#what kind of lasting echo does not existing outside of his parents gaze leave him with

[je-lurk]

This episode confirms to me the idea that the tarot cards are prediction of the near or immediate future:

The Tower reversed means "averting disaster, delaying the inevitable, resisting change". Escaping death. Not even death, his own unmaking. William Kaplan is dead, having barely made it into adulthood (goddamn he does not look thirteen), and Billy, more an idea than a soul, uses his body to stay in the physical world.

I think, being a mind reader like he is, that he got sucked by the void of William’s mind rather than going there of his own volition.

So yes, I think the disaster averted is the death of the body, death of the mind. Just not of the same owner.

But I wonder what the sigil is for. Is it protection (against whom, for what?)? Or a homing beacon? Does Lilia know Billy will end up killing her? Did she stay near willingly? Or did she just see William die, and the sigil was a death ward (resisting change)?

I’m so sure she recognized him almost as soon as he set foot in her shop. Did she know then?

(And does someone remember if Lilia made Billy a prophecy?)

[timextoxhajima]

Love Me A Little Less: Chapter 9 - Obligation

LOVE ME A LITTLE LESS CHAPTER MASTERLIST

Member: (3rd person pov) arranged marriage au with Lee Juyeon

Genre: angsty wangsty

Taglist: @hyunjaethereal @sunwoowuvbot​ @suzy-rainbow​ @miingxuxi​ ​​

“It was like Se Kyung’s eyes had been surgically transferred into another body. ”

Hesitation stops Kim Jo-Pil for a few seconds. He parts his quivering lips and takes a deep breath, then says, just loud enough for Juyeon to hear, “I made a mistake. One too big for me to dig a hole and throw it in.”

Juyeon’s frown deepens, and he hears the sheets shuffling in the bedroom. He reaches forward, pulling Jang Won’s door shut.

It is only in Kim Jo-Pil’s home-made office (also known as Jang Won’s second guest room) that Juyeon is surprised by the number of mini and portrait-sized canvasses painted by his wife. Just for a split second, Juyeon buys it. Maybe Kim Jo-Pil isn’t as horrid of a person Kim Jang Won thinks he is.

But it’s the picture of their family sitting on his desk that ironically turns Juyeon’s head around.

“What is all this? For show? For when Jang Won storms in and you’ll think she’ll go soft, seeing all this?”

Kim Jo-Pil lands himself in the sofa seat next to the bed, piled with files and documents and boxes, leaving Juyeon to stand awkwardly by the end of the bed, eyes scanning the mess in the room.

“You sound like her... after her mother passed and before I did.”

Juyeon’s nostrils flare. “If you don’t want to tell me why you decided to come back and ruin her life, so be it. I don’t need to stand here and listen to all your-”

“Younghoon wasn’t Se Kyung’s first child.”

Silence.

Juyeon’s heart halts in his chest. 

Kim Jo-Pil looks out the window, eyes looking in the distance where the city’s skyscrapers were kissing the sun. “Se Kyung had a child born out of wedlock before she married me. But they made her choose. The child’s life or her freedom.”

“Back then, The Board already had administrations favouring arranged marriages between families under the conglomerate. It was an easy system to keep the number of royalties under control. The cycle repeats itself. Two families become one, and a new family joins. Superpowers are reduced from two to one overnight, and The Board would never have to be worried about being overthrown because the supers would simply be too busy outdoing each other and seeking validation from the administration.”

“Did you know?” Juyeon whispers. “That she already had a child?”

“I knew... not because I was meant to, but because I wanted to. It was The Board’s annual Christmas Charity Event in the early 1990s and Se Kyung had gone with her parents, and I had gone with mine. She was sweeter than a daisy in a meadow full of flowers. She was polite, kind, and had a reputation for being the most stubborn creature on the planet, even then. It was one of the many things that Jang Won had inherited from her.”

“She spent her early twenties away from home, supposedly in another country working her way through foreign industries and making a name for herself. I didn’t know she had returned until my father told me that the Yoo family had chosen to merge with another - mine - I couldn’t be happier. One night, I decided to sneak to into their property and propose to her formally, way before the arrangements were to be made public. And... I heard it. The crying. Fighting.”

Kim Jo-Pil’s eyes fall. “She had returned with a child in hopes to bond her to the Yoo family. The father was a coward and ran once he had heard she was from a reputable family. Too much politics, too much money.”

“But the baby. Oh, the baby. Sweetest little thing I’ve ever seen in my life. My poor, poor Se Kyung... She was given the options: Marry into the Kim family and give the baby away, or her parents will have it dispensed like it had never been born.”

By now, Kim Jo-Pil has tears in his eyes.

“After we had Younghoon, something in Se Kyung clicked back to life. I remember the night she delivered him. The sparkle in her eyes that I fell in love with the day I met her had returned... but I knew for a fact that I needed to find her first-born, no matter the implications. It was the least I could do for her. By then, the child had to be a few years older than Younghoon and so, I spent the time that I should’ve spent with Se Kyung and my own children looking for her - the baby.”

“Se Kyung lost her parents in an accident the night Jang Won was born. She lost the worst nightmares of her life in exchange for a beautiful baby girl... so, what more could she ask for?”

Kim Jo-Pil sucks a deep breath. “I couldn’t find the child. I went to all the orphanages and the foster homes and by then Se Kyung had already fallen ill. Brain cancer - inherited. All I wanted was to return Se Kyung was her first-born and yet I did not deliver. When Jang Won was 16, Se Kyung passed. The last foster home that had taken care of the child said that she had reached a legal age to take care of herself. She could’ve gone under the radar if she wanted, changed her name if she wanted, and I’ll never be able to find her. Little did I know that she had grown to become much more of a person than I ever expected her to be, and she had been practicing advanced medicine throughout her college life.”

Juyeon is giddy from the influx of information, and so he braces himself when his own neurons piece the puzzle together.

“She was the one who revived you. The child.”

The elder shuts his eyes and lets the tears dribble over his lids.

It felt like a dream. The ache in his chest. The rough texture of gravel under his cheek when he collapsed. But Kim Jo-Pil opens his eyes, in thorough shock, when he realises he’s not in the hospital, but in some worn-down warehouse with a bunch of illegal medication that shouldn’t even be legally available outside of the hospital.

He had remembered the lights in the operating theatre, and even the sound of his slowing heartbeat in the drums of his ears.

So how is it possible that he’s-

“Ah, you’re awake! I was starting to worry that it didn’t work, Goddamn Narcan.”

Kim Jo-Pil tries to move, but he can’t. He couldn’t move a single muscle in his body besides his eyes.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The lights above him had been preventing him from seeing her face, and when he did, he swore he could’ve been snapped into two when he recognised her eyes.

She pushes away the lights and turns to remove her surgical equipment, the sound of latex snapping away from her fingers echo through the dismay of the room. She returns her attention to Kim Jo-Pil.

It was like Se Kyung’s eyes had been surgically transferred into another body.

“I’m Yoo Hye In, and I heard you’ve been searching for me.”

Exasperated and in disbelief, Juyeon runs his hands through his hair, turning to make sure the door of the room was shut. 

“Why are you even telling me this? How do I know I can trust you to tell me the truth?”

“Yes, because I have all the damn time in the world to be cooking up this story!” He gets up and pulls up his shirt, revealing a stitched scar right over where his heart was. “I trust you because you have no reason to backstab her.” 

He releases his shirt. 

“Other than Younghoon, I don’t know if anybody else in this system can offer her any kind of security.”

“How do you know I’m not gonna run off after getting half of HERA & ARTEMIS?”

“Because if you wanted to, you wouldn’t have been such a jerk to her over your wedding.”

Juyeon presses his fingers over his closed lids. His vision is blurred when he opens them. 

“Why don’t you just tell Jang Won about this? She can protect you. She can sieve out this... Yoo Hye In, give her what she wants-”

“Jang Won will never give Hye In what she wants.”

Juyeon can feel the edges of his lips curl downwards and his lids getting heavier from mental exhaustion. “...Hye In wants HERA & ARTEMIS?”

Kim Jo-Pil’s eyes can’t seem to leave the floor. He can’t help the dreaded feeling of failure drowning his conscience as a father, as someone who was rightfully supposed to protect her. 

“So, what’s your plan? Hye In wants HERA & ARTEMIS, and you know for a fact that Jang Won won’t give that up... like, ever. What happens if Hye In doesn’t get HERA & ARTEMIS?”

“Hye In will go to the press. Her existence being Yoo Se Kyung’s first-born out of wedlock will destroy everything this family has built. Hera’s Manor, HERA & ARTEMIS, Artemis...” He shakes his head. “Either gone or hers. She’s playing saint by not doing that directly.”

“But what does Yoo Se Kyung’s mistake have anything to do with Jang Won?” Juyeon seethes, inhaling such a deep breath that his chest hurt. “This is unfair. She should not have to go through this-”

“And you think I don’t know that?” Kim Jo-Pil’s lower lip trembles, a hardening gaze plastered to Juyeon. 

Heaviness blankets the room. Juyeon’s frown feels cemented into his forehead as he sits at the edge of the crowded bed, fingers on his temple. 

“Juyeon.”

The younger side-eyes the elder, cautious. 

“Once you’ve acquired Apple-Korea, I want you to buy all of HERA & ARTEMIS, then acquire Artemis Entertainment as well.”

“You know Jang Won won’t allow that.”

“Try. You’ll have the power to and she can’t exactly stop you,” He huffs, chest rising. “She doesn’t need to know yet. I will tell her the truth when it blows over.”

“’Blows over’? How is this going to ‘blow over’? You just said Hye In won’t give in until she gets HERA & ARTEMIS.”

“But she can’t fight for ownership if it’s the owner is not of Yoo’s descent. Which means once you acquire all of HERA & ARTEMIS-”

“Then she’s no longer a threat.”

Kim Jo-Pil nods. “But you will need Jang Won’s trust to acquire all of HERA & ARTEMIS, and she cannot know about Hye In before that happens. Once the order is out of place, Jang Won will stop at nothing to fight for HERA & ARTEMIS, not knowing that she’ll be fighting a lost war.”

“Jang Won doesn’t even trust Younghoon. How do you expect her to trust me?”

“Look at where you’re standing,” Her father turns, but doesn’t look at Juyeon directly. The sun kisses a single side of his face as his eyes scan the room. “You’re standing in Hera’s Manor, and you’re her first overnight guest in five years. I’d say you have a pretty good chance at earning the rest of her trust.”

Juyeon winces slightly, shutting his lids to process the information. There’s a grave sense of responsibility perched on his shoulders now, and the dread that lingers in the back of his skull when he thinks of Yoo Hye In strutting around in public makes him uneasy. 

Juyeon finds himself mindlessly heading for the dining hall, where Mr Ro was finishing up the preparation of the wide array of food on the side table. The butler bows, but it goes unnoticed. He pulls the chair back for Juyeon to sit, and eventually calls him a cup of coffee when he notices Juyeon’s lack of attention. 

“Mr Ro.”

“Hmm?” The chocolate-brown shade of coffee glitters under the light from outside. 

“How long do you think it’ll take Jang Won to trust me?”

Mr Ro pulls away, handing the pot of coffee to another staff. “Well, Mr Lee... that depends on what circumstance we’re envisioning.”

“Her life. Maybe something she loves, something she can’t live without.”

“So, a prized possession.”

“Mm.”

Mr Ro pauses for a thought. 

“Long, but play your cards right, and she will eventually trust you.”

Juyeon offers a strained curve of his lips when Mr Ro bows and returns to the kitchen, leaving him with a bunch of pastries that should be sold in some five-star hotel instead.

Jang Won strolls into the dining hall dawned in a gorgeous full-fitted set, make-up and hair done like she was going for her own press conference. Juyeon remains quiet at the table, only looking up once when she first enters, then he returns to spreading Nutella on his croissant.

“Jesus, do we not have anything from Younghoon or my father to let him wear besides those pajamas?”

“You lent me these pajamas, don’t make it sound like it was my bad choice to make. Besides, they are comfortable and cute,” Juyeon looks down at himself.

Jang Won gruffly scoffs. “Of course it’s comfortable. It’s made from Supima cotton. What do you think we are, savages?”

“Mrs Lee, I-”

“Call me that again and I will fire you,” She abruptly instructs, glaring at her butler.

“Ms Kim,” He corrects himself. “We have already called Younghoon’s fitters to bring by some wardrobe for Mr Lee before he joins you for the itinerary meeting.”

“Itinerary meeting?” She whips her head from Mr Ro to Juyeon, who was busy licking the Nutella off the knife he was using. “Don’t you have to be in the office or something?”

“And do what? Put myself in a situation where my parents can come to kidnap me home? No thanks.”

Jang Won leans back in her seat as the staff places a cup of tea in front of her, surprised at Juyeon’s enthusiasm with something that he didn’t need to worry about.

“Well, I have a doctor’s appointment after, so, you can come back home after unless you want to hang around old, dying people.”

“What?” Juyeon sneers. “What for? You look perfectly fine to me.”

“That’s because I have been going for these medical checkups, dumbass. I’m not gonna stand around and then what if I magically die of a heart attack- then what? Give you all of HERA & ARTEMIS and Artemis Entertainment? Pshht!”

Juyeon purses his lips - a terrible attempt at hiding his smile. 

Young Jin Seol [12.13pm]: Your father just dropped by this morning. He knows you’re at Hera’s Manor. 

Young Jin Seol [12.14pm]: He’s requesting for a meal, for him and Mrs Lee as well as you and Kim Jang Won after you return from your honeymoon.

He quietly locks the device, attention drifting from the messages to Jang Won, who was busy strolling about the office. The ride here had been quiet, for Juyeon had chosen to drive and Jang Won sent two guards to Kim Sunwoo’s residence to get her Mercedes back. 

Heavy and thoughtful, Juyeon thought. The atmosphere in the car was strange, and he can’t help but to wonder of Jang Won was even aware she had a nightmare (or a trauma relapse, or whatever you called one of those) earlier in the morning. Maybe it was the accustomed sight of Jang Won being as cold and rigid as a statue that makes it harder to bear. Juyeon fails, when he tries to restrain the ache that devours his chest, unable to remove the image of her crying and holding on to that mini canvas like it were her life. 

The door of the office clicks open and it steals both his and her attention, the tour agency officer bowing to the two tycoons with files in her arms. Juyeon stands, patting down his pants. 

“Mr Lee!” She holds out a hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Mrs Lee didn’t make your attendance known.”

Juyeon smiles politely at her, shaking her hand whilst admiring the distasteful grimace on Jang Won’s face at the address. 

“Please, just call me Juyeon, and my wife, Jang Won. We’re still not used to the new... salutations.”

The officer offers a low chuckle, turning to Jang Won and raising a cheeky brow. Juyeon’s left brow twitches when Jang Won’s grimace remains cemented into her lips, and yet the officer was still grinning like an idiot. 

“Do you two know each other?”

“Call me ‘Mrs Lee’ one more time, and I will murder you,” Jang Won seethes, opening her arms and pulling her into a tight hug. An exhale gets punched out of Juyeon, feeling somewhat at ease with the change in atmosphere. 

“I knew that would totally get you on edge,” The officer laughs, patting Jang Won on her back between her shoulder blades. Pulling away, she turns to Juyeon and bows, this time more candidly. “I’m Ki Hae Ri, your tour officer for your honeymoon next week.”

Watching Jang Won talk to Hae Ri was almost like watching her get possessed by a 13-year-old teenager. More than amused, Juyeon wasn’t even paying attention to the actual content Hae Ri was talking about regarding the itinerary - all he could see was the bright smile on Jang Won’s face. 

And for once, since the day he first met her, this smile was genuine. Her eyes are folded into crescents when she laughs and chortles and berates Hae Ri for every little detail she puts in the conversation to tease Jang Won. 

“And for you, Mr Lee,” Hae Ri’s voice snaps him out of his mindless admiration. “Jang Won here has told me that you like diving and so I must tell you that she suggested of doing Belize.”

The folder slides across the table, and Jang Won shoots Hae Ri a look of betrayal. Automatically darting his attention to Jang Won, Juyeon’s fingers trail the edges of the folder, a picture of the Belize Blue Hole printed on the cover page.

Clearing her throat, Jang Won looks afar, refusing to even face him. “So it’s an 8-hour drive, or a 1.5 hour flight from Guatemala to Belize. It was a suggestion in one of the itinerary sets anyway.”

Juyeon looks up from the 3-day Belize stay itinerary, noticing Hae Ri’s prideful, cheeky grin stretched up her lips. 

Back in the car, Juyeon’s hands are on the steering wheel, engine already churning and the air-conditioner blasting the coolness into their faces. Jang Won waits for some moments, before realising the amount of movement in the car - or rather, the lack thereof.

“Hello? Doctor’s appointment?” The edge in her voice is back and Juyeon can’t help but wonder just how she does it - being so cold and caring at the same time. “If you’re not interested, then you can just get the fuck out and I’ll call Mr Ro to come pick you up.”

Juyeon pauses for a moment, collecting the vocabulary in his head.

“My parents want to meet us for a meal after we return from our honeymoon.”

The whir of the air-conditioner suddenly sounds a little louder. 

“What for?” Jang Won snorts. “Is your mom planning on baking cupcakes and apologising for making this the worst decision of your life, even though it wasn’t even yours to make?”

“I don’t know, but we’ll have to go. They are still my parents.”

“What?” She criticises, her upper lip hooked upwards. “You ran away! From home! And now you want to just... bring a basket of fruits to a picnic with them just ‘cause they’re your parents? Ha!”

“Look, I don’t like it either, but if we don’t do this then they’ll just be bugging me forever and if that happens then I can’t do what you want me to do with HERA & ARTEMIS peacefully. If anything, they might just fuck shit up if they don’t have this meal with us.”

“‘Fuck shit up’? I’ll fuck them up-”

“We’ll go, and that’ll be the end of it, okay? Trust me, you don’t want them dipping their noses into our shit once we start with all the ownership administration.”

“’Dipping their noses’? Just who the Hell do your parents think they are? They don’t even own any of the companies related to the-”

“I know, God damn it,” Juyeon finally rebuts, patience running thin. “But they have power. According to The Board’s conglomerate, my family is on the same tier as yours.”

Jang Won huffs, crossing her arms over her chest and looking out the window. 

“Just... just this once, and they’ll go easy. It’s not worth picking a fight with them, I promise you. Okay?”

Jang Won struggles to remove the frown off her forehead. She knows it’s not his fault. She knows his parents are shitty people.

And yet, for some reason, she’s jealous that Juyeon even has parents to feel obligated towards. 

Destiny, prophecy, fate. You name it. Just what is it that makes things so complicated in life? Circumstances can be created, changed, altered. Jang Won can question God about how she ended up right in this very spot every day, but she won’t get an answer, ever. Juyeon can wonder why she had to be the one responsible for her mother’s mistake, and he’ll never know why either. 

Juyeon trails carefully behind Jang Won, slightly surprised that she wasn’t visiting the area’s best hospital for her medical checkups. Not that this was one was bad, but it was... affordable. Taking in the sights and sounds as he enters the main hall, Jang Won advances towards the registration counter and pulls off her sunglasses.

“Here,” She slides a clipboard to the side. “Fill this visitor registration form up.” 

Juyeon picks up the pen, watching her pull out her wallet and hand it over to the administration staff. 

“Hi, I have an appointment with Ms Yoo Hye In.”

Juyeon’s eyes dart upwards from the visitor registration sheet, pupils flitting between the administrator and Jang Won, who was calmly signing into some check in registry. He can feel his breath grow shaky and unstable and all of a sudden, Jang Won’s looking at him like he was the crazy person in the room.

“What? Are you okay?” 

He parts his lips to deny the question, wishing to brush it off and simultaneously, maybe convince himself that it was just someone with the same name. 

“Jang Won! I was wondering if you were going MIA today again.”

Ironically, his heart stops. Jang Won puts on her service smile and provides her doctor a subtle wave as the two close the distance between them. 

“Of course not. Gotta make my check-up down-payment worth it. I can’t run around the city working my work if I’m unwell, can I?” 

“Well, I see you brought the future director of Apple-Korea with you,” Yoo Hye In turns to Juyeon, eyes bright and her smile convincingly kind. Her hair was short, well trimmed, and Juyeon was almost in shock that he could see the similarities between her and Jang Won. 

The tycoon whips her head upon the silence, almost shifting to nudge him. “Juyeon.”

“No, no, it’s okay! No need to rush him,” Yoo Hye In grins widely, offering a hand to him. “I’m Jang Won’s personal doctor, Yoo Hye In. You can call me Hye In.”

[thirsty4theextraordinary]

Everything Burns - Chapter One

Story Description: Inside of Scarlett a monster lurked, only once has she let it breath, but that was long time ago. Now she was normal just like anyone else, that is until The Joker smashes his way into her life. She must choose go with the Joker and live a life of anarchy and exhilaration or stay where she is living the life of everyone else, the choice seems simple to her.

This story will include slightly OCC joker as I am writing to him as an evil lunatic but for one girl he is kinder and protective.  If you do not like this kind of Joker do not read any further. 

Also as many DC Fan knows The Jester is already a character, I am aware of this, and I also am aware that he is a vigilante. However, as he is a relatively unknown character I am going to be using his alias in my story as an unconnected person. 

Word count: 2,047

Pairing: Heath Joker X OC

Warnings: Suggestive language, mild violence

---------

Chapter One: The Jester

Her head hung forward as though she were dead. Her body held no tension whatsoever apart from the Cheshire smile plastered across her face. Her long legs stretched out in front of her, resting on the heels of the PVC platform boots she wore. Her arms hung by the handcuffs tethering her to the chair, she was sat in. They were biting into her skin as her body hung forward forcing her arms back, though she didn't seem to notice or even care. The interrogation room was cold and damp, the paint was new and left an unsavoury flavour to the air. Gotham Police Station was recently rebuilt after the explosion just over a year ago.

She had not moved at all since she was placed in that room, nor did she make a sound. She wore make-up not dissimilar to his, but it was smudged and running in places leaving patches of skin bare. The bangs of her midnight black hair hung in front of her face, hiding her eyes from view.

The bells on the ribbons in her hair jingled as the door to the interrogation room was opened.

She did not even attempt to look up as he entered the room, her pose set like a statue.

He was of average height, aged 40 to 50, his dark hair showing signs of grey. He wore a simple suit and pair of glasses. His face was aged beyond his years with a deep heaviness that told of his long work hours and hardships. He was a seemingly unremarkable-looking man, yet to so many, he was an icon of strength and righteousness. His face was grim as he stared at the young woman in front of him.

Behind him hovering in the doorway was a young officer in uniform. He was tall and strong-looking, he looked around uneasily his eyes lingering too long on the girl in the clown getup. He clearly knew exactly who she was.

"Go on," said the older man to him and with a nod the young officer left locking the door behind him.

Finally, the girl looked up at him her smile never ceasing. It was the kind of smile that young children do for a camera, wide and cartoon-like. He dropped a file in front of her, her eyes fell on it and she began to laugh. The sound grew louder and louder until she was bent over in hysteria. It was the kind of laughter people fear, full of desperation and bitterness but most of all insanity.

He sat across from her his eyebrows knitting together in sadness and confusion as to how she had fallen this far, but maybe she hadn't fallen at all maybe she had been in this place all along and was simply hiding all this time.

"Scarlett?" he said softly the laughing instantly stopped and the room echoed with her last laugh. Her gaze went black and the smile fell, this face was far more terrifying than the last.

"YOU DARE CALL ME THAT!" she screamed her voice going unfathomably deep and dark.

"What should I call you then," he asked calmly, trying not to allow his shock to be known.

"Jester," she said simply her face lighting up with that strange smile again and her voice returns to that of a high childlike sing-song manner.

"Is that what he calls you?" he asked his eyes motioning to the holding cell through the door where she had come from, where she knew he still sat, waiting for the right moment, she had no doubts in him, he had never let her down before. Not now, not every. He had broken them out of Arkham, he could get them out of here.

"Yes, sometimes," she said her voice high and happy, her eyes glazed over for a second and a new smile filled her face, it was the first real emotion he had seen in her since she had been taken here. But it faded fast replaced by the skin splitting grin that she was now known for.

"Shall we have a look at your file then, Jester?" he asked but he had already begun to open the file.

"If you wish, Commissioner" she sang his title happily, her eyes never leaving his, internally he shivered.

It had been 23 years ago that Jim Gordon had first met Scarlett Jesterson.

She was only four years old and yet had gone through a lifetime of suffering.

He was a newbie cop when they found her, he was not yet tarnished by the scum of Gotham city. The call had rung in, screams and cries had been heard late last night coming from a shipping container at Gotham Docks.

No one was prepared for what they found inside, but they could hear the child screaming, her voice hoarse. It was early morning, the light was dim, so as the doors opened they pointed their torches inside, the screaming of the child louder than ever.

That moment as he looked inside that container, he realised the true evil of the city he called home, he realised the true evil of humankind.

He doubted that he would ever get over seeing something so hideous and evil, but even worse he worried about that little girl, he knew she would never truly recover from what her young eyes had witnessed.

The doors were pulled fully open and a joint gasp left the lips of all who looked on, a few lost their lunch and others stared unable to look away from the horror inside.

There, in the shipping container was a little girl of maybe 3 or 4 years old, stood in the middle screaming for all she had lost. She was dressed in a pretty light blue frilly dress, but it was stained with blood. From head to toe, she was drenched in thick red claret. She wailed her voice cracking as she held on tightly to a severed head and stared desperately at an empty blood-stained chair in the corner.

The container pooled with blood, the girl soaked through as she stood in the depths of it all. Her face was red from the body that had been slaughtered before her young eyes. Later when the police would identify the that there were in fact 2 victims, the child's mother and another woman. A chainsaw would later be discovered as the murder weapon used to not only kill but completely dismember the bodies.

Gordon had been the only one to tear himself back to reality and rush forward to snatch up the child cradling her in his arms, as the head fell from her grasp and she screamed, he wondered if she would ever truly stop screaming.

The child was cared for at first by a foster parent who though had cared for children with troubling pasts, had never quite had anything as bad as what this little girl had witnessed.

The police would later try to interview the child but she would become hysterical and proved to be far too traumatised to give evidence. After a year of foster care, the child was given to her father, who had been in prison during the murder, for fraud. Gordon was wary of handing the child over as he had become slightly attached to the young girl, as well as her father was a well known English con artist, though it had never been proved with evidence that he was dangerous, Mick Jesterson was well known and feared in the streets of Gotham.

Less than a week later, unable to find any reason to have the child taken away from his care, Mick and his daughter Scarlett returned to England a strange smile on the toddlers face. The murderer with the chainsaw was never found.

To be honest Jim never thought he would see Scarlett again and then just over 11 years later he met a happy well adjusted intelligent 15-year-old girl. She had gained an English accent and showed no signs of her horror-filled childhood. Jim wondered if she didn't remember it, he hoped she didn't remember it.

She had returned to Gotham with her father and his new bride to be, Jackie who had been born and breed in Gotham itself, but Jim suspected other reasons for the Jesterson's return.

Though she seemed happy and as though her past was but a forgotten drop in the ocean, alas it was not. She remembered it, she remembered how the chainsaw sounded as it ripped through her mother's spine, she remembered how her mothers leg still kicked when they were no longer attached to her body, she remembered how her mother had begged for Scarlett to be let go, as her arms were removed. She remembered it all and it tainted her very existence. Gordon wondered sometimes if she had had a normal life would she still become one of Gotham's most wanted criminals and one of Arkham's most notorious patients.

He looked up at the grinning woman in front of him the jagged scar from her bottom lid of her right eye running down to the top of her cheek, looked like the streak of a tear in this light. It led from her right eye which was completely white, as though frosted over. It was a haunting look. He wished that the horrors she had seen had been forgotten just like he thought they had not so long ago. He sighed and she giggled a high squeaky sound.

There was a loud booming sound outside the interrogation room, but Gordon ignored it. The woman in front of him right now was far more important.

"Did he give you that?" Gordon asked motioning to the scar trying not to stare at her haunting eye. He wondered if she could see out of it at all. She seemed to be thinking for a second then she laughed again.

"Yes and no," she said and the grin spread across her face again.

"Does he often hurt you?" asked Gordon as he shut her file.

"When I ask him to" she replied still smiling. "Sometimes I like it rough," she said winking at him.

A laugh was heard over the intercom, it was him, there was no way you wouldn't recognise that manic laugh. The one-way mirror exploded as the bullet hit it. As the dust settled the Joker stepped over the small wall and into the interrogation room. He hit Gordon hard with the butt of his gun as the police officer tried to attack. The older man's body falling to the ground in a heap.

Joker pulled a string of keys out his pocket and approached the girl on the chair.

"Your knight has arrived," he said winking at her and she blushed under her white make-up.

Gordon tried to move as he watched The Joker un-cuff The Jester and help her to her feet. If they hadn't been wanted murderous psychopaths the scene would have been almost cute as she pecked The Joker on the cheek and thanked him. Jim's head was swimming and he couldn't focus as he tried to stop them.

"Come on gorgeous, our ride is waiting," said the Joker to his girlfriend who simply nodded and held onto his hand.

"This has been fun Jim, we should do it again sometime," said The Jester as she and The Joker made their way back over the small wall and out of the interrogation room.

The police station was filled with dust from the explosion the Joker had used to free himself and Jester. They ran out of the station and into the van that was waiting outside, the driver did not need to be told as he floored the accelerator and the van took off down the street.

Scarlett looked over at the painted face next to her and grinned he looked back and mirrored her expression.

"I do love, that smile," he said to her as he pulled her onto his lap, and slipped his arm around her waist.

"Same here!" she said happily before the pair kissed his red lipstick mixing with her purple.

The Joker pulled away and rested his head on Jester's forehead and grinned madly at her and she laughed.

[aenariasbookshelf]

The untitled EndGame Fix-it Fic

So, as people have expressed interest in the EndGame fix-it story, here’s the first chapter of it.  I know that this story probably won’t be for everyone, especially if you liked the way EndGame played out, but it was downright cathartic for me to write it.  This first chapter does have a couple of hard conversations in there, but nothing worse than what we saw in the movie.  I think what I’m trying to do was hit some similar notes to EndGame, but in a way that felt more genuine and true to the characters in the way that I experience them.

(And yes, as the writer I can totally recycle a few concepts from other stories I’ve written, so there. ;)

Many thanks to everyone who’s taken a look at this story so far.  I love all of you. <3

Okay, here we go.  No title yet, but I have an idea...

Part One

The idea, time travel, to get the stones and bring them to the future, is set.  It’s a good plan, Steve says, out loud at least, because hope is in short supply these days.

It’s their only plan, he says to himself at night, tossing and turning in bed and wondering what the hell they were thinking with this cockamamie idea.  It’s not that he doesn’t trust Scott, he absolutely does, but time and dimensional travel?  At least when they traveled across the galaxy to kill Thanos, that was in a linear fashion.  Still, there’s that one little niggling doubt in his head, that he just can’t shake off.

That little lingering doubt is what causes him to sneak into Natasha’s office late at night, and use the heavy, long-range equipment in there to flag down Carol Danvers.  She may not be experienced with time travel (hell, none of them are - who could be an expert in time travel if they’ve only just managed to come up with it?), but her interstellar perspective on things may help him see through a different lens.

“And that’s where we stand.”

Steve spreads his hands out across the desk expansively as Carol’s holographic image looks on, mouth pursed and arms crossed.  “It’s...the plan that we’ve got.  It’s the only plan everyone can agree on.”

Carol nods, and Steve can tell her mind is working at top speeds.  Faster than his, at least, which isn’t hard to do at this time of night after days of not sleeping well.  “Can I ask the tough question?”

“Please.”

“You have a time machine, and you will have all the Infinity Stones.  Why not just turn the clock back and kick Thanos’ ass in 2018, with all the new knowledge you’ve gained?”

The billion dollar question, indeed.

Steve heaves a sigh, sitting back in the chair as he nearly chews a hole through the inside of his cheek.  “We don’t trade lives.  I’ve said it more times than I can think.  One singular life is just as worthwhile as everyone else’s.  The world didn’t stop spinning these last five years.  People are still growing up, getting married, having babies...having lives.  Who are we to take that away from them?”

Carol’s shrewd, however, and can see right through the fancy, inspirational speech that people would expect Cap to make to lead the masses.  “Yeah, how old is she?”

“Hmm?”

“Tony’s daughter.  How old is she?”

Steve just nods, looking down at the desktop.  “Four.”

“And, suddenly, so many things become clear.  He refused to help unless his daughter was safe, didn’t he?”

A set of arched eyebrows is the only answer Steve can give.

“I get wanting to protect her.  I do,” Carol says, eyes distant even through the shimmer of the holographic interface, and whatever she’s thinking of, Steve can see the pain on her face.  “But if I was her parent I wouldn’t want to let her grow up in a world that seems like it came from one of Stephen King’s worst nightmares.”  She snaps her gaze back to Steve’s.  “So basically, if there’s an alternate plan, we can’t expect Tony to be involved.”

“That’s probably a safe assumption.”  Keeping secrets has already done so much damage in their relationship, what’s one more to add on top of it?  But when the universe is at stake?

“Still, if you know her birthday, do the math.  There’s every chance that kid was conceived before the Snap and, if so, she’ll get to grow up in an even better world than the one she’s in now, with parents who are a lot less broken because of it.”  Her hologram looks steadfast and strong, a lot stronger than Steve feels at that moment.  “I’m going to do some research on what the Stones can do, in the meantime.  Power’s great, but only if you know how to use it properly.”

Steve nods.  What else can he do at this point?  Instead of clarity, all he has are more questions that neither one of them will be able to answer easily.  “I’ll let you know how our time travel adventures go.”

Carol nods, and her hologram blinks out of existence, leaving a fading trail of faint blue sparkles behind.  Steve slumps back in the desk chair, scrubbing his hands hard over his face, because fuck if he knows what he’s going to do now.

**********

Natasha and Clint take off for Vormir.

Only Clint returns, and it feels like the heart and soul of the team is shredded in an instant.

**********

Carol’s not the type of person to let just anyone see her cry, and yet her eyes go glassy and watery when Steve tells her about what happened on Vormir.  “Oh, god,” she all but whimpers.

He stands behind the desk, where Nat should have been sitting, fists clenched, trying not to give into the rage and sadness that he knows is brewing inside of him.  “Did you find anything?”

Carol sniffles, inhaling sharply and refocusing herself.  “Nothing good.  Long story short, from a cosmic perspective, the universe is beyond off balance.  Right down to the molecular level, and from a more metaphysical angle, at a magical level also.  The universe shouldn’t exist in this current state.  It can’t, frankly.”

“You spoke to the Living Tribunal, then?” a new voice breaks in, low and haggard and yet strong enough to resonate around the office.  Standing in the doorway is Thor, looking about as worn down as Steve feels right then, ragged and tired, like he’s only being held together by the merest of threads.

“And what’s the Living Tribunal when it’s at home?” Steve asks, because now they’re going well past his wheelhouse into the goddamn Marianas Trench, and the last thing he wants to do is drown in it.

“The judge, jury, and executioner of universal balance.”  Thor shuffles over to one of the chairs nearby the holographic image generators and kicks back, slumping down.  “What did he say to you?”

“That this universe, as it exists now, post decimation?” she shakes her head, “is unsustainable.  The balance has been wrecked so badly by what Thanos has done that within a generation, maybe two at the most, everything in existence is going to be reduced to space dust.  Something to be absorbed and dispersed around the universe that will come after this one.”

“Unless we turn it back?”

“Unless we turn it back,” Carol echoes, nodding.  “The Tribunal’s in agreement, to the point where it’s saying that some futures, meaning this one, shouldn’t exist.”

“The Tribunal is known for being a bit cryptic, at times,” Thor says, his head turning to look directly at Steve.  “The only times it gets truly clear, is when the sentence is handed down.”

Carol points a finger directly at Thor.  “That’s an understatement, in my experience.  The fact that the Tribunal pointed me in the direction of obtaining a little extra power to defeat Thanos back in 2018 as needed is telling enough.  I get the feeling that the Tribunal, and the powers - whatever they are - above it aren’t exactly thrilled with the idea of starting a new universe just now either.  It’s not the right time.”

Thor finds Steve’s gaze yet again, and there’s something dark and dangerous brewing behind his eyes, something that Steve knows is echoed in his own.  “So, instead of buying Morgan a lifetime, he gives her twenty years?  Maybe fifty, at the outside?”

“Not just Morgan,” Carol says quietly.  “The entirety of the universe.  The countless species and planets and galaxies in that space beyond measure.  Fifty years.  And that’s if humanity doesn’t hasten their own end, as they’ve been known to do.”

As painful as it is to think, it’s the moment of clarity, of certainty, that Steve’s been needing.  “We have to turn it back,” Steve breaths out, the words falling from his lips with unimaginable gravity.  “We use the Stones, go back to the battle in Wakanda, and take Thanos out there.”  He turns his eyes to Carol.  “The Stones together can do just about anything, yeah?”

“Correct.”

He nods, trying to collect his thoughts together.  He needs to be sure that he phrases this just right, because if there’s only one chance to say it they all need to be sure they’re working with the same ideas.  “So if we do turn back the clock to that moment, there won’t be two versions of us around, just the one version that existed at the time.  Yeah?”

She nods.

“Okay.  We get the stones, and we turn the clock back to that exact moment.  It’s a small time frame, even more so with you being out in the galaxy, but we can make it work.”  He bites the inside of his cheek, hard enough to cut through the skin and leave the lingering metallic taste of blood in his mouth.  “One more thing.  When we turn the clock back to that exact moment, we need to make it that only the three of us remember this future, so we can ensure we do what we need to in the past.  This is our plan, our mission.  We need to see it through.”

It’ll also be a bit of a kindness, Steve supposes.  It’s hard to mourn what you’ve lost, if you don’t know you’ve lost it.  It feels uncomfortably like playing God, deciding if people will or won’t live with the memories, but it’s the choice that will spare people, including those closest to them, the most pain.  And will give them a chance for a real future, not just some farcical pretense of one.

“Can you live with that option?” Carol asks, solemnly.

Steve’s stomach roils and the blood on his tongue just seems to get even sharper, leaving him feeling like he’s about to sign the warrant for his own execution.  “What other choice do we have?” is all that he says in return.

“It’s a rare thing, to get a second chance,” Thor says.  His voice is quiet and low, yet it cuts through the night like a strident call, a rallying cry that they’ve been desperately needing.  “Who are we to waste that opportunity?”

[captain-emmajones]

in this life, we do not meet

Soulmate AU: The first curse never happened. Killian died 300 years prior to Emma's birth. They both live a life of loneliness, haunted by a love they never met, until death comes knocking at their door.

in which i made an angsty text post and people requested a fic out of it, hope you guys will like it <33

2000 words 🔱 angst 🔱 ao3 

dedicated to my dear friend @b99peraltiago because you’ve always been so supportive of my works i had to write you a gift :’) (sorry it’s not peraltiago :’)) 

The lyrics in italics come from Sarah Bareilles Once Upon Another Time, I had it on loop while writing and I really recommend it for the mood™️.

ORESTES: Where have I seen you before?

MOIRA: In a dream.

ORESTES: A thousand years ago.

.

Once upon another time, Before I knew which life was mine,

As Captain Killian Jones stands at the end of his life, on decks of his ship, still terribly proud in spite of everything, the waves tenderly cradling his boat are his last companions.

His crewmen were reluctant to leave him behind. They had all wanted to go down with the ship. With him. He couldn’t allow it.

“You are a part of my crew, mister Smee, and therefore you are also required to leave this ship –”

“— but Captain, I am your first mate –,”

“— I am well aware of that fact, Mister Smee. However, this is my last dying wish: to be left in peace.” To die alone.

His hooked arm guides the ship’s wheel, as always, while he presses a bottle of rum firmly against his lips. To distract himself from this poison inside of him, this hellish burn radiating from his chest – not only loneliness but the poison the Dark One infected him with.

It was yesterday. Or a week ago, difficult to be certain.

A seagull lands in front of him, completely unaware of his inner struggle. She sings.

He had been so close to killing him, after years, and years, and years…. And then she had appeared.

(He thinks he saw her first the day Milah died. Well, he didn’t properly see her.

But, as he lied sobbing in the safety of his own cabin, he did feel the warmth of a hand over his closed fist.

And it had suddenly felt a little less terrible, the hole in his chest, less terrifying the future to come, without her.

Perhaps is there so much loneliness the human heart can take before it begins to manifest something, someone, that doesn’t exist.)

She is an angel he has seen in so many of his dreams, visions, whatever bloody curse he is under.

Back on this very ship, the crocodile had come to taunt him and the blonde woman had begged him not to kill him. She said there would be repercussions beyond this life, and he wanted to believe her. Perhaps there was no other choice but to believe her.  

From the first moment he had laid eyes on her, years ago, he had known he was supposed to love her.

Perhaps not in this life. Perhaps one in which he is nobler, better, good.

The burn of a knife plunged into his chest had cut his thoughts short, and he had fallen down on his knees in front of his whole crew.

“Enjoy the ride, dearie! Your death will be slow and painful, just like you made my life when you took away Milah!”

The giggles of the Dark One still echo in his ears, but it is a fight he has definitely lost. It is a fight for the living, and he is dying.

He clenches his jaw as a brighter ray of sunshine plays on his eyelids. He frowns. He is drunk enough to numb the pain in his chest but not this gulf roaring within his throat.

As he is about to die, the sum of Killian Jones’ life is a lot of pain and wickedness.

(There is a tear at the corner of his eyes, one he firmly wipes with his hand.)

Dying alone is, after all, more challenging for the nerves than expected by the brave Captain.

A deep breath, to fill in his lungs with the salty sea air, one he’s loved his entire life.

Perhaps is he not so alone after all.

He has been haunted all his life by this angel of beauty, of love, perhaps of death. As if, maybe – just maybe –  things were supposed to end differently.

Bloody nonsense.

A flash of pain. The bottle of rum escapes his hand as his eyes shut in agony, a fire he knows sent from Hell overcoming him. His knees bend down, and his hand tries to hold on to the wooden wheel.

“Bloody hell, can’t it be a quick death?”

He chuckles to himself. What did you expect? The comfort of a loved ones’ arms?

Soon enough, he is unable to see clearly, and his head hits the floor, a muffled sob he isn’t aware of echoing on the ship.

Be quick. Be quick. Be quick.

And then, somehow, as darkness engulfs him and there is nothing but pain, a relief. A cold, white hand on his face – there must some comfort in death.

A smile splits his face open. “Oh, there you are… just in time, love…”

He thinks he sees tears on her face, and his heart screams: someone cares, someone cares,…  

One last breath, one last pang of pain, and he is gone.

(When the Jolly Roger is taken back by pirates with bright eyes and hopes, rumor has it that it is now a haunted ship.

The crewmen avoid at all cost to walk along the corridors at night, for a white figure lingers there.

She has blonde hair and translucent eyes and she seems to be waiting for whom will never come back.)

.

Truly, it is a happy life.

Although King and Queen of Misthaven, Emma’s parents offer her nothing but softness and love. She grows up sheltered by their good heart. (The one they share).

Oh, she does live a good life – one of very few heartaches.

(The few she endures are fighting against Regina, but it is never a lonely fight. Emma’s light magic is too powerful for the Evil Queen and she bends the knee. They evict her from the kingdom.)

Except perhaps when she wakes up covered in sweat, heart about to explode in her chest, eyes filled with tears, and she aches for whom she cannot reach.

It is not for a lack of trying. She feels like she’s dreamed of him her entire life.

Her mother has a knowing smile when she confesses her worries. Together, they decide to create an enchantment to find him, whoever he is.

(His eyes are of a forget-me-not blue, his hair of a dark brown, and there is so much pain in the absent smile he paints upon his face.

She wants to save him. Little does she know she is too late.)

It is truly a good life, except for that one moment, maybe, when she finds herself near the sea and she thinks she has finally found him and she discovers a tombstone with his name on it.

(“How can you tell it’s really him?” her mother asks.

She finds no shame in her heart when she replies: “He told me in a dream.”)

If she can make out anything in between her tears, it is the date: 1755 - 1789.

“He’s been dead for three hundred years,” she whispers in this foggy morning, one hand over the marble.

The sea breeze is cruel against her cheeks.

“Some things are just not meant to be”, Snow White tries to comfort her.

There is a moan that she muffles against her palm. But we were.

Being brought up in this environment of true love and happily ever after makes this burn over her heart even more painful.

(The pain comes from the birthmark she’s got under her breast, the shape of a knife enchanted with poison.)

But it is a good life.

It is however a short one.

The birthmark seems to infect itself, and the poison takes her over in a week.

Their princess is twenty-eight-year old when Snow White and Prince Charming lose her forever.

.

Killian Jones has always been a man of action and this after-life is a long agony of waiting.

Tik tok, tik tok,… Times flies but never towards the future.

At least, there’s still rum.

Rum has no taste back there, but there is a comfort in the habit.

One look at the clock. 8:15. The time of his death. As always. He drinks a mouthful of rum, waits for the burn that doesn’t come.

It is incredibly lonely there. It never gets more comfortable, warmer, it is forever dull and cold.

.

He is sitting in Granny’s when the air shifts. The door opens, and he instinctively looks up from his drink.

And then, a miracle occurs: the clock ticks forward.

There she is.

After all these years. He swallows down, tries to remain composed. His heart is about to burst out of his chest. The woman of his dreams is wrapped up in a dark red dress, a crown on her head, and void in her green eyes.

His blood becomes cold as his gaze meets hers and something within him urges him to stand up.

Welcome her.

There’s a flash of light in her eyes and he knows she recognizes him too.

“Killian,…”

It is awful to hear his name in the mouth of someone who cares for him, after all these years of heartache.

It is freeing.

The ghost haunting him for centuries is finally in front of him, in the flesh, and they are both dead.

A smile. “Well, I sure as hell have been waiting for you, your grace.”

Her smile then doesn’t reach her eyes but does break his heart.

.

“So, you are a royal lady?” a roll of his eyes.

He is playful to hide his discomfort.

They are both sitting outside of Granny’s, echoes of once upon another time dancing all around them.

She’s gazing at the furniture, surely taken aback, and no vision allowed him to fully grasp a glimpse of her beauty. Nor her kindness.

“Was,” she smiles, looks up at him and dives into his eyes.

She takes his breath away.

“And you are a pirate?” she enquires back, playfully.

Something hurts, in his chest. His blood turns cold. “That I am.” He is disappointing her.

You disappoint everybody.

“Well, my mother was a thief,” she quickly adds, she is perceptive.

Tough lass.

He smiles at her. And it is terribly tempting to fall in love with her in the blink of an eye.

.

As things turn out, she is so willing to love him and he is unable to believe he deserves that kind of love.

“I’ve known you my entire life,” she assures him as they sit on a bench by the underworld sea.

She wants to reach for his hand but he is cold and distant and terrified.

The air in this goddamn hell is unbreathable, and perhaps is it because they are not supposed to be breathing. It constantly smells of smoke and ashes, and she still smells like her old self, vanilla and cinnamon, and hope.

“You don’t get it,” he mumbles, remains as far as he possibly can on this tiny bench. He stares at his knuckles. And exhales: “You were the only flicker of light in an ocean of darkness.”

So many times, the only reason he had hold on to life was her face under the sky of a starless night.

A pause. “But I never deserved hope.”

I never deserved you.

.

She surely doesn’t expect him to believe he is a villain. In her visions, she has never seen one. She’s only seen somebody incredibly lonely.

She knows she cannot save him unless he wants her to.

She understands. He wasn’t raised with tales of true love and happy endings – and for heaven’s sake they are both dead and their skin is cold, but lord is her heart beating for him in spite of everything.

He’s waited three centuries. She can at least wait for the rest of eternity.

.

It takes a lot of patience, and kindness, and affection, to melt the ice around Killian Jones’ heart.

Hades doesn’t help her, mind you, is quite determined to keep them both in the Underworld.

“We can move on,” she tells him, still by the sea, “Together. Start over on the other side. Be happy.”

He nods. It isn’t much, but it does give her hope.

And when she grabs his hand, he lets her.

.

It is a very bright light, moving on. For the first time in this life, they do so hand in hand, ready to face all of eternity together.

But mostly, I believed in yellow lights, and tire marks. Sun-kissed skin and handle bars, And where I stood was where I was To be… No enemies to call my own, No porch light home to pull me home, And where I was is beautiful Because I was free.

[what-if-i-imagine]

Shaking Breath

Amanda Waller, four bats and a Kryptonian clone have been working to create a new device for task Force X to use in the case of a Kryptonian going rogue. said device needs to be tested. Little do they know, Lex Luthor caught wind of the test, and has decided to attempt to get rid of Superman's second son, Nightwing, once and for all.

Ao3

TW: Suffocation from smoke

"Is it done?" The occupants of the lab all turned to face the Kryptonians who had just entered the lab from the elevator. Superman, the very man who had spoken, stood with his arms crossed and his young second son Nightwing closely tucked into his side imitating his posture. Supergirl and Power Girl both made their way to lean on the wall near the elevator while Superboy went to greet his friend.

Amanda Waller was the one to answer Superman, “It was just finished this morning.”

“Then testing is good to go?” Superboy asked, moving to his station at the monitors beside Red Robin.

"It doesn't have to be tested," Batman said. "We know it will work."

"Always better safe than sorry," Superman said. "It would be better for us to test it and for it to work than for us not to test it and be left with a useless device when it’s needed most.”

“I’m still not sure about this,” Batman said. “Ms. Waller already has Task Force X for this kind of thing.”

“As I said, better safe than sorry,” Superman nodded.

“And it will be safe to have one hand,” Supergirl said. “If we never have to use it, then great, but if we do, it will save a lot of lives.”

“You say that now, you won’t be saying it when you’re the one in there,” Waller said.”

“If,” Power Girl corrected. “We never plan on any of us going rogue. It’s only a possibility we have to be cautious of.”

“I meant testing it,” Waller said. “Figured she's tough as nails and would be up to the task.”

Kara shifted her weight from one foot to the other, avoiding facing Waller.

“Now that’s a surprise,” Waller said dryly, “Well then, which one of you is getting in there? Superboy can’t do it, and Supergirl apparently isn’t up to the task.”

“None of us want to do it,” Kara said, defensive instincts flaring. “Would you want to be trapped in there breathing something that makes you so vulnerable?”

“I would if it meant the world would be a safer place for it,” Waller said. “Now. Which one of you is going in?”

"I'll do it."

Everyone whipped around in varying degrees of shock and horror to the boy that had spoken.

Nightwing, Chris, shrunk under their gaze, but kept his eyes on his adoptive father. Looking up at him with an unreadable expression

"Absolutely not," Clark said once he was over his shock.

"Papa, I'll be fine-"

"I said no."

"Just hear me out-"

"Christopher Kent," Clark cut him off again, settling him with a serious look. "I refuse to allow this to be tested on a teenager."

"You refuse to let it be tested on me," Chris corrected. "But Papa, I'm the only one it makes sense to be tested on."

Waller gained an interested expression for the first time since the Kryptonians had walked in, "And why is that?"

"Because out of all of us, it needs to work on me," Chris said. He didn’t look at her, but it was clear to anyone in the room that he meant it. “Papa, Kara, Kon, and Karen are unlikely to go rogue. They've been raised in positive environments, always fighting for what's good and right. I was born in the Phantom Zone as a member of the house of Zod. I'm the most likely here to lose sight of what we believe in."

"You would never-" Clark started, but was cut off when Chris shook his head.

"It's okay. I know what you guys saw when you visited the other timelines. I was a Zod. I may be a Kent now, but that doesn't mean I can't be changed. Brain washing, amnesia, anything could happen to make me change and I would be the easiest target. We need to be sure Task Force X, or the bats, or you guys, could take me down if needed."

There was a heavy pause with all eyes on him. Everyone knew he was right, but no one wanted to admit it. None of the four bats present nor the supers wanted to remember what they had seen in the other timeline. The dirty blond haired, brown eyed boy in front of them being bathed in darkness with black hair and gold eyes that made him look like his parents in a sickening way.

But that didn't stop that reality from existing. Their disbelief that the sunny boy they all knew had the possibility to become so lost didn't stop the possibility from being real.

Clark finally sighed, and pulled his son into a tight hug against his chest, burying his nose in the boy's hair, "Fine. You can test it. But we won't ever need it for you, I know we won’t. Tell us the second you feel any pain or get even the slightest bit sacred."

"I will," Chris promised, pulling back enough to smile up at him. "I'll be okay. everything is being controlled and monitored. And anyways, I know I'll always be safe with you here."

"You are safe," Clark confirmed, just as he did every time Chris had his doubts since the moment they got him. He had had to repeat the phrase many times since they got him out of the Phantom Zone. He would willingly repeat it for the rest of his life if it helped to put his son at ease.

"I'm safe," Chris repeated one last time before fully pulling away. "It's going to be okay."

An arm suddenly slung around his neck, pulling him down into Kon's chest. He laughed a little at his older brother, and attempted to bat at his hand while he messed up his hair.

"You know you don't have to keep proving how stupidly brave you are, right?" Kon said. "Phantom Zone wasn't enough. You just have to go and prove you're up to any challenge. You're making the rest of us seem lame here!"

"I'll keep that in mind," Chris laughed.

Without giving Clark or the rest of his family any more time to worry, Chris went to the cylinder chamber, stepping in when Waller opened the door for him.

The chamber looked to be made of normal glass and metal, but in reality was made of a material not even the Kryptonians could break through, and reinforced by Kryptonite in the center in case they managed to break through the first few layers. It was designed to hold a rogue Kryptonian for as long as needed with no escape and was perfect for this very test.

"It's going to feel like it's burning your lungs," Waller warned. "It won't be a pleasant experience."

"I didn't expect it to be," Chris smiled. 

Waller nodded and closed the chamber door. The hiss and clicks of the locks echoed through the room and the seams seemingly disappeared. Chris stood still in the center, stance relaxed but prepared. With his nod, Batman, Oracle, Red Robin and Kon all flipped their switches.

Nothing happened for a second, but Chris remained prepared. A hiss sounded as the floor of the chamber sunk by just a half a centimeter and the ceiling did the same to reveal thin vents that ran all along the new openings.

Glowing green gas leaked in from them, slowly spreading across the ceiling and floor. Chris only spared the gas a glance before his eyes returned to his father's through the glass.

The gas spread, following the movement of air in the chamber, naturally drawn to where Chris stood taking deep breaths to speed up the process.

On his first inhale of the gas Chris started to choke, one hand flying to his neck while the other covered his mouth and nose involuntarily.

"Christopher, fighting back will only make it hurt," Waller said through an intercom Chris couldn't locate with his already wavering mind.

It was a struggle, but he forced his hands away, instead wrapping his arms around his chest to hold himself.

"Chris?" Clark said, worry already filling his voice to the brim.

"I'm okay," Chris managed to say. He could hear the way his voice echoed from the intercom in the lab but it was heavily muffled by the glass. He met his father's eyes again and repeated, "I'm okay."

Clark looked unsure but put his hand back down anyways.

Chris bit the bullet and took as deep a breath as he could manage, only choking slightly as the forign gas entered his lungs. He let his breath back out, and was consciously aware of the oxygen in him being quickly replaced by the kryptonite gas that was already weakening him. He could feel his ice breath and laser vision were the first the gas took from him, quickly followed by flight and everything else but strength.

Unlike the others, strength slowly seeped out of him instead of leaving in an instant. Still, it was gone quickly until he had the strength of a normal human fifteen year old.

Alarm only set in when the burn in his chest intensified and his strength lessened even more than that of a human.

He started to shake as the glowing green filled his vision. A frantic look around him said the chamber was thinly filled with the gas. He could still see through it to outside the chamber, but it was gradually becoming more opaque. It felt as if all oxygen was gone from his lungs, and the gas was the only thing he was breathing.

His shaking grew so bad he had to brace both hands against the glass to his side, using the little strength he had left to hold himself up. His breaths became frantic as his eyes uselessly searched the chamber for an escape.

Belatedly he remembered what his father had instructed him to do if he got scared or if it started to hurt, and shouted, "Okay I'm done! I don't want to do this anymore! Let me out!"

Outside the chamber, Clark watched his son's expression grow panicked and heard it coupled with his shouts over the intercom.

"Let him out!" he yelled to the group who held control over the chamber.

"We're trying," Red Robin said. "Something is wrong.”

"What does that mean?" Clark snapped.

"Someone override the commands," Batman said. "They hacked into the system somehow. They won't let us access the locks. or vents."

"How could someone hack into the system? We have a more secure system than the pentagon, you said so yourself when Oracle coded it!"

"It's Luthor," Red Robin said, his own voice turning panicked. He used one hand to push off his cowl while he typed at near speedster speeds with the other. His eyes were wide, and for the first time, Clark was sure it was fear he was seeing on a bat. "He found out about the project somehow. He hacked into the system."

"Shit," Oracle cursed, causing Clark's eyes to flicker to where she was stationed in front of several monitors.

"Report!" Batman ordered.

"Luthor got into the gas chambers. It's not just the kryptonite gas filling in there."

"What else is he filtering into the chamber?"

"A normal smoke that was colored green so we wouldn’t notice. He's trying to choke out the oxygen in the chamber."

Clark was sure his heart would bruise his ribs from how hard it was beating. A soft thud returned his undivided attention to his son in the chamber. Chris had seen their panic, and it had clearly only worsened his own as he started to frantically, weakly hit the glass while on his knees. Tears were streaking down his face that was gradually paleing.

A hundredth of a second passed, and Clark found himself hitting the glass with his full strength behind each punch. He knew in the small, still rational part of his brain that he wouldn't even make a dent, but he kept trying. Kara and Karen joined him. One kryptonian couldn't break through the material, but maybe three could. He was sure Kon would have joined their desperate attempts if it hadn't been busy making his own desperate attempts through code at regaining control of the server.

It took him a few seconds to realize the shrill loudness wasn't coming from his own head, but from the intercoms that were still projecting Chris's voice out to them. He was screaming unlike Clark had ever heard him do before. Screaming and crying and calling "Papa'' over and over again. The loud hits against the glass by the three kryptonians on the outside could be heard over the intercom by anyone else in the room, but only four of them outside the chamber could hear Chris's frantically beating heart under all the comotion.

"It's going to be okay baby!" Clark yelled. He tried to make his expression reassuring, but Chris gave no reaction. He just continued to scream and cry, staring brokenly up at him from behind the glass he couldn't break through.

"He can't hear you," an oh so familiar voice said from the intercoms.

"Luthor! If you don't stop this now nothing will stop me from killing you!" Karen yelled to Clark's right.

Luthor gave no response besides quickening the stream or colored smoke and kryptonite gas into the chamber. The color of green became so opaque that Clark's couldn't see Chris's face anymore. All he could see was his boy's hands pressed against the glass, bleeding and raw from hitting it so hard so many times.

Chris's screams came to a sudden stop. His hands slipped from the glass, leaving blood smeared from where they had been. Dirty blonde hair, a shoulder, and half of Chris's blue clad arm became visible from where he had slumped over between where Clark and Kara were hitting the glass still.

Clark heard himself screaming, but had no control over it.

He should have listened to his instincts. He shouldn't have let Chris go in there. He should have listened to Bruce and not have done a test at all. Not have let anyone in there.

“We're back online!" he faintly heard Red Robin shout. Four switches were flipped before Luthor could regain control and the chamber hissed and clicked for a minute as the gas drained out through the bottom and top. As the gas drained away and was replaced again by oxygen, Chris became visible again. A mess of tears, sweat, and snot covered his face. He was slumped bonelessly against the glass, his eyes closed and head pressed against it in a way that awkwardly bent his neck.

When the gas was completely gone from the chamber it unlocked with one final click.

Clark wasted no time throwing the chamber door open, arms ready to catch him when Chris fell forward towards him.

"He's not breathing," Clark yelled. He was shaking so badly he could see the way it jostled his son. He laid him on the floor, but before he could start the CPR he usually would in this situation, Kara caught him.

"He's weaker than a human right now," she said. "A Kryptonian performing CPR would only hurt him worse.

"I've got it," Stephine gently pushed Clark away and started CPR. Clark heard two of Chris's ribs crack under the bat's force as she expertly resuscitated him. Minutes passed like hours where Clark lost small lapses of time. Kon had at some point pressed himself into Clark's side now on his knees on the ground too. He was shaking. They both were. From the corner of his eye he could see Kara and Karen doing the same while standing, hugging onto one another.

Like breaking through a water's surface while being under for too long, Chris's loud gasp was the best sound he was sure he would ever hear. his son choked a few times, his heart beat that of a hummingbird, but he soon calmed into ragged breaths.

Clark quickly scooped his son up into his arms and held him so close he was sure he would never be able to let go.

"Papa," Chris was barely able to rasp a whisper against Clark's chest.

"I'm right here," Clark promised. He was unashamed of the tears that filled his voice. "I'm right here baby. It's okay. You're okay."

The fingers of his right hand thread through his boy's hair while he leaned his own head on Kon's where it rested on his shoulder. Kon had one arm still wrapped around Clark, but the other now wrapped around Chris, palm pressed to the side of his belly so he could feel the rise and fall of breath. Karen and Kara had joined them on the ground in front of Clark, Karen's hand holding Chris's and one of Kara's circled one of his ankles.

Bruce stood on Clark's unoccupied side holding his shoulder in a comfort just as steady as Chris's now even breathing.

When Clark could tear his eyes away from his son to everyone else in the room, all he could see was fear and regret mixed evenly with relife. They were all thinking about the same things. Every time before this when Luthor had tried to kill Chris had been much less direct and less successful. But he had been getting closer with every attempt to off Clark's second son. He had almost won this time.

Never again.

Chris was breathing, and Clark was never going to let him stop again.

[archonssun]

We Have Time

We Have Time

WC: 1732

Okay, yeah, this is gonna take place in the alternate ending, seeing as the last Noct story I wrote was both a) kinda shitty and b) sad.

You will always remember the first time you met Noctis. He had been such a shy thing back then, back when he had visited Tenebrae. You were from a lesser known branch of the Nox Fleuret family, being cousins with Ravus and Lunafreya. But you were the last of the branch; your parents had died years earlier, along with your older brother and sister. Sometimes, you felt so undeniably alone, only for Luna and Ravus to find you and cheer you up.

Your first encounter with the prince of Lucis was interesting, at least to the adults around you both. Neither of you had known of the other's existence until you had been looking for Luna.

*

“Luna! Luna!” you called, tears threatening to spill. You and your cousin always hung out with one another at this time, but for the past few weeks, she had been avoiding you. And you were afraid -- afraid that you were losing her the same way you had lost your older siblings. Out of sheer desperation, you had run into the greenhouse, crying, “Luna!”

You had found your cousin, along with an unfamiliar face. It was a boy, around your age, and he was sitting in a wheelchair with a book perched on his knees. When you had cried out, both he and Luna had turned to you. “(Y/n), are you alright?” Luna asked, standing from where she sat next to the boy. Unbidden, your tears started falling.

“Is this why you’ve been avoiding me, Luna?” you asked, voice breaking. “Because you have a new friend? Do you not need me anymore…?”

“(Y/n), that’s not--” But she didn’t get to finish because you bolted, running through the halls of Fenestella Manor. But you didn’t see the man standing in front of you right outside the greenhouse, and ran straight into his legs.

“(Y/n), are you alright, dear?” Aunt Sylva said, coming to kneel at your side. You curled up in a ball, hugging your knees to your chest as the tears fell faster.

“Does Luna not need me anymore, Aunt Sylva? Is that why she’s been avoiding me? Do I serve no purpose here any longer?” At your rambling, your aunt hugged you to her, shushing you and rubbing your back.

“I can assure you that is not the case, my dear,” Sylva cooed, brushing strands of your hair from your face. “Luna will always need you.”

“But--”

“I didn’t realize there was another child in the Manor, Queen Sylva,” the man standing next to your aunt said, making you freeze. You slowly looked up to him, feeling intimidated by the amount of black he wore. Yet, he looked kind -- and kind of like the kid Luna was currently with.

“Yes, she is my niece, King Regis,” Sylva offered, pulling you to your feet. “(Y/n), I would like you to meet King Regis Lucis Caelum, King of Lucis. Regis, this is my niece and Luna’s future advisor, (Y/n) Nox Fleuret.”

You were overcome by a sense of shyness that rarely showed itself as you hid behind your aunt, causing both her and the king to laugh.

“Dad!” a boy’s voice made you look to your right and see both Luna and the boy approaching the three of you. Taking a closer look at the man the boy had called ‘dad’, you realized that their resemblance now made perfect sense.

“(Y/n), I’m sorry,” was the first thing Luna uttered, and you were quick to hug her, almost sending the taller girl to the ground. Luna’s face was split with a sweet smile, and you glared at the boy.

It wasn’t until a month later that anyone had the decency to introduce you to the prince of Lucis, Noctis Lucis Caelum.

***

When Tenebrae was occupied by the Empire, you had been taken by King Regis to live in Lucis, apparently at the behest of your aunt. Queen Sylva had an idea that the Empire was closing in on the country, and had asked Regis to take care of you, the last of your lineage. It took a while, but you got used to the hustle and bustle of Insomnia, and began going to school with Noctis as a close friend.

That time in your life was very difficult, having to juggle between schoolwork and learning how to be an advisor -- that was your job, after all. The branch family of the Nox Fleurets have always been advisors to the Oracle, and that hadn’t changed since that role had been passed down to you from your siblings. You had spent many a sleepless night going over protocol, only to fall asleep during school. Many times you had been reprimanded by those at the Citadel. The only ones that seemed to give you some room were Regis and Ignis, the boy training to become Noctis’s advisor.

*

“I can’t do this, Ignis,” you sobbed, rubbing furiously at your eyes in an attempt to stay the tears. “I can’t! I can’t help Luna!”

“Yes, you can,” the older boy chided, shaking your shoulders gently. You shook your head at his words.

“I can’t!” You had had enough at this point. You were seven years removed from your home, forced to start anew in a foreign land without your family. Hell, you hadn’t even been able to take with you the one picture you had with them. Your body is filled with hopelessness, making your limbs sink like lead to the floor. Yet you still mustered up enough strength to throw the Nox Fleuret crest across the room. “I should’ve been the one to die, not them! Sera should be here, or even Sole -- not me! They would know what to do…”

*

When you awoke, it was to King Regis and Noctis sitting next to your bed, and an unfamiliar blond standing awkwardly in the corner.

“(Y/n)!” Noctis called as soon as your eyes opened, crushing you in a hug. “I’m so glad you’re alright!”

“I can’t help her…” you whispered, daring not to meet his gaze. You stared at the ceiling, feeling the tears begin again. “It should’ve been me, Noctis. If it hadn’t been for me, Sera and Sole would still be alive… I’m useless to Lady Lunafreya… Why did it--”

“You’re not useless, (Y/n)” The heat in the prince’s voice caused all in the room to stare incredulously. The lazy prince had never so much as raised his voice since you two had met, and your tears stopped momentarily. You finally met his gaze, taking in a sharp breath at the look that met you. “You can help Luna, I know it. Wanna know how I know?” You furrowed your brows as you waited for him to continue. “Because you’re still the same girl who glared at me while hugging Luna.”

***

When you were eighteen, you and Noctis became inseparable, bonding over your shared love of video games. At first, you were hesitant when the man had convinced you to play a game at the arcade with him and Prompto -- the blond that you had seen three years prior in your room -- but soon found out that they were pretty good stress-relievers. Since then, you have been hooked, spending most of your time not spent training playing games.

It was also that same year that you realized what you felt for the heir: you loved him. But you knew how he felt -- about you, and about Luna. He loved the Oracle dearly, and while it pained you, you were happy for your cousin. And when the wedding was announced as part of the treaty?

You died a little on the inside, all while giving your prince the brightest smile you could.

*

You wanted so badly to be able to go with Noctis on his trip to Altissia, but fate had other plans for you. Regis had you stay in Insomnia, planning on sending you to Tenebrae -- to Luna --  soon after. But when she appeared in the Crown City, his plans were dashed. And when Insomnia fell, you were able to escape with her and Libertus, putting all those years of training to good use as both you and Nyx had to fight to keep the Oracle and the Ring safe from the Empire.

And you followed after your cousin for weeks as you two travelled all around Lucis, forging Covenants and helping the people. But for a reason you couldn’t remember, you and Luna were separated, and you were left behind once again. So, you stayed in Lestallum, where Gladilus’s sister Iris was. She was happy to see you well, and quickly told you that the boys were in Lestallum as well.

As soon as you saw Noctis, you were hurtling towards him, clinging to him desperately. After weeks of not knowing what had happened to the man and his entourage, seeing him in front of you, breathing, made everything come crashing down all at once. Sure, you were getting weird looks from passers-by, but you didn’t care. You were finally back with your best friend.

*

“Noctis,” your sobs echoed in the street as you clung to him. All the frustration of being left behind not once, but twice, came pouring out all at once. Your body shook with the intensity of the emotions that wracked your being, and at some point you had collapsed, taking Noctis with you.

“Hey, it’s okay, (N/n),” he whispered. One hand came to rest on your waist while the other stroked your hair. “I’m right here. I promise, I won’t leave you again. You’re stuck with me, for better or worse…”

***

Ten years. It’s been ten years, and Noctis stood before you with a lazy smirk on his face.

“Hey, (N/n),” he said. You barreled into him, sending him to the ground as you straddled his hips.

“You little fucker,” you scowled, keeping his back to the ground with your hands on his shoulders. “You promised, Noct. And you broke it. Do you have any idea how much it hurt to not see you come home after you left for Altissia? I needed you when Luna died, and where were you?”

“Well, I’m here now,” he interrupted, a hand coming to graze your cheek before cradling your face. He pulled your face down to his, lips landing lightly against yours. “We have time, my queen.”

[sumeshi-t]

hinata shoyou x reader | hanahaki x reincarnation au; a chaotic mix of fluff, crack, and angst.

song: lifetime by ben&ben

a/n: a three-part fic because i didn’t want it to get too long in one post. this is my first time working on an au and hinata so i hope i did him justice. beta-ed by @taeiliee ​ iloveyou mom always <3

i. 》 ii. 》 iii.

*:･ﾟ✧ "Tangled with another's eyes–nevermind, you were never mine," ✧･ﾟ: *

Your fingers drummed against the table, eyes intent on the ginger sat before you. “So, what do you say?”

He looks away, avoiding your gaze, fidgeting in his seat. Hinata Shoyou wasn’t sure why he was feeling nervous under your gaze, especially when you were the one basically asking him for a favor, “B-But, why should we date? I know I wasn’t… meant to see that, and I swear, y/n-san, I would never tell Kenma! We can just end it at… that,”

When you don't respond, Hinata decides to raise his eyes to look at you—your face looks solemn, and somehow… something about it, something about you just draws him in. This time, you were the one staring outside the glass wall of the antique cafe. His heartbeat quickened, breath getting caught in his throat—

‘...beautiful,’ was the only word he could find to describe that moment, even if your eyes had a faraway look in them. Hinata knew your true wish was that this never had happened, and that you were talking to Kenma instead.

If only he never went back to the restroom.

You tried not to heave a sigh at your impulsive and brash decision, and at his innocent question. But what can you do when your life's on the line? Ten years left in your life may seem like a long time but, “It’s not enough. Please, Hinata-san.”

You had the sudden urge to cough, and, upon doing so, Hinata could only watch as your pale hands covered your mouth, and the sound of coins dropping to the floor entered his ears. There was a bit of blood that ran down your nose, and he immediately reached for a table napkin. More than guilt, it was worry that bubbled from his chest. 

Even if you had explained it—this sickness—that you had, he still found it ridiculous.

You saw nothing but the disbelief in his eyes, desperate to get a grasp at this uncanny reality.

You saw yourself in them, in his constricted pupils and lids widened—reminded of the first time you discovered that you were sick with a rare disease you thought only exists in fiction.

The Hanahaki Disease, a disease acquired from garnering an unrequited love, was something that no medical doctor could cure nor control—anthosectomy, the surgical removal of flowers, was nothing but a temporary solution.

One must be loved in return to be free from it. 

Apparently in your case, the disease has “mutated”. That instead of flowers or petals blooming from your lungs, money would begin to collect in them, beginning from coins and eventually into large bills as it grew worse over time.

You only discovered this fact just two, about three weeks ago, during breakfast, after a lone coin dropped into your cup of coffee, mocking you as it floated; the aftertaste of iron and aluminum on your tongue. 

“Our family inheritance… came from their chest—even your mother’s.” your father muttered regrettably, with a hint of disgust, back turned to you in the study. 

“I didn’t expect for you to catch the disease this early, and you’re doing so well with your current business projects,” he heaves a sigh, fingers grazing through the spines of the books, before pulling a velvet-covered hardcover, worn out from time.

“How long… has this been going on, dad? Is this some sick family tradition?! So… does this mean…?” you couldn’t even say the words—you haven’t even confessed and yet, having this disease only meant that Kozume Kenma didn’t feel the same way you did.

Finally, your father sits before you, sliding the title-less book towards you. He explains further that you read its contents—the ancestral diary—about the history and the findings made by your predecessors.

He calls for your name softly when your wide eyes never left the book in your hands. He looks over you sympathetically, “I thought that by hiding this from you, I was protecting you from harm.” Your father’s eyes squinted, wanting to reach out to you but his conscience telling him he failed you as a parent was stronger.

“But y/n, don’t give up… don’t be like them, like me,” your father says this with blood dripping from the corner of his lips, before clutching his chest, spitting bills of varying amounts out his mouth. 

“I never thought ten years would pass by so quickly,”

You look at him, mortified at his pallid face, standing up in worry, going to his side. “Who…?”

With a weak smile on his lips, your father utters your mother’s name, voice just above a whisper, tender and soft at hearing her name come from his own lips.

“And I don’t regret it. Loving her is the best decision I’ve made, even if she didn’t want it.”

You spent the next week with him, until he breathed his last, inevitably leaving you to face this battle of love and pain on your own.

As if everybody’s expectations from you weren’t high enough already, now that you were alone, it skyrocketed through the roof. Even as you knelt before the portrait of your father, refusing to talk to anyone on the first day of his wake.

You heard their whispers, you knew their motives—nobody really cared about the life of a rich man, they only cared about the man’s riches. You shut down any and all talks about businesses to potential or lifelong business partners; the least they could do was respect you and let you mourn.

On the third and last night of the wake, someone unexpected came to pay his respects.

“Kenma…?”

“Hello, y/n. I…” he looks away shyly, a few strands of hair falling to cover a portion of his face. “I’m sorry,” he finally managed to squeak out. His hand reached out to you, holding a tiny plastic bag filled with your favorite snacks, all over a black-white envelope.

Seeing Kozume Kenma in a formal suit, bun loosely tied by his nape, awkwardly scratching his cheek; you could feel the ice in your heart being slowly thawed by the scene before you. You would’ve finally smiled; you would’ve pulled him in just so you could cry out into his chest.

But you felt suffocated, and the slap of this impossible reality you couldn’t dodge stung against your bare and open heart, pulling you back and keeping you rooted in your place.

You knew his apologies were meant for condolences—but your father wasn’t the only one who died. You mourned for your own demise, wishing you could bury these hidden feelings along with his ashes and leave everything behind to start anew.

But secrets turn into regrets, and buried feelings would only grow.

Your fingers brushed against his skin as you took the plastic bag in your hands, the sensation sending sparks to your nerves. You didn’t hear yourself mutter your gratitude, only the sound of Kenma’s soft gasp. The back of his hand wiped the tear stains off your cheek, “How long have you been holding back, y/n?”

‘A long time, Kenma,’ you wished to answer, but you knew you or your words didn’t matter to him as much as you’d have liked to. Even through the tears that blurred your vision, the love in your eyes for him was clear.

Kenma awkwardly pulled you close, a hand behind your head to press your face against his chest, while his other arm remained by his side. His actions strongly reflected how he felt nothing more for you than just a friend and a board director—he didn’t even choose to hug you.

But the unheard truth didn’t stop you.

Behind the lids of your eyes, you saw little moments of joy you had shared with Kenma—maybe it all began with an inevitable meeting in your office, unlike the usual video conferences he would attend. Working with someone your age with the same prospects and visions was rare for you in the world of business—you mused, this feeling was mutual.

Then the meetings became less about business, and more for just the heck of it.

You daydreamed about him, seeing his smile from the corner of your eyes when you were alone. His intelligence was a given, so maybe it was his soft-spoken, honest nature; or the way he was athletic even if he stayed in his house majority of the time.

That was the tip of the iceberg.

Because really, it was more of feeling so at peace when you were with him. You couldn’t hold back being yourself when you were with Kozume Kenma because despite hiding behind several secret doors you’ve put up all your life, the scrutiny of his sharp, cat-like eyes opened each of them, finding you over and over.

You didn’t want to lose that sense of familiarity. So, you chose to ignore the signs that you were indeed falling for him. And by doing so, your life was now reduced to a mere ten more years, caught at crossroads, burdened with making the decision between continuing your family’s horrible legacy or carving out your own place in his heart and have him learn to love you.

The words of your father echoed in your head.

And it bounced off your lips, “Kenma… please stay, just a bit longer,”

“Kenma, are you he—oh?”

Hinata Shoyou peeks from behind the corner, checking if he didn’t get lost in your family’s large home. His presence made you shy away from Kenma, clearing your throat before the ginger-haired man was introduced to you.

He offered you the brightest smile you’ve ever seen, fitting for the shade of his hair and contrasting the dark hues of his clothes. “Kenma and I go way back, he actually sponsors me!” his cheeks were dusted pink, both embarrassed and excited. “Now I play for a team in Division 1,”

‘Ah, he’s that kind of person,’ was your initial thought. Hinata Shoyou seemed so easy to read, pure and unadulterated intentions out in the open for everyone to see. What’s fascinating was that he makes it seem so easy to not let that be a vulnerability.

Spending a few hours with someone whose energy was bigger than him—cliché as it sounds, but it was akin to standing beneath the rays of the sun. Hinata Shoyou radiates warmth upon your frozen heart, even if for just a moment.

It was a different kind of peace. And you looked forward to seeing more of his large smiles.

Just… not this soon.

Maybe it was fate playing tricks on you. The timing was quite impeccable.

Kenma went ahead first, Hinata had to go to the restroom. Soon as you stood up to see him out, you cough, coins falling to the floor. One of them finds its way towards Hinata, rolling and stopping when it hits his foot.

“Oh? Lucky!” he picks it up, hears more coins hitting the floor that he has to look for the source. Hinata sees your back hunched over, money around your feet. As he was approaching you, he said sheepishly, “y/n-san, is this yours? I was about to take it—!”

“y-y/n…y/n-san… are you… okay?”

Hinata flinched as you glared at him, voice seething, words through gritted teeth. “Don’t you dare tell Kenma.”

Hinata nods once, pocketing the coin he had in his hand on instinct, before scurrying away.

You let the incident pass, as you had the cremation and burial to worry about in the meantime. But a few days after, all it takes you is a phone call to Kenma and a few texts to Hinata—which leads you to the present wherein you and the athlete agree to meet at a café.

“Now that you know, here’s the deal I’m offering you, Hinata-san. I’ll sponsor you in exchange for your silence. And…” you take a sip from your coffee, watching him from over the rim of the cup. Hinata was uneasy, confused, and shocked at the illness you had. It was as if he were in a volleyball game, forced to take in so many things at once.

“Hinata-san, go out with me. Let’s date. What do you say?”

“E-Eh…?! B-But, why should we date? I know I wasn’t… meant to see that, and I swear, y/n-san, I would never tell Kenma! We can just end it at… that,”

“It’s not enough. Please, Hinata-san.”

Hinata stood quickly, contemplating just how he was going to help. He has to bite the cheeks of his mouth, looking over you with worry as hundred and five hundred yen coins spilled from you. You felt his hands slightly shaking when he gave you the table napkin, and in return you motion for him to take a drink so he could calm down.

“Sorry about that—so, do you agree to be my boyfriend? If you need time to think of a response, I can give you two days, because I have to go in a few minutes,” you say this, looking at your wristwatch while slowly gathering your things.

“y/n-san,” Hinata began, still standing by your side, looking down to meet your gaze. “I… I agree. Because I want to help you in any way I can, just to give back, with how generous you are and… because you don’t deserve this. But why does it have to be me?”

His words struck something within you, but then your own sorrows blocked him out. “Your timing was just perfectly terrible. I’m sorry for dragging you into my problems, Hinata-san.”

Hinata felt his pulse quicken at how you looked up at him from beneath your lashes. His unease somehow was replaced by something. But your next words broke his trance, “There is only one condition that you have to follow,”

With a smile that never reached your eyes, Hinata feels his own heart break at how you were like a broken porcelain doll, red lips moving so easily to convey words, convey the one law you’ve forced him to follow and would eventually break—

“Never fall in love with me.”

cheese cult: @akaashichigo @drainedjaz @haikkeiji @annalyn-annalyn @sosugasweet @cali-writes-sometimes @simping4ratsumu @shishinoya @ushiwakaa @akaashit-baeji @kxgeyamasmilk @agaassi ​ @hanibuni ​ @cupofkenma ​ @kawanisshi ​ @milkandc00kiez ​ @thiccbokuto ​ @shinsukestan ​ @sufiawrites ​ @wakaitoshi ​ @skyguy-peach ​ @fern-writes-ig ​ @briswriting ​ @kawaiikraykray ​ @bubbleteaa ​ @miyuswriting ​ @raevaioli ​ @ouikarwa ​ @hakueishirei ​ @pineapplekween ​ @estherwritess ​ @keiji-n ​ @achoohq ​ @badlywritten-hq ​ @mochibeaa @oinkanna ​ @chxrry-wxne ​ @spudicide ​ @airybby ​ @asranomical ​ @karmasuna ​ @nekoglasses ​

gen. taglist: @yams046 ​ 

[ficsandcatsandficsandcats]

probably i just love to suffer but what about y/n having abusive relationships with her professor in Oxenfurt(secretly of course) but yennefer founds out and trying to help reader get out of this mess while also falling in love we need more yennefer love in this fandom ✨

Fandom: The WitcherPairing: Yennefer x ReaderWord Count: 1,851Rating: GTaglist: @heroics-and-heartbreak @whatevermonkey @mynamesoundslikesherlock @magic-multicolored-miracle  a/n: I went in a bit of a different direction here. I don’t write abusive relationships and I don’t do professor/student relationships but I do recognize that these things exist. I reference a professor/student relationship but I tried to do so in a way that was clear on where I stand about those power dynamics and the inability for true consent on the part of the student. This fic also ended up being much more yearn-y and angsty than anticipated but I hope you still enjoy what I wrote. Thanks!

Yennefer.

Dark hair and light eyes.

Magic and mystery.

Yours and nobody’s.

Yennefer who taught you to want more from this world. Yennefer who made you feel like you’d placed every single star in the sky. Yennefer who break your heart when she left, wordlessly, senselessly.

You knew she’d be standing on your doorstep but still you opened the door. You’d never been able to keep her out. Not when it mattered. Not when you needed her. And like it or not, you did.

She was the same as she’d been when she left. A little cooler and distant but those eyes still glowed and you felt your heart sway into a familiar hum of adoration at the sight of them.

“Y/N,” she said, a word she hadn’t allowed herself to think much less speak since the day she’d left. She didn’t know what pulled her to you but whatever the reason she knew better than to question it. There was no such thing as a coincidence and she wouldn’t fail you. Not this time, at least.

“Yennefer,” you replied, not bothering to put up a pretense of surprise at finding her there. You stepped aside and gestured for her to walk in and she followed, looking around the little house with a small smile. It was all exactly the same. There was a timelessness to this place that she loved. You had not stalled with time, though. You were older, the shadow of wrinkles playing about the corners of your eyes and lips. The eyes were still just the same, though, if a bit sadder than before. Her heart ached at this, knowing she was in part to blame. But there was no point in resting in regret.

“What brings you?” you asked.

“You tell me,” she countered. You sighed heavily.

“Yennefer you can’t just show up on my doorstep 10 years later and demand I tell you everything,” you insisted. She considered your words for a moment.

“And yet I am,” she replied simply. You shook your head, hating that you found her characteristic stubbornness charming. She had no right to charm you. And yet.

“Same Yennefer,” you said.

“You liked that Yennefer.”

“I used to like a lot of things.”

“You still do.”

Her words were more of a plea than a statement and you tried not to fall into your old role, reassuring her that you still did, of course you did, when you knew she wouldn’t offer the same reassurance in kind.

“Perhaps you have come to offer me congratulations,” you said, changing the topic, “I am to be wed.”

Yennefer’s heart lurched at the words and she forced her face to remain neutral but you felt the tension settle in the space between the two of you. You gave her a challenging look, daring her to be jealous or angry and hoping desperately that she’d rail against the news.

“That must be it,” she said. She walked into the little sitting area, taking up residence in what had once been her favorite chair. It had never felt right sitting in it though you’d spent countless hours crying there, nose pressed against the fading fabric, seeking the last traces of her scent before that too was taken from you with time. Everything had been taken but the love you felt for her. You followed her into the room though it bothered you that she fit so perfectly back into it as though no time had passed.

“Tell me about him,” she said, giving you a placid look of interest though blood rushed in her ears, nearly drowning out your words as you spoke.

“He’s a good man. Respected. A professor,” you said, ticking off the points your parents had recited when you were informed that you would be marrying him.

“Professor?” Yennefer asked, catching the detail you’d hoped she wouldn’t.

“Yes,” you said, eyes on the back of the chair, near her face but not actually looking at her.

“From Oxenfurt University, I assume?” she pressed.

“Yes,” you said.

“Y/N,” she said sharply and you finally met her eyes which flashed dangerously, “Is it Charles?”

You straightened your back and summoned all of your dignity, shooting her a defiant look.

“Yes,” you said, charging towards the conflict head-on, “Yes it is.”

“Your teacher,” she emphasized, glowering darkly.

“He isn’t anymore.”

“He was when it started though, wasn’t he?”

“He isn’t anymore,” you repeated, face growing warm.

“Did you do it to hurt me?” she asked. She’d warned you that your professor had been extra attentive, tried to tell you that time spent with him outside of class could only lead to trouble. But then she’d been gone and he was there to comfort you and make you feel special and ok. And then things escalated and it went from a lapse of judgment that you were warned never to speak of to a proposal of marriage that your parents charged you to accept. You’d successfully put it off for years, pursuing higher and higher levels of education for the sole purpose of extending the length of your engagement despite pressure from your parents and the professor himself. You’d run out of time now. It would happen soon. You’d hoped he would lose interest but the more you tried to push him away the more determined he seemed to have you. As a child you would have found this flattering, but you weren’t a child anymore.

“Did you leave to hurt me?” you asked, thoughts returning to the question Yennefer had posed. Now it was her turn to shift in her seat uncomfortably and form her answer.

“No,” she said, “I never wanted… I didn’t want that to be how it had to go.”

“How it had to go?” you echoed with a bitter laugh, “Please explain why it had to go that way.”

“I don’t have an answer you’ll like,” she admitted.

“Try an answer that’s honest, it’ll get you farther,” you retorted. She took a deep breath and you waited.

“I had an offer at a job. It was going to take me far away, it would offer me training that I could never hope to get here. If I told you… if I talked to you, or saw you, I would have turned it down. I never would have been able to go. So I left. I made a hard choice, perhaps the wrong one-”

“Perhaps?”

“I’m not going to pretend that I haven’t achieved some of the goals I set for myself. I’m not going to pretend to regret everything I did. But I do regret that it caused you pain,” Yennefer said.

You knew that wasn’t good enough. It was a bad sign of how things had been going that someone acknowledging causing you pain and regretting it made your hungry heart soar with gratitude. There was so much to unlearn from the unkind years that had passed but you would unlearn it if it killed you.

“You know that’s not good enough,” you said, though you wanted to pull her into your arms and tell her it was all forgiven, all forgotten, all erased if she would just tell you that she loved you still.

“I do,” she answered, “But it’s all I have to give right now.”

“The wedding is in one week,” you said, rising from your seat. She rose as well and followed you to the foyer.

“There will be no wedding,” she said bluntly, surprising even you who thought you couldn’t be surprised by her anymore.

“You don’t make that call,” you argued.

“I will if I have to. I will for you,” she insisted.

“Yennefer-”

“Tell me you love him and I will walk out that door, destiny be damned, and ride away forever,” she said. You looked into the violet eyes that met your gaze unflinchingly. You tried to say the words but you were tired of lying. You’d never been good at it and you never could like to her. You didn’t want to. And Yennefer always told you to never do things you didn’t want to do.

“If I try and leave him… I don’t know what will happen. And whatever does happen, he has the support of my parents. I am alone in this, Yennefer,” you admitted, fearful even as you spoke that your fiancé would appear from somewhere hidden and drag you to a chapel in an instant. Yennefer took a step forward, one hand resting against your face softly, tears coming to your eyes at the feeling of her touch after so many years left with only dreams and memories that could never compare to the real thing.

“No. You are not alone. Not in this, not in anything. And certainly not with him,” Yennefer’s voice dropped low and dangerous as she spoke the words and you feared for a moment that you’d incidentally sealed his fate.

“It’s easy to say that,” you argued, “It’s easy to pop by because destiny taps you on the shoulder and tells you to intervene but what about the other times? What if destiny tells you to leave again?”

“That wasn’t destiny,” she said, shaking her head, “That was just ambition. And I am still ambitious but I am also in a better place to choose how I pursue those ambitions. And with whom.”

Her hand fell to yours, slightly trembling but quickly clasping hers back.

“If I go with you, I cannot allow you to be my only source of support. I need to make friends. I need to earn my own coin. And I need to have my own life,” you said. There was a loud voice in your head screaming at you to be quiet, to accept the scraps she could offer, to cling to her for as long as you could. But you knew the voice had grown in a time when those instincts kept you safe. They couldn’t serve you anymore. You wouldn’t let them.

“Of course,” she agreed, “Does this mean you’ll come?”

You looked back at the little house. You’d built a life around this space, in this town. You knew the rules of this world and even if you didn’t always enjoy the game you knew how to play. 10 years before Yennefer had changed the rules, knocked the board over and forced you to learn a new game. But you had. You had done that alone. You could do it again. You would do it in a way that served you better.

“When do we leave?” you asked, heart in your throat as you answered. Yennefer smiled and began to move in for a kiss, pausing before she did and stepping back. You were grateful at her restraint because you knew you wouldn’t have it. In time, if it was right for you, you would taste her kisses again. You would know the soft warmth of her body against yours and you would share a love worth building together. But for right now you needed time and friendship, and she would give you both.

“Now.”

[purplepaintedporcelain]

qin su time travel fix it

When Qin Su brings the knife to her stomach, it is because living another moment in this rotten world seems unfathomable. Despite the ringing in her ears and her heartbeat’s echo throughout her bones, she can see her husband smiling as he plays with the dagger. He is always smiling. Instinct, rather than conscious thought, has her reaching for the blade in his hands and turning it back towards herself, struck by the knowledge that he’d never truly cared for her or their baby as much as he loved his power. With the strength born of total despair, she buries the dagger deep, wishing to never wake again.

Qin Su awakens. She keeps her eyes firmly shut, unwilling to acknowledge the failure of her attempt. She wonders what new lies her husband will have spun, how he will have exploited her tragedy to garner sympathy for himself. Tears spill uncontrollably from beneath her tightly shut eyelids, spreading over her cheeks. She begins to hiccup, unable to completely suppress her grief. If her crying alerts someone though- the thought of having to see the monster who has called himself her husband all these years sends a spike of rage through her that quickly overtakes her mourning. If she is still alive- if she has to live with everything that has been done to her- she will ensure that he will also regret it. The thought of causing her husband to publicly bear even a little of the humiliation that has been haunting her gives Qin Su the first sense of satisfaction she has felt since she first opened that terrible letter.

Resolve renewed, Qin Su opens her eyes, and realises for the first time that she is not in her rooms at Koi Tower, as she had assumed, but in a room she hadn’t seen for many years, indeed, one that had not looked this way for many years. She turns, taking in the impossibility of her childhood bedroom, with all the furniture and decorations that had existed before her marriage. She had taken a few with her to her married home, and others had been repurposed in the family home. Yet, unbelievably, here it all is. Screens, arranged exactly the way she liked them to block the worst of the morning sun. A patch of embroidery on the table over there, needle still upright in the middle of a row of stitches. Her outer robe, folded carefully to lie within her reach. Is she dreaming? A vision her mind conjured as she lay dying? She is startled from her musings by a knock at the door.

“Maiden Qin”, a voice calls. 

Who would this be? Not one of her family, as evidenced by the address, but Qin Su has not lived with her maiden family for a decade and a half, and no longer entirely remembers all the staff and sect members that had dwelt here.

“Maiden Qin!” the voice calls again.

Dream or not, this summons evidently cannot go unignored.

“Here”, she croaks out, her voice unsteady from the earlier surge of emotion. “What is it?”

The door opens halfway, and a young girl stands there, dressed in a maid’s uniform.

“Maiden Qin”, she says, “your mother requests your company in the gardens this morning.”

One of the serving girls then. She hadn’t had a personal maid until after her marriage, as her father believed that a cultivator should neither be spoiled nor helpless, but the younger girls assisted her when necessary, or when her parents sent them on errands. As was evidently the case now.

“Please inform my mother I will be with her shortly”, Qin Su answers, managing to keep her voice mostly steady.

The girl nods and closes the door, light footsteps sounding briskly into the distance.

Qin Su hurriedly washes her face and dresses herself, taking a cup of fresh water to soothe her ragged throat. She feels less and less certain that this is a dream, believing that she could not have conjured a room or people she had not seen in fifteen years. But what else could this be? It is almost as if she is reliving a moment from her earlier life when things had been simple and innocent.

But things weren’t truly innocent, even then. Even from birth she was- and her mother had kept everything from her! Her mother. Who was expecting her. Qin Su is no longer entirely sure how she feels about her mother. She had missed her desperately, when she had passed away so soon after Qin Su’s marriage. But her mother had known all this time- and had let her marry without telling her who she was marrying, indeed, if Bicao’s account had been correct, had told her future husband while keeping her in the dark! Did her mother not respect her? Did she think Qin Su was too fragile to know such things?

Qin Su continues to ruminate as she moves through the halls of her home, her feet following the familiar path to her mother’s garden. She stops, blinking through the sunlight. Madam Qin is ahead of her, sitting on a blanket, intently watching the little birds that have come to one of the many bird feeders she had set up. Bicao stands behind her, wondering whether her mistress is warm enough in the early Spring air.

Tears spring unbidden to Qin Su’s eyes. No matter what this woman had or hadn’t told her, she is still the one who raised her all these years, cared for her and loved her, regardless of her origins. Unthinkingly, Qin Su is already running towards her, calling out.

“Mother!” she shouts, tears in her eyes but a smile spreading over her face.

Madam Qin looks up.

“A-Su!” she gasps. “A-Su, whatever is the matter? Is something wrong? You were fine when I saw you last night.”

Qin Su drops to the ground next to her mother, and entwines their hands. She takes a deep breath, and swallows back the tears.

“I am fine, mother. Simply uneasy dreams.” she turns to the woman and smiles again. “And you, mother? Are you unwell? Forgive me, but you seem rather pale and upset.”

“It is nothing, A-Su. I have merely been very busy. It is, of course, less than a month until your m-marriage.” Madam Qin’s voice slips on the last word.

Without knowing what she does now, Qin Su may not have noticed the tremor in her voice, as she surely did not on this day so long in the past. Her mind races at the implications of what her mother has just said. Less than a month! That would mean that A-Song was already-

Her hand drops to her flat stomach at the realisation of the faint flutter of life dwelling therein. A week before the wedding, she had missed her period, and realised what it meant. Jin Guangyao, still unaware of their relation, had soothed her fears, and promised her that no one would know if their child was born ‘premature’. By the birth, of course, he had known the truth about them, and he had never seemed to love A-Song as much as she had wished he would.

“A-Su?” Her mother’s voice startles her from her thoughts.

“Forgive me mother. I believe I am feeling unwell after all.” She gets up to leave and turns, bowing briefly to her mother.

She hurries back to her room, nodding quickly at her mother’s startled call of well-wishes. Her mind churns as she considers what she knows. She is currently pregnant with her baby, A-Song. Jin Guangyao had murdered her baby, and used his death for political gain. Whether this was still a dream or not, she could not bear to witness that again, would not tolerate such an action against her child. If she called off the marriage, her mother would still know who the father of her child was. And her father-

Qin Su thinks of her father, always so cheery and kind. He couldn’t have known the truth, or he would have saved her from the Jins. She wonders if he even knew she was the child of another. Had he known and loved her anyway, or would he find out and reject her as another’s bastard? If she told her father she no longer wanted to marry, he would want to know why, especially since she had begged him so long for this marriage in the first place. The truth would come out once she began to show, and she had no way of knowing how he would react. No, neither her family nor her fiance could be relied upon.

So what to do? Who would take her in, a runaway bride and pregnant? She thinks of her friends, her peers, who had fantasised about marriage with her as children, who had so sweetly congratulated her when she had fallen in love with and become betrothed to such a venerated war-hero. She cannot imagine any of those proper young maidens, who spoke so sweetly yet gossiped when no one was looking, being willing to aid her. Likely she would be their next topic of gossip, soon enough.

Qin Su lies on her bed, gazing up at the ceiling in frustration. She was not lying to her mother before, early pregnancy had been difficult for her in her memories, and she truly felt unwell. But her physical ailments were barely noticeable compared to the fear and helplessness in her heart. Jin Guangyao had murdered their baby for being the shameful product of incest. So long as he was a respected member of his clan, he might always harbour ill-will towards their child. She would have to keep him away from the Jin clan, which meant keeping him away from the cultivation world...

Qin Su suddenly realises that she has only been thinking so far in terms of the cultivation world. But there are other places she could travel, places outside of where the cultivation clans move. The people outside of the cultivation world may even appreciate a cultivator, even a mediocre one, to assist with their spiritual problems. A rogue cultivator, even a woman, should not attract too much attention, while she determines how to deal with Jin Guangyao.

Her hands rub gently over her belly again, imagining that she can feel the spark taking shape beneath them.

“I’ll protect you this time, A-Song” she whispers, making an unbreakable vow from mother to her child.

The next morning, chaos erupts in the Qin compound as all within frantically search for their young maiden Qin. The search continues in the next days, as the Qin, and now the Jin sect cultivators search for the young woman that must surely have been kidnapped to extract a high ransom from the two sects. As they search further and further by sword, none of them notice the young woman, disheveled and dressed in coarse clothing, slowly making her way towards freedom.

[katekarnage7]

The Pill Chapter 3

It’s finally here! Sorry for the wait. You can also check this fic out on AO3.

---

The area around him slowly shifted into focus. He stood on a small field of dandelions and buttercups that floated in a void filled with other islands. A tinge of blue tinted the area, clinging to it like a fog. A memory. All around him, he spotted countless other memories suspended in the blackened void. Some of these pieces held the interiors of taverns or the large expanse of a plain and some held gravel or dirt paths with grass growing by the sides. The most shocking thing, however, was the vast number and variety of colors. A veritable rainbow clung to the sky, shifting and changing in between each island of memory.

He crept forward, moving away from the field with the dandelions and buttercups, and to a bridge on the very end of that piece of land. The sturdy wooden bridge didn’t so much as shake as he walked across it. Unwisely, he cast a glance downwards and was met with more of the same blackened sky and tiny islands. Trying to hang onto his wavering sanity, he kept his gaze on the next island and could only admire the shifting colors. 

This one held sharper clarity than the last. A small child with light brunette hair sat on a plush bed far too big for him. Tears slipped down the small boy’s face as he sat there, silent and so very alone, trying to read a book. His tears stained the pages, but he made no effort to wipe them away.

A chill ran down Geralt’s spine and a horrid, knotted feeling sat in his stomach. He moved on, leaving the small boy to read. The next island had a warm, joyous spark to it and was lit in a gorgeous yellow light. The same boy—a little older this time—sat with his back to a tree, plucking at a lute. His brunette hair had darkened and now fell around his face in long strands as he sat there, looking at his lute like it would answer the mysteries of the universe. He looked to be about ten or eleven years of age and yet, still, this air of wisdom no child should have hung around him.

The tune rang out, pure and clear in the air, filling the memory with joyous music—music you would want to hear for the rest of your life. He hummed along, the high tune bouncing over a range of chords. When he messed up a hand placement or played a chord wrong, he simply smiled and kept playing. Whilst Geralt knew nothing of music, he knew what joy looked like.

He continued on, even though his heart longed to stay with the boy, longed to sit next to him and just listen while the world passed them by. He couldn’t stop though. This promise to Jaskier was one he wouldn’t—couldn’t—break. 

As soon as he stepped onto the next island, he froze. A deep cold settled into his bones as a gray sky descended on the memory. The same room from earlier came into focus. The large, plush bed with the soft looking blankets still stood in the middle of the room. He could only see half of it, like he was viewing a play and this was the set. The young boy stood in the middle of the room, desperately clutching his lute to his chest as a blackhaired woman managed to yank it from his hands. Her hands wrapped around the neck of the lute as her blue eyes glowed with cold anger.

“Please, Mother,” the boy cried. “It’s just a lute! It does no harm. Please.”

The woman clenched her jaw and crossed over to the roaring fireplace, lute in hand. She fixed her gaze onto the boy. “You haven’t time for music, Julian. Imagine what your father would say if he saw you with this filthy instrument instead of working on things of real importance.” Then, without another word, she tossed the lute into the flames. 

The boy gasped, rushing forward but his mother caught his arm. “Let it burn. I’m only helping you, dear,” she said, her voice saccharine but unapologetic.

Tears slipped down the boy’s face as he slowly backed away and went to his shelf. He grabbed a book and sat on the bed, sniffling.

His mother patted his head in approval. “Good boy,” she said before taking her leave.

A rush of hot aggression poured through Geralt’s veins. Who would take away a child’s joy like that? Especially such a kind, warm child like Jaskier. 

This life wasn’t one he would’ve imagined for the bard. Even though he’d mentioned he was a viscount, Geralt never really thought about the implications of that.

He hated himself for it.

He slowly tore his eyes away from the sight of his bard crying. The bard. Not his. He didn’t deserve him; especially not now. With haste, Geralt continued his travels through Jaskier’s memories. All of these moments were a part of Jaskier he had never seen. The part of him that shaped his personality and his views. He ached with the knowledge that he could have known all of this if he had just asked. He could’ve known about Jaskier’s torrid affair with music and how his parents didn’t approve. He could’ve known how the bard was always alone as a child and yet… yet he never asked. 

What did that say about him?

Every memory he saw filled him with a sick guilt that knotted his stomach. The violation of Jaskier’s mind and privacy made him ache, but he had no other choice. He did his best to ignore every personal detail that he could in the memories. He decided he would ask Jaskier to tell him about those moments instead.

As he walked, he spotted something. No, many broken somethings. A memory that had millions of tiny little floating details unconnected to each other. A shattered memory. He ran toward it, his feet carrying him through Jaskier’s teenage years and all the way up to his eighteenth birthday. He paused when he spotted it: the tavern in Posada. It was the last whole island before everything dissolved into broken details. 

Curiosity began to mix with that unease in his stomach, causing a flutter. He crept into the tavern and stumbled, his body being thrown into the memory full force. Jaskier was sitting at a table, nearly finished ale in hand. He took a swig then placed the tankard down and grabbed his lute. Geralt watched from afar as the bard took to singing, his voice filling the air as wonderfully as it had over twenty years ago.

Jaskier’s gaze flicked around as he sang, moving his hips a little to the rhythm. The effect could only be called mesmerizing. A yell rang out, low and agitated. The bard backed away as bread, amongst other things, flew at his face.  “I’m glad I could just bring you all together like this!” the younger version of Jaskier said, gesturing vaguely as he put his lute away.

He knelt down, picking up what he could of the likely stale bread, and then… his gaze fell on something in the corner. Geralt’s heart leapt into his throat. Jaskier straightened up and moved forward, making a beeline for the corner, but… the memory fell away. The ground was broken and the corner of the tavern had been cut open. If the bard kept going, he would fall into nothingness.

Geralt rushed forward, his hand reaching for the back of the man’s doublet. When it should’ve  made contact, his hand passed straight through Jaskier’s chest and he overbalanced. His foot caught the edge of the corner and before he could even cry out, he fell into the open void.

---

The ground rushed up to meet him and he hit it with a thud. “Fuck,” he mumbled as pain shot through his knees. He raised his head and was met with the outside of a gorgeous, stately building shining under a muted sun. Slowly, with nerves and adrenaline rushing through his veins, he got to his feet. Before his eyes, a scene appeared. A young boy with brown hair and blue eyes ran past him, being guided by a young girl with dark eyes and darker hair. The boy looked rugged, his hair growing far past the length Geralt would’ve expected and his common clothing stained with dirt. His hair was streaked with mud.

His eyes, however, carried the light of a person who was finally free. Geralt’s breath caught. That freedom. How long had it been since he’d seen it? How long since the mountain? It felt like a millenia, but… no. A year, maybe two.

His heart ached in his chest as he followed the boyish version of his bard into the building. Oxenfurt, he realized with a start as he set foot inside the grand entrance hall. His eyes scanned the large staircase before him and the many halls that led to a variety of rooms. Different versions of Jaskier echoed around the halls; screams of joy and laughter permeated the air. His bard sat on the stairs with that girl, singing softly and playing his lute to a tune of their own design.

“Without you.”

“I’m stronger.”

“You told me I was younger.”

“I’m no longer.”

“That I was filled with wonder. How wrong you were.”

The two grinned like the uninhibited children they were. Geralt smiled, an ache and a warmth coinciding in his heart. He continued on, through the various memories stained with different colors. A pull in his gut sent him walking towards an arched quartz doorway. He stepped through and into a massive library drenched in gray light. In a poofy armchair, his hair as foolish and wild as the day they met, his eyes as blue as ever, sat Jaskier. His Jaskier.

His eyes carried a small hint of old age. Really, his… the bard aged well. His fingers strummed the lute and yet, no sound came out. His lips moved noiselessly along to the tune. Eventually, came a discordant noise, like the scraping and wailing of a kikimora before you ended its life. The moment carried a distinct wrongness. Who played a lute in a library?

He stepped forward, but a hand caught his shoulder. He whirled around, his hand flying to his back, grasping for a non-existent blade. Then, he caught sight of two cornflower blue eyes, a soft smile, and brunette hair. For the second time since he stepped into that building, his breath caught. “Jaskier?” he asked, his voice a whisper next to the discordant notes of the lute behind him.

“Hello, Geralt,” Jaskier replied, his smile as easy, bright, and beautiful as the sun.

“Who are you?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m Jaskier. Well, Jaskier’s subconscious, in any case,” he said in a breezy tone. He turned away from Geralt and walked over to the bookshelf nearest to him and picked one out.

“You know who I am?” Geralt asked.

“Of course. It’s not easy to forget such a big presence. And, whoo, big you are.” Jaskier’s subconscious looked up and gave him a wink.

Geralt didn’t respond and looked the other—well, not quite man—up and down. He noticed the red doublet that had the idea of scales designed upon it. That flash of red haunted him. 

“That’s not fair.” 

No time to dwell on that now. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think, big man? I’m here to talk with you. Well, I suppose talk is a bit of an exaggeration. I’m here to weave together sentences and you’re here to listen,” Jaskier’s subconscious said, thumbing through the pages of his book.

“Then speak,” Geralt replied, keeping his gaze firmly fixed upon the strange visage of Jaskier before him.

Jaskier’s subconscious tsked. “Demanding, demanding. In any case, I’m here because you are. For the past six months, we’ve had mages in and out of here. They’ve been searching for me. Well, not me, per se. More for, you know, what I have in my possession.”

“Spit it out.” Geralt stepped closer to the subconscious, brow furrowed, and heart beating fast. A hopeful spark lit and fluttered in his stomach. 

The subconscious chuckled. “Do you see all of these books?” he asked, holding up the book he had in his hands. Geralt looked around, his gaze flicking over the empty bookshelves. Only two, the two closest to them, were nearly full. They held around a hundred books each. Jaskier’s subconscious slid the book he held back onto the nearest shelf. “They’re memories. Each one holds a detailed summary of every single month of Jaskier’s life moment to moment. You could learn everything about how a person thinks, works, moves, breathes, and exists from these books. That’s why they must be protected. When the odd magic user comes into this head and roots through to find these books, well, let’s just say that I make sure they don’t find anything.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Oh, dear heart. You still don’t get it. He’s safe now. We trust you to retrieve his memories.”

“We?” Geralt asked. The absurdity of the entire situation nearly overwhelmed him. 

“The body and brain, love. Now, come close. Don’t be shy; I don’t bite. Well, not usually.” Jaskier’s subconscious winked and beckoned him closer. Those blue eyes glowed inhumanly in the gloomy darkness of the library. That dissonant strumming of Jaskier’s lute continued on and on.

The subconscious took Geralt’s hand in his own and pressed it to his chest. A blinding blue light filled the room and the subconscious gasped. The bitter, tangy scent of desperation permeated Geralt’s senses. Then, all at once, the light faded and the smell disappeared. The subconscious panted, his breaths coming in deep gulps. “Ooh. That’s not very pleasant,” he mumbled. In his hands sat a small, thin book.

The subconscious pressed it into Geralt’s hands. The brown leather was scratched and damaged, showing signs of abuse. “What is it?” he asked, holding it as gently as he could. His large, brutish hands could easily destroy it. That’s what they were meant for, right? Destruction?

“These few memories are what I could salvage from the ruins.”

“How…” Geralt trailed off and swallowed, taking a deep breath before continuing, “How did you manage to save anything?” he asked as he examined the book. This tiny piece of leather and paper held the scraps of over half of Jaskier’s life. Don’t ruin this. Don’t you dare. 

“Ah, yes, well, Yennefer’s spell was powerful. It should have destroyed everything, but… well, we all know how resilient love is. Even with dear old Jaskier, who falls in love every hour.”

Geralt’s breath disappeared from his lungs. He opened his mouth, but no words came forward and instead, a breathless sound escaped. Immediately, he bottled every emotion up and locked them away. His emotions shouldn’t be seen nor heard and yet… he ached with the realization that Jaskier, the obnoxious, foolish, kind, well-intentioned, womanizing idiot had fallen in love with a monster. Why did that have to be the love that lasted? Why couldn’t the bard have just fallen for a royal woman or a fellow bard and lived happily?

Love with a monster never ended well.

The fool did indeed fall in love every hour and he fell out of love just as fast. His affections should have died. Damned fool.

He breathed deeply. “I see.”

“Your sorceress should be able to restore his memories with that starting point. Oh, and Geralt? You’d best keep him safe. I won’t ask twice,” Jaskier’s subconscious said, an almost sad smile playing at his lips. “Good luck.”

Then, like dust in the wind, the subconscious disappeared. The dissonant lute playing got louder and Geralt glanced over at the younger version of the bard. His eyes held dark circles and his fingers deftly danced along the strings, forming different chords and new sounds.

Geralt let out a breath as his mind raced with all the new information. One particular revelation kept echoing around in his head, tearing into him and making butterflies swarm in his gut. A sickness crept up his throat as he slowly opened the small book.

A myriad of colors burst into existence, drowning out the old, gloomy library. Then, slowly, a scene formed around him; one he very much recognized. A campfire crackled before him and an inky sky filled with thousands of dots of light hung above him. Two men, one small and brunette, the other large and white-haired, were lying on the ground, curled on their sides and trying to get some rest. A bitterly cold wind rustled through the trees as a pang ripped through his chest.

His eyes landed on the hunched form of his bard. The blanket he had was far too thin and provided very little coverage from the harsh ice of the air.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Speak.”

He remembered that. That night had been just after a particularly difficult hunt. He had been told there would only be one drowner, maybe two, when in actuality, there were too many to count. A whole horde of the creatures. When he had thought it would barely be dangerous, he allowed Jaskier to come along. Then, when the horde attacked, Geralt didn’t see a way out for either of them. Especially not a soft human like his bard.

He thought they would both die before they could live out whatever horseshit destiny had planned for them. In a way, he supposed, that would’ve been a mercy. To take his last stand beside his friend—even though it had taken him so long to even grant the bard that title—would have been the best death he could have hoped for. 

Jaskier’s voice, weak and shaky, broke his trance, “Melitele’s tits, it is fucking cold out here.” His teeth audibly chattered from where he laid, arms wrapped around himself tightly. 

The younger version of Geralt sat straight up, jaw clenched. The irritation practically wafted off him. Geralt wanted to chuckle. He remembered exactly how he’d felt. That little bolt of anger at how underprepared Jaskier was—really, who packed only a thin blanket in the late fall?—drowned out by a wave of concern and worry over the little human he’d grown too fond of.

He could only watch as that version of himself grabbed his blanket, stood, and crossed over to the bard. He knelt beside Jaskier and tossed it on top of the small bundle of freezing limbs. “Next time, pack smarter,” the younger version of Geralt said, standing to go back to his patch of ground.

A hand shot up from the little bundle and grabbed a hold of the witcher’s pant leg. “I’m sorry,” Jaskier said and Geralt could remember with perfect clarity how those blue eyes had shone in the dying light of the campfire. A part of him ached to move closer, to catch sight of those eyes once more. He didn’t.

“Hmm,” his younger self grunted.

“I’ll bring a thicker blanket next time. I truly didn’t mean to inconvenience you, but it’s just so fucking frigid out here. I really don’t know how you stand it, Geralt,” Jaskier rambled. “Are you sure you don’t need it? Witchers must get cold. Or do they? Is Kaer Morhen harsh enough for you to get that used to the cold? Or would it be your… witcher-y blood keeping you warm?”

The memory version of Geralt rolled his eyes. That little fond feeling was no doubt growing in his chest, just as it had for the true Geralt all that time ago. “You talk too much, bard. You’ll get yourself killed one of these days.”

Jaskier sat up a little, an over the top huff escaping him. A little smile still danced on his lips. Seemingly, the bard was never too cold to abandon his typical dramatics. “I wouldn’t worry about that! I’ve got a big strong witcher to protect me,” he said, tugging on the young witcher’s pant leg again.

“I won’t always be around to save your arse when a cuckold corners you.”

“Oh, come on, Geralt. You’d never let your very best friend die. That would be rather bad form, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t.”

Jaskier paused, a little crease forming between his brows. Oh, how Geralt ached to smooth it away. Not that his touch would be welcome. People generally didn’t like it when monsters came too close. “What?”

“Ask you.”

A moment of silence passed between the young pair before Jaskier burst out laughing. “And yet, here we are.”

“Hmm.” The similarity to their first banquet all of those years ago was not lost on him. They truly did have a recurring dynamic of sorts. A push and pull that played out the same, even after years, and still somehow left Geralt feeling warm, no matter how long it had been.

The moment broke when Jaskier shivered again, his fingers dropping away from the young witcher’s pant leg and diving back beneath the blankets. Geralt’s younger self looked down at the pitiful bard. His love of luxuries and weak constitution made camping out in rough conditions horrid for Jaskier and still, he did it. All for the love of music, he supposed.

A sigh escaped the young witcher’s lips and he dropped to the ground. “Jaskier,” he murmured, gently tapping on the bard’s shoulder. Jaskier turned to face him, his teeth still chattering just slightly. “Come here.”

Apprehension had sat like a crushing rock in Geralt’s chest back then. He remembered that horrible feeling of what if he pushes me away? What if he recoils at my touch?

After all, Geralt’s hands were made to break things. They were made to wield weapons and rip apart monsters, not gently cradle someone or even warm them up. When Jaskier didn’t immediately respond, he closed himself off again. He watched as the younger version of himself moved to stand before the bard grabbed his arm and pulled him back down. “No,” Jaskier said. “Don’t you dare go anywhere, my dear witcher. You’re like a raging fire with that body heat, so you’d better stay right here, huh?” 

Geralt remembered the warmth that spread in his gut and stood there, transfixed as the younger version of himself curled closer to Jaskier. His arms hesitantly wrapped around the small, fragile human. Jaskier made a soft sound and buried his face in Geralt’s chest, practically octopusing himself around the heat source.

Oh, how he had melted. His touch wasn’t harsh enough to scare the bard away. In fact, he wanted more of it. What human wanted more contact with a witcher? His hands were rough, unpracticed in the art of comfort and yet… Jaskier pulled his arms closer. The bard would always be a complete mystery to him. Geralt watched as the two descended into a peaceful sleep and the memory drifted away.

He wondered why he could just drift into these memories without seeing them from Jaskier’s perspective or even his own. He supposed it was as if the world was created by the memory and he could just… walk through it as one would the normal world. It hurt his head to think about the reality of what he was doing.

Slowly, the landscape of Jaskier’s mind shifted back into place. Yet instead of being met with the strange, discordant library, he stood on a grassy patch of land, similar to the one he had originally come in on. He spotted more bridges to more memories.

A part of him wished to explore more, to know more about the bard. The realization that he had never so much as asked why Jaskier became a bard instead of embracing his viscount title was a stark one. How could he have never asked? Having now seen the type of relationship Jaskier had with his parents though… well, everything clicked into place.

“Geralt!” a voice called, sounding muffled, as if being yelled over a great distance. He cast a look around, a little startled.

Slowly, the voice became clearer, and the solid ground beneath him disappeared. He barely had a second to register it, his heart fluttering in his chest as he began to fall through a void of darkness. Then, with a jolt that jarred him and sent him near crashing to the floor, he was put back in his normal body. His legs ached and carried the stiffness of having been standing for too long without moving.

Heavy breaths rang out from his right. Yennefer sat in a chair beside the bed, her hand on his wrist and beads of sweat rolling down her temple. Geralt opened his mouth to ask if she was okay, but before he could even get a word out, Yen began to speak, “Did you get what we need?”

Geralt nodded mutely. 

“Details, Geralt. I need details.”

He took a deep, calming breath and tried to organize his thoughts. “Jaskier’s subconscious gave me a book. Told me it was a seed we could work with to restore his memories.”

Yennefer nodded. “Good. What did you do with it?”

“I opened it and it sent me into a memory,” he said, his gaze straying to Jaskier’s sleeping form. His face was so peaceful and beautiful in sleep. Relaxation looked good on the bard, he decided.

Yen stood with some effort and put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll get his memories back for him. You did well, Geralt.”

“What do we do now?” Geralt asked, throwing Yen a grateful look. The shred of kindness she had given him soothed the burning pit of worry and stress in his stomach.

“It’ll be a slow process. We’ll have to go into his mind and dive deeper, extracting more memories. Now that we have a seed, we can build off of it and piece the memories back together. The good news is that we do have a chance of putting your bard’s memory back together with little issue,” Yennefer said, also glancing down at Jaskier’s sleeping form. “I imagine the real task will be repairing the damage to his emotional and mental state after this whole ordeal.”

A frown creased Geralt’s brow and a nagging, itching feeling of guilt rooted in the pit of his stomach. “Hmm.”

Yennefer’s hand slid down to Geralt’s bicep, her touch gentle. “You worry too much,” she said, then stepped away, letting her hand fall. With a half-covered up yawn, she swept out of the room and Geralt was left to stare down at his unconscious bard.

And so the days went on. Jaskier would wake to be fed and given water. He was always out of it though, never quite as present as Geralt wished. When the bard awoke, he smelled of the pungent, herbal mixture he was given to keep him asleep for their endeavors into his mind. Sometimes, he would look at Geralt with something akin to recognition in his eyes and Geralt’s heart leapt every time, hoping this would be the time he remembered their adventures. Yet… no.

Still, their strange pseudo relationship continued. He would lie with Jaskier and help him fall asleep, cradling him as gently as he could, knowing that his days of being able to touch and hold the bard were numbered. A sense of dread settled in his stomach at the thought of being so distant from Jaskier again. He wanted to stay by his side and while that thought should’ve sent him running the other direction, should’ve sent frigid fear through his veins, instead it only filled him with a fuzzy warmth.

Oh, was he in deep.

As the days continued, he delved into Jaskier’s mind further and further. They quickly realized that Yennefer couldn’t enter the bard’s mind. Whenever she tried, she was met with harsh resistance from the man in question. She said something about him rejecting her presence. Whatever that meant. Unfortunately, that led to Geralt being the only one able to piece together the shattered pieces of Jaskier’s memories.

It was tedious work, but he lost himself in the feeling of it. He allowed the memories to wash over him, bringing with them warmth and comfort. He did his best not to pry into anything he didn’t have to, trying to grant the bard at least that shred of privacy.

Seeing every moment of theirs like it was a play and watching as he told Jaskier to fuck off and to leave him alone… Well, it didn’t quite help the ache in his chest or the itching, fluttering, throbbing sensation in his gut.

To top it all off, whenever Jaskier stirred into the world of the waking, he got frightened at the drop of a hat. If a door ever slammed or a voice raised, he winced. Whenever Yennefer touched him while fixing his injuries, he shook violently. Geralt’s heart ached for the bard. His fear was understandable though. After being through so much trauma for months, how could one not experience lasting effects?

Before he knew it, the first snow of the winter had come and passed. Storms plagued the little cabin, drenching everything in a soft white, and still Jaskier stayed the same. The winter passed into early spring and updates on Nilfgaard’s progress came all too frequently. Apparently, the resistance was flagging without Yen or Geralt there, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to care. Not when Jaskier needed him. 

Not going to Kaer Morhen in the winter was the strangest part. He always stayed in the mountains for the first snow and the harsh weather, yet there he was, in a cabin in the middle of nowhere tending to his ragtag family. Well, if you could call it a family.

One comatose bard, one guilt-driven witcher, one sorceress whose strength dwindled with each passing day, and a magical lost princess. What a mismatched group they were.

Yen’s magic was dwindling though, however much she tried to refute it. The amount of strength required to both heal Jaskier and to maintain a magical bond that kept Geralt in the bard’s mind on a daily basis would have most mages in a shallow grave after but a week.

And so the spring continued. With each passing day, Geralt could feel them getting closer to a breakthrough. He couldn’t see the full picture yet, but he would. He knew he would.

At the beginning of the second week of spring, Geralt slowly woke. His nose was buried in soft fabric as his eyes slowly fluttered open. The air warmed him without being stifling. He could’ve sat there all day if not for the pounding ache in his neck. With a groan, he properly sat up.

For the nth time, he had fallen asleep in a chair by Jaskier’s bedside. If he had stayed up late talking to the unconscious man, well, that was no one’s business but his. His gaze drifted to the man in question. His eyes still laid closed, his body still and his breathing steady. The cuts and bruises on his face had long since healed, making him seem painfully normal. As if normal could ever describe their situation.

He rolled his neck, hearing the little cracks and doing his best to rid himself of stiffness. Jaskier would wake soon; he always did in the mornings. Yennefer’s spell would wear off and Geralt would feed the bard, then let him succumb once more to Yen’s magic. 

He got to his feet, rubbing his neck and stretching his limbs. The room around him felt far too quiet as he turned away from the bed, crossing over to the door. He paused before leaving. The absence of Jaskier’s melodic voice ripped into his chest and left an empty void there. He should’ve been used to it by now, considering how long he’d had to suffer through months of near silence. Even though Yen and Ciri spoke to him, he didn’t feel that calming warmth that used to spread through his body and leave him tingling. The sensation of living in a thrum of soft, kind noise had become his normal. The hypocrisy of missing something that he himself had thrown away made his hands curl into fists.

Then, a soft noise came from behind him. A stirring groan. “Geralt?” Jaskier murmured, his normally boyish voice rough and slurred from sleep.

“Rest, bard. I’ll be back with food,” he replied without turning around.

“What? No, I… Geralt, where in Melitele’s name are we?” Jaskier asked, seeming more awake.

Geralt froze, his feet rooted to the ground, uncomprehending. He whirled around to find Jaskier’s blue eyes already fixed on him. Geralt scanned the bard’s face, those eyes lit with a fiery recognition. The man in question began to speak again, “Gods, why I am so fucking stiff? I feel like I’ve gone eighty rounds with a rather vivacious young woman. Or a monster. Probably a monster. Shit, my head is pounding. What happened?”

Slowly, Geralt picked his jaw up off the floor and swallowed. “What do you remember?”

A little crease appeared on his brow. “Not much. It’s all sort of fuzzy and twisty,” Jaskier said, gesturing vaguely. “I remember walking in the streets, playing in rather harsh taverns, and booze. So much booze. Though, most of it was the cheap swill that rundown bars have to offer but still.” The bard’s gaze flicked down as he wrung his hands in his lap. “I remember the mountain and… Fuck. Nilfgaard. They found me, Geralt. I swear I did my best to stay hidden, but the bastards wouldn’t let me escape, and I-”

A laugh, so sudden and inexplicable that it even surprised the man himself, bubbled up and escaped Geralt’s mouth. It came out harsh and humorless, but the joy of hearing Jaskier—the true Jaskier—rant and ramble on outweighed any other emotion. A sudden urge to wrap the bard in his arms struck him. Fuck, if that didn’t scare the shit out of him.

“Oh, my misery is funny now, is it? Then again, I suppose it’s always been a little funny to you. Fucking witchers and their fucking… Why the fuck am I here, Geralt?” Jaskier spat, his jaw clenching and his eyes shining with a million unintelligible emotions.

Geralt’s mouth closed with an audible click of his teeth and his heart splintered. “It’s not. Funny, I mean.”

Jaskier huffed a disbelieving laugh. “Right. Please, Geralt. Just answer me.”

“Nilfgaard captured you. You were questioned until Yen and I saved you. You’ve been here recovering ever since.”

“Questioned, as in…?” Jaskier trailed off, his eyes locking onto Geralt’s own.  They held the silence stare for a few moments, neither saying a word, until Geralt finally nodded. “Oh, fan-fucking-tastic. Hold on, where’s my lute? Can I even still play? Melitele’s tits, I’d better be able to.” Jaskier scrambled to pull his hands out from under the blankets. He inspected them for a few moments and bent them, hissing in pain. “Fuck. Oh, gods.”

“Yen said your fingers should heal eventually. As for your lute, we never found it,” Geralt said, desperately trying to keep the roughness out of his voice. He needed to be gentle and kind. He needed to be all the things witchers never should be and were never designed to be.

“Fuck,” Jaskier whispered again, his voice ridden with grief. The moment descended into silence once more. This time, it lasted much longer.

With every passing second, his bard’s face reflected a new emotion. None that Geralt could decipher clearly, except for their vague scent in the air. Something heavy and sour, not dissimilar to fear, but closer to grief and something else sulfuric, like anger. Slowly, Jaskier’s features relaxed, realization pulling his mouth into a little ‘o’ shape. “I remember now. It’s still foggy and frankly, a right fucking mess, but I… I understand. How long have I been here, Geralt? How long—how long have I lost?” he whispered, his voice breaking half-way through.

Geralt turned his gaze to the floor, not daring to meet Jaskier’s eyes. “They held you for around six months. You’ve been here for three.”

Silence. Unbearable, overwhelming, crushing silence filled the room.

Then, a soft, broken sound tore out of Jaskier’s throat. “Nine months. Nine months. No wonder I’m so fucking stiff,” he said, laughing mirthlessly. Geralt chanced a glance at the bard. His eyes shone with unshed tears as another laugh without humor rang out. The sound was harsh. Far too harsh for the kind, gentle little bard he had come to know.

Jaskier shifted in bed, turning to throw his legs over the side. “Well, I should be off then. Places to go, people to see and all that. It’s spring, yes? Oxenfurt is positively lovely in the springtime,” he said.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled.

“I wonder if Laina is still fluttering around down there. It would be a joy to see her again, assuming she managed to rid herself of that horrid fling of hers.” Jaskier pushed himself off the bed, standing on shaky legs.

“Jaskier.”

The bard began making his way over to the door and Geralt rushed to his feet. “Markus, I believe. Why are all the terrible ones named a variation of Mark? Marx, Markus. Must be a cursed name!”

“Jaskier!” Geralt caught Jaskier’s wrist. “You aren’t going anywhere. You’re still weak.”

Jaskier whirled around, his blue eyes glinting with fiery rage. The display was nearly laughable, considering how the bard winced at the sudden movement. Nearly though. Jaskier ripped his wrist out of Geralt’s grip. “Oh, now you care? Just a little while ago it was Jaskier, fuck off and Jaskier, you’ve ruined my whole life. Now it’s oh, you have to stay? Of all the idotic, inane, positively ridiculous things I’ve heard in my forty years of life, this must take the everloving cake!” 

“I didn’t mean it,” Geralt said, his voice pitched low, just barely above a whisper. “I was angry.”

Jaskier shook his head and backed away, moving closer to the door and putting considerable space between them. “You’re wrong, my dear witcher. Even if you think you didn’t mean it, some part of you did. I know you’ve had a hard life. One that would humble anyone to hear. The things you must’ve seen in all your years and the hardships you’ve endured are no small feat. I, however, fear I cannot keep up. We’ve danced this dance before, Geralt. It always leads to the same answer. I would follow you forever if you let me and we both know it’s true. Since we clearly don’t share the same feelings, do me this small mercy and let me leave,” he said, pulling his arms close to his thin frame. He no longer looked like the eighteen-year-old boy in that tavern in Posada. He now carried the air of a man well-traveled, even though his body had thinned considerably since their first meeting. Time had traced his face, showing his life in smile lines and little wrinkles. 

“I can’t.” Geralt stepped forward, his hand reaching out into the empty space between them.

The bard froze, his gaze focusing in on that hand. “Why not?” he whispered.

“Because, I…” He swallowed around the lump in his throat, looking up at the human before him. The human who had come into his life like a tornado, tearing through what he knew and leaving him shaken. The human who had refused to let Geralt be ridiculed and, instead, stepped in when others threw obscenities at him. How could he let Jaskier go again?

His hand still floated in the air between them.

“Why not, Geralt? Why can’t I just leave? We can go our separate ways. Your reputation should be all but saved and polished up by now. You don’t need me,” Jaskier said, twisting the fabric of his cream undershirt between his fingers.

“Damn it, Jaskier. That’s not fucking true,” Geralt hissed, taking a step forward.

“Well, then, tell me what is! Honestly, Geralt, I don’t know what to think! I remember now that you were incredibly kind when I lost my memories and you… you took care of me, but you pushed me away before that. It’s fucking nonsensical!” Jaskier stepped into Geralt’s space, placing their faces mere inches away.

“You want the truth? Fine. The truth is that I do need you, because you’re fucking important to me!”

The pair fell silent. The only noise to be heard was their strained, heavy breathing. Then, slowly, like the rolling of thunder, Jaskier leaned in and captured Geralt’s lips. A surprised sound worked its way out of Geralt and the bard swallowed it up, pressing closer. After a moment, Geralt finally managed to get with the program. He wrapped an arm around Jaskier’s waist and pulled him impossibly closer. Jaskier melted into the embrace and flung his arms around the witcher’s neck.

They stayed like that for what felt like eons before they slowly broke away. The pair panted, still breathing each other’s air. He rested his forehead against Jaskier’s and tried to remember how to speak. “I’m sorry,” he finally managed, his voice soft.

“Oh, my dear,” Jaskier whispered, “I cannot stay mad at you. No matter how hard I try.” 

“You know, I… I…”

“I know, beloved. You needn’t say it.” Jaskier caressed Geralt’s cheek, his touch feather light and gentle as could be. His hand continued further and tucked a stray lock of white hair behind his witcher’s ear. Geralt’s heart sped up to a nearly human rate.

Hesitantly, for fear of Jaskier’s reaction, he moved to close the space once more. This time, their kiss was deeper, filled with all the longing and love they’d hidden for years. Jaskier tangled his fingers in Geralt’s hair and Geralt tightened the arm around his bard’s waist. Electricity sparked between the two as a soft, needy sound left Jaskier’s lips.

A hot, tingly feeling washed over Geralt and he longed to pull the bard closer, to show him what they’d both been missing. His skin burned under his clothing and he relished in the feeling of Jaskier’s soft lips on his. Those talented hands explored Geralt’s back and shoulders, dancing over every inch of him the bard could reach.

Geralt’s own hands slipped lower and lower, running down Jaskier’s lower back. Another little sound erupted from Jaskier and, oh, the things Geralt wanted to do to his magnificent bard. 

Then, the door swung open. “Geralt?”

He and Jaskier broke apart, their heads swinging nearly in unison to see the intruder. Yennefer stood there, her eyes a touch wider than normal. “Oh. I see he remembers you then?”

Geralt, still breathless, nodded.

“Finish sticking your tongues down each other’s throats then. Ciri wants to come in. She’s been worried sick.” And with that, Yen turned on her heel and hurried out the door. 

Once she was gone, Jaskier laughed and let his forehead fall to rest on Geralt’s shoulder. “I see Yennefer’s still as lovely and eloquent as always,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by Geralt’s shirt.

“Hmm.” Geralt cupped the back of Jaskier’s neck and rubbed it with his thumb affectionately. “Ciri will be happy to see you.”

“Ah, yes. I suppose my… shell-shocked, memory-less self must’ve scared her. Poor girl.” Jaskier paused for a moment. “It must’ve scared you too, dear heart,” he said, rubbing Geralt’s back slowly.

“Only thing I was scared of was losing you,” Geralt responded, his voice soft and confessional. 

Jaskier lifted his head, his eyes shining with emotion and met Geralt’s gaze. “Oh, you big old softie! Who says witchers don’t have feelings, huh?”

Geralt rolled his eyes and captured Jaskier’s lips again, if only to shut him up. Though, his teasing chatter had been missed, even if Geralt would never admit it.

Jaskier eventually broke away, his lips red and slick. Pride swelled in Geralt’s chest at giving the bard that purely debauched look. Without thinking, he raised a hand and ran a thumb over Jaskier’s bottom lip. A wide smile crossed the bard’s face as he took Geralt’s hand in his. “Unless you want your little lion cub to see some things that are far too inappropriate for her, we should probably save the more risque behavior for later and make a journey outside.”

Geralt huffed softly in amusement. It was impossible to keep that little bubble of fondness in his chest from expanding. Having Jaskier back—the real Jaskier—made his heart swell with joy. Whatever their new relationship was, he would take it. “I’m sure she’s seen worse. You remember how Eist and Calanthe were.”

Jaskier’s eyes danced with mirth as he shuddered with all the melodrama he could muster and groaned in disgust. “They were certainly affectionate.”

“I’m not sure if affectionate is the right word for it,” Geralt said.

Jaskier laughed and pure mirth danced in his eyes. “Poor Cirilla. How in Melitele’s name did she ever manage?”

“Just fine, I’m sure.” Without another word, Geralt pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s cheek and allowed his lips to explore the bard’s jawline.

“You wicked, wicked man. Now that you have me, you just can’t get enough, can you?” Jaskier said, placing a hand on Geralt’s arm.

“Hmm.”

Gently, Jaskier pushed Geralt back just a little so they could lock eyes. The warmth of just a few seconds before had disappeared. “I, uh, Geralt. Whilst I’m glad that we’ve finally taken this new step in our blossoming relationship, there’s still so much we haven’t discussed. The mountain, Nilfgaard, my memories. All of it, really,” he said, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“And we will. I promise, lark. Would you like to see Ciri now?”

Jaskier’s cheeks reddened beautifully at the nickname and he nodded. Together, they walked to the door and stepped out.

The bard’s recovery would be a long road filled with obstacles and doubts, but at least they would have each other. Even though Geralt didn’t know whether Jaskier would be able to play again or if he would ever truly recover from the trauma Nilfgaard inflicted, he knew he would always stay by Jaskier’s side.

Love was funny like that. 

[margoshansons]

Desperate Measures 3/?

Bellamy Blake x Reader

Summary: After helping a little girl get over her nightmares, Y/N gets caught in a nasty bout of acid fog with the one person she can’t stand.

Warnings: angst, nightmares, swearing, violence, gore, survivor’s guilt, depression.

Notes: This was a tough one to write, ngl. Based on 1x03 “Earth Kills”

When she slept she saw only nightmares. Visions of another life she must’ve had, despite her scientific background claiming it was all bullshit. There was no other way to describe it. 

This last one had been particularly bad. 

A woman burning at the Stake, claiming she could save hundreds of lives. It was the same voice that had plagued her dreams since she was five years old. The same voice that whispered too many people. The same voice that had driven her mother mad while she waited in her cell during the weeks leading to her floating.

She couldn’t fall back asleep. 

That last nightmare had felt too real. As if she was the one burning up into the skies instead of the unknown woman she saw every night. Jasper’s moans drew her from her thoughts and she gathered her jacket, ready to help in any way possible. The dropship was too full of sleeping prisoners to work on Monty’s radio, so instead, she moved outside, sitting next to a grove of trees, watching the stars twinkle above her as she counted the constellations.

A twig snapped behind her, revealing the existence of the only twelve-year-old in camp. 

“Hi” Y/N smiled softly, meeting the girl’s anxious gaze. “Charlotte right?”

She nodded. The older delinquent patted the patch of grass beside her. “Come on and join me.” 

Charlotte sat next to the eighteen-year-old, scratching at her legs nervously as silence enveloped the two of them. 

“I couldn’t sleep” Charlotte confessed after several minutes of silence, “So I went out on a walk, I didn’t--I didn’t realize I was outside the wall until it was too late. Please don’t tell Bellamy, please.”

Y/N stared at the younger girl, a wild smirk crossing her face as she leaned in close. “Your secret’s safe with me. Why can’t you sleep?”

“I uh, I have nightmares” Charlotte admitted, “My parents got floated and I--uh I just can’t sleep.”

Pain shot through Y/N’s heart. She had been younger than Charlotte when she lost her own mother, and those memories found a way into her dreams as well. 

“I’m sorry that happened to you.” Y/N whispered, “But can I let you in on a little secret?”

Charlotte nodded, apprehension strewn across her face. 

“I get nightmares too” She admitted, making Charlotte the third person to know about her terrors. “That’s why I’m out here tonight.”

Awe crossed the little girl’s face, “You get nightmares? But you’re so strong.”

Y/N laughed lightly at the compliment. “I’m not, I’m just good at getting over them.”

“How?”

She licked her lips, biting her cheek as she debated sharing her strategy with this little girl. Instead, she chose an easier route. “Easy, you find someone to talk to about them.”

“But…” Her face fell. “I don’t have anybody.”

Y/N brushed a strand of hair away from the girl’s forehead, “You have me, and Clarke, and Wells, and Octavia, and everyone in this camp on your side Charlotte. They all wanna help you.”

“Really?” Her bright blue eyes were still fearful as if she didn’t actually believe anything Y/N had been saying up to this point.

She nodded, and the two stayed there the rest of the night until Charlotte fell asleep in her arms. Y/N continued to stare up at the stars, wanting nothing more than a blissful sleep. But Jasper’s moans kept her awake, and Bellamy’s stare provided another distraction as he left the dropship that morning. 

She wouldn’t deny that he was attractive, but that was where her admiration ended for him. To her, he was a nuisance, a problem getting in the way of her and Clarke from taking care of the rest of the camp. The sun began to peek over the trees, clouds joining the yellow orb, marking the second sunrise in a row she had seen on Earth.

It was gorgeous.

Marcus would appreciate this. He grew up on stories about the Earth, the same as she did. So why does it seem like they’ve lost hope? Her gaze hung on the last star glistening in the morning sky, sending a prayer up to the Ark, hoping her dad was listening.

Her eyes drifted closed, hoping the action would lull her back to sleep, curing the tiredness she felt.

“Hey,” Bellamy’s gruff voice interjected her sleeping time. “We’re going hunting.”

Y/N stretched, a yawn escaping her as she slowly removed her arm surrounding Charlotte. “Sure, what do you need?”

His smile looked out of place, “an extra weapon.” He tossed her a spear, the handle barely avoiding hitting the poor girl. She arched an eyebrow. 

“You do know that I suck at combat right?” she double-checked, making sure she didn’t wake up in an alternate dimension where Bellamy Blake was actually being nice to her. 

Instead, he laughed. Laughed. Yep, definitely alternate dimension.

“You handled yourself with the panther, I think you can handle a few rabbits and squirrels.”

She rolled her eyes, pushing herself off the ground with her hands. Bellamy turned to leave, Y/N sending one last look at the sleeping girl before joining him outside the wall. 

“Why are you doing this?” She asked, creeping through the stalks of grass. “Being so nice to me?”

Bellamy paused before announcing his intentions, “Think of it as a thank you for saving my life kind of gift.”

Y/N smirked, hiding the chuckle behind her wall, which had become more glass than steel over the past few days. 

“And as much as I hate to admit it” He began, gaze staring directly at her sunlit face, “You’re the smartest person in camp. We need your brain.”

She froze, throwing a playful look of victory at the older leader, “Was that a compliment I detected Bellamy Blake?”

“Shut up, I already want to take it back.” He threw back, their gaze meeting one more time before a scream launched them out of the moment. The two leaders looked at each other before running in the direction of the sound, boots stampeding against the ground. 

Y/N tossed the spear downward when she saw who it was. 

“Charlotte” She moved closer, raising her voice, “What are you doing here, we could’ve killed you!” 

The girl trembled from the scolding. “I had--I had another nightmare, I woke up and you were gone so I went to find you and--”

Y/N pulled the girl close, hand running through the braids in her hair, soothing the girl until she was back to normal. “Shhh, it’s okay, I’m here.” She broke away momentarily, tilting her chin down to meet the girl’s frightened gaze, “Did you wanna talk about it?”

Charlotte’s gaze shot around, eyeing Bellamy and Atom before softly shaking her head. Y/N understood, whispering, “Alright, maybe later then.”

“She needs to get back to camp” Strict Bellamy was back, a far cry from the easygoing leader she had spent the last few hours with. Unfortunately, Y/N had to agree.

“No please,” Charlotte begged, not wanting to let go of Y/N at all. 

“It’s not safe out here Charlotte” Bellamy warned, a glimpse of his softer side showing through. 

Atom chimed in patronizingly, “Especially for little girls.”

“I’m not little” she shot back, grasping onto Y/N’s hand for strength.

Bellamy bit his lip, a ghost of a smile on his lips. His gaze flickered between the two of them, before handing Charlotte his makeshift knife, grabbing the spear Y/N had dropped earlier. 

“You ever killed something Charlotte?” He asked, eyes flashing with worry. 

She shook her head. 

“Who knows,” Bellamy began to joke, shrugging his shoulders, “You may be good at it.”

Y/N rolled her eyes at his antics, encouraging a twelve-year-old to commit murder her first time on the ground. She brandished her knife, ready to continue on their trail until a bellowing sound tore them away from their goal. 

“What was that?” Jones asked, fear crossing his face. Birds flew past them at light speed, almost as if they were running away. She could only stare behind her, a swirling cloud of yellow and orange smoke making its way toward them, insects crawling over her feet in a futile attempt to survive.

“Something’s wrong,” She whispered reverently, eyes widening as the fog grew closer, “Run! Run now!” 

They wasted no time, crossing the plains as fast as their feet could carry them, Y/N dragging Charlotte behind her, refusing to let her grip up even for a moment. The fog grazed against her hand, a prickling sensation transitioning into excruciating burns.

Acid fog, she realized. 

She sped up her pace, searching frantically for a place to take cover. At any time the fog could be upon them at any time they could be suffering from burns beyond their imagination. 

She found refuge in a cave, Bellamy coming in close behind her, ready to jump out at the sound of Atom’s voice. 

“Bellamy!” He moaned.

“Atom!” Bellamy called, ready to run into the fog at the sound of his friend’s cry. 

Y/N caught his arm, pulling him back into the cave, “Bellamy no! There’s nothing we can do unless you want to die of chemical burns.”

His eyes were rimmed in red as they stared her down, turning his head back toward the acid covered forest where Atom lay dying.

His breathing grew shallow, sniffing until he nodded reluctantly, the three delinquents settling in for the night as they prepared to wait out the fog. 

And then it suddenly dawned on her. She was stuck in a cave for god knows how long surrounded by killer fog on a planet that could kill them. And somehow that wasn’t the worst part. No, the worst part was that she was stuck with Bellamy Blake.

“Y/N?” Charlotte’s voice echoed in the cave as night fell. “I’d like to talk about my nightmare now if that’s okay.”

She settled in against the rocks, sending a glance at Bellamy’s sleeping figure before moving closer so Charlotte didn’t have to worry about being judged. “Sure, yeah, go ahead.”

The little girl inhaled before dropping what had been bothering her since day one. “I see--I see my parents dying.” Sobs threatened to escape, face contorting in pain, “And then I see his face, and--and he sends me down with them.”

Y/N pulled the girl closer, arms wrapping around her as Charlotte sobbed into her shoulder. “Hey, shhh, you’re gonna be okay. Everything’s gonna be alright.” She rubbed her hand up and down the poor girl’s shoulder, shutting her eyes. “I see my parents too.” She admitted, whispering the confession in her hair. She recalled Kane’s regretful face as he told Shumway to press the button. Didn’t even have the decency to do it himself. 

“But it’ll all be over soon, I promise.” Charlotte nodded before floating to sleep in her arms, the girl stirring only during her dreams. 

 Y/N stood up, waiting to take watch. She couldn’t fall asleep. Not when that woman’s screams awaited her.

“You should get some rest” Bellamy’s rough voice murmured from the other side of the cave. 

Flashes of her night terrors crossed her brain and she shook her head, “I’ll uh, I’ll rest when we get back to camp.”

“Sparky,” The nickname sounded unfamiliar in his mouth, “I can see the circles under your eyes, you’re practically asleep already.”

She shook her head, refusing to be that vulnerable with a man who had done nothing but torment her since she got to the ground. “You look just as bad as I do.” She shot back, eliciting a chuckle from the kid. “What do you know?” She whispered, a smile stretching across her face, “Looks like he has a heart after all.”

Bellamy met her gaze, half-smile across his face, brown eyes softening as the fog passed over them. “I always had a heart, I just don’t show it all the time.”

She nodded, recalling another phrase from her dreams, “Love is weakness. I guess that’s another thing we have in common.” She turned her gaze away toward the sleeping child, making sure Charlotte remained still.

Love was death. Attachment was death.

Bellamy wrapped his arms around his knees, “Oh yeah? What’s the other thing?” His tone was playful, her answer anything but.

She met his gaze, uttering the words she had been dying to say to him since he had insulted her their first night on the ground, “We’re both orphans, aren’t we?”

Silence met her words, relief flooding from her shoulders as her stomach untwisted itself. 

Tension coated the cave, encircling the two in a bubble as Bellamy fidgeted under her gaze. It had felt so good to finally say it aloud. To finally tell him what had hurt all those nights ago. 

“Y/N I had no idea--”

“That Kane wasn’t my biological father?” She continued to shove his mistake in his face, unsure why she was unloading all this onto him. “That I’ve been parentless since age five? Both of them floated? Yeah, why would you?”

She turned away, her malicious tone hanging in the air as she drifted off to sleep, the hard rock more comfortable than any tent she had slept in so far.

*** 

Bellamy shook the older girl awake, guilt wracking his body as he did it. If he had known. If he had reached out before making stupid assumptions--

No. She said it herself. Emotion is weakness. Love is weakness.

It was better this way. 

This way they both survived. 

“Franco,” He used her last name, a sick feeling entering his stomach at the idea of using her given name after the fiasco last night. “Franco wake up!”

She jolted upright, as if someone had pushed her through to the other side. Her breathing was small, shallow, and her chest heaved as her eyes flitted between Charlotte and Bellamy’s locked gazes, fear flashing by so fast he swore he imagined it. 

“Come on, the fog’s cleared up.” was all he said, holding out his hand. She grasped it and he pulled her up, quickly disappearing behind the cave exit, meeting with Jones.

“Where’s Atom?” 

“We thought he was with you.”

No. Atom had to have made it. He had to. Confusion spread throughout his chest, his head turning quickly as a scream passed through the air.

“Charlotte!” Y/N called, sprinting past him, racing toward the scream. The two men followed after her, Monroe trailing behind as they reached the clearing where Atom lay, pus boiling all over his skin, blood vessels popping as Bellamy knelt beside him, cradling his friend’s head in his arms.

Y/N knelt across from him, horror circulating in her gaze as she placed a hand against his chest, gently listening to the wheezes, a soft plea barely reaching their ears. 

“Kill… me...please.”

***

Y/N stared in horror, grasping the handle of her makeshift knife. “Charlotte, go back to camp.” She ordered, hand shaking as she handed it over to Bellamy. 

“No, I want to help”

“Charlotte.” Y/N’s tone turned stern, a warning, “Now.” 

She heard the faint shuffling of footsteps behind her until the sound disappeared, loneliness surrounding the couple as the wind whistled faintly through the woods. 

Bellamy shook above the deteriorating delinquent, Y/N’s knife held firmly in his hands. 

He couldn’t do it. 

Y/N placed her hand on his, covering his hand to steady it before gingerly taking the knife back. 

“Okay, hey Atom” her tone grew sweet, plastering a fake smile on her face as she stared at the helpless kid, “I’m gonna help you okay?”

Atom’s head nodded slightly, the pain only allowing him to move so much. Her hand shook, vocal cords humming a long-forgotten song to ease the pain, the blade slicing through the layers of skin, causing Atom to bleed out, staining the greenery crimson.

She raised her eyes forward meeting the horrified stares of Clarke, Finn, and Wells,  pretending to be unaware of the intense gaze Bellamy was sending her way.

“Get Clarke whatever she needs,’ Bellamy called to his troops as they returned to camp, gaze flickering toward Y/N. She sat against the dropship, eyes blank as she stared out emotionless. 

She killed someone today.

She was a killer now.

Maybe she should’ve stayed on the Ark after all.

A familiar figure slid down next to her, Monty offering her a silver cup. “Miller told me what happened, thought you might want some of this.”

She flashed a tight smile before gulping down the wretched batch of moonshine, an empty numbness snaking its way through her body, “Thanks Monty, I needed that.”

She stared above at the sky, eyes trained on the bright orbiting station above them. “Did you know it was my birthday when we came down?” She spoke forwardly, catching the kid by surprise. “It was either death by earth or death by space. You can guess which one I chose.”

Monty pressed his hand on hers, the contact barely registered as she swigged the rest of her moonshine. “You made the right choice.”

“No, I didn’t” She spoke hauntedly, “I should’ve floated myself.”

That night against the dropship, alcohol rewiring her brain, Y/N drifted away, and for the first time in eighteen years, a new terror joined the rest.

Yikes. So Y/N suffers from this thing known as depression and survivor’s guilt. As we all know there is no easy fix, this will be a constant throughout the series. I’ll put it in the warnings as we go forward.

If this isn’t something you’re comfortable with I won’t be offended if you stop reading, I promise.

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[angelguk]

i keep writing this au even though no one asked for this. here’s another dream boy drabble but this time it’s the first kiss. jeongguk isn’t in the best mental space in this one too, so that’s a warning. the realm they are in is weird and im not sure about the soulmate science in this universe. kind of angst if you turn it upside down. 2k words for some reason. listen to heart by otr ft. shallou if you want to hear the head space i was in.

He’s on the hill again. His back is turned to you, dark shirt billowing gently in a wind that you can’t feel nor see but you know it's there. It doesn’t take you long to reach him - time in this place doesn’t work like it does in reality. You should feel tired climbing up this hill but your legs pump on regardless, spurred by the strange curiosity the familiar stranger makes you feel. You can’t see his face, and you’re not sure you know his name but there’s something fluttering in your chest the closer you get to him. 

But then he turns, the sunlight in this place illuminating the slope of his nose and the boyish curve of his smile. The name falls out of your mouth before your brain can register it.

“Jeongguk!” 

He’s facing you now, the corners of his petal lips turned upwards. His cheeks look soft, tinged a soft hue of rose. You’re not sure if it’s from the bite of the wind or the warmth of the sun. But he looks good regardless. 

“Hey.” There’s a hand reaching out to grab you own, haul you up the last leg of the hill. You can spot the little ink drawings on his skin from here. The black bleeds out a little, staining the crevices of his skin. You think it’s the silhouette of a skull, but it’s partially washed off. Some part of you finds it endearing. 

“Why do you like this hill so much?” You huff beside him, slightly irritated that Jeongguk looks taller than the last time you recall. He smiles at that, dropping your hand to shove his own in the pockets of his sweats. He’s barefoot like you are.

“Aerial view. It’s nice to see what the birds see. Kind of like looking at the bigger picture.” You catch the strain in his voice then, gaze landing on the redness in his eyes later. You reach for his hand without a second thought, intertwining your fingers in the warmth of his pocket. But it’s hard to hold hands in that confined space and Jeongguk gingerly draws your joint hands out. He gives your fingers a tight squeeze, his grip echoing the pain suddenly holding your heart. 

“How was your day?” You ask it carefully, eyes surveying every flicker of movement in his face. He looks tired, exhausted really. And the fact that you can’t wipe that look of despair off his face makes your own fall.

“Bad.” Your heart shatters at that, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. The falter of his smile makes you want to punch the world for hurting him.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Yes and no.” He’s plopping down on the grass before you can blink, neatly tucking his feet under his thighs as he crosses his legs over each other. “Can we just sit for a moment.”

You nod and follow. But there’s a ticking in your head that makes you feel like you’re running out of time. You don’t know why you feel rushed, but you can’t keep your hands off Jeongguk. Your hands are tangled together again and you’re resting your head against his firm shoulder. 

You don’t know how long you sit there, watching an eternally still sun splaying over the vibrant green grass, with your hand in Jeongguk’s. It’s only when the sky turns lavender, a light tinge that ebbs away the blue, that he starts talking.

“Don’t you feel insignificant at times? Like the things you do and say don’t even matter in the grand scheme of things? There’s so many of us - who would even be affected if I disappeared? You know - what’s the point of existing if your existence it’s changing something about the world?”

You pause at that, taken aback but the torrent of words falling from his lips. You’re not looking at him, eyes on the purple haze deepening across the sky. The sun is still high though, glaring bright despite the darkness overtaking everything else. It’s unsettling, watching the sun keep it’s reign over the night instead of passing the throne to the moon. It makes your skin prickle, just like Jeongguk’s words.

“What made you feel like that?”

He bites his lip at that, but you still spot the wetness in his eyes. “Just things.”

You hum, carefully mulling over the words in your head. It’s hard to pinpoint the problem plaguing Jeongguk because you don’t know him outside of this realm. You don’t even know if he’s real, or whether he’s the incarnation of your subconscious. You decide to speak anyway.

“Okay. But you’re wrong.” You say it softly, afraid you're treading on cracked glass. He looks up, a glint in his honey eyes that you’ve never seen. “No matter how insignificant you feel, you matter. What you decide to do or say all contribute to the grand scheme of things. The impact we make on life doesn’t have to be huge. It could be small. Maybe you’ve made someone smile or laugh today. Or maybe you’ve been there for someone when they needed you most. You’ve been there for me.” The last sentence just falls out of your mouth. You know you know Jeongguk but at the same time you’re sure you don’t. “You are important. To a lot of people. Who would your friends be without you? Your parents? We’re not all made to be people who alter humanity with their words or actions. If we were, what importance would those people have? Sometimes the most significant thing we can do is just be. And that’s perfectly fine.”

The sky is apricot now, the glow of the sun bleeding into the world. A stark contrast to the purple hue from before. It makes his skin look golden, hand warm in your own. The silence that sits over your heads makes you want to cower away. You’re not sure why you said that. Or whether your words even made a difference. You hope they did. 

He glances up slowly, the motion revealing the speckling of beauty marks across pretty neck. You want to lean into his space, hold Jeongguk in your arms so that nothing ever hurts him again. The hum that echoes from his chest cuts through that need though, and suddenly Jeongguk is staring into your eyes. The glow of the sun makes the brown in his irises swim, shifting shades of caramel drawing you in.

“You have a point,” He whispers. His eyes are on the sky again, a wistful look in them. Your tongue in stuck in your mouth, immobile because Jeongguk has the power to strike you senseless at odd times. 

You make a noise of acknowledgement in response, fingers itching to rest themselves in his russet locks. “Want to distract yourself?” You say, trying to direct the conversation from from the pit of melancholy it is currently sitting in. 

“I’m up for a distraction.” He’s looking at you again. Your stomach does a funny thing that makes you want to run away and pull him closer.

“Air balloon ride? You said you liked an aerial view.” There’s that twinkle in his gaze. He’s up before you are.

“Race you to it,” He yells, before tearing down the hill, strides long because his sudden growth sprout makes his legs longer than yours. You chase at his heels, heart light in your chest as your lungs strain to keep up with his speed. He’s so fast, the strength of youth propelling his legs forward. Your brain recalls a memory you don’t, he said he did some sports awhile ago - or at least that’s what you imagine he said.

The air balloon rests at the bottom of the hill, already prepped despite no one ever being around to do. That’s one of the nice things about this place - things appear with a simple thought. Every whim was possible in this place. Every desire - apart from the one you kept harboured in your heart. 

Jeongguk’s feet skid into the dirt. You bump into him harshly, only saved from your ass kissing the ground when he spins around and grabs your arms tightly, yanking you right into his chest.

“Thank you,” He whispers into your ear. “I feel like I should say that.”

You blanch at that. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m your friend aren’t I? Am I not meant to be there for you?”

His brows furrow together in a way that makes your heart ache. “You don’t have to be. But you still do it.”

“We’ll we’re the only ones here, might as well.” You elbow his arm smiling but Jeongguk frowns a little. “And it’s because I want to.” You quickly tack on, afraid you’ve struck a nerve.

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re even real,” He whispers softly. His hands are slipping down your arms, feeling gently like he’s afraid you’ll evaporate. “You’re too good to be real.”

“So are you,” You murmur back. The sun is bright again now. As if dusk and dawn had sprinted through their stay to let the day take her place again. It makes the ticking in your head get louder. 

Jeongguk shakes his head, his brown bangs swaying softly. There’s that sheepish smile on his face again. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew me.”

But I do, you think. It comes rushing in then, every moment you’d spent with Jeongguk in this place. How days and nights had passed with you sharing anecdotes and laughter as the grass beneath you had tickled your skin. How you’d first seen him, crying on that curb. How he’d sketched a horizon on your skin one late night. Or was it a day. Everything seems to bleed together now, the ticking in your head incessant. The sky is too bright and it’s overtaking the profile of his face, leaving a radiant white light reflecting in your eyes. You can’t see his face. Were you even talking to a person? Who are you referring to? But you can feel someone close in and your eyes flutter close involuntarily. The press of their lips against yours makes your heart fly out of your chest. But things are happening so fast and even when you try to grasp onto them, pull them closer, they disintegrate beneath your fingertips. You open your mouth to say something, scream at them to stay. But your tongue is caught in your throat. You can’t call them if you don’t know their name. But you do - you know their name, you’re sure of it. Even though you scour your memory for their name, you can’t find it. Your heart bangs against your ribs painfully. Everything is fading away. This safe space in your head slowly turns to dust, picked up the wings of the wind as it travels to a new destination. You don’t want to go. You don’t want to leave them. You don’t want to go, you don’t want to go, you don’t want to go -

It’s your grandmother who opens the door to your room. You roll in your sheets, head trying to process the bright light shining on your face and the sound of her commanding voice ordering you to get out of bed. Your eyes feel heavy, cracking open when your ears register the heavy pattering of Pogo’s paws on the floor.

“Morning Pogo,” You croak out. She drops at the foot of your bed, panting slightly from the exertion. Her age is rapidly getting to her and it’s showing in the droopiness of her ears. But Pogo stretches out her paws regardless, mouth open in a wide yawn, acknowledging your greeting. Your grandmother is gone already, banging pots and pans in the kitchen in a vain attempt to wake up your father. She won’t win that battle. He came in late yesterday and it took him five tries to get the door open, obviously severely inhibited. She still valiantly tries, expending a lot of energy for a person her age.

You attempt to wipe the sleep away by rubbing at your face. It works for second, making the haziness in your eyes vanish. But then your fingertips fall to your lips. They tingle, warm against your fingers. You touch them again, mind lingering on the imprint you feel there. It feels like someone pressed their mouth against yours, hastily but harshly because your mouth still buzzes with the memory of them.

Weird.

Your grandmother shouts your name and that finally gets you out from your warm sheets. You immediately forget about the dream, the kiss and the boy, head space taken up by the tasks you need to do. There’s no space for him in your mind, not in this reality. There’s not even space for his name.

[the-what-but-not-the-when]

Anniversaries

I’m a day late and a dollar short but here’s my post for Ares’ Appreciation Day!!

Lizzie could hear Gregor's quiet sobs from outside the bathroom door.  She didn't want to picture him curled up in the tub, using the running water to drown out the sound of him crying.  Lizzie walked back to the kitchen and shook her head at her mom's inquisitive look.  She pursed her lips but kept her face passive as she began calling all three of them in sick to school.

“What are we gonna do?”  Boots asked, climbing onto the counter, “the tattoos?!”

“Gregor gets to pick Boots, just like every year.” Lizzie replied.  

“Everyone called off?”  Their dad asked as he wrapped an arm around their mom.  She leaned into him and he kissed her temple.  

“Yea, they're all good.  Hannah's got my shift today, we're all good.”

Everyone perked up when they heard the shower shut off.  They watched the hallway silently until they heard Gregor close the door to his room.

Lizzie couldn't stop the tears from falling.  Boots hopped off the counter to hug her as she wiped away the tears angrily.  They couldn't fall apart yet.

Gregor's door opened and they all turned to watch him walk into the kitchen, his eyes red.  He didn't bother to hide the tears that fell.  They had all seen him do it, hide his feelings behind a steel gaze.  It was too hard to do today.

He walked straight to Lizzie and Boots who were still in each others arms.  They were the easiest to take comfort from.  Boots remembered almost nothing but knew she had been almost everywhere Gregor had.  Holding her was always the best for Gregor.  He had at least kept one person safe.

“It's beautiful outside.”  Their mom said, her voice cracking, “we won't need jackets.”

The siblings broke apart and wiped their faces, cracking small smiles as they compared puffy faces.

They walked out of their Virginia home and into the sunlight together.  The family walked through the grass so close together they kept bumping into each other, but no one wanted to put space between them.

It was a short walk to the field. Knee height grass surrounded them but a small dirt path led them to the memorial.  Boots wandered off the path to pick a few of the scant wildflowers that grew there.

The field was large, nothing but a wide open sky above them.  They stood hand in hand in front of the small stone.  It said simply, “Ares.  My Light.” in slightly messy script.  Gregor had carved it himself.  

The family stood in silence for a long moment.  Gregor hand in hand with Lizzie and Boots.  His parents each with a hand on his shoulder.  They all relived the war.  

His parents left first, both crying more for their children's pain then anything they went through in the Underland.  They walked back to the edge of the field and sat on a bench they had placed beneath a tree.  They leaned into each other and cried as their children's sobs echoed through the trees.

Gregor fell to his knees when he could no longer hear his parent's footsteps.  He hated breaking down in front of them.  Their pity only made him feel worse.  But here, with his sisters by his side, he let go.  Sure his parent's could hear him, but it didn't matter.  Not today.

Lizzie and Boots sat beside him, wishing there was something they could do, knowing they needed to just let him cry.  Boots placed the handful of flowers at the base of the rock and Lizzie pulled out a lighter to light the candles on either side.  She made a mental note to buy more, they were almost gone.

When Gregor's sobs quieted and they all sat there sniffling, Lizzie handed out tissues.  Gregor took a steadying breath and began talking.  Stories of him and Ares flowed from his mouth as they did every year, though there was always something new, small details he remembered or events that had become funny with time.  He talked of Ares' heroism, his strength, his loyalty.  How he hadn't met anyone else in the Underland he could ever trust as much.  

Beneath the tree their parents' eyes dried as Gregor's sobs turned to stories and soon their children's laughter traveled across the field.  They watch the wind travel over the grass and shared a sigh of relief.  

Lizzie and Boots walked back up the dirt path toward their parents, leaving Gregor alone.  He was alone as he had been in the cave.  Gregor look up at the sky.  It really was a beautiful day.  Ares would have had so much fun flying with so much room and racing through the trees.

He apologized, on his knees with a hand on the stone and the other over his heart.  He wanted so badly to go back to that cave, to find Ares' body and to bury it here, under the sky.

He stood up eventually and walked slowly through the grass.

“Breakfast, anyone?”  he asked when he could see his family.  They all shared small smiles as they headed back toward their house.  Gregor started some small talk to let everyone know it was okay and soon their tears were dry and they walked tall.

To his parents' dismay and Boots' excitement, Gregor chose for them to all get tattoos after breakfast. He didn't really have a concrete idea of what he wanted, and ended up sitting down with an artist while the rest of his family's art was underway.  

He explained that he wanted a tribute to his friend and made up some things to cover the parts she wouldn't understand.  He said his friend had died, but that he had really liked bats.  He had Lizzie write out the bond vow in code to add in as well.  He didn't really want everyone to be able to read it.

In the end, the artist came up with the whole thing, and surprisingly quickly.  A chest piece.  A black bat with a skeleton in black light ink, something Gregor didn't even know existed.  A banner floating above and below with the code on it. He loved it.  He made a couple changes to her initial sketch just to make the bat look more like Ares.  

His family's tattoos had been drawn by the time his was decided, and he watched them get their stencils placed and get started.  His parent's were both getting candles over scars they had gotten in the Underland.  Lizzie was getting a simple outline of a rat with an X shaped scar on his face.  Boots got a small cockroach on either side of an ankle, one would have a single, bent antennae.

“Alright!  Let's see if this size works for you.”  Gregor's artist showed him her drawing with a flourish and his mouth dropped.  It was amazing.  She cut around the drawing and asked for him to take off his shirt.  He hesitated for only a moment.  He wanted this.

“Oh!  Those are some scars!”  she said.

“Does that matter?”  He asked, suddenly worried.  He really didn't know.

“Only sometimes,”  she said, immediately moving closer and reaching out with her hand.  He flinched when she touched his chest.  She pulled her hand back, “Okay?”

“Yea!  Sorry,”  he replied nervously.

She let out a low whistle, “Some of these are pretty wicked, I doubt they'll hold ink.”

“Could we, um, work them into it? Or just, I don't know, kind of, leave them blank?  They're kinda, um, part of the whole thing.”

“Yea, sure!  Let me take a picture of them and I'll see what I can do, alright?”

She took a picture with her phone and Gregor called out to her as she headed back to her desk, “Hey, uh, thanks, for not, for uh,”

“Of course, man.  Everyone has their demons.  I'm glad I get to help.”

His tattoo ended up being the exact one she had drawn, but she cut it into sections and added extra shading to work in his scars.  The imagery was enough to make him cry.  His artist pretended not to notice.

Lizzie was done first and was the first to see Gregor's.  He was afraid to show everyone, but while he was on the table, he didn't have much a choice.  Lizzie was so shocked she forgot where she was, “Oh my gosh! It's perfect! The same claw that-” she cover her mouth with a squeak.  The artist only smiled.

It took three sessions in total, his skin was not taking well to the added trauma of the tattoo gun.  He never looked until the day after, because the blood on his chest was too much.  He hated how expensive this must be, but he loved waking up every morning and seeing Ares, right there over his heart.

His last session his artist who he could finally remember the name of, Ashley, sent him to the private room instead of her normal area.

“Alrighty, mister.”  She said as she put on her gloves.  “I like you and your family a lot, and I told them not to tell you I was doing this tattoo for free because I wanted to coerce you into telling me the story.”

Gregor was so surprised he sat up. “But, I, there's not.”

“Lay back down, man, and start talking.”

Gregor stared evenly at her, his heart pounding.  

“See?  That's not your normal teenager in there and these are no normal scars.  Lay down and speak up.”

He stared for another moment before he lied back down.

“I've never,”

“I know.”  she said, “Start with the words you don't want anyone to read.”

Gregor took a deep breath, what was the harm, really?  If she told anyone they wouldn't believe her.  And this was a very expensive tattoo.  And it would be nice to not talk to just his family.

The tattoo was so he always had a physical reminder of Ares, something more positive than a scar.  He had already healed so much, he was ready for more.  The past five years had been slow going, he wanted to be happy faster.  Maybe telling the story to a stranger would be the relief he wanted.  The weight off his shoulders.

“The bat's name was Ares.”  His voice almost broke but Gregor stayed strong.  “The text says, 'Ares the flier I bond to you, our life and death are one we two, in dark in flame in war in strife, I save you as I save my life.”  He took another deep breath as she put the needles to his skin, “But I couldn't.  I didn't.”

[bevioletskies]

across the universe [2/8]

summary: Peter, the son of the Chancellor, has lived among the stars for the first ten years of his life. Gamora, the future Commander of Terra, has lived on the ground for the first ten years of hers. Though it’s finally time for the last survivors of the so-called apocalypse to return to Earth, they might not be prepared for what’s waiting for them. But when Peter and Gamora meet and find their worlds irreversibly tangled together, titles, obligations, and the impending war may be the very last thing on their minds.

a/n: The premise of this fic is very loosely based off of The 100, the television show more so than the book series. However, no previous knowledge is required, as I only used the basic concept and language, and none of the storylines or characters arcs from the show.

Fic title is from the song Across The Universe by The Beatles. Prologue can be found here. Warning for injuries, blood, and bad parenting.

word count: 11.4k | ao3 | tag

Gamora felt as if she looked a bit strange to anyone who happened to be nearby - hopefully, nobody - sitting under a tree, tapping one foot impatiently as she sharpened her favorite blade. Logically, she knew it would be safer to hide at the top of the tree in case she came across the wrong clan, but there was a sort of nervous energy pulsating through her that needed to be expended, different to the kind of energy she felt during a training session (or a real fight).

While she waited, her mind wandered to earlier in the morning when she was at breakfast with Nebula. It was hard to look at her sometimes, to see the pieces of her that were no longer her, the pieces that glinted in the sunlight and echoed with a metallic clang when struck. To their father, a broken leg meant a replaced one, an offhand complaint about being unable to hear something meant a complete overhaul of her sensory system. To him, a lost fight meant everything. Gamora looked down to her own arm, watched the silver twist and turn underneath her skin like new veins. They still burned sometimes.

“Gamora?”

She quickly drew her arm behind her back and looked up to see Peter standing there, a boyish grin on his face. He was dressed differently than when she saw him three weeks ago, his hair longer and curling slightly over his shining eyes. The most notable thing, however, was the glow of his hands, and in his cupped palms was a crudely-made rubber ball. “Hapotei.”

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“Happy birthday,” she sighed; she could’ve sworn she’d taught him that last time after they agreed to meet on his eleventh birthday. They’d been meeting in secret for six months now, starting off as her simply teaching him some basics of the language and the planet, then quickly developing into tentative, but hopeful friendship. She also conveniently left out the fact that she was a daughter of Thanos. In all fairness, he spoke fondly of his mother and sister but didn’t speak of his father, either, and they left it at that. She knew it was risky for both of them to be spending time together, but she found herself genuinely enjoying his company, found that she felt just a little bit less like their great and terrible world was waiting for her to lead the way. He was the only person in her life who didn’t know her predetermined fate.

Shaking herself out of her thoughts, she got to her feet and went to join him, stashing her blade as she did. “I think it’s weird that your people remember what day they were born.”

“I think it sucks that your people don’t,” he shot back, though not unkindly. “But c’mon, isn’t this cool? Made it myself!” He held out his hands, proud. She poked the ball gingerly, leaving a permanent fingerprint on its surface. “Okay, so it’s not the best thing ever - ”

“It’s...better,” she said slowly, thinking back to the time he’d presented her with what looked like an approximation of a deflated balloon. She had asked him about the light the second time they met since she never got the chance during their first encounter, and ever since then, he’d been far too eager to bring deformed creations along with him. “You’re getting better.” Her eyes flickered upwards to his shoulders, taking in the shiny red leather. “Your jacket...it smells new.”

“You can smell - yeah, okay,” Peter chuckled. “Yeah, it’s a birthday present from Yondu. Oh, and my mom gave me this!” He unhooked something from the belt loop of his jeans and held it out to her, some rectangular device that looked positively ancient compared to all the technology they both had access to. She carefully took it, turning it over in her hands as if it would magically explain itself. “It’s called a Walkman. Plays music.”

“My people don’t have music,” Gamora said. Peter looked scandalized. “What do you do with it?”

“Do? Nothin’. You listen to it. Or you can dance.” He shrugged.

“My people don’t dance,” she retorted, sullen.

“No birthdays, no dancin’...your people really don’t know how to have fun,” Peter grinned. “You gotta dance with me sometime.”

Gamora looked at him dubiously. “...no.”

He only laughed, bright and notably cheerful, even for him, and ambled on down the slope toward the stream, gesturing for her to follow. She huffed impatiently - honestly, she gave him one orienteering lesson and suddenly he was acting like he was the expert - but followed him regardless.

The weather was idyllic, far nicer than it had any right to be. Last night had been another night of war, the kind that raged on until sunrise, when blood seemed brighter and bolder and ridden with guilt. Thanos and Ego had been attacking each other from afar, still having never met in person, and every day it seemed like there was at least another name or two or ten that both sides were left to mourn. Gamora had grown numb to it; Peter had not, holding his breath every time his father had another announcement to make. It was something they never talked about.

“I don’t wanna learn nothin’ new today. Let’s just...sit.” Peter plopped down unceremoniously beside the stream, his legs sprawled out across the pebbles, not caring for the way the water trickled between them, dampening the underside of his jeans.

“If it’s your birthday, how did you get away from your family? Don’t they want to spend time with you?” Gamora asked, sitting neatly beside him. She drew her knees into her chest, away from the water.

“Parents are working, sister’s with her friends. They didn’t even see me leave,” he said, shrugging. “Mom said she’s gonna make me a cake later.”

“Your mother sounds so perfect whenever you talk about her,” she said wistfully. Peter perked up.

“You wanna meet her?”

Gamora was startled by the question. It had never crossed her mind that she and Peter could exist outside of the space they’d created for themselves. She knew she certainly didn’t want Peter to get anywhere near her world, still remembering the awful way he’d looked at her when she mercy-killed one of her soldiers on the night they met. She didn’t want him to look at her like that ever again.

“Maybe,” she hummed, hoping she sounded more nonchalant than she felt. The idea of a parent who loved their children was not something she’d ever entertained. There were plenty of loving families within Sanctuary’s walls, sure, but it was mostly parents adoring the children who were strong enough to become warriors, and disregarding those who weren’t. Her mind went to Drax again, how he used to sit by himself at meals until Gamora (and a reluctant Nebula) decided to join him. Losing his parents so young had done him no favors in so many unfortunate and unforeseeable ways.

“Then come back with me.” Gamora had been so lost in her own thoughts, she nearly forgot what Peter was talking about. “You can have cake and meet my family! Or I guess, my mom and my sister.”

“Not your father?” she asked.

“Everyone says he’s not a ‘family man’,” he said dismissively. “Y’know, whatever that means.”

“I don’t,” she said, frowning. “Does he work a lot? You make him sound like a very important person.”

“He’s...uh...yeah, you could say that,” Peter hedged, refusing to meet her eyes. Gamora’s frown deepened.

“Is he part of your army?” she persisted. “Like a general? A captain?”

“Like...he’s kind of…” He scratched at a non-existent itch on the back of his hand, his gaze now fully cast downward into his own lap. “...the Chancellor.”

Gamora shot to her feet, her mind racing with possibilities, her heart beating with betrayal. Already, she could feel tears burning hot in her eyes, taunting her for letting trust overtake instinct. “Your father is the one killing my people?!”

“Your people started it,” Peter mumbled petulantly, cowering, though he knew it was only going to make things worse. “My mom and all them others, they just wanted their planet back. I don’t see why we gotta die for it.”

“I can’t - ” Gamora exhaled, resting one hand on her stomach, fingers splayed outward, willing herself to calm down. “There are orphans, Peter. Children who don’t have parents because your father wanted it that way.”

“You think we don’t got that, too?” His voice was rapidly rising; fists balled up in his lap. He didn’t want to give Gamora the satisfaction of knowing she’d angered him; Meredith had told him too many times before that he needed to be better with his temperament. “Everyone...everyone’s got dead people. ‘Cos of my dad, and...what’s his name again?”

“Thanos.” Gamora swallowed. “My father.”

Now it was Peter’s turn to have his blood run cold, to have his mouth fall open in a rather comical manner, though neither of them were laughing. “You gotta be kiddin’.” When she shook her head, he also got to his feet, shaking off the damp bits of grass that had stuck to his clothes. “Some birthday I’m having.” With that, he turned and ran off, ignoring Gamora calling after him, a voice he’d been so thrilled to hear when he first arrived, a voice that now made him feel vaguely ill.

“Peter, please!” Gamora shouted, even after he was long gone, and she groaned in frustration, collapsing back down onto the ground, not caring when her boots struck the water and splashed the hems of her pants. It amazed her how terrible everything had become so quickly, how awfully serendipitous it was that the one Skaikru she’d befriended was her equivalent in the worst possible way. She wrapped her arms around her knees, pulling them back into her chest.

Inhale, exhale, she told herself, trying to think of all the breathing exercises she’d been taught, the rules that had been drilled in her head. She could almost hear Thanos’s voice, paradoxically dull and menacing at the same time: “Your anger doesn’t feed you, daughter, it starves you. What you need is focus. You are a plangona, the future heda. Do not waste your breath on those who don’t deserve it.” Her eyes slid closed, her breath evening out, gentle. In. Out. In. Out.

In her peace, Gamora never saw the unfamiliar hands that reached out for her.

Peter returned to New Arkardia not too long after he left, his face and fists still burning with anger. He was instantly waved through the gates upon his arrival, weaving through the crowd of people who either reached out to greet him with far too much enthusiasm or looked at him with far too much derision.

He reached his house a few minutes later, a happy medium between his father’s lust for luxury and his mother’s desire for normalcy, built a mere two days after they landed on Earth. Peter had to admit, as much as he despised Ego’s over-the-top approach to just about everything, the New Arkadia settlement was something to be proud of. It was a small, self-contained town, with dirt roads winding and snaking along between the trees, houses and community buildings nestled along the way, running alongside the river. They had a steady stream of food and supplies, all the adults had settled back into the jobs they had on the original Ark, and the children had mostly adjusted to their newfound freedom, the ability to take in fresh air after a long day in the classroom. However, no one strayed too far from their territory, knowing that the other factions were still hunting them, waiting to chase them right off the earth.

“Peter, is that you?” Meredith called from the living room when he opened the front door. “Where’ve you been runnin’ off to, baby?”

“Followin’ Yondu around,” he lied easily, kicking off his shoes. He went to join her, still awed at the fact they had more than one couch, bookshelves that went all the way to the ceiling, thick pile rugs and quilted blankets and a crackling fireplace. It was a bit like the bigger apartment they’d had when he and Mantis were younger before Ego shuffled them off to their smaller place in favor of investing in their return to Earth, full of quiet luxuries he didn’t realize he’d missed so much.

“That’s odd, because I just left my graveyard shift at the medical center and Yondu was there, checkin’ up on that guard of his who got speared last night.” Meredith clicked her tongue to punctuate her point, though her eyes never left the book she was reading. “Don’t lie to me, Peter. You’ve been sneaking out on us, and as your mother, I have the right to know who, where, and why.”

Peter hesitated. “I made a friend.”

“What’s their name?” she pressed, flipping the page.

“Don’t matter,” he grouched. “We got into a fight. That’s why I came back.”

Meredith finally set her book aside, sweeping Peter up in her arms. “Oh, baby, I’m sorry. I’m sure things’ll smooth over eventually. They must be special if you wanted to spend your birthday with them. How far were you?”

“Outside the gates,” he mumbled into her shoulder. She instantly released him.

“Peter,” she exclaimed, the growl in her voice causing him to recoil. “Do you think your daddy made all them rules just because he can? Do you think I’m stitchin’ up wounds, day and night, because our guards just got a little clumsy?”

“I’m sorry, Mom.” He sank further into the couch cushions, ashamed. “I just...wanted to get closer to the river. The forest gets kinda boring after a while.”

“You only go outside the gates if you’ve got Yondu with you, you hear me?” She cupped his chin, tilting his head upward so his eyes could meet hers. “You promise me that.”

Peter muttered another apology, then curled into her side again, soothed by her warmth and her perfume. He didn’t want to think about how things had gone so wrong an hour ago, all the things he thought he understood about Gamora and their newfound friendship now soured by their respective truths. Of course, a part of him still wanted to see her again, but he had a feeling it wasn’t meant to be.

Gamora woke to a dull throbbing in her temples and an ache in her side. She pushed herself up into a seated position, taking stock of her surroundings, and her heart lurched in the realization that she was somewhere entirely unfamiliar. At most, she could tell she was in an underground cellar, with old-fashioned metal bars and sturdy stone walls, none of the advanced technology that Thanos used for the prisons on Sanctuary. An opposing faction, then. Can’t be Azgeda, she thought dizzily, prodding herself for broken bones, sprained joints and pulled muscles. They don’t take people alive.

It wasn’t long before two soldiers came thundering down the steps, leering at her from the cellar door. “Heda,” one of them said mockingly, threading his spear between the bars so he could prod her in the shoulder. He pressed deeply enough to draw just the tiniest bit of blood. “Did you sleep well?”

“Let me go - ” She banged her fists against the bars with a snarl. “I command you, shilkru. Let. Me. Go.”

“You are in no position to make demands. You are not our leader, wanheda is,” the other said; his voice was colder, more monotonous. “What business does he have, choosing a child as his successor?”

“Why do you care? You don’t follow him anyway,” Gamora retorted.

“It matters when we all live here, heda. It matters when your decisions could wipe out this planet, again. What is it about you that makes you so special?”

She faltered. Thanos always told her she was stronger, cleverer, fiercer than the others, but she didn’t feel that way. His army had children who were far more ruthless, and she could only imagine what the younglings of the rival factions were like. For people who had arrived here with some of the most sophisticated technology and weaponry in the entire galaxy, they’d all resorted to savagery far too quickly. “Let me go,” she repeated, gritting her teeth. “You won’t get what you want like this.”

“There must be something about you that wanheda prefers over his adult ‘children’,” the first one continued, tapping the spear against the bars, enjoying the way Gamora shivered with every rattle it made. “And if it means we should hold you here until he listens to our demands, so be it.”

“What could you want that you don’t have?” she asked. “I thought Boudalankru took most of our supplies during the first Conclave.”

The soldiers exchanged glances. “How did you know - ”

“You wear stones around your neck and waists, your cellars are made of stone,” she pointed out. “Who else would you be?” She felt an odd sense of satisfaction at their defeated expressions, though there was no time for celebration. “Wanheda will not come for me. He will not listen to you. So kill me, or let me go.”

The stone-faced one stepped even closer, pressing his face against the bars. She could smell his breath; he was close enough to see the sweat forming on her brow. “What did you say?”

“I said…” Gamora’s voice cracked as she reached out, trembling, to grip the head of his spear and pull it right underneath her chin, its tip pressing into the underside of her jaw. “...kill me, or let me go.”

The other soldier put his hand on his companion’s shoulder, tugging him back in warning. “Koken hainofi...tsa bants.”

“Heda, nou hainofi.” She shoved the spear back through the bars and into the soldier’s chest. Though her breath was still coming in short, her palms bloody and her knees buckling beneath her, she couldn’t help but smile as the two of them sprinted up the steps, a large wooden door hastily slamming shut behind them. “Bushhadas,” she muttered. She then turned to look at the cellar, how bare it was, how there was nothing she could to do to free herself. Well, she thought, rolling her jacket sleeves up, not yet.

Two days came and went, and Peter was still restless over what had happened on his birthday. The rest of the night had actually been kind of nice - they had an intimate family dinner at their house, with Yondu and Kraglin dropping by for cake. Even his father had been less moody than usual, though it was mostly because he’d been boasting about his recent “victory” over the Grounders, as the Arkadians had taken to calling them. Afterward, though, Peter moped around in his room, unable to concentrate on his studies or even his usual bouts of self-appointed mischief.

Then, on a miraculously quiet evening in which there were no deaths, no injuries, no war chants or cries to be heard, Peter and Mantis were doing their homework in the living room when she suddenly sat up. Her antennae glowered, casting an eerie light across her face. “Someone is at the gates.”

Ego, who was sitting opposite them, poring over his blueprints for a recreation center, shot to his feet. “Grounder?”

“I think...it is a Grounder child,” Mantis mused. Peter froze.

“Meredith!” Ego called while he pulled on his coat, not bothering to wait for her answer. “There’s an intruder at the gates, watch the children!”

“Dad, wait - ”

“No, Peter, you stay here. Be safe,” Ego insisted, sharply patting them both on the cheeks before sweeping out the front door. Meredith emerged from her private study and came down the stairs moments later.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“There is a Grounder child at the gates,” Mantis repeated. “They are by themselves.”

“Oh, poor darling. Must’ve gotten lost,” Meredith murmured, resting a hand over her heart. “I’m sure your daddy’s gonna help ‘em get right back home - ”

“He didn’t say that,” Peter interrupted. “He said ‘intruder’, not ‘kid’.”

“Peter, you know that don’t mean anything,” Meredith scolded lightly, gesturing for them both to settle back down. “Finish your homework now, you’ve got that big presentation tomorrow.”

Reluctantly, they followed suit, sinking back into the couch and picking up their books again. Meredith briefly went upstairs to grab her stack of patient records and bring them back down with her so she could stay close by, though her eyes flickered to the door every few minutes, tapping her foot against the back of her opposite ankle in restlessness.

Not ten minutes went by before the door burst open and Ego stumbled in, practically tripping over his own feet, breathless. “I need all of you to come with me. Now.”

It didn’t take long for them to reach the gates, Peter’s mind and heart racing the entire time. Mantis reached for him and squeezed his hand. At first, he thought it was for herself, that maybe she was worried or scared, until he felt the tension in his body slowly ease its way out. Her breath hitched briefly, followed by a shaky exhale. He turned to smile at her in silent gratitude.

The four of them made their way to the top of the watchtower, joining the two guards who were eyeing something apprehensively on the other side of the gate. Peter had to squint to make sense of what he was seeing, the darkness of the forest swallowing up everything from sight. Then, a silhouette of a child came into focus, short and lanky, but clearly trying to stand tall, to look bigger than they really were. His heart sank when he realized this particular child had no hair.

“She’s been talkin’ that nonsense Grounder talk since she got here,” Ego muttered, his eyes full of hunger. “At first, I thought she was just a distraction for the guards, but then I heard a single word, just one word that I recognized.”

“Ai ste lufa Petr kom Skaikru au,” she called. Her voice was monotonous, dull. “Ai laik Nebula kom Trikru, strisis kom Gamora.”

“Peter? Any idea what she’s saying?” Ego asked urgently.

He hesitated. Mantis, noticing the tremble in his mouth, stood on her toes to peer over the railing, straining her neck to get a better look. “She is desperate.” Meredith made a soft noise of sympathy, reaching to gently pull Mantis back in before she could fall.

“Ai laik Petr kom Skaikru. Weron laik Gamora?” All three of them turned to look at Peter, astonished. Before they could ask the dozens of questions on their mind, Yondu came thundering up the steps, stopping to briefly growl at the guard who stood post at the bottom of the tower and dared remind him of the watchtower’s weight capacity, and shoved his way to Peter’s side.

“You know this kid?” Yondu demanded, gripping Peter’s arm. “You been talkin’ to Grounders?”

“You!” Everyone jumped at Nebula’s sudden language switch, turning back to look at her in time to see her scoff derisively at Peter in a way that made him shrink into himself. “You are my sister’s friend?”

“Not really,” he said, hating the way his voice shook, hating the way everyone’s eyes were fixated on him - not just his family’s, not just Yondu’s, but all the Arkadians who had gathered near the gates, watching the spectacle of the Chancellor’s child, of all people, speaking the Grounder language. “She’s not talkin’ to me no more.”

“She is missing.” Peter’s blood ran cold. “She never came home after she left camp to see you.”

“Did she...did she tell you about me?”

Nebula smirked; it was the first expression she’d made that wasn’t entirely neutral. Somehow, it was even more unsettling. The fact she was quite casually staring down the guards who stood directly opposite her, pointing guns at her head, didn’t help matters, either. “She keeps a box under her bed with these odd...things in it. When she didn’t come home, I went looking for clues in her room and found it, with the word ‘Petr’ written on the lid. There is no Petr in Trikru.” Peter’s face reddened, both out of embarrassment and delight.

“Peter, what is going on here?” Ego said lowly, reaching around Meredith to grab Peter. Before he could, Yondu stepped sideways to block him, holding up his hands defensively. “Captain, step away from my son.”

“You let your boy be, Chancellor, clearly they got a lot to talk about,” Yondu countered, half-bowing his head out of respect, though it only seemed to infuriate Ego further. “And boys, can you stop pointin’ your weapons at the kid already? You’re makin’ me nervous!” The guards slowly lowered their guns, exchanging shameful looks amongst themselves. Nebula seemed unbothered either way.

“We were yelling at each other a bunch, and then I guess I just...left her there,” Peter said, turning back to Nebula, his heart sinking. “Do you think that maybe...someone took her? Like one of the other clans?”

Her chin tilted downward, casting her gaze to her feet. “Maybe,” she repeated, her voice hollow. Then, shaking herself, she turned to leave.

“Wait,” Peter called. She paused mid-step. “I can show you where we were, maybe it’ll help you find her.”

“No, you are not to leave Arkadia,” Ego interrupted firmly, finally managing to step around Yondu and make a literal attempt to shake some sense into Peter, his fingers digging welts his shoulders. “Can’t you see, Peter? This is a trap! Their men are waiting for you on the other side of the ridge.”

“But Dad, if somethin’ happened to her, it’s all my fault,” Peter protested. “I shoulda stayed - ”

“And whoever took that girl would’ve taken you, too. You think they’re looking to make the distinction?” Ego growled. “No, you’re coming straight home with us. Let Yondu’s guards take care of the little actress down there.”

“Ego,” Meredith warned. “Don’t you go after that girl. She’s just lookin’ for her sister, she’s not here to play tricks.”

“This is the first day in months that we’ve had no attacks, and suddenly she shows up, you think that’s a coincidence?” Ego snapped, gesturing wildly in Nebula’s direction. Still, she remained unmoved, arms folded across her chest and tapping her foot like they were mildly inconveniencing her. “You take the kids home, Meredith. Right now.”

“If I may, Chancellor, I think your missus has a point,” Yondu said, clearing his throat. “Now, you know me, I can smell a rat a mile away, and I don’t smell nothing right now. Let me take your boy to help ‘er, and he’ll be safe with me.”

Peter turned to Meredith with wide eyes. “You said I could only go outside the gates when I’m with Yondu, remember?”

She couldn’t help but chuckle, bending down to meet him at eye level, running her fingers through his hair, stopping to cup his chin. “I did, didn’t I? What kind of mother would I be if I went back on my word, hmm?”

“Still the best kind,” Peter said simply, smiling. Meredith laughed, kissing his cheek before straightening up. She then turned to Yondu, her expression hardening somewhat.

“You don’t go any farther than where he was with his friend. After that, you let her people, her sister, find her. You come straight home, you hear me?” Meredith ordered. Peter nodded eagerly while Ego let out a resounding protest that fell on deaf ears. “Now you two go and help bring her home.”

Peter could still hear his parents whisper-shouting urgently at each other as he and Yondu passed through the gates, could still picture Mantis’s tiny but brave face as she stood between them, wondering silently if taking their emotions would do her more harm than good. He reached out to grab Yondu’s arm, knowing he’d be embarrassed if he attempted to grab his hand. “Thanks, Yondu,” he said, grinning up at him. “It’s real nice of you to stick up for me.”

“Yeah, yeah, I just don’t want no dead kids on my conscience,” Yondu grumbled. “Let’s go talk to her before she gets any ideas. I don’t like the funny way she’s looking at my boys.”

When they reached Nebula, Peter immediately noticed that, like Gamora, she was shorter than her demeanor made her seem. Even so, she was even more intimidating than her sister with her inky eyes, hardset mouth, and bits of metal seemingly dispersed all throughout her body - pieces in her skull, her neck, what he could see of her hands through her fingerless gloves. Peter had seen the occasional new glints of silver in Gamora’s face every now and then, but he was never sure if it was okay to ask. Looking at Nebula, he was certain it wouldn’t have been.

“You got some nerve comin’ all the way out here by yourself,” Yondu commented brazenly by way of greeting, his eyes flickering briefly behind her to check for any signs of movement in the forest beyond. “Your parents know you’re here?”

“We have a man who thinks he is our father,” Nebula said; that seemed to shut Yondu right up. “If you’re lying, Petr kom Skaikru, I will kill you.”

Peter swallowed. “Cool.”

It was a brief fifteen-minute walk to the tree where Peter and Gamora liked to meet, far from the battles and the bases, away from prying eyes. He thought about how he approached her just two days ago, excited to see her and talk to her and ask her all sorts of questions about what her life was like. He thought about how Ego was probably right - whoever took Gamora would have taken him, too. He shuddered.

“Tracks.” Nebula walked slowly beside the tread marks along the riverbank, taking a few steps back and then forward again, trying to judge the direction they’d come from and where they’d gone. “No extra footprints, no animal prints.”

“So maybe she just got lost?” Peter suggested, feeling rather silly. Nebula lifted her head to glare at him.

“No,” she said coolly. “Stealth ships don’t make any sound and only leave one set of tracks. There is only one clan who stole them from Father - Boudalankru.”

“Bow-dah-what?” Yondu repeated dubiously.

“You’ve been useful, Petr,” Nebula said, sounding about as surprised as Peter felt. “Now leave.”

“Wait, are you really gonna look for Gamora all by yourself?” Peter asked. “That don’t sound safe.”

“Nothing is,” Nebula said blithely. “Most of wanheda’s army was sent to look for her in Azgeda and Sangedakru. It will be too late by the time they get to Boudalankru. It has to be me.”

“I wanna help,” Peter volunteered. Nebula looked at him incredulously, though before she could say anything, Yondu grabbed him by the wrist and unceremoniously yanked him aside.

“Hey, I promised your mama I’d take you straight home,” Yondu reminded him. “I know you feel bad ‘bout your little friend, but there ain’t nothing we can do. We don’t know nothing about this boh-dal - ”

“Boudalankru,” Peter repeated, remembering the time Gamora had tried and failed (on his part, that is) to teach him all the clan names. It seemed so long ago. “There’s gotta be something I can do, Yondu. Please?”

“No,” Yondu said firmly. “We’re goin’ home and you’re goin’ straight to bed, or your mama’s gonna skin me alive.”

Gamora’s palms were scraped raw, her fingernails broken, her skin cracked. She’d torn a strip of fabric from the bottom of her shirt, then ripped it in two and wrapped it around her hands to suppress the bleeding. Her throat burned from the lack of water, her stomach ached from the lack of food. It had been at least a day since she was taken, and the guards had refused to relieve her of any of her discomforts for her insolence. Now, she was sat cross-legged on the floor of the dirty, damp cellar, contemplating her next move.

Think, Gamora, think, she muttered inaudibly, running her hands over the length of her body for the thousandth time, checking to see if they’d somehow left something sharp on her person, and somehow she hadn’t noticed until now. Then her thumb snagged on the zipper of her jacket, and oh, she thought, there it is. With a quick jostle and a sharp yank, she broke the zipper head clean off its teeth.

She crawled toward the cellar door, then flattened herself against the ground so she was eye level with its bottom hinges, silently assessing the size of its screws. Grimacing, she got back to her feet and began pacing the length of her tiny confinement, running her fingers along its stone walls. She startled a little when she felt a sharp pinprick on the pad of her finger, enough to draw blood. Gamora stepped closer to examine the spot in question, how invisible it was, even to her enhanced eyes, then lifted the tiny zipper head to its surface. Slowly, but surely, she began to file away at its edges.

Long, arduous minutes went by as her shaking fingers moved back and forth, sometimes catching her skin instead of the metal, sometimes slipping from her hand and clattering to the floor. Once she was satisfied with her handiwork, she knelt back down and slotted the sharpened metal into the slot of the screw, turning it ever so slightly. She stretched upwards to reach the top hinges, too, straining with every last bit of strength she had. She stepped back, taking a moment to let her breathing slow to something that wasn’t threatening to swallow her up. You will not die in here.

Gamora stepped forward and rattled the bars. “Chek ai au, bushhadas!” she hollered. “Ai laik yu heda!”

It took less than a minute for the guards to return. “You’re a noisy little thing, aren’t you?”

She merely glared at them. “I’m hungry,” she said, her tone that of an impatient child.

The soldiers exchanged glances, then laughed. “We already told you, you are in no place to make demands, heda,” one of them sneered. He pushed his spear between the bars like he’d done earlier, its end hovering mere inches from her nose. “Why don’t you tell your father we have demands to make of him?”

“He is not my father,” she growled. With that, she gripped the head of the spear and yanked it towards her, jolting it right out of the soldier’s hands so it hit the cellar bars with a loud clang. Using her momentum, she then shoved forward, both her hands braced on either end of the spear, and the door collapsed onto both guards, the hinges shrieking precariously as it fell. They both cried out in shock, their hands scrabbling desperately to get a grip on her somewhere - her hair, her wrists, anything they could use for leverage - but she had them pinned down, the door weighing heavy on their bodies. “If you have demands, you tell them to me.”

The only noise that escaped either of them was an awful, guttural choking sound, sputtering and spitting as the metal bars and the spear laid perfectly across their necks. Gamora got to her feet, pausing to stare at them, swallowing down the acid burning in her throat. They will live, she thought urgently, her heart racing. You didn’t kill them. Not this time.

She sprinted up the stairs, finding herself in a small entryway that seemed to branch off into a whole series of stairways that led to other cells. There, she found her utility belt and weapons tossed aside, and she quickly gathered them up and slipped them back on her person, staying alert to the sights and sounds nearby. When she was ready, she took a deep breath, then pushed her way out of the prison entirely. She was greeted by the blindingly bright sun and the sound of a dozen soldiers’ war cries descending upon her.

“Can’t believe you talked to me into this nonsense,” Yondu grumbled. He, Peter, and Nebula were hidden just outside the vicinity of the guardsmen quarters, where the vehicles were stored. While the Grounders used all manner of technology, as old-fashioned as horses and as high-brow as cloaked ships, the Arkadians kept close to their base, and therefore never needed much more than a few ships and a fleet of armored cars, courtesy of Ego’s limitless powers. “If we don’t die out there, we gonna be dead when we get back. Your daddy’s gonna spear me like an Orloni, then he’s gonna whoop your ass into shape ‘til you’re his age.”

“Do you people ever shut up?” Nebula hissed before Peter could protest. “Why are we hiding from your men?”

“Some of my men are more loyal to the Chancellor than their captain,” Yondu said begrudgingly. “Now get in there ‘fore they see us.”

Their initial take-off was a bit of a tumble since Yondu hadn’t flown since they arrived on Earth - it certainly didn’t help that Peter was trying to push all the buttons on the console in a futile attempt to make himself useful - but then they were airborne, heartbeats pounding rapidly in their ears as they watched the ground get further and further away. Nebula shoved Peter out of the co-pilot’s seat to assist Yondu, grumbling under her breath about his poor steering. Peter then situated himself in the passenger’s seat directly behind her, peering over her shoulder.

“You know how to fly a ship?” he asked, awed.

“Yes,” she replied shortly, though she almost sounded proud of herself.

“Does Gamora?”

Nebula huffed. “How did a goufa like you become friends with my sister?”

“By being awesome,” Peter grinned, leaning back into his chair.

Now it was Yondu’s turn to snort. “Alright, buckle up, kids, I ain’t responsible for you two flyin’ out the window if you don’t.”

Meanwhile, back in New Arkadia, Mantis was curled up by the large bay window at the front of their living room, her face and hands pressed against the glass. She watched as the telltale lights of the underside of Yondu’s ship soar up into the night sky, then peel off into the darkness. “Baby, I thought I told you to go to bed.”

She let out a startled squeak, turning to see Meredith standing in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. “Sorry, Mama,” she mumbled. “It is just...Peter is not back yet.”

“Your daddy already sent some guards to go looking for ‘em. Nothing we can do not but wait and hope for the best,” Meredith said soothingly, moving to sit beside Mantis by the window. She reached over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, smiling when Mantis nuzzled affectionately against her hand. “You want me to tuck you in tonight, maybe read you a book and take your mind off things?”

“I do not think I can sleep,” Mantis admitted. “My stomach hurts.”

“I know you’re worried,” Meredith nodded, clicking her tongue sympathetically. “I won’t pretend I’m not worried, too. I know you can see right through me. But we have to take comfort in the fact that Peter isn’t alone. This isn’t like that night, okay? This isn’t like when he ran off trying to protect us.”

Mantis shuddered in memory of that fateful night, the night where the Grounders made themselves known to the Arkadians, storming their camp and chanting their war chants, crying their war cries. The night where Peter was there one moment and gone the next, leaving nothing but a trail of light behind him. He had returned with a sort of haggard look in his eyes that no one ever expected to see on a child. He’d collapsed into Meredith’s arms, mumbling about how tired he was, reached out for Mantis’s hand so he could squeeze, so he could know she was still there for him to look for. In that moment, Mantis felt everything he felt - shock, guilt, disgust, and oddly enough, the tiniest glimpse of hope. Now, she wondered if that was the night he met Gamora, if she was the one who helped him feel just a little bit less like that night was the worst night of everyone’s lives.

“Mantis?” She shook herself out of her thoughts to see Meredith staring at her, brow furrowed in concern. “I asked if you wanted some tea for your stomach. I don’t want you on any medication of any sort unless you really need it.”

“Yes, please.” Mantis turned back to the window while Meredith went into the kitchen, silently pleading for the lights to come back, to bring her brother back so she would know he was safe. She closed her eyes, antennae glowing faintly, trying to see if she could detect Peter above all the noise of the thoughts and heartbeats of their people.

“Mantis?”

She turned again, only to find herself looking up into Ego’s face. “Mama is making me tea before I sleep,” she said before he could ask. “My stomach hurts.”

“Worried about Peter, huh?” Ego sat in Meredith’s place, clapping her on the shoulder. “Well, you heard me back there. I made it very clear to your mother that letting him go off wasn’t a good idea, but unfortunately, she’s about as stubborn as I am. We all are. So let’s just hope Yondu makes good on his word because I’m certainly going to have a few for him if they come back.”

“If?” Mantis repeated.

Ego’s face softened. “I meant ‘when’,” he said quietly.

“And what about everything else that is out there? Those bad men who took that girl’s sister?” she asked.

“That’s what I'm trying to protect you from. All of you,” he insisted. “Because they aren’t men. They’re animals, trying to keep people like your mother from getting their planet back, from taking back what’s theirs. And I’ll be honest, I don’t like that Peter decided to be friends with one of them. Not one bit.”

“But she is a child, like him and me,” Mantis said defensively. “She needs friends, too. Maybe she does not have any.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Ego said, chuckling derisively. “They may inhabit a planet of humans, but there is no humanity left in them.” He got to his feet as if to leave, only to stop when he saw Meredith approach them both, holding two steeping hot mugs of tea. “Meredith.”

“Ego,” she replied. “I thought you went to bed.”

“It’s hard to, when our son is out there, possibly dying or dead. I’ll be surprised if any of us get any sleep tonight.” His voice was low, dark; he didn’t wait to hear Meredith’s response, turning and sweeping up the stairs to their shared bedroom without a backwards glance. She stared after him for a moment, then carefully rearranged her expression into something that resembled a smile and rejoined Mantis by the window.

“Sorry, baby,” she murmured after they’d taken their first few sips. “I keep tellin’ myself not to fight with your daddy in front of you, but we both got tempers we ain’t proud of.”

“I am used to it,” Mantis shrugged.

Meredith shook her head adamantly. “No, Mantis, don’t get used to it. It’s not healthy, for us or for you and Peter.”

“I am trying to listen for him, but it is so hard.” Mantis pressed her palm against the glass once more. “I can only hear our people. They think about him.”

“Don’t let those powers of yours take over your life, baby,” Meredith urged, reaching to gently pry Mantis away from the window and pull her against her chest, Mantis’s head resting over Meredith’s heart. “What you need is to drink your tea, go to bed, and when you wake up, Peter will be home. I swear it.”

“Can you stay with me?”

Meredith’s heart simultaneously broke and swelled at the same time, pulsating so sharply she was sure Mantis heard it. “Of course, baby. Always.”

It was pitch-black by the time they reached Boudalankru territory, but Peter was still wide awake, perhaps a little too wide awake. He’d spent the last half hour of their trip trying to formulate a plan for how to find and rescue Gamora, and was promptly shut down by Nebula every single time.

“Leave it to me, Petr kom Skaikru,” she insisted, twirling one of the many blades she had on her utility belt, something that reminded him too much of Gamora. “Stay here and don’t get in my way.”

“Finally, something we can agree on,” Yondu commented as he brought the ship down to land.

Peter followed Yondu and Nebula off the ship despite their protests, looking around in awe at their surroundings. Boudalankru was more modern than its name implied; Yondu and Peter had expected old-fashioned stone huts and gravel paths, but instead were met with a micro-city juxtaposed against the impossibly tall trees that masked the horizon. Modern buildings made of limestone and glass were lined up in a too-straight line along the paved concrete roads, small passenger ships were parked neatly beside them. Metal signs were embedded with what looked like Kree language, and seemingly brand-new lampposts flickered overhead as they continued walking down the barren streets. The most jarring thing of all was just that - there was not a single person to be found.

“Are we in a horror movie or somethin’?” Peter whispered uneasily. “I don’t hear or see nobody.”

Yondu let out a low whistle, prompting his yaka arrow to shoot out of its pouch and hover by his temples. He gestured for both of them to get behind him, but Nebula ignored him in favor of walking up to the nearest building and pressing her face against the glass, peering inside for any sort of indication that they hadn’t just stumbled across a ghost town. Peter hesitated, then ducked into Yondu’s side, though he kept one hand extended, letting it glow faintly to lead the way while they continued on, the street lights getting dimmer the further they went.

The minutes dragged on forever, Peter’s heart beating so rapidly he thought it would collapse, until they finally heard something - suddenly a lot of something, the sounds of victorious shouts in alarming numbers. Yondu sprinted in the direction of the noise, the children following closely at his heel, and found themselves in proximity to what appeared to be an outdoor in-ground arena, the kind with endless rows of seats and blinding floodlights, filled to the brim with every last member of Boudalankru. The three of them quickly made their way to the edge, pushing their way to the front of the crowd, and looked down, astonished at what they saw.

In the middle of the whole spectacle was Gamora, blood streaked across her face, her torso, her everywhere (Peter was starting to become more accustomed to seeing her with blood than without, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing), thrusting her short blade above her head in the clear universal sign of victory. Lying at her feet was a boy who looked no more than sixteen, panting and heaving and wounded by more than just his pride. Around them, the crowd stomped their feet, clapped their hands, chanted: he-da, he-da, he-da…

“Yo laik ai kru,” Gamora shouted, her voice amplified by the device that was wrapped tight around her neck. “Ai laik yu heda!” Everyone roared back with vigor. Nebula recoiled.

“What the…” Peter turned to look at Nebula, speechless. “What’s goin’ on?”

“She called for a Conclave,” Nebula murmured. “And she won. As she always does.”

“She don’t look like she needs our help,” Yondu said, sounding half-impressed, half-terrified. “But alrigh’, let’s go get ‘er.”

They continued to shove their way through the throng of people, though Peter and Nebula soon found themselves constantly getting knocked aside due to their obvious height disadvantage, clinging onto the tails of Yondu’s coat before they could lose sight of him. Eventually, Peter’s impatience got the best of him, and he simultaneously let out a frustrated shout and a blast of light, startling everyone within a fifty-foot radius. They managed to sprint the rest of the way down to the arena ring without trouble after that.

“Sister!” Nebula shouted. She didn’t wait for Peter and Yondu, instead vaulting herself over the electric fence perimeter like it was nothing. Gamora’s eyes lit up with a different sort of elation upon hearing Nebula’s voice, and she ran to embrace her, much to Nebula’s chagrin.

“Nebula!” Gamora burrowed her face in Nebula’s neck. “It’s so good to see you, sister.”

“Do not - ” Nebula wrestled out of Gamora’s grip and shoved her back; she was now covered in blood, too. “You’ve been gone for two days, and suddenly you rule Boudalankru?”

“Something Father has never done before,” Gamora said gleefully, her face shining. “Do you think he will be proud?”

“Is that why you did this? Is that why you hurt their champion?” Nebula looked over Gamora’s shoulder to the boy, still crumpled on the ground, now being tended to by his people’s doctors. He blinked blearily up at them in a daze, though one of his eyes was swollen shut.

Gamora faltered, the light in her eyes starting to dim. “It was either a Conclave or my death, Nebula. I chose to survive.”

“Of course,” Nebula said hollowly. She nodded behind her. “Your lukot is here.”

“My - oh.” Gamora finally seemed to notice Peter standing there with his mouth hanging open, now that he could see her up close, see the story of her battle written out on her clothes, her skin, her face. “Petr...what are you doing here?”

“Nebula found me and told me you were gone, and I wanted to help.” He stepped forward, shooting her a strained, but hopeful smile. “I feel real bad about all that stuff we said to each other. Your people are just as important as mine, and maybe...maybe if your dad and my dad talked, all of this could just...stop. I don’t wanna fight anymore. Me and you, and my people and your people.”

“You don’t know our father,” Gamora sighed, though she looked relieved to see him regardless. “He does not want peace. He will not talk. He didn’t even look for me.”

“That’s not true,” Nebula interjected. “Father sent nearly his whole army looking out for his beloved heda.” Gamora narrowed her eyes at Nebula’s tone, though she decided not to comment on it. Instead, she glanced up at Yondu, who was stood firmly over Peter, staring down at her in mild perplexion.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“Captain Yondu Udonta of New Arkadia, and Quill’s chaperone,” Yondu replied gruffly. “And you are the scariest little thing I’ve ever seen.”

Her entire expression shifted into something far more childlike, and Yondu found himself regretting his choice of words. “I do not want to be scary,” Gamora said, hastily trying to wipe the blood off her face; it only rubbed it in further. “I just wanted to survive.”

“Well, you did just that.” Yondu tried not to look at the Boudalankru boy, tried not to listen to the way he cried out when the doctors lifted him onto a stretcher, cursing heda to the heavens. “Let’s go ‘fore these boo-doll folk get any ideas about looking into me n’ Quill.”

“Boudalankru,” all three children said in unison. Yondu threw his hands up in defeat and motioned for them to follow.

Getting back to the ship was easy enough despite Yondu’s apprehension, with the crowd parting like the sea for Gamora, letting her and the others pass through. When he asked her about it, about the Conclave and the little things she and Peter had said about her father, she had a strange, far-away look in her eyes and merely said, “You still don’t know much about life around here.”

“An’ I’m guessing you won’t tell me,” Yondu had replied, getting an affirmative nod in return.

The walk back would’ve been silent if not for Peter’s incessant chatter, pestering both girls with questions until Gamora silenced him with a single glare. Once they were on board, though, she quietly took a seat beside him, gratefully accepting the medical kit when he set it down on her lap. He wordlessly began to help her dress the wounds she couldn’t quite reach while Yondu and Nebula sat at the controls, getting them back in the air.

“Thank you,” she murmured, craning her neck to watch as he placed the last bandage over the puncture wound in the small of her back. “And...I feel bad about what I said, too. I’m sorry. I’m not good with...words, I suppose.”

“You talk way more like a grownup than I do,” Peter countered.

“I mean like...how I say things, not what I’m saying,” Gamora explained carefully. Her face fell again, remembering what Yondu had said to her. “Do I scare you?”

“I guess...a little bit,” he admitted. “I don’t wanna lie to you anymore, so...yeah, a little bit. But that don’t change the fact that you’re my friend, and I want you to be my friend. Not just ‘cos you’re teaching me Trig and stuff, but ‘cos I like hanging out with you.”

“Ai lukot,” she said, smiling tentatively. “My friend.”

Peter smiled back, taking her less-bandaged hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Ai lukot,” he repeated.

“Father is calling for us.”

Gamora shot to her feet, instantly letting go of Peter’s hand. “What?”

Nebula held up her communicator, her mouth set in an even harder line than usual. “Maw heard of the Boudalankru Conclave and sent spies to find you, and now he knows you’re not alone. Father wants to meet with us...all of us.”

“Oh, you gotta be kiddin’ me,” Yondu groaned. “This is already the longest damn night of my life, can’t I jus’ drop you two off and take Quill home?”

“If you don’t do what Father wants, he will kill all of your people, just like that.” Gamora snapped her fingers. Peter shivered.

“Is he gonna hurt us?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“If he is in the mood,” Nebula replied bluntly, scratching at the now-dried blood on the front of her jacket. Peter wasn’t proud of the whimper that escaped his throat.

An hour later, Gamora stirred, not realizing she had even fallen asleep in the first place, startled to find she had dozed off on Peter’s shoulder. All four of them had been restless the whole way, a tense silence filling the entire cabin, none of them daring to speak about what was ahead or what was already behind them. Even Peter had been too anxious to ask, because as much as he wanted to pester Gamora with a hundred questions about Thanos, he had the feeling that no answer would ease his worries.

They touched down outside of Sanctuary; the first thing Peter was thrown by was the sheer size of the ship, far outweighing the Ark, stretching far above the fences that were meant to contain it. The front gates were also similar to New Arkadia’s settlement, with watchtower guards waving them in, though their armor only reminded Peter of the night he and Gamora met and the young, dying soldier who looked a little bit too much like Kraglin. “Monin hou, heda!” one of them called.

“‘Welcome back, Commander’,” Gamora murmured in Peter’s ear. He watched in astonishment as every last person they passed bowed their head in her direction, muttering words of respect under their breaths.

“You’re the commander?” Peter asked, agape. “What about - ”

“He is wanheda, the commander of death. I am heda, to be wanheda someday.” She bit her lip so hard she drew blood. “Only some factions listen to Father and his generals. Boudalankru was one of our biggest enemies.”

“And now what, they like you or somethin’? I still dunno what happened back there,” he admitted.

Gamora smiled ruefully. “Neither do I.”

They were accompanied by two guardsmen through a winding series of hallways, though Gamora and Nebula seemed to know exactly where they were going. Peter could see Gamora was itching to reach for Nebula and take her hand, but Nebula had flattened her palms against her thighs in a very militant-like posture, her footsteps even heavier than Yondu’s. He took a moment to look around, amazed and horrified at how different Sanctuary looked from Boudalankru. It was far less friendly-looking than the original Ark, with wide corridors and tall ceilings, all dark and hollow and intimidatingly massive.

Finally, they reached a huge set of double doors; stationed in front were two alien beings who seemed impossibly tall, wielding weapons that stood higher than the top of Peter’s head. Unlike the other Grounders, neither bowed upon their approach. “Corvus, Proxima,” Gamora said tightly. “Is your army back?”

Proxima’s lip curled into a sneer. “We’ve called off the search for our precious heda, yes. And Father has heard of your victory in Boudalankru.”

“I had no choice.” Gamora glanced down at her hands, fiddling with the gauze wrapped around her left thumb, causing its exposed end to fray. “Their champion still lives.”

“Then it is not much of a victory after all,” Corvus drawled, keeping his head straight forward, refusing to look at her. He and Proxima stepped aside, allowing the guardsmen to open the doors, a rush of ice-cold air hitting all four of them in the face before they entered the throne room.

Like seemingly everywhere else in Sanctuary, it was dark and damp and unfriendly, devoid of anything that could make it feel remotely welcoming. There was a single long platform that led to the center of the room, where two thrones sat side-by-side. One was significantly shorter and unoccupied, and it made Gamora shudder when she saw it. She only ever sat in it once per year, on her birthday, a time when wanheda liked to remind everyone who his successor was and what she was capable of. The other throne was concealed in the shadows, but there was no doubt as to who was sat upon it.

Yondu and Peter stared dumbfoundedly at the impossibly large man as he got to his feet, turning so his back was to them, casting a darkness down the length of the platform and across their faces. “I’ve been told of your call for a Conclave, Gamora. Bold of you, considering they are only meant for the most dire of situations, for a threat to your title.” His voice rumbled, bouncing off every surface, shaking everyone’s ankles and knees from the vibrations in the floor.

“They were going to kill me to weaken you,” Gamora said evenly, bowing her head out of respect despite him not looking her way.

“And your first Conclave was to be when you turned fourteen,” he continued, ignoring her. “You could have died tonight, little one.”

“But I did not.” She tilted her face back up, held her chin higher; Nebula’s entire upper body seemed to slouch in contrast. Peter and Yondu still weren’t sure what to do with themselves, glancing around helplessly, but neither sister made any attempt to guide them.

“No, you did not.” There was a hint of a smile on Thanos’s face as he finally turned around, the full effect of his vastness overwhelming Peter, who took a few steps back, heart pounding rapidly in his ears. Though he wore simple armor, it was his face that caught them by surprise; the violently purple eyes narrowing in their direction, the mottled constellation of battle scars covering every inch of his skin, the sneer of a man who had looked upon gods and found himself wholly unimpressed. “This is the boy you’ve been meeting in secret? Petr kom Skaikru?”

“Yes,” Gamora murmured. “Ai lukot.”

“How did you meet my daughter, Petr?” Thanos demanded. “And how did you come by her in Boudalankru today?”

“I - uh - um.” Peter cleared his throat, fiddling with his thumbs in a failed attempt to stop his hands from shaking. Thanos looked bored already. “My camp was attacked by your army. I ran away so they would chase me, and that’s when I met - ”

“Why would they chase you?” Thanos interrupted. Maw and Cull, who were stood at the foot of his throne, turned to look at Peter, to really look at him, Maw’s gaze flickering up and down with clear distaste in his otherwise soulless eyes. Thanos gestured to the guards stationed by the doors, and they opened them for Proxima and Corvus to step inside, both of them lifting their weapons so they were pointed directly at Peter’s back. It sent a short, but clear message - impress me or die.

Peter inhaled sharply, then held out his hands, forming a glowing orb of light no larger than a piece of fruit. Then it grew bigger, big enough that it dwarfed his own head, obscuring his face from everyone else, causing Proxima and Corvus to stumble back, blindsided. He then pulled one hand away from the other, splitting the orb in two. The one in his right hand morphed into a light dagger, the other into something he had never been able to do before - a flower, fresh and vibrant and the exact same shade of red as Gamora’s hair. He turned toward her, holding them both out for her to take. Astonished, she wordlessly accepted them both, her heart thumping in concern when she noticed the wetness in his eyes from his concentrated effort.

He looked back to Thanos. His voice shook when he spoke again. “Once I stopped running, I was real lost. That’s when I met Gamora. I asked her to help me find my way back.”

Thanos sank into his throne, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. “And today?”

“Nebula came to New Arkadia to find me ‘cos Gamora was missing. I took her to where I saw her last, an’ then we went to Boudalankru together. The Conclave was over by the time we got there.” Thanos nodded slowly, his brow raising in surprise at Peter’s somewhat-correct Trigedasleng pronunciation. He then waved for the Black Order generals to leave the room so only he, his daughters, Peter, and Yondu remained.

“You have strength, Petr kom Skaikru, and abilities I have never seen before in my countless years of crossing the galaxy,” Thanos commented. “You are no mere human, are you?”

Yondu, who had been mostly petrified (not that he would ever admit to it) throughout the entire encounter, finally moved silently to warn Peter, to stop him before he gave it away, but - “I’m half-Celestial.”

“You are the son of the man who is calling for the death of my people?”

“And you’re the one callin’ for the death of ours,” Peter retorted suddenly, clenching his glowing fists. Gamora let out a startled noise, barely noticing the way Nebula clutched at her arm automatically to brace herself for his retaliation.

Thanos merely chuckled, albeit in a very sinister way, and leaned back. “I like this one, daughter. He is too naive to know what to fear and too vulnerable to know how not to trust. Yet, he holds the powers of the universe in his hands.”

She stepped forward. “Father, I - ”

“You want this war to end, don’t you, Petr?” Thanos asked, silencing Gamora with a single raise of his hand. “You want to grow up in a world where you know nothing but full bellies and clear skies.”

“Don’t everyone?” Peter slowly unfurled his fingers, though they still remained alight. “Then no one’s gotta die for no reason.”

“And if there was a reason?” Thanos cocked his head to one side, seemingly staring right through him. “What then?”

“I - ” Peter faltered. “I guess...well, people die ‘cos of reasons, right? Like, when they get sick or hurt or just...old. That don’t mean it has to happen. It just does. And war makes it happen faster. Makes it happen to kids like me. Even if we don’t die, our parents do. My mom is a medic, and she has to tell families all the time that people didn’t make it. I don’t want no one to have to tell her that I didn’t make it, or someone to tell me that she didn’t. I want my mom to see me grow up. And...I think you wanna see your daughters grow up, too. You sent a whole army lookin’ for Gamora ‘cos you wanna see her become your heda. There won’t be no heda or Chancellor or nothing if everyone is dead.”

Thanos hummed, contemplating; Gamora and Nebula sucked in their breaths. “When you return to your father tonight, you tell him I will make peace with your people under these terms: we cease all fighting immediately, and neither of us are to pick up a weapon again for six months. Consider it a show of good faith. Then we meet in Polis to discuss the future of this planet and what is to become of those who live on it.”

Gamora made no attempt to hide her astonishment, glancing rapidly back and forth between Nebula and Peter with wide eyes. Even Yondu looked stunned despite being largely unfamiliar with what was happening, realizing the gravity of Thanos’s offer, the levity of its generosity. “I will,” Peter said, the light dimming entirely from his hands. “Um, thank you.”

“You thank me too early,” Thanos drawled, smirking. “My last condition is that you will not speak to my daughter until we convene in Polis. I can only imagine what sort of insights and intelligence she has shared with you in your time together. I will not let it happen again. The potential resumption of your companionship will be determined in my discussions with your father.”

“Wanheda, I never said anything - ”

“You keep interrupting me, little one, but I assure you, I will speak with you another time. Know your place,” he growled. “Now leave, and do not let me see or hear of you until then.” Peter shot Gamora one last pleading look before he and Yondu were promptly ushered out of the room by Corvus and Proxima, caught one last glimpse of her before they were taken back to their ship and told to never return. “Gamora, leave us.”

“I...thought you wanted to speak with me,” she said quietly.

“I did not mean now,” Thanos said, instead directing his attention toward Nebula. “I have words for this one first.”

Gamora’s legs felt heavy as she made the walk back toward the doors, trying desperately to shut out the continuing conversation behind her. “I have returned your heda, Father, something the gonakru could not do - ”

“You do not speak ill of those under my command, Nebula. In fact, you should not speak at all.”

Gamora was numb by the time Maw escorted her back to her quarters, thanks to what seemed like a never-ending night, barely listening to his non-stop chatter about “that funny-looking Skaikru child” or her “bushhada of a sister”. She felt like she only just managed to make her way through the motions as she bathed, finding it impossible to get all the blood out of everything, changed into her sleepclothes, and approached her bed. How she wished she had the chance to finish her conversation with Peter, all the conversations they’d been having since they met, about how her world worked, what it meant to be heda, what his agreement with Thanos really meant.

Instead, she knelt on the floor to pull out the box from beneath her mattress, setting it down and opening it to reveal all of Peter’s little misshapen gifts, still in their imperfect perfect condition. She put both the dagger and flower inside, surprised to find the latter hadn’t wilted in the hour that had passed since its creation, wondering if it was Peter’s doing. Smiling faintly, she put the box back in its place and turned off the light. As she climbed into bed and under her sheets, she had a feeling she wasn’t going to be sleeping tonight. Not when she could hear Nebula’s screams clear across Sanctuary.

a/n: Hey all, it's been a minute - sorry this chapter is so incredibly late, my semester had been going terribly and I barely had time to do much of anything outside of school. When I did have time for fic writing, I indulged in a little Scott/Hope (here and here if you're interested) since it was a lot lighter and less plot-heavy than this fic, but I promise I haven't abandoned this!

I know there's a lot of world-building going on right now but the next chapter will be more about character relationships - there hasn't been a ton of focus on Drax, and Rocket and Groot haven't even shown up yet, so that will get rectified soon. Also, I hope y'all enjoy Endgame when you get a chance to see it! I'll be going on vacation two days after it comes out so I'll be late to the post-movie fic party, but I'm very likely going to be posting at least three (I'm thinking Peter/Gamora, Scott/Hope, and Carol/Valkyrie, because yes) one-shots. In the meantime, thank you so much for reading, likes and reblogs would be much appreciated, and I hope you enjoyed :)

Trigedasleng translations: plangona - warrior woman / shilkru - guard / goufa - child Koken hainofi...tsa bants. - Crazy princess...let's go. / Heda, nou hainofi. Bushhadas. - Commander, not princess. Cowards. Ai ste lufa Petr kom Skaikru au. Ai laik Nebula kom Trikru, strisis kom Gamora. - I am looking for Peter of the Sky People. I am Nebula of the Forest Clan, little sister of Gamora. / Ai laik Petr kom Skaikru. Weron laik Gamora? - I am Peter of the Sky People. Where is Gamora? Chek ai au, bushhadas! Ai laik yu heda! - Look at me, cowards! I am your commander! / Yo laik ai kru, ai laik yu heda! - You are my people, I am your commander!

[weirdponytail]

“The Lucas Problem” pt 1 (Huntik Fanfiction, SnT drabble)

(A/N: Part one of that Lucas drabble I’ve been bashing out. Everyone is a little OoC, Lucas is a rude and grumpy jerk, and Zhalia sets him straight about toying with the Fears brothers abandonment issues. Dante is just as protective of the brothers as his girlfriend is, and Lok and Sophie take their roles as ‘big happy family don’t mess with us’ quite seriously. Feel free to critique the parts with the Casterwill team, I’m still very shaky on how to write them. :3 cheers!)

THE LUCAS PROBLEM

It was a rather crowded week at the Venice Casterwill Townhouse.

See, there had been a bit of emergency remodeling at Dante’s house. The various attempts by Blood Spirals to break his home defenses had, in a final cosmic act of petty vengeances after their defeat, managed to collapse the shields two weeks after the defeat of the Betrayer.

And it also collapsed part of the plumbing. So until further notice, Dante and Lok were crashing at Sophie’s place.

To make it even more crowded, not to mention slightly awkward for Harrison, Zhalia had appeared with the Fears boys. She had an order from Foundation HQ to move out of her apartment because of multiple threats on her and Harrison’s lives. Due to a few being anonymously sent from what appeared to be low tier Casterwills and even a few Foundation foot soldiers, not to mention the remaining Blood Spirals, the former spy thought it best to take refuge with the actual Casterwill leader.

With Sophie’s influence and protection, Zhalia would actually sleep a little better than in a hotel, knowing that any carried out threats from Casterwills would be met with something they feared worse than death: Excommunication. Harrison would be safe with the team and Zhalia watching him until they found a suitable apartment that would quickly be rendered safely invisible via ‘Does Not Exist’ Foundation blacklisting.

Then Lucas showed up, Dellix and Lane at his heels. “Family time,” he had said. Though honestly, it looked as if one of the other Casterwill elders had pinched his ear and told him to get to know his sister a little better now that they weren’t in danger of being shot at every few minutes. Seeing as Sophie hadn’t heard a word from her brother since the final conflict, it came as quite the surprise.

The team had all groaned a bit when they heard that Lucas was going to be around. Sure, he was a little more tolerable than when they first met, and everyone was quite fine with Dellix and Lane hanging out, but Lucas was still just a tick below insufferable in his high and mighty attitude. Even Sophie was nearly fed up with him by the third day of his visit, biting back some rather unladylike language she had learned from Zhalia whenever her brother sneered or commented on how LeBlanche’s way of cooking wasn’t exactly how a ‘proper Casterwill’ would have done it.

Poor Harrison and Den caught the brunt of the young man’s rudeness. Just bordering the edge of statements that the original Huntik team could justifiably call him out for, Lucas took nearly every opportunity he saw when around the boys to make snide comments about traitors and his team’s successes in hunting down the remaining Blood Spirals. Once he learned that they had grown up in an orphanage, instead of eliciting empathy as someone who had also lost both parents, Lucas seemed to view them with even more disgust than before.

Dellix and Lane, on the other hand, were near perfect houseguests. They helped with meals, joined in on any group activities the Huntik team happened to have going on, and were all around funny and enjoyable to have in the Townhouse.

‘The Lucas Problem,’ as LeBlanche had stiffly called it in a private conversation with Sophie one evening, reached a head by day four.

It was nearly lunchtime, and LeBlanche and Cherit had offered to make a refreshing summer meal for the group. Everyone else was gathered in one of the Townhouse’s split reading and media rooms. Dante and Zhalia were at one of the tables, scrolling through various activity reports and mission offers on their Holotome and Technomicon respectively. The younger two-thirds of the Huntik team was playing low volume video games on the massive TV that graced the wall above the fireplace. Dellix and Lane had taken the last remaining seats at opposite ends of the couch, cheering on whoever struck their fancy as they waited for a chance to swap in.

Lucas had decided to grace everyone with his presence half an hour ago, taking up one of the armchairs that tilted away from the television to read one of the Casterwill manuscripts he had dug up from the library shelves. Lok, ever good natured even to wet towels like Sophie’s brother, had invited Lucas to join them for a round but had been shot down more harshly than even Zhalia had managed before her betrayal. Dellix and Lane had quietly apologized, and soon it was all forgotten as the next match got underway.

Forgotten, that is, until it was time to pick a new game.

After three hours of Left 4 Dead co-op and verses, the play style was getting a little stale. Sophie opened up the cabinet filled to bursting with games for various consoles– all bought after much pestering from Lok and then Den later on– for them to peruse and was immediately mobbed by the Fears brothers.

“Smash Bros Brawl!” Den crowed, snatching the case from the shelf. “This’ll be great!”

Harrison shoulder checked his elder twin to the side, an impressive feat for such a boney boy. “No way! You know all the exploits!” He picked up the battered Game Cube case for the earlier version of the classic game. “Smash Bros Melee!”

Den’s eyes narrowed as he straightened from where Harrison had shoved him. “Brawl.”

Harrison bristled right back. “Melee!”

“Oh dear.” Sophie sighed. Lok grinned widely and patted the empty space on the couch beside him. “Here they go again.” The Casterwill heiress sat beside her boyfriend and leaned against his side. “You’d think they would have let go of this sort of thing after nearly killing each other.”

“Sophie, I gotta tell you.” The mirth was evident in Lok’s voice as the growled stand off between the twins grew to shouting. “When you actually grow up with a sibling…sometimes you don’t ever grow out of this kind of thing.”

“Hey.” Zhalia didn’t even look up from her Technomicon. It was nearly three weeks after the final battle with the Betrayer now, and she had learned to let Den and Harrison settle their differences in whatever way they saw fit. Taking sides or shutting their arguments down just led to miniature replays of the night the two had been separated, and brought up feelings of abandonment and betrayal. Letting the boys duke it out to vent their emotions over the trauma of the previous months ended up being the healthiest option she and Dante had found so far. “Keep it to an unpowered level, guys. I’m not cleaning up another busted window with you two.”

The twins grunted in acknowledgement and had the respect to place their argued game cases in the moderate safety of the cupboard…before launching at each other and ending up in a scrabbling knot of limbs and teeth and nails as they viciously wrestled on the rug in front of the fireplace.

Dellix and Lane had become used to the occasional spat between the two brothers during their visit. They sat back with Lok and Sophie on the couch, watching with amusement as the boys used every dirty trick available to them in attempts to gain the upper hand. The noise level increased exponentially, echoing down the halls and filling the room with mangled hybrid sentences of English and Dutch swearing.

All of a sudden, Lucas’s voice cut through the din.

“If you two don’t be quiet and act like civilized human beings, that woman is going to take you back to where she found you and bloody leave you there! I’m trying to concentrate!”

Lucas looked rather smugly satisfied at the abrupt silence his words had brought.

If he had taken the time to glance up from his musty old book he would have seen what a massive mistake he just made.

Den and Harrison had both frozen in place, wide eyes locked together in a look of shock and deeply ingrained fear of losing their home again. Sophie and Lok were both on their feet, and despite Lok holding Sophie back with a hand on her shoulder as she shook with tight lipped rage, the Lambert boy had blue sparks flicking off his clenched fist.

Dante’s glare was literally as powerful as fire. No one had noticed, but a tiny flame had burst to life on the table, which he had quickly smothered with his palm before turning his smoldering gaze to the elder Casterwill.

Even Dellix and Lane knew that their commander had crossed a line. The dark skinned swordsman subconsciously moved his hand to the sheath that rested against his knee, feeling the tension in the air thicken to a nearly unbearable level. Lane shifted uneasily as her fingers drifted to the amulet at her neck, ready to call Wildwood Druid at a moment’s notice if things seemed out of hand for her larger counterpart.

Zhalia had stopped at the sound of Lucas’s words, finger hovering over the final keycode rune to unlock the database entry she needed. If Dante seemed angry, then the woman across from him was at a level well beyond rage. She was at a point that surpassed any outward betrayal of the emotion, face deadpan as she slowly closed the lid of her Technomicon and stood.

Her voice, low and just barely containing the pure feral wrath that only Dante could feel rolling off her in heart crushing pulses, cut through the heavy silence like a razor bladed knife.

“Lucas. Sparing match. Outside. Now.”

Lucas waved her off, still engrossed in his book. The very idea of fighting Zhalia seemed to bore him. “I’m in the middle of a manuscript. Maybe later.”

The Casterwill elder let out a yell of surprise when an unknown assailant grabbed a fistful of his shirt on each shoulder and roughly yanked him over the back of the armchair, manuscript flipping from his hands and sliding across a nearby table. Dante wrenched the younger man around to bring him eye to eye, moving his grip to clench bunches of fabric so tight under his throat that it forced the Casterwill to lift his chin so he could keep breathing normally.

In an icy wave of realization, Lucas had the distinct feeling that he was looking a very angry, very protective, and very deadly lion in the eye.

And all that anger was focused on him.

“It’s rude to turn down a dance from a lady.” Dante growled. “But at any rate, she wasn’t asking, Lucas.”

A white steel sword suddenly appeared at Dante’s throat. In a flash Zhalia was at her partner’s side, and put herself between the bristling Dellix and seething Dante. Unafraid, she pushed the back of her hand against the flat of the blade, ready to deflect any ill-advised movement against her boyfriend’s neck.

“You had better put this away before I make you eat it, Dellix.” Zhalia’s soft voice held the fine edge of what was very much not an idle threat. “I’ve got nothing against you or Lane. I just want a chance to give your little leader a lesson in manners on the sparring field.”

“Oh, he’ll fight you alright.” The locked together foursome looked over when Sophie cut in. “Lucas, you went too far. This match isn’t a suggestion, it’s an order. From me.” Her green eyes flashed. “Dellix, Lane. Stand down. Zhalia and Lucas, you both have ten minutes to prepare. Meet in the courtyard and we’ll discuss the rules of the match. Dante’s referee.”

At the Casterwill leader’s command, Dellix stepped back and sheathed his blade, though a little reluctantly. Dante kept his gaze on Lucas for a long, tense second before shoving the young man back and letting go of his shirt.

As the Huntik team gathered itself up to head downstairs, Zhalia took a moment to slip past Lucas, getting very much in his personal space.

“I’m going to mop the floor with you, kid.”

Lucas was sure the woman had hissed those words in his ear as she passed, but hadn’t even glimpsed her lips moving. Despite the disturbing finality the statement had, he straightened his shirt and marched off to retrieve his amulets.

He was a Casterwill, after all. And no one would defeat him on his own ground.

(posting this on ff.net tomorrow morning because my eyeball is trying to explode. Friggin migraines, man...)