some full of hatred, all recognizing the woman who was being led forward like a wild animal. The prince pulled her forward, slamming the blunt edge of his sword into the bend of her knees, laughing as she dropped to the floor. He was going to soak in every moment, now that Geralt could no longer threaten him.

“I have returned,” the prince announced, arms outspread as he basked in the gasps of awe and wonder. The uncatchable beast had been caught, brought to her knees before their wealthy feet. The prince turned around to look at his prize, sprawled across the ground, but there was no such luck. She stared ahead, situated on her knees all while retaining a sense of entitlement. He had never seen someone look so regal while being mocked. “Bow before your king,” he growled, but she didn’t move. The only hint that she had heard him was a small moment where her lip twitched into a smirk. Struggling to maintain his composure, he motioned for a guard to step forward. A sharp sole slammed into her back and her forehead hit the marble forehead. When she sat up, emotion unchanged, a trickle of blood was running between her eyes. “I said, bow,” the prince howled, marching forward to do the job himself, but a booming voice stopped him.

“She is not my subject, therefor there is no need to bow,” the king said, standing from his throne, wrinkled finger pointing at his son. The prince looked ready to argue, to tantrum in front of the entire court, but for the first time since Geralt had met the pathetic boy, he held his tongue. “Do you seek trial?” he asked her, but she remained silent. Geralt willed her to speak, but she said nothing, only stared forward, daring them to execute her now.

“She does,” Geralt called, unable to bear the silence any longer. All eyes turned to him, including an extremely interested king’s. “She would like a trial.” Eyes returned to her and there was a small nod. Instantly, whispers filled the room like a tidal wave. “She will speak in front of the king, but the king only.” Another wave of uproar.”

“And I suppose you?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Then it is settled. Everyone out.” Protests erupted, but they were followed by quick footsteps exiting the room. Within moments all the remained were the king, Geralt, and Y/N. “You may unchain yourself,” the king murmured, almost with amusement, as he settled himself back into his throne.

Within an instant the cuffs fell to the ground and she stood, eyes dark as she studied the man across the room. Her fists were clenched to her side, but she did not advance as Geralt presumed she wanted to.

“Pull out a chair, sit, we have much to discuss.” Geralt was surprised to see she listened, dragging an ornate chair to the center of the room. “You may sit closer.”

“It is for both our safety that I do not,” she responded, voice harsh and rough from the lack of care.

“Both our safety?”

“If I sit any closer, I will want to harm you, and then your guards will be forced to kill me. Do not consider me rude, just realistic.” The king laughed and nodded in agreement, fingers drumming across the arm of his chair. The two stared at each other across the large expanse of the throne room before the king pulled a scroll from a beaded purse that sat beside him.

“Do you know what this is?”

“My crimes against humanity, I assume.”

“That is correct. Now, I will not insult you by assuming you are not capable of these acts, so you shall not insult me by lying about them.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Let’s begin then. I shall read your crime and you will defend them to the best of your ability. The swindling of towns people across the continent, namely within my own kingdom.”

“It was not a swindle; they were simply overconfident.”

“They knew you were a Witcher than?”

“Absolutely.”

“The murder of five Witchers who attempted to capture you under the order of the crown.”

“They had no intention of capturing, only killing. I was merely defending my right to trial.”

“Six counts of horse thievery, including from my own stables.”

“It was my horse, wrongfully stolen from me in an attempt to disable me.”

“The massacre of one hundred men and women.”

“They were taking part in slave trading; I was merely protecting the freedom of the people.”

“Slave trading!”

“Yes, slave trading. I was being held as well, and I have marks to prove it. Torture, branding, had I not killed them both my liberty and the liberty of a few dozen others would have been taken.” The king paused as he pondered her statement before continuing.

“Evading arrest.” She only smirked at him, a smirk that he returned. “The murder of your mother and father.” Geralt could barely hear what was said after the accusation. She had murdered her own blood, that was a crime he was not acquainted with. He strained over the blood rushing through his ears to hear her defense, but it did nothing to console him.

“They sold me out.”

“That is not a defense.”

“It was not meant to be.”

“You cannot take the law into your own hands.”

“You do.”

“I create the law.”

“So do I.” He stared at her before he began to chuckle, the deep sound quickly turning into a rolling laugh that echoed around the room. She didn’t flinch a muscle, merely watched him as he laughed away her statement. When he had finished, noticing that she was not smiling along he quickly righted himself.

“You are full of insolence.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“I cannot in good conscience allow you to return to the outside world, but I can offer you a deal.” She raised an eyebrow, a silent gesture for him to continue. “We will either execute you, or you will work for me, and uphold my law.” Geralt’s heart sunk again, an offer she would never take. As she had said repeatedly, no one controlled her, and if that meant death over chains, she would take it.

“Then ready the gallows,” she replied coolly, confirming Geralt’s suspicions.

“You are making a mistake.”

“No, the only mistake made here today was the offer you just made me, as it was both a waste of words and air. Send me your dungeons and tie the noose quick because the only day that I will reside beneath you is the day you walk over my grave.” Geralt wanted to scream, to snarl and spit in her face until she accepted the man’s offer but he remained still, silently seething.

The king laughed once more, but it was not full of humor, it was full of hatred. He had not expected to be refused, and yet she had thrown it back in his face without an ounce of regret.

“Guards,” he called and two entered the room, swords already drawn, expecting the worst. “Escort our prisoner to the dungeons, and the inform the executioner there will be an execution tomorrow at sunrise. Call all to see for this will be their greatest victory.” They dragged her from the room, and even without the chains she did not struggle, merely smiled as they dragged her away, already readying herself for the final moments of her reign.

 Taglist: @stuckupstucky​ @aurora-sweet​ @holyhumorliteraturelight​

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Devotional Hours Within the Bible

by J.R. Miller

Israel Oppressed in Egypt (Exodus 1)

After the funeral of Jacob, Joseph and his brothers returned to Egypt. Why did they not stay in Canaan? Was not Canaan the land of promise? Why was it that this chosen family were led off to Egypt, where ultimately they had to meet such experiences of trial and suffering? When we read on and learn of the hard lot of the Israelites in Egypt, their cruel bondage, does it not seem to us that it would have been better if they had not returned after the funeral of Jacob? But when we think of the matter more closely, we learn that the period of their stay in Egypt was not a mistake but part of God’s wise plan for the training of His people.

For one thing, Canaan was full of fierce tribes, who would not have allowed any strange people to live and grow up among them. The sons of Jacob and their families would have been blotted from the earth. In the providence of God, therefore, they were led into Egypt, where they could grow up into a great people, protected by the king, through the influence of Joseph. Then, in due time, when they were great in numbers, they came back to Canaan and conquered the land for themselves, driving out the people that had held the country.

Another reason for the removal to Egypt was that if they had remained in Canaan it would have been impossible for them to be kept separate from the nations about them. Yet this was essential. They were not to mix with any other peoples. The exclusiveness of the Egyptians, was such that it was impossible for them to mingle in intermarriage or even in social relations.

A still further reason for the transfer to Egypt was that Canaan was a wild country, crude and uncultured. It was necessary that the people of God should be educated, that they might be the teachers of the world, which afterwards they became. Egypt was at that time, the most advanced of all countries in civilization, in the arts, in education. Dwelling in Egypt, the people of Israel learned the things they needed to learn to fit them for their high position and their great mission.

We take up now the story of the Israelites in Egypt. It is something that even names live for thirty-five hundred years. It is suggestive, too, that out of the wrecks of human things in those ancient times, the names that are here presented are not those of kings, poets, philosophers, and conquerors but those of men who were in the line of God’s chosen people. The names of God’s children are the only really immortal ones. They are written in the book of life. They may be names of lowly people but they are preserved, while the names of the great of the same period, have utterly perished from the earth.

Long, long ages ago, a fern grew in a deep valley. It lived for only one summer and then fell into the earth and perished. As it sank down in the indistinguishable mass of decaying vegetation it murmured, “I shall be utterly forgotten. I shall have no record in this great world. My memory shall perish.” But the other day a teacher of geology, going about with his class, struck off a piece of rock with his hammer, and there lay the fern, every line of its beautiful leafage and veinage traced in the stone. So it is with the names and the deeds of those who live in this world to honor God and bless their fellow-men. Love never dies. Love’s memory never perishes. The things you do in the name of Christ and to give comfort, cheer, and help to others cannot fade out of the universe. Their record is written in imperishable lines in the book of God, and also in the lives into which the deeds have been wrought. Thousands who live in this world obscurely, and die, never thinking that they shall be remembered, will be surprised in the other world to see the record of every beautiful thing they have done, every gentle word they have spoken, every kindly touch they have put upon a human soul.

The story says there were souls in Jacob’s family. The Bible talks about people as souls. If you look at your concordance you will be surprised to find how common this is. Three thousand souls were added to the Church. On the ship on which Paul was when he was wrecked were two hundred threescore and sixteen souls. We talk about people having souls but a far better way to put it is that they are souls. We are souls and we have bodies. The children who sit in the teacher’s class and look up into her face are souls. They are going by and by into eternity, and will carry there the marks and impressions which she is making upon them these days.

It is well we should remember that we are immortal souls. We shall live forever, and what we do in this world shall never perish. It is worth while that we live every day at our best.

At length Joseph died. He died but he lives yet in the world. The story of his early days lives, and has for us all the interest and charm of a delightful romance. We read of his noble spirit, uncrushed by adversity, unembittered by injustice and wrong, keeping sweet, courageous, and loving, through all the thirteen years of cruel injury and wicked treatment. Joseph lived nobly, and then died.

We grieve when a godly man dies. But why should we? If he has filled his years, few or many, with beautiful living, dying is not a disaster. Joseph lived gloriously, and now the influence of his unconquerable life is still going on. Everyone who reads his story thoughtfully, gets new inspiration for beautiful and victorious living. All that Joseph wrought, all the impressions he made upon human history yet lives. Good done in the world is imperishable. They tell us that a word spoken into the air goes quivering on and on, forever. We are certain, at least, that every good word spoken and every good deed done leaves an impression on human lives which shall never die out. Every life that is pure in its purpose and strong in its strife, makes all lives better, truer, and stronger.

Not only did Joseph die but the whole generation to which he belonged passed away. However long one may live, the story always closes with “and he died.” Whether beautiful or marred, whether good or bad in our life and character, we must come to the same end death. There are those who do not like to think of this, and never put death into the plan of their life. Then when death comes it finds them unready for it.

Then came a change of dynasties in Egypt, and the new king did not know Joseph, and so had no remembrance of what Joseph had done. Thus it is ofttimes. Nations and communities are ungrateful; the good that men do is too often forgotten. It is not best to count too certainly on the lasting gratitude of the people whom we benefit or try to help. Many times those we serve at greatest cost heap injustice upon us or do wrong to us. However, the possibility of ungrateful treatment, should never check the outflow of our beneficence. Even if men do forget, there is one place where all our good work is kept in mind. Every tear, every sacrifice, every smallest service, Christ remembers. If we but learn to do all our work for Him, though men forget us and wrong us we shall not fail of the final reward. The world can never rob us of the true reward of faithful service. It may withhold gratitude but no earthly ingratitude can intercept the Divine blessing. Joseph is no poorer now for the ingratitude of the Egyptians. He helped shape the history of the world. Think of the countless thousands of lives he preserved from famine. His beautiful character has been for many centuries one of the world’s brightest ideals. His influence is felt wherever the Bible is read. What does it matter then, that the new king sought to blot out the name of Joseph and every memory of him? Today his is one of the most honored names in all history, and his work in the world will abide forever.

The new king entered on a course which was intended to check the growth of the Hebrews. He was a wise king, and feared that this growing people would by and by become a formidable power, if allowed to increase in the future as it had been increasing in the past. So he set to work to counteract the alarming increase of the Hebrew people. He did not know that he was contending with the Almighty. Tyrants do not see the invisible Being who stands behind the frail people they seek to destroy. They are continually resorting to cunning and policy to outreach God and carry out their own schemes. They consider it dealing wisely but the end always proves it to be the most wretched folly!

There is only one place in the Bible where God is said to laugh, and that is when the kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together against the Almighty King. How foolish it is for puny man to contend with the omnipotent Jehovah! Men go on with their diplomacy, their scheming, imagining they are carrying out their own ambitious plans to final success; but they really are only like children trying to dam back the rising tides of the sea by their little embankments of sand. It is the worst of folly to contend with God. The only wise thing to do in any case is to fall in with God’s purpose and to work in full harmony with His plan.

Instead of checking the increase of the Hebrews, the effect of the king’s oppressive measures, was to make them grow all the more. This has been the history of all persecution. It has served only to strengthen the Church and multiply it. The first great persecution of Christians soon after Pentecost, instead of exterminating the little company, only scattered the disciples abroad to carry the gospel into hundreds of new centers. It was like the effort of the wind to put out a fire it only blows the few coals in every direction to kindle new conflagrations. “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church.”

So with all trial. Grace in the heart cannot be crushed out by afflictions. It is like those roots which, once in the soil, cannot be exterminated but which grow all the faster and thicker the more you beat and dig them and try to get them out. This truth has two bearings. It shows how utterly futile it is to contend with God, for when we oppose Him we really only help to carry out the purpose we seek to defeat. Then, it ought to bring a sense of wonderful security to the Christian who is exposed to wrongs or to trials of any kind. They can never really injure him, if he cleaves to his Lord. “We know that all things work together for good to those who love God.”

We are all in bondage naturally, and until our chains are broken and we are brought out by Christ we are under this terrible taskmaster. Sin’s bondage is hard, and it makes men’s lives bitter. It grows worse every day and never easier. Unless men are delivered from it in this world it will end in eternal bondage. But God has mercy upon souls in this cruel slavery, even when they have no mercy upon themselves. He has compassion upon those who are bound and crushed by Satan’s taskmasters, and comes with deliverance. Jesus is the great Deliverer.

[wisdomrays]

QUESTIONS & ANSWERS: What Happens to People Born and Living in Non-Islamic Countries?: Part 2

Today, Muslims cannot provide security even in a small area for just their own community. Given this, the achievements of early Muslim administrations can be seen in their true light and greatness. In return for their security, reliability, wisdom, subtlety of mind and piety, the doors of many castles and cities were opened to them-not as honorary title-holders or visitors, but as governors and rulers.

When the Muslims took over Syria and Palestine, the commanders asked for the keys to Masjid al-Aqsa. The Patriarch told them that he would give them only to the person described in their holy books, for only that man was worthy to receive them. While they were disputing, Caliph 'Umar and one of his servants set out from Madina. No one knew how he would travel. But the Patriarch and priests knew how the rightful holder of keys would come.

'Umar borrowed a camel from the state treasury, and he and his servant took turns riding it. When the Muslim commanders heard of this, they prayed that 'Umar would be riding when they had to cross the Jordan river. They thought that, as the Byzantines were used to pomp and magnificence in their rulers, 'Umar might shame himself if he were leading the camel upon which his servant was riding, and crossing the river with rolled-up trousers.

In fact, most political pomp is injustice and inequity, and 'Umar was trying to avoid it. What his commanders feared came to pass. 'Umar's garment, worn and battered by the journey, also had many patches on it. When the Patriarch saw 'Umar, he cried out: "This is the man whose description we have in our books! Now, I shall give him the key." Because of the special knowledge obtained from their books, the priests knew how 'Umar would look and how he would cross the river. Handing the key and Masjid al-Aqsa to the Muslims caused many people to embrace Islam.

With whole-hearted ardor, 'Uqba ibn Nafi' set forth to spread the word of Islam. The conquest of Africa fell to his lot. After successive victories, some people envied his fame and misinformed the Caliph about him. The Caliph was provoked, and 'Uqba was dismissed from his post, arrested, and kept from spreading Islam. Imprisoned for 5 years, his only sorrow and great longing were expressed thus: "I wish I could have spread Islam all over Africa. I was prevented from achieving this. That is the only thing I regret."

Freeing and then appointing 'Uqba governor of Africa, Yazid made it possible for him to relaunch the conquest of Africa and spread Islam. 'Uqba reached the Atlantic Ocean in a single campaign. He could not help riding his horse into the ocean and crying out: "O God! If this dark sea had not prevented me going further, I would carry Your Holy Name overseas!"

I relate these historical accounts to remind us of how Islam was represented in the past and how it is now. The early Muslims took present-day Azerbaijan, Iran, Iraq, North Africa, Bukhara, Tashkent, Samarkand-places that would produce Bukhari, Muslim, Tirmidhi, Ibn Sina, al-Farabi, Biruni-within 25 years. These early Muslims carried Islam to almost every part of the then-known world, and made the glorious flag of There is no god but God, Muhammad is His Messenger wave over many lands.

As for ourselves, we scarcely can speak the Truth to our neighbors, let alone go to foreign lands and tell the people there. Some of our neighbors may be willing to listen, but we cannot persuade even them. Our words come back to us cold, as if from walls of ice. They leave our mouths but do not penetrate the hearts and souls of people.

We point this out only to draw attention to immeasurable distance between ourselves and the Companions. They conveyed Islam to all peoples and lived only to do this. When they could not do so, they felt sorrow and pain for the lands and people unaware of the Truth. By contrast, we cannot represent Islam fully in our individual lives, and still less can we convey its message to people abroad. We have neither abandoned our personal needs and preoccupations, nor given the highest priority to working in the way of God. We remember the ways to our homes, our jobs, and our worldly lives only too well. Those of us who went to non-Muslim countries did so for economic reasons, not to take the name of God to those lands. That is why we are so unable to spread Islam among them.

If non-Muslims are now lost in deviation, corruption, and unbelief due to our own ignorance, laziness, and incompetence, we shall be called to account for it. Giving lectures and organizing seminars and panels can be considered moving toward being on the way of God, not true service to Islam. If true service to Islam is likened to a great palace, we are still wandering around the first entrance. Because we have not yet entered upon the task, many people are going astray. Sometimes we speak to them of Islam, but we have not saved ourselves from futile internal disputes and conflicts.

We are nowhere near representing Islam at the level of 'Umar, 'Uqba ibn Nafi', and others of that caliber. Who knows how their opponents were struck with fear at seeing their determined courage, their indomitable devotion to God; or struck with wonder by their reliability, generosity, justice, and humanity, all of which moved them to wonder about and then embrace Islam. The fact that many of the countries in which Muslims now live were conquered by these early Muslims shows what absolute sincerity in the way of God can achieve.

Considered from this angle, the question of non-Muslims, especially those living in non-Islamic countries, takes on a different aspect. We need to see them with a greater tolerance, and say: 'Shame on us! We have not been able to convey Islam to them so that they can leave the darkness in which they live." It will help to narrate here the true story of a German family.

A Turkish worker lived with a German family. He paid great attention to his religious duties, and performed them sensitively. Except for working hours, whenever he was with the German family he told them about Islam. After a while, the father became Muslim. His wife said to him, as did the wife of 'Amir ibn Tufail: "We have always been together so far. Let's be together in the future, too, together on the Sirat Bridge and also in Paradise. If Islam really makes one reach heavenly realms, as you said, why should I stay back from such a blessing while you enjoy it?" So she embraced Islam. The children followed her, and the family group of Islam was completed and the home became an outpost of Paradise.

Several days later, the husband came and said these startling words to the Turkish worker: "I could not express my love and gratitude to you, because you have been an honored guest to us. However, sometimes I get very angry and wish to beat you up. You came and the Qur'an, the Prophet, and God followed you. My home became a heavenly abode. But I had a father. He was a very straight, good man. He passed away a few days before you came. Why couldn't you have come a bit earlier and told him of Islam as well?"

These words indeed represent the voice, the complaint, the rebuke of the whole non-Muslim world. We have failed to take Islam to them. Even in our own countries we have been unable to exert enough effort or support the cause of Islam to make our own people know it properly.

Another aspect of the question is this: Those who took us away from Islam always promised a Western standard of life. But 150 years later we are still beggars at the doors of the West. Little has changed, and we cannot say that we have progressed in any important sense. The West continues to treat us as servants who leave their countries in return for poor wages. Even if we presented its people with the golden principles of Islam, the message that will open the gates of Paradise for them, they will reject both Islam and us. In part, this is because we are despised laborers at their disposal. As usual, the rich have difficulty imagining that they need anything from the beggars at their doors.

Muslims have been defeated in so many fields many times over, and remain dependent on the West. Why should the West listen to us? Only if we can live and represent Islam thoroughly, go to the non-Muslims with a commanding confidence in our own honor, dignity, and greatness and only for the sake of God, can we hope that they will listen to us and accept Islam. We cannot continue to accept our negative image in their eyes, but how can we change this unless we regain and reassert our former identity?

In the Hereafter they will be asked why they did not embrace Islam, and we will be asked why we did not convey it to them. So, the responsibilities of both Muslims and non-Muslims should be considered equal. Any judgments about non-Muslims should be made justly and uprightly. We cannot condemn non-Muslims to Hell simply for being non-Muslims, nor can we dream that people will embrace Islam just because we ask them to do so.

We believe that the global balance will change in the near future. Especially in Turkey, Central Asia, Egypt, Pakistan, and some other places, Muslims will regain their consciousness and raise up strong individuals who will resemble the early Muslims in their desire to establish Islam and its high values in other lands. Only through sustained and sincere effort will Islam once again become a major and respected factor in the world, and will the voices of its followers be heard. This is not impossible. Those who will realize it will be Muslims of good character whose souls have bonded with Islam, not those inconsistent and inadequate Muslims who follow their bodily needs and desires and only concern themselves with Islam once in a while.

[heaux-burrow]

For the fanfiction writers ask: 16, 21, 34

16. Any guilty pleasure trope(s)?

• Smol x Tol is a requirement not a request

• Arranged marriage AU queen 👑

• No one else challenges me mentally or physically but you

• Bodyguard AU’s (bonus points if her parents are never around and she’s a Poor Little Rich Girl™️)

• We meet in our dreams AU

• Somehow I keep falling into another plane or realm and you only exist there and “we” only exist there and slowly I start to spend all my time and energy on being with you and completely losing my whole life in the “real world”

• Captive/Captor AU’s (think Briseis and Achilles but I’m not above a good old fashioned bank robbery gone tits up I’m an equal opportunity slut for Stockholm Syndrome)

• We had a past life together and we only remember flashes but the energy is still there between us and it’s undeniable - however, being together would completely dismantle our present day lives

• This can’t last and it’s not meant to, but I’ve been through a lot and you’re a very nice resting place for now

• I’m a brat, but vulnerable only with you. You’re an asshole, but soft only with me. I don’t hate anyone else but you. But I don’t love anyone else either.

• We’ve both been through trauma no one else understands so we don’t really know how to trust or love anyone else, but no one would ever be accepting of us being together (yes I meant to google Lucrezia and Cesare Borgia)

• Honestly, anything where the shtick is ‘we’re really not supposed to be doing this’ bonus points for sneaking around and loads of pining angst about it

21. Favorite pairing to write for? (platonic or romantic!)

I’m about to lose so many followers 🙈

#1 always - AEGON THE CONQUERER X RHAENYS TARGARYEN (ASOIAF)

Max x Audrey (Gossip Girl)

Sarah Cameron & Rafe Cameron (OBX) (yes I know they’re related no I don’t care)

Ciri x Geralt (The Witcher, more the video games and the books than the tv show)

Javier Peña (Narcos) x Helena (Narcos) x Santiago Garcia (Triple Frontier)

Robb x Sansa or Jon x Sansa or Robb x Jon x Sansa (ASOIAF) (who is GoT don’t know her)

Sookie Stackhouse x Jason Stackhouse (True Blood) (watch the first episode again and tell me I’m wrong lol)

Eric x Four (Divergent) (books not the movieverse)

Becca x Lucas (Banshee)

Cassie x Nate (Euphoria) (yes I know it wouldn’t work leave me alone) (all I’m saying is, Nate spent a lot of fucking energy trying to get McKay to NOT date Cassie and Nate would never have made Cassie get an abortion)

Mal x Evie (Descendants)

Elsa x Kristoff (Frozen)

Tink x Hook (Peter Pan universe - more the books than any of the movies) (in the second Peter Pan book she is literally lost to the group and found locked up in the captain’s quarters among Hook’s treasure on his ship don’t come for me Barrie shipped it too)

Freya x Freyr or Freya x Fenrir (Norse mythology)

Morgan x Arthur (Arthurian legend)

Lucifer x Eve or Lucifer x Lilith (biblical mythology NO I’m not talking about Lucifer the show lol I’ve never even watched it and I won’t)

34. Copy and paste an excerpt you’re particularly fond of.

From “Through the Lake”, a Grishaverse fic I wrote 5 years ago but never posted (Darkling x OFC)

They’ve begun travelling now. He likes to stay diplomatically relevant. Likes to be known to the kings and queens of lands beyond Ravka. Because the otkazat’sya Lantsov king is weak and stupid. She knows. She’s met him many times. And she met his father before him. She’s dined with their ambassadors and danced with their advisors (Shadow likes to show her off as his little relic. His little stolen child, kept as a pet the same way fairies of old would keep children from her world. It is also a very clear piece on the chess board. Look what I have. Look what she can do. Know your place).

“Lantsov is lucky anyone even continues to acknowledge him as king. If I were a queen, the only diplomat I would sit down with is you.” She’s known her Shadow a hundred years now. She cannot fathom why anyone still bows to the Lantsov king.

“Do I not treat you with all the adoration and reverence due a queen?” He asks in response, ignoring her statement for the moment. Though it strokes something warm and needy inside him to hear her say it.

They’re in Kerch. A disgustingly wealthy merchant’s villa is their home for the night. At his table they dined on sweet-buttered grouse and roasted kale and salted caramel cake.

The back of his ungloved finger traces her neck as she takes her jewelry off and lets her hair down. The touch flares her power with a shivering thrill of electricity. Unable to help herself, Jo flexes her abilities enough to let him know not to push her. The air in the room compresses for a moment until all sound is narrowed down, resting on the pin of a needle and ringing in his ears. Thirty seconds go by. Finally, she lets up and he has to grip the window sill as his lungs drag desperately for oxygen.

“What?” He half snarls, half chokes. Jo is shown more favor than anyone else at his court by far. He’s never lavished another with the same attention and devotion he pours over her. He’s never trusted anyone enough to allow them so close. But he’s careful to keep her loyalties where they belong. Uses her power to keep the other Grisha in check. To keep their eyes fixed with jealousy so they’ll never look upon her with love. So she has no other confessional but him. So she can never hold anything she knows to his throat. Even if she thought to overthrow him and seize power for herself, they would never follow her. They’d wear her bones first.

“You know what. Do not dare to play the victim with me.” They argue as if they’re married. And maybe in a way they are. Promises forever unbroken. Loyalty carried to the grave. Secrets pressed between them for centuries, that no one else could ever unfold.

Swallowing, he swipes away the blood dripping from his nose with the handkerchief in his pocket. Glances out the window, partly guilty and partly annoyed that the girl can even make him feel guilt.

“You know why I can’t let you stay.” They’ve been over this a hundred thousand times. He won’t have her for one lifetime when he needs her power for much longer than that. And perhaps, a part of him needs her to be hungry for him. To know she’s in Duluth salivating at the mouth to get back here. Perhaps he’s scared that if he gives her all she wants of him, of Ravka, she’ll have her fill and go back for good.

[alltheworldsinmyhead]

                                          time, wondrous time

                                           elain & azriel & lucien  //   ao3

Time, curious time

Gave me no compasses, gave me no signs

Were there clues I didn't see?

And isn't it just so pretty to think

All along there was some

Invisible string

Tying you to me?

Bright sunlight wakes Elain up, relentlessly tapping on her closed eyelids until she groans softly; making her clammy skin sizzle. She cannot escape from it, not sandwiched naked between two bodies the way she is. Flushed all-over, not an inch of her untouched; her cheek pressed to one male’s back, her legs tangled up with another’s. Some minuscule human part of her left weeping in shame, quietly, somewhere too deep inside her to bother with it.

Instead of hiding underneath thin sheets, she spits out a strand of hair stuck to her lower lip and begins grounding herself. It’s a slow, meticulous process, boring and alike to fishing out pebbles of a certain shade from a riverbed full of all kinds of rocks – but then, Elain’s well versed in it for now. Last night’s memories are a bit brighter, a bit more solid than all of the other images blooming in her head. There is laughter and auburn wine, the taste of it on her tongue, pomegranate juice dripping down her neck until it was licked off. Sand-colored marble kissing the bare soles of her feet when she was running through the corridors. Sheer silk swishing around her calves.  Sweet ache coiling deep in her belly, between her slick thighs, the release hard enough to leave her feeling breathless, almost empty. There’s snow falling in the Steppes,  chubby cheeks and round, silver-blue eyes of her mother-

Which don’t belong to yesterday, nor to any of the yesterdays before. Elain indulges herself though; let’s happiness and adoration fill her to the brim when she stays with this image for a bit longer. Those tiny fingers locked around a lock of her sister’s hair, Nesta’s cooing, a lullaby falling from her lips soft like a caress…  It’s too nice, too delicious to not melt into this vision.  

But then - a rough hand slides up her thigh, fingers tracing the arch of her hipbone. Quiet laughter echoes when she trembles in response.

The future bursts like a soap bubble in the air and Elain falls painfully into here and now. She bares her throat to rest the back of her head on Azriel’s chest, smiling brightly with her eyes still firmly closed when he presses a kiss underneath her jaw.

‘’Good morning, Elain.’’ He whispers.

Before she can reply, a familiar warmth spills deep inside her belly – happiness and annoyance and pleasure mixed up in equal measure – and Lucien huffs, his voice muffled by the pillow:

‘’Why do you always have to wake up so early?’’

It’s the sun. – Elain wants to say, want to sing-song into his ear until he fully awakens.- It’s the sun and you are the one responsible for it.

But she’s too content, too comfy – so he blindly moves her hand from Lucien’s waist to his back, traces loopy I love you-s on the bare skin with her fingertips as the bond inside her purrs like a cat in response. She can feel the silky strands of his hair brushing her knuckles and, for the thousandth time, she vows she’ll never let him cut them.

‘’Good morning.’’ She lets out an exhale. ‘’The sun’s telling you to rise and shine, my lord.’’

Azriel’s near-soundless laugh makes the bed shake a bit. It’s her favorite sound in the world – as beautiful as her future nephew’s shrieks of joy, as beautiful as Nesta’s singing voice.

As beautiful as Lucien’s fond, irritated groan.

‘’You two will pay me back for it, you know.’’

Oh, she knows.

Lips and hands and cocks and wings and starlight underneath her eyelids; and moans and names and curses; in the daylight, in the moonlight; on the soft grass in her personal garden, bees buzzing around them as they make love, her knees scraped raw, teeth-marks on her neck, finger-shaped bruises on her thighs.

Before now – before them, she didn’t know it’s even possible to feel such ecstasy, that sex can be like this. She doesn’t know how she was managing to live without it, how she did not crave this connection as one craves air every second, every heartbeat of her life.

‘’Is that a threat or promise, oh mighty High Lord?’’ Azriel snickers and Elain hides her face in Lucien’s hair to suppress her giggle. ‘’Be careful not to bite more than you can chew.’’

‘’I think we all know I can chew plenty.’’ Lucien shoots back, unflinchingly. Just enough bite in his tone that she squeezes her thighs together, that she feels Azriel’s hand climbing up the ladder of her ribs to brush her breast.

‘’Shush, both of you.’’ She whispers. ‘’It’s too early for that.’’

She can almost feel Lucien’s grin on her own lips.

‘’It’s never too  early for that.’’

Like a cat waking up from a nap on a sunny afternoon, Elain slowly stretches her body- brushing, caressing, electing hisses and groans left and right in process, her bones and muscles re-forming from their half-molten state when she yawns.

And then she opens her eyes.

Lucien has turned to lay flat on his back, smiling at her in the light of the morning. There are pillow creases pressed on his cheek and she almost manages to reach out and touch them before Azriel throws his arms across her torso and beats her to it.

Darling, terrible Azriel, all the impossible contradictions of him. All brutality and goodness, quiet agony, dark humor.  How delicately his hand caresses  Lucien’s cheek.  How delicately he touches her, every time, until she tells him not to – as if she was something holy and precious, and worth living for.

Life’s – life’s just this, being tangled up, tied into a knot with her mate and her beloved, her glorious, gorgeous, grand lovers keeping her tethered, keeping her safe. Not for the first time, Elain feels a quiet glee at this thought – oh, let her sisters’ keep their mates and their great love stories full of heartbreak and pain, and impossible choices. Elain refused to go down this road. Elain refused impossible choices.

Elain, for the first time in her life, took a stand for something, refused to let the tide of fate to carry her from one place to another as if she was a petal on the wind.

And Elain is adored.

And Elain adores in return.

She wants to melt in-between them, slither underneath their ribs, bind them together for all eternity. Time is a river and she has long ago stopped drowning – now she’s swimming like a fish, no longer gasping for air, no longer cold and lost. The Cauldron’s power hums in her, this horrifyingly ancient beast Nesta has conquered and Elain has tamed: you’ll go first, you’ll go first into this ageless dark, sweet doe.

And how exactly does it matter?

Lucien turns his face slightly to press his lips to the inside of Azriel’s hand. His own hand grips her waist to press her closer, closer; the three of them, hips pressing together, legs entangling, until their heartbeats sound like one perfect harmony in her ears.

How does it matter, when they will have each other even when I’m gone?

Her human life, brief and long evaporated like a puff of an exhale on a frost morning.

The centuries of love she got in exchange.

Feyre,  her little sister always so nosy beyond measure, burning in curiosity when she asks, time and time again, how does it even work, as if the three of them sat down around the business table the way Nesta sits with foreign traders to discuss terms and conditions; Mor biting the inside of her cheek not to laugh whenever Elain just shrugs in response. It’s not strange for her, loving them both, sharing and being shared. She has always had too much love inside her anyway, too much to know how to use it properly – wasting it on undeserving human men and pretty, petty things, this love without a purpose that she has now. Enough love for both of the best men she has ever met, both of them always so hungry for love, starved for it.

Elain has shed her humanity and all her human inhibitions the way silk dress slides to the marble floor, exposing skin and flesh begging to be touched – kept them on her and then got rid of them all at once, instantaneously.

Future rushes through her mind like a waterfall, all the good things: roses blooming, stars falling, Feyre’s rounded belly and her son’s first word, Lucien’s hungry gaze, Cassian’s deep laughter and Nesta’s silver one, rows and endless rows of books in the thousand libraries all toppled over, Azriel sleeping peacefully by her side-

Elain rests her head on Lucien’s shoulder and tangles her fingers in Azriel’s hair when he hides his face in the crook of her neck. The Day Court keeps them warm and safe when they drift back into dreams.

Oh, how truly blessed she is.  

[thephoenixdescendant]

I knew this would happen. I accidently deleted an ask. Thank god I took a screenshot of it before deleting it...🙏🙏🙏

Whoever asked this, I'm praying that they will see this post.

WORD COUNT: 2,824

Vert x Reader x Alternative Vert

You settled in handler corners about a year ago and made friends with the people who work at spectre motors. But, one day you became awestruck for the fact that you saw them coming out of a portal. That's when you knew what they really do. You have been nagging them to bring you with them but Vert refused. The reason why is because he's afraid you might get hurt and also, you tried to ride the saber the other day. But, what happened was you drove it to the maximum speed limit. And you crashed his car on a giant rock. You hit your head on the glass real hard and ever since then, he's been treating you like a kid. So, you kept annoying Vert to the point where he gave up and said yes. But he told you to not walk around the battle zone and instead, stay with Stanford.

You were with them on the training tracks watching the solar eclipse through those special glasses that allows you to look at the sun, until Sage announced through their coms that a stormshock was detected, with a warning. Those solar flares could damage their vehicles. Vert turned to you with a serious expression. "Don't get out of the reverb. If you do, then it'll be the last time I'm taking you to a battlezone". You nodded in agreement. You hopped on the reverb and they all took off.

"Stay double frosty guys. Sage said those solar flares could do nasty stuff to our instruments." Vert warned. "Solar activity peak level coinciding with portal entry" Sage announced through the coms as Stanford kept touching a button on the touch screen of his reverb. "Might explain why my rear axle telemetry a bit dodgy." Stanford said.

"Caution. Battlezone may also be affected."

Everyone got inside the portal and arrived on a planet that looks really fimiliar. Like the ones they show on science fiction movies. "Looks like a standard alien desert to me." Spinner said. "Everybody make some dust. Find me a key!" Vert said as he went to the other direction. "As soon as I find out what's wrong my axle. Catch up with you." Stanford parked his car on an area near a mountain. You got annoyed because you couldn't see the rest of the zone for a bit.

Stanford got out of the reverb with a socket wrench that he carries with him. He crossed your arms as you watched him open the bonet. "First rule of a manual servo repair. Never need one." Stanford started to twist and turn some of the parts with the socket wrench. You grunted in annoyance. "Hey Stan. Can I get out and watch the view. I wanna walk around a bit." You asked. "No. Vert told me to make sure your inside the Reverb at all cost." Stanford replied. Not looking in your direction. "Come on! I don't wanna sit here! I just wanna walk!!!" You whined. But, he just ignored you. You looked outside and sighed. Then you got an idea. "Hey stan. I'll make a promise to you if you let me out." You said. He looked at you, a brow raised. "What promise?" He asked. "If you let me out, I'll tell Grace how amazing you are! I know you like her and I'm sure she'll listen to me. That way, she'll ask you out!" You said, with a big smile. He rubbed his chin and thought about it for a second. A smile formed on his face. "Okay! You can come out!" He said. You felt really happy and when you got out of the reverb, you gave Stanford a big hug. "Thank you!!!" You said, before going to the other side, enjoying the view.

You kept walking around until you saw something coming from the distance. It looked like a gold chariot... And it was coming towards you. You ran to Stanford and hid behind him. He gasped when he saw one of his enemies right in front of him. He dropped his socket wrench as the mutant like creature aimed his crossbow at him.

"Go on then! What are you waiting for fang face?!" Stanford said with pure hate. "Even though you humans want to destroy my world, I cannot attack an unarmed man." Kalus said. Stanford looked at him, confused. "Who are you? And what have you done with Kalus?" Stanford asked. "And you, are not acting like a member of the evil battle force 5!" Kallus exclaimed. "Evil battle force 5?" You whispered. Stanford looked at you, indicating he was confused, just as you.

"Mount your vehicle and let us battle as honour dictates." Kalus said. Stanford took a step back, almost stepping on your feet. "Uhh.... One moment..." He said before he spoke through his com. "Guys! Kalus has me in his crosshairs, but he's being... Honourable. Please advice." "On our way!" Vert replied as he and the others went to where Stanford stood.

You saw the team coming towards them from the distance. The tension was relieved.

"Huh! Typical Battle Force 5. Refusing to choose the Vandal code to settle our differences like gentleman!" Kalus spat.

"A vandal gentleman? Huh! In what world?" Sherman asked. "Maybe in this world. Sage said the battlezone could be affected. Captain Kalus! Wait! Please." Vert stopped the Saber infront of him. You and Stanford quickly got inside the Reverb and he aimed the sonic canons at Kalus. "Captain Kalus!" Vert called as he got out, without bringing his double edged sword. Kalus aimed his crossbow at him. "I'd like to speak with you! I've come unarmed." He walked towards him. "Vert! We've got him surrounded. What are you doing?!" Agura questioned. "Playing a hunch I'm about to wish I never had. Cover me but stay back." Vert said. Kalus got out of his chariot. "What kind of trickery is this?!" He questioned. Vert held out his arm, motioning Stanford to turn off the sonic canons.

"You... Ordered your team to stay back..." Kalus said. "I did. So, where is yours?" Vert asked. "Ugh! You know very well what happened to them!" Kalus said before sniffing Vert's uniform. "Or do you?" Kalus got surprised of the scent Vert had. It wasn't the same scent he was fimiliar with.

"It's not Kalus!" Vert turned around to the team. "Uhh... How many talking lions with crossbows are there riding around in gold chariots?" Agura was confused. Zoom came and stopped the chopper beside the tangler. "Just did a flyby on the battle key!" He said before turning to Vert. Surprised to see Kalus standing next to him. "Whoa! And we're not whipping lion butt why?" "Somehow those solar flares must of connected us to a dimention exactly opposite our own." Sherman explained. You gasped in surprise. "Am I gonna see the opposite version of the team?" You thought. "With good Vandals! (Idk what word he said after that... lol)" Stanford said, confused and surprised at the same time. "So where's the rest of your team?" Vert asked. "My good friends Hatch, Xever and Crocomodo were elimimated... Long ago...." Kalus said sadly. His face drooped down. You looked at him with pity. "By who?" Vert asked. "By.... Them...." Kalus pointed to the distance, as he heard a team of cars racing towards them. The whole team looked at the distance and saw their opposites. "Those look just like our rides!" Sherman exclaimed. "Normally it's between me and that battle force 5. Which exists only to conquer peacefull worlds..." Kalus said.

"Well... Look what we have here?" The alternative vert's voice was heard through the com. You gasped at how his tone was so.... Evil... "They look like us, but they're so... Clean." "Not after I'm done with them." "I wanna smash them. Into teeny tiny bits!" "Wow Sherm! That was nearly a complete sentence!" "Oh, you boys are like soooo immature!" "Shut your traps. First we get the key. Then we play...." A fit of evil laughter sent chills down your spine. Anti-Vert noticed you sitting with Stanford. He looked at you and winked. "Uhhh...." You had no words to say. "Whoa. Doppleganger dudes really got their fight on!" Spinner said. "Can't let 'em get the key. What do you need Zoom?" Vert asked. "Battle key is in the side of a mini mountain. Gonna need Agura!" Zoom replied. "Nothings out of my reach!" Agura said. "Agura go for the key. Everyone else on defense. Let's go!" The team charged towards their opposites. They looked at each other in pure hate. You gripped on your seat because of how fast the Reverb was going.

"Looks like those goodie goodies are gonna get in our way!" Anti-Spinner said. "Split up. Take 'em one on one." Anti-Vert ordered. The Saber's blades collided with each other. Anti-Vert's blade scraped past the Saber. Vert grunted in anger.

Anti-Vert's Saber got near the Reverb and he came to your side of the car. "Hey sexy! He thinks he's better than me. Let me show you what I can do." He said before charging towards Vert's Saber. Vert got really angry when his alternarive self called you "sexy". God, he wanted to punch his anti-self's perfect teeth. "If you are trying to challenge me, you're doing a terrible mistake! I'm gonna kick your butt!" Vert said. "That will be in your dreams. The woman/man is mine!" Anti-Vert said. "No, mine!" Vert muttered. "She/he is mine!"

You were watching the entire thing. Each time Vert gets pushed back by his anti self, Anti-Vert has a grin on his face. He knows you are still watching the fight. But, you suddenly can't see them because the Reverb has gone away from them. "Stanford. Follow the girl/boy and try to wreck their Reverb." Anti-Vert said. "Consider it done!" He said. You saw Anti-Stanford following the Reverb really tightly. "Ohmygosh. Please go faster!" You said. "I am!" Stanford swerved the car left and right. Trying to avoid the sonic attacks. His anti self got to your side and you gasped when he made his car push the Reverb to the side. Both Stanford and his evil self pushed each other back and forth. "Coming here was a bad idea..." You regreted annoying Vert. This is what Vert has been warning you about. Something like this always happen. Suddenly, Anti-Stanford pushed his vehicle too hard on the Reverb. Causing the mirror on your side to break. Shards of glasses fell onto your arm. It's sharp sides grazed your skin. Causing a cut on the thin layer of skin. But enough to bleed. It stinged a little. "We'll get away from.... Me..." Stanford somehow managed to turn the Reverb, making it face his anti self. They both sonic blasted each other. Stanford and his anti self took the hit, causing the Reverb to be pushed back. You hit your head really hard on the back and on the side..... The glass shards cut the side of your cheek. It started to bleed and your head hurts fr om hitting the back too hard. "(Y/N)!!! You're bleeding!!!" Stanford gasped in horror. "I'm... I'm okay... Just go!" You said. The Reverb took off, leaving Anti-Stanford alone. You started to feel nauseous and a splitting headache took place. "I... I don't feel so good..." You said, covering your mouth. Trying not to vomit because of how the Reverb's movement is. "I'll take you somewhere that'll keep you safe!" Stanford said.

Stanford parked the Reverb on a small cave. A cave where it's not clearly seen. Both you and Stanford got out. You sat on the floor, leaning onto the wall, as Stanford inspected your injuries. "I don't have an emergency kit. Sorry about that..." Stanford apologized. "N-no it's okay." You said, as you took out your handkerchief from your pocket. You placed it on your cheek, hoping the bleeding will stop. "I should be the onr who's sorry. I shouldn't have come here." You said sadly. "It's okay (Y/N)." Stanford smiled. "You stay here. The Reverb is already damaged. If you're in it, then it'll cause more injuries to you. Our opposites won't find you." Stanford said as he got inside the Reverb. He disappeared into the distance and you sighed. "I shouldn't have come here..."

Vert and his anti-self kept pushing their vehicles on each other, causing a lot of damage. He chuckled. "You already know that soon, the woman/man that you have brought with you on your mission will be mine! I already know it. You're weak!" He said. "Not gonna happen!" Vert shouted. Then Anti-Vert saw the Reverb coming out from the side of a mountain, but you weren't there with him. "Are you sure Vert?" Anti-Vert asked before violenly pushing Vert's Saber with his blades. Vert's vehicle flipped over and Anti-Vert went to where Stanford came.

You started to feel lightheaded and your head was throbbing and you placed your hand on the back of your head. You felt warm liquid covering your palm. It was blood. You sighed, praying the team will come back to get you. You laid down and curled up like a ball, trying to fall asleep. After a few minutes, you heard a vehicle coming towards you. It sounded like the Saber. You felt relieved for Vert being here and you got up... Only to see his alternative self staring at you. He chuckled. "Are you trying to rest my love?" He asked. "I'm not your love! Leave me alone!" You said, as you stood up. "You don't know what I am capable of. I'm way better than the Vert from your homeworld." He said. "Oh no no no. You are just a freak. I don't like men like you!" You shouted. He looked at you with no emotion. He took a step towards you and you took a step back. "Me? A freak? Ha! You don't know me well dear." Vert said. "And you don't know me as well. I'm capable of fighting you off. I have a black belt in karate!" You exclaimed. Suddenly, Anti-Vert just burst out into laughter. "Do you really expect me to believe that?! You don't look like the type to be violent." He said. "Oh, But I am. Don't mess with me!" You said. He took a step forward and you lunged at him, ready to punch his face. But, he grabbed both of your wrist. "Hm... A black belt in karate, huh?" He said, mockingly. "I-I just went e-easy on you!" You said, as you tried to pull yourself out of his grip. But, he was too strong. "Don't even try. You're weak!" He said. You mentally slapped yourself from doing that stupid move. The amount of energy you took to get out of his grip made you feel as if the world was spinning around you. Your legs became weak and you almost fell down, but Anti-Vert caught you. He grazed his fingers on the cut on your cheek. "Looks like Stanford got a little harsh on you...". "I'm very sorry about that..." He suddenly pinned you against a wall.

He looked at how vulnerable you are. It didn't take long to smash his lips onto yours. You couldn't protest as your body felt like jelly. He stopped kissing you as you bit his tongue harshly. "Gah!" He hissed in pain. You fell down on the floor. "D-don't do i-it a-again...." You spoke. Your voice was weak. The blood from his tongue starts to drip down from his mouth. "I would love my woman/man to be a little more compliant. I don't mind playful biting.... But, not in a way it'll stop someone from kissing you..." He said. "Go... To... Hell!" You spat. He just laughed. "You will be under my control when I take you away from them!" He said, with a wicked smile.

"STAY AWAY FROM HER YOU SACK OF SH*T!!!" Someone shouted from the distance. You both looked at who it was. It was Vert. Your Vert. He ran towards his anti-self and kicked him in the guts. Anti-Vert grunted in pain. "You will seriously gonna regret doing that!" He said. "YOU WILL SERIOUSLY GONNA REGRET TAKING MY WOMAN/MAN AWAY FROM ME!!!!" Vert shouted. Then, both Vert and his alternative self started to have a fist fight. You couldn't move or speak, and you laid down almost unconscious.

Vert somehow beaten his anti-self down. He ran to you and picked you up. "You're bleeding!!!" He gasped as he felt the warm liquid from your head. He ran out of the cave and placed you inside the Reverb. "Get her/him home! Now!" He ordered. Stanford nodded and he took you to the hub. He went back to the Saber and looked at his anti-self. "You and I are gonna have a fight. With our vehicles..." He said.

Part 2 (Coming Soon)