#you are ALWAYS uncertain. you are navigating IN THE DARK. you will never know peace or assurance.

[carrionhearted]

One day superhell reached full capacity and they ran out of room to BRUTALLY TORTURE any more souls.

After that, God just started respawning people on earth with the BPD + autism combo as an alternative method of cruel and unusual punishment.

[chihirolovebot]

ah im not sure if you do polyam,, could i ask fuyuhiko x reader x peko ? just general dating hcs ^^;

✫ featuring — kuzupeko polyamory relationship

✫ content — fluff, confessions, cursing, kissing, pet names, poly relationship, gn reader.

✫ notes — anon this is literally the dream. i want them so bad im sick </3

ohhohOH my god

first of all,, it should've been me <///3

yk that one meme that's like too much energy, no energy, calm?

yeah that's you three

peko and fuyuhiko were probably navigating their feelings towards each other when they met you

and you made things more complicated

because :(( they like you a lot! you're great, you know how to talk to both of them like they're normal people and it makes them feel flustered and at-ease at the same time.

they like you! but they like each other too!

fuyuhiko is hesitant to confess, but when he sees it's genuinely making peko upset he decides, fuck it. he confesses to the both of you right then and there without a second thought. after a flustered moment, peko does the same.

then they both turn to look at you, and of course you tell them you like both of them too :)

fuyuhiko is scarlet and peko is blushing and the intensity of it all makes you hide your face in your hands.

but peko gently wraps her cold hands around your wrists and pulls them down. she's smiling like you've never seen before, her dark eyes dreamy and shiny with a the beginnings of tears.

"p-peko? what's wrong?! did i say something, or—"

"no. i'm just... quite happy. i didn't think i'd ever..."

fuyuhiko sighs and leans his head against her back to hide his own lovesick grin. that's how the three of you start, peko clasping your hands and fuyuhiko muffling his face into her back.

and since then, it's been so right.

first of all, oh my god. you couldn't have asked for more protective partners. it's kind of sweet, really, how much they fuss over you.

someone looks at you wrong and fuyuhiko is flipping chairs and grabbing his knife. "the fuck did you just say, bastard?!" he snarls. "don't think i heard you the first time, you wanna say it again? huh?!"

peko is equally as protective, but she's more subtle about it. if anyone gives you trouble, she'll quell them with a cold, dead look, and once you're safely out of earshot, she whispers, "if i ever see you cause them trouble again, i will kill you before you can protest."

:(( fuyuhiko calling you angel, doll, love and peko calling you darling, sweetheart, dearest.

fuyuhiko's love languages are physical touch and quality time, and peko's is just quality time. so the three of you are always attached at the hip. fuyuhiko likes having you around at all times because he can get a little paranoid for your safety due to his position - peko he knows can protect herself, but you? no, he has to protect you, you're too good for this world :((

pspsp... both of them love hugs. god it makes them feel so safe. especially if you're the instigator. flopping back on your bed and tugging them with you; fuyuhiko will groan and complain and fight you but tuck his head on your chest under your chin and he'll shut right up. peko won't even bother putting up a fight, just sigh lightly and curl into you like a cat <3

fuyuhiko is always a little uncertain when he kisses you; like he doesn't know how much is too rough or too gentle. he figures you out eventually, but it's an easy way to fluster him at first. peko is always sure when she kisses you, a hand cradling your jaw, the ghost of her lips on yours before she moulds your mouths together ajsjKDND IM WEAK.

you're the first one to say 'i love you.' both of them will be too nervous of overstepping each other's bounds. the three of you are curled up in a rare moment of peace, the bedroom illuminated by the lamp. fuyuhiko's head rests on your stomach as your fingers card through his short hair, his eyes fluttering shut, and peko is sitting up, reading by the lamplight.

"i love you," you murmur quite suddenly. "both of you. so much."

fuyuhiko scrambles to sit up, eyes wide and cheeks blazing, and peko drops her book into her lap, snapping her head to look disbelievingly at you.

and then her face breaks, and she takes one of your hands reassuringly. "it should go without saying, but... i love you too. endlessly, with all my heart, always."

fuyuhiko sniffs hard and scrubs at his eyes. "gah... you two are so damn sappy. makes me fuckin' sick..."

you both raise your eyebrows at him, and he breaks.

"ah, fuck, don't look at me like that. yeah, i love you too. don't start swooning or anything."

anon you've awakened something in me i could actually write about this for days. someone should absolutely request something else with kuzupeko because oh my god im so in love w them.

[alonfic]

forget the world

pairing: todoroki shouto x reader genre: established relationship au | fluff wc: 1,763 description: despite all the obstacles life has to throw at you, there’s comfort in knowing that home actually feels like home for once; also, that you have your boyfriend Shouto’s arms to take refuge in. author’s note: i honestly just wanted well-regulated, temperate cuddles with shouto. also backrubs. yes <3

Today is an unbearably long day. 

It’s one of those days that goes beyond words and replays in the back of your mind, with needless postulations of what-if’s nagging you as you walk through the paradoxical door. Somehow the reminder that this is both a familiar and unfamiliar entryway slips your mind in favor of exhaustion and starvation for your boyfriend’s touch. 

If you were paying any attention to that realization, you would’ve been a little proud of yourself from graduating from the first-time cohabiting couple anxiety to finally accepting this new territory. But you don’t. 

You don’t rejoice in the fact or relish in it so much as you douse yourself in scalding hot water to baptize yourself from the work grime, because all you can think about is Todoroki and what it’ll be like to settle into his arms. His perfectly well-regulated and temperate arms that you’ve sworn he’s perfected to your respective likings over the two-year long course of your relationship. 

Just the prospect is enough for you to saunter back into the room, despite your hair still being a little damp. Another small win you don’t think too much about is how you hardly have to attempt to navigate the dark room without help from any light; it’s a step up from a few weeks ago when you were constantly bumping into the bedside table.

A part of you then wonders if he’s still awake, though when you really think about it, you’re almost certain that he would be asleep by now. Considering it’s much later than your usual arrival time, you would be surprised if he was still awake. 

When you hear him stir before you’ve even touched the corner of the comforter, you’re shaken from your thoughts.

“How was your day?” he asks, with his voice a touch closer to sleep than usual. It’s not rare for him to be so tired, being third ranked Pro Hero and all. He’s a busy man, so you’re still a little surprised that he’s been awake every night since you’ve started living there. Tonight, especially. 

“It was long,” you mumble. Your next words are all intermingled together from how your jaw hardly wants to keep working anymore. “M’tired.”

Even in the faint wash of moonlight spilling in from the half-open blinds, you can see that his eyes are closed. He still looks as handsome as when you first met him, probably even more so now. This time he looks more relaxed, save for the slight crease in his brow that gives you the impression that he seems to be a little more awake after hearing your response. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, while raising the corner of the comforter, “was work crazy for you again?” 

You accept his invitation; while he remains on his back, you settle partially atop his chest, your left leg almost immediately entangled with his, and part of your right side still touching your side of the bed. It’s second nature to wrap your arms around his waist and find ease in the way his heart flutters, like a tether, keeping you from completely losing your mind. But what damn near throws you over the edge is the way his arms wrap around you, as if to keep you from falling apart entirely. For once, you feel whole.

You don’t realize there’s a tremble in your voice until you try to answer his question, and the moment you hear it, you try to nod in its place. 

“Hey,” he rubs your back with what you’ve identified as his left hand, the slight warmth being a dead giveaway. “What’s wrong, love?” 

It’s no surprise that life has been rough for you as of late. Between moving in together for the first time, recovering from a particularly nasty cold, juggling graduate school applications, and thrusting yourself back into work, most of the overwork is from your shitty manager and another part of it being your pride; it’s all an unfortunate combination that has left even Todoroki disgruntled. But because of the moving newness, you can tell he’s been trying to help your transition to the best of his ability. And you hate that all you can think about is work and school, and how the future is so painfully uncertain, while your present is right here. 

“M’sorry, Shouto,” you say, with tears prickling the corners of your eyes, after regurgitating the same spiel of how hectic and understaffed work was, all while your boss got to sit upstairs without a care in the world because that’s how crappy he is. Of course, you don’t want Todoroki to see you crying, least of all over this, but one of his fingers catches your chin and you can feel his thumb wipe away a stray tear. 

“Oh baby…” He pulls you in closer and squeezes. His other hand is still on your back, now rubbing circles. It’s a nice attempt to soothe away the anxieties and overwhelm, something only he’s ever been able to pull off with you on a handful of occasions. 

“What are you sorry about? You have no reason to be sorry.” His tone is so matter-of-fact you almost want to laugh. You actually do when he mentions how it’s your boss who should be sorry for overworking you. “What? It’s true.”

You can’t help but crack a small smile after a while. How cute could your man possibly get? His earnestness has always had a way with you; it hasn’t once wavered in all your time together, and that kind of consistency is something you never thought you needed until you met him, moments like this remind you how lucky you are. 

“You always seem to know how to make me feel better, you know.” 

“Yeah?” You can see the corners of his lips turned upward, and it compels your smile to grow a little more. 

“Yeah.” 

“I’m glad,” he says, meeting your eyes, though his smile doesn’t waver. You love being privy to the sight; his smile is another thing you love so ardently about him. “I’ve been trying. I’m sorry that the last couple of weeks haven’t been the easiest and that this place doesn’t feel like home for you, yet.”

You want to protest, of course, though there is some truth to his words. It has been hard. Probably harder than it should’ve been, but with work, getting sick, and application, you felt like you were playing in an entirely different game. You didn’t think life would be so hectic when it’s been only easy with Todoroki, but you know he’s been trying. 

Despite his previous routine of instantly falling asleep before you moved in, you have noticed him making an effort to stay awake long enough to at least bid you a good night or ask about your day. It’s an endearing gesture that warms your heart, one that you know is a direct by-product to the move and his attempt at getting you to feel more comfortable in the new space. 

Another thing he’s done (that you appreciate immensely) is letting you redecorate the space—this is one that Uraraka hasn’t stopped gushing over because she’s been fighting with Midoriya over their decór for ages. The bedroom—in all its grandeur and spaciousness—and really the entire apartment had already been equipped with modern furnishings from the beginning of Todoroki’s lease on the place. He hadn’t felt any inclination to change anything, up until you started living with him, and then he offered to let you personalize the place in whatever way you saw fit. For you, that looked like incorporating more photos of the two of you as well as you two with friends, and a few knick-knacks here and there on the now-filled bookshelves. 

They’re small reassurances that he is happy you’re here, that even if work is shitty and school applications are a pain in the ass, he at least wants you comfortable in your now-shared place.

“It’s okay,” he says, like he’s mentioned many times before, not that he’s all that bothered anyway, because still, he wants to reassure you. “And it’s also okay if this doesn’t feel like our place yet.”

“But it does.” And you mean it. 

While the thought hadn’t fully hit you as soon as you walked through the door at first, it seemed to materialize right this moment. The last thing you want to do is make Todoroki feel like you’re still some foreign invader in your shared home. Yeah, it’s been a huge change to go from a couple who slept at each other’s places to reconvening in one space where all your things congregate together, but it’s a change of pace in your life you feel the most at ease with. Most especially, if it means coming home to him. 

“Really?” He sounds genuinely surprised, and you feel the sheepishness rising back up again. 

“Yeah, if anything, this has been the most apparent thing to me today. All I could was, I want to go home, to you, and be in your arms because today was so shitty. Today didn’t feel like I was just going back to your place anymore. It felt—feels—like our place. Our home.”

 “I like that a lot. The sound of our home.” 

“Me too.”

“Is there anything else bugging you?” he asks, wanting to be sure. The gesture makes your heart swell, how thoughtful he can be, how hard he tries to fight for some semblance of peace out in the world, and of course, your home. 

You think about it. You really do. If there’s anything worth wasting your energy on, but you don’t want to disrupt this moment. You don’t want to keep giving your workplace—temporary as it is—any more of your time when you’re here. And anyway, any inkling of what could have been the culprit seems to dissipate the longer you remain in Todoroki’s arms.  

“No, I’m okay. I can forget all the momentarily shitty things when I’m here with you. That’s usually the easiest part. The best part too.”

You can make out his smile, beautiful and so his, before he presses his lips to your forehead. If there’s anywhere you would rather be, it’s here.

“I love you,” he exhales, squeezing you once more. He continues to rub circles into your back, sometimes alternating between patterns; always, adding a touch of warmth to combat the particularly chilly air. 

You squeeze back, relishing in it all. “I love you too.”

And for once, everything else drifts away. Just you and him. 

[revenant-dumpster-fire]

Sore (Revenant x Reader)

Theme: Revenant comforts (in his weird way) and helps a reader who is tired and sore from a lot of strenuous work and activity, coming down from a manic high. Part of a series.

Warnings: Mentions of mania, threats of violence, bodily pain.

Reader Notes: Revenant (Apex Legends) x Reader, reader is non-gendered this chapter, this can be read in the context of romance or not.

Writing Notes: Reject leg damage, ascend to Octane. I guess this is a series because I have no chill.

Navigation:

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

"Ah, little skinsuit, you're back." Revenant seems genuinely surprised by your appearance in his doorway. You had wearily limped all the way back to his private room from the volunteer breakroom on other side of the Apex compound. He had, indeed, mentioned something about being willing to help you again previously, but just in case, you had an excuse for showing up.

"I brought you a water." You hold up a water bottle, your arm shaking from exhaustion. A lot of the Legends would have volunteers run water, drinks, and snacks to their rooms from the kitchen and cafeteria, so it was decent cover in case he didn't actually mean it before. After all, you were right at the start of a manic episode then and weren't thinking straight last time. I mean, you asked a killing machine for help, outright, with no thoughts of what that might lead to. But you lived! And he was oddly nice, despite your brazen request.

"When was the last time you slept?" there is something a bit off about his vocals. Genuine concern, perhaps? Or maybe you are imagining it. "You know I don't drink water, right? It's tasteless and I don't need it, so there's no point in me drinking it."

Your gut sinks. You never even considered that, but when you think about it, the only runs you ever made to his room were for various alcohols, usually hard liquors. You should have just brought something from his prior requests, but you were so confident in water as something everyone enjoyed...

"Sit down. You're not answering me quickly enough to be reassuring." He motions to a small bench in his room with cushions situated in front of the television, which was broadcasting some of the highlights from the last match. You want to walk over, but you're too busy rubbing your eyes at the moment trying to fight back the fatigue. The water bottle slips out of your hands as they rub into your eyes for a moment, and as you jolt to try to catch it, you feel the soreness in your legs lock them... causing you to fall on right your face.

"So... I take it that it's been a while." He seems bemused, but you are too tired to be bothered by it. You just lay there, face down for a moment, absolutely and utterly exhausted. The water bottle steadily and slowly rolls away from you and towards where Revenant is sitting: at a computer desk to the right of the room, pushed up against the far wall.

He audibly sighs, and you hear nothing for a moment. Then you feel a single, metallic arm scoop under your belly and hoist you up like cattle. You feel the weight of your torso balance against the weight of your legs, sufficiently winding you as your hang by your diaphragm on his forearm. You stare blankly at the floor, blurring from your weary vision. He carries you to the cushioned bench, and places you down on it surprisingly gently. The cushions help keep the bench from being wholly uncomfortable as you slowly find yourself splayed out on it. You stay limp, letting your limbs fall where they will. He's right. You haven't slept in a while.

"Sorry..." You utter as he sits next to your pretend corpse non-chalantly. He's hunched forward, forearms resting on his knees, looking over you with notable interest. Your last manic episode was only just beginning to wear off, and you managed to hurt both your legs running around at full speed during it. Even worse, the mania kept you from sleeping last night, only getting in an hour and a half at best, which is always somehow worse than not sleeping at all. You were already drifting to sleep as your thoughts wander.

"Hey." You wake back up with a jolt at the feeling of a cool hand coming to rest on your shoulder. "Seriously, what kind of ship are they running in this place? Why are you so desperate as to come to me for help--twice?"

You move to sit up, and his hand drifts away. You should apologize and leave with the water. That would be best, right?

"I'm sorry for the disturbance." You say as you hobble to your feet.

"Bit late for that. Also, those legs aren't going to hold you up for long, your muscles are already quivering like a violin string against a bow." You loosely see him point to your legs through your blurry vision. He is right. They hurt really badly. They had been given a moment of rest and they are screaming to be given a longer reprieve.

"Sit."

"I'm sorry, I'll just be--"

"SIT." His growling command is absolute. You collapse onto the bench with no further protests. Your legs are still sore, whimpering in pain, but much better now that they aren't supporting any weight. You sit upright, but you feel your posture faltering rapidly as you begin to drift towards sleep.

Revenant stands up off the bench while picking up the runaway water bottle in a single, sweeping motion.

"This is fairly cold, was it originally frozen?" He towers over you intimidatingly.

"Yes, most Legends like cold water, so we are constantly defrosting frozen bottles throughout the day." You answer blankly.

"Good. So where are the frozen bottles?"

"In the mess hall kitchen, walk-in freezer B, on the left." His questions give you just enough mental focus to break through the fuzz of exhaustion for a moment. "Would you like me to retrieve you a frozen one instead?"

"No, it's fine, I'll go." He starts to turn to leave, but you speak up.

"Actually, only volunteers and staff are supposed to enter the kitchen area--"

"I go wherever the hell I want." He turns back to shoot you a glare. "Now get up, and lie down in that bed." He points to the surprisingly large bed immediately behind the bench, perched at perfect viewing angle from the droning television. "I don't sleep. Haven't touched it. Won't touch it. You might as well use it."

"Wait, I can't just--"

"You don't have a choice anymore. Now go." He turns and slides out the door, letting the hatch close behind him, but not before giving you one last dirty look for questioning his request.

You consider that it is technically a part of your volunteer duties to do as the Legends ask. Sure, you are allowed to deny any obviously bad faith requests, but nobody said you had to deny them. Plus, Revenant is probably the most mysterious, concerningly foreboding, and terrifyingly powerful Legend in the Games. Nobody would blame you for doing as he asks the moment he asks it, especially when every word he speaks oozes with a threatening aura. Most volunteers wouldn't even come to his room. You were just happy to take all their requests and deliver them yourself to get to see him for a few moments. Sure, you had to trade away a couple Fuze requests and Wraith requests to prioritize him, but everyone seemed intimidated enough that they came to you to trade well before even considering just making the delivery. You were known as the only volunteer who actually liked delivering Revenant's many requests, even when some of them required going above and beyond the normal snack or drink runs.

You manage to hobble yourself onto both legs, which are once again screaming for relief from your weight. With a couple of well placed limps, you make it to the edge of the bed. He really hasn't touched it. Not a single wrinkle in the cloth. Nothing is out of place. Pillows are fully fluffed and without craters from a resting head. You hesitate to ruin it, but you know you must.

You crawl into it, collapsing only a few inches from the edge you started on. It's so soft. They really spared no expense for the Legends' beds, apparently. You remember them getting remodeled and finding the bench to be an odd choice over a nice couch, but you didn't know they were outfitted with beds made of clouds. You wonder, what does Revenant do all night if he doesn't sleep? How boring must that be? Does he charge his chassis? Does he shut down? You think about what it must be like to shut down. Shutting down must be nice. Peaceful. Just being able to rest. Similar to sleep. If only...

• • •

You suddenly regain awareness of your surroundings. How long were you out? Are you still in bed? Why is it so dark? You lift your head a little and tilt it towards a skylight window on the ceiling. Your back is newly sore, and your neck protests being bent. It's night now. You've been asleep for at least five hours for it to be this dark. You begin to scan the surroundings just to be startled by the hulking mass sitting on the bed next to you. His eyes glow dimly, locked on to yours.

"Feel any better?" His vocalizations are a bit more hushed than usual. He may not be sure if you're fully conscious yet. To be fair, you're not sure you're fully conscious either. You want to answer, but you're paralyzed like a deer, staring into his optic LEDs. After a moment of uncertain silence, he reaches out and touches your shoulder lightly, bringing your mind back in focus.

"I am so sorry, I didn't mean to--!"

"Shut it. You slept like a corpse. Probably one of least entertaining sleepers I've met." Wait, he watches people sleep? "Although, to be fair, you might be much more restless on a normal night. Maybe this is like one of those pilot episodes that is just not up to the quality of the rest of the series." You noticeably shudder and pull away as you sit up to face him. "See, more of that would be better." You hold the sheet in front of you defensively, not that it would stop anything larger than an insect. "Cute." He pulls the sheet from your hand and it falls back to the mattress.

You can't help but feel a bit bothered by his inquisitive stare, now knowing it's been collecting data for hours without your knowledge. You lean away as you think about it, continuing to shudder, deciding that perhaps this Legend is still planning to dissect you at some point after all.

He relishes in your fear for a moment, but then swiftly moves to get up and walk to the kitchenette. He opens the freezer, unleashing a powerful light into the room for a moment, before pulling out a bottle and closing the door, taking the light with it.

"What hurts?" He grabs a towel from atop the freezer, wrapping the frozen water bottle completely.

You stutter for a moment, and then get it out:

"I hurt my legs pretty badly yesterday, as well as my back, apparently." You had just woken up to it sore and aching, unfortunately meaning that all that box lifting had finally caught up with you. You reached behind yourself to try to massage it, but you felt a cool compress push up against it. When did he get behind you? He didn't even make a sound.

"A sore back is the worst." Why was he doing this? Has he really taken some kind of liking to you? "Even Rampart takes pity on me and readjusts my spinal plates when they get misaligned." He rolled the covered, frozen water bottle up and down your spine, helping with the pain a bit. "I haven't met a skinsuit or simulacrum who simply walks off a bad back."

You felt bad. He shouldn't be helping you. Why was he even bothering with you? What compelled him to do or say any of this?

"Hey, don't hunch forward like that, it'll get worse." You snap to attention.

"S-sorry!" You let slip out of your mouth as his spare claw wraps around your left shoulder and pull you back against the bottle and into the correct posture.

"Anyways, I was about to ask... Where do they get off working you to the bone like this?"

"It's actually my fault. I haven't stopped working since the third season, the more you work the more interaction with the Legends you get, I wanted to make sure I got the best positions and shifts." You pause. "I should have taken time off the moment I started to get fidgety. I should have known I would do something stupid and inappropriate..." You trail off, realizing you're speaking things out loud that are better kept in your internal monologue.

"Well, you're not dead so far, but you're really damn close to Death now." Your spine was starting to relax and decompress, finally. "So, if you're working that hard, that means you definitely are a huge fan of one of these skinsuits... so, who is it? Season 3 you said, right?" He paused as you started to turn flush without his notice. "Octane doesn't suit you, you're slow and clumsy. Although, perhaps that's something to aspire to. It couldn't be Crypto, he's unimaginably boring. Wattson, though, I have noticed she has a lot of fans..." He was simply mumbling on. It didn't really matter why you started anymore, you already had a new favorite. "So, which one? I'll add 'em to my list of high priority targets, just for you." He pauses, awaiting an answer.

"You..." You say, as softly as you can.

"Repeat that. Louder." Did he hear you?

"You." You say it just loud enough to know he heard it this time. "You were my favorite the moment you joined," you pause, deciding if you should confess this, "especially after that stunt you pulled on live TV." You hated Forge like all the other volunteers after word spread around about how he treated Bangalore. He may have put on a decent façade for the camera, but clearly was a predator behind the scenes. When an abuser is backed by big money like Hammond Robotics had, they could freely abuse anyone without consequences. Money tends to shut people up, despite the victims. Your gut told you all you needed to know about Forge the moment you first saw him. Thankfully, it was also the last time you saw him. Even though the just side of you knew that Forge deserved some kind of trial, the more primal part of you was happy to see him gone. The justice system would have been rigged in his favor anyway.

Revenant was silent as you pondered. Shock? Disgust? Or just nothing to say? He wasn't one to be speechless.

"Well, not sure what kind of a psychopath you are, but your wanton lack of self-preservation is my favorite thing about you." Was he offended at your answer? He sounded humored. You panic a little and start to pull away, but get pulled backwards--all the way into his enveloping grapple.

His entire frame practically swallows yours. You peer up just to catch a glimpse of his face staring down menacingly at you. You instinctively start to ball up defensively, but he snags one of your legs before you can tuck it away behind your arms. He's strong. Disturbingly strong. Even for a mechanical amalgamation, his grip is unfetterable. You couldn't free your leg, and you knew there was no way you could squirm out of it.

"This hurts too, you said?" The bottle was pressed to your calf, and he applied steady pressure to the muscle to relieve the nerves and cramping. Why was he doing this? Didn't he just make a thinly veiled threat to kill you? "You should consider giving me the other leg too. Unless you're afraid I'm not going to give this one back." He mocks you, but honestly you aren't sure he is truly joking about taking your leg or not. He could, if he wanted. He's huge, strong, and apparently he can make blades from his mechanical hands. You shudder a bit at the thought that those same lethal hands are currently prodding at your calf muscle... He is actually fairly adept at relieving pain, oddly enough. You feel the pressure ebb away the soreness as it reaches relief. You knew a little about simulacrums, enough to know they were once human. Did he hurt himself a lot back then? How else would he know how to do this?

"Hey, I'll trade you." He releases your one leg, it actually feels a lot better. Just a bit of pressure in the right areas really calmed it down. He motions for the other, but you cower for a moment too long. "Give me your damn leg." You immediately relinquish it, carefully pulling back the newly relieved leg into your defensive ball stance, per the trade agreement. He proceeds to perform the same relief on the other leg as well.

"You know, normally when I'm asked for help, I get to kill something." His gaze remains locked on your leg. "Instead, you just tempt me and expect me not to. Now why would you do that, little skinsuit?" You lock on to his eyes, but they never meet yours. "You've got a death wish, as far as I can tell. I'll confess, I like that about you." You keep perfectly still and silent, trying to stay as small as possible. "You're playing a risky game. Can't say I get to play these games often, so I'm going to make the most of it." He gently releases your leg, now feeling better and relaxed. You pull it into your ball, finally completing the pathetic stance. His giant, clawed hand comes down to pet you on the head a little roughly. He could crush your whole skull, if he wanted. That is the primary message, laced with the subtle message that he won't do that, yet. A chill runs up your spine.

"Alright, I've made my decision." He's out of bed, taking the thawing bottle and towel back to the kitchenette.

"W-What?" You are very uncertain.

"It's fine, I'll have it taken care of. Now sleep. You haven't slept enough." Your spine curls a bit at the prospect of sleeping in the presence of this guy again. You start to get up to leave, but it's slow moving since you're still a bit iffy on your legs.

"It's okay, I have a bunk in the volunteer space I should get back to..." You trail off, meeting his gaze and causing you to freeze right before standing up. His yellow eyes seem brighter and more visceral than before, locking you into a stare down. You blink immediately, that's not a fight worth attempting. "...why?" You can't tell if you're pleading or hoping for a genuine answer. He turns away to look back into the blinding light of the open freezer for a moment.

"Go, if you want, but I'm only giving you five seconds." He doesn't turn to look at you, he just starts counting. "Five..." Should you go? "Four..." Would he come after you? "Three..." You don't want to go, actually. "Two..." You want to see where this goes. "One..." What else do you have to do, anyway? "Zero."

Revenant turns to meet your gaze, his eyes noticeably widening and dimming in the dark when he sees you still there. He probably knew you didn't move, after all he would have heard it, but he still seemed happy to see you there anyway.

"Now, sleep. I'll take care of the rest." You felt a bit uneasy, but you laid back down, uncurling yourself and trying to make yourself comfortable. Revenant didn't linger over you on the bed this time, instead he must have gone from the kitchenette over to the computer desk, because you slowly dozed off to the sounds of the keyboard feedback chirps and pointer clicks as he worked with the heads-up displays. You were more tired than you thought, and dozed off quickly.

• • • •

"... Hah! I knew the pilot episode wasn't a good indicator of quality." You woke up to him looming over you in the bed again, but this time you were not taken by surprise. "You twitch a lot while you sleep; you even murmur absolute nonsense." You sigh. This is fun for him somehow. "I swear you were trying to run or swim at one point... Did you get away? Or did you drown?" You don't know how to answer his questions, you don't remember any dreams. In fact, he probably has more of an idea than you do at this point. You meet his gaze, and it seems to be understood that you have no answers. He sighs, clearly disappointed.

"Shame, well, in the meantime, congratulations on your promotion."

"Wait, what?"

"Here, welcome to the team." He drops a red laminated badge on top of you, and swiftly makes his way out of the bed, just to crawl up the wall, onto the ceiling, and starts to exit through the skylight window. "Sorry I can't spend more time with you, but I have a match today." His voice is nearly drowned out by the sound of aircraft starting up. "Watch for me, I'll make sure I knock out whichever one of those skinsuits used to be your favorite early on." You can hear the sneer in his voice through the overwhelming aircraft engines.

He disappears from view, the window closes, the aircraft noise dampens again, and the television drones on with the pre-match banter between announcers in front of you. You stare up at the morning sky for a moment, wondering what you got yourself into.

You look down at the badge. It is a top clearance badge, meant for direct employees of the Legends. It can get you access to almost anywhere and to almost anything. It has Revenant's personal seal on it, marking you as his. It has all the correct watermarks, and a scannable chip to prove authenticity. You've only seen a few of these, and you heard Mirage once got in huge trouble for selling his as a VIP experience. But it did nearly sell, and it was already bidding for enough money for any sane person to retire off of.

You aren't a volunteer anymore. You're Revenant's subordinate. Notably an important enough one that you can go almost anywhere he can go. The badge shimmers in your hands, sparkling in your eyes. This badge is worth more than anything you've ever held before in your life. You revel in it for a moment, until you notice it: You're now "Little Skinsuit" according to the "Name" field on the badge. He genuinely couldn't resist, could he? You'd be bothered if it wasn't genuinely hilarious. That means somewhere in the security checkpoints, "Little Skinsuit" was now registered at nearly maximum clearance. Amazing.

You sit there for a moment, pondering how you got yourself into this. You had a moment, just a single moment a few days ago, where you felt like you could ask him for help. You just wanted to calm down; you had tripped, bruised your feet, hurt your calves, and even busted a couple bottles of liquor and whisky meant for him because of your manic movements as you ran back and fourth from one side of the complex to the other. Finally, after getting him everything he requested, intact, you lost your inhibition for a mere moment. You asked if he'd help you settle your mania. And for some reason--maybe he had already started to get some kind of drunk at that point--he said yes. That's what started it all.

He said something about helping you again before you left last time. And then you came back yesterday, completely in the fog from no sleep and a continued manic episode, but holding on to that promise. And now you've somehow become his personal errand runner, holding an ID worth more than you could grasp. What the heck is happening anymore?

For now, you stare into the sky, and soak in the sun, and just relax in the moment. You get to watch today's match instead of scrubbing the floors. It'll be a nice day.

[morihaus]

Dawn

The loss of Aldmeris came swiftly and without warning. The whole of the land shook beneath the Aldmer, interrupting the comfortable routine of their lives and forelives, snapping the spirit-mer out of their reverie and rememberance of the dawn.

Bolts of light punctured holes in the bright golden sky, leaving dark voids in their wake. The nobles, the most divine and wise of them all, made calls to all their kin to flock to the harbors, to crowd onto the great ships, to be safe with their pilots and protectorate sorcerers.

The decision was rapidly reached, though not made lightly: they must flee their homeland, Old Ehlnofey is lost to the earth-splitting storm and the swell of the ocean. And the people wept, for not all could board in time; and the people wept, for they had lost their home; and the people wept, for they were afraid, who could say what fate awaited them beyond their waters?

Trinimac, Knight-Champion of Auri-El, stands aboard one of the greatest ships of Aldmeris, beside its pilot, beside the High King, and beside at least a hundred scared Aldmer, huddled together and cowering behind the protective barriers of the spellcasters. His footing is unsure on the deck, for he has never been fond of the sea, and if ever a sea were to take him under and swallow him hole, it would be the roiling dark waves which the vessel now navigated.

A terrified family are within his grasp, a couple and their two children under one arm, his other wrapped around the thick pillar of the mast to keep them righted. Kneeling in the space between the god and the mast is King Aurthelel, divine son of Auri-El, who trembles and clings to his knight protector, his face pale and uncertain, his composure broken for the first time in several centuries.

He looks to the pilot and sees her arms trembling as she keeps hold of the wheel, knuckles white as the rains whip around her and the waves crash against her ship. Two more mer are helping her keep steady, heeding her as she barks orders and assisting in righting the wheel. The ship hits a large wave and for a moment seems to soar over the water- Trinimac tightens his grip on the mast and holds the frightened elves closer to his breastplate as he feels his feet leave the floor, hearing cries of panic all around him- before crashing back down with a massive splash, dousing everyone on deck with frigid ocean water and knocking many of them to the floor. Trinimac holds fast, gritting his teeth and bending down to keep the wailing children dry. Their father whispers assurances over and over between prayers to Auri-El, weeping and holding them close with their mother. The embodiment of the golden god is shivering and hacking up a lung full of saltwater. He offers nothing to the family. It's unclear they even know who they stand beside.

People are pounding at the doors to be allowed below deck, but the lower decks are full to burst with both passengers and crew, trying to mend cracks in the hull and huddling together in fear. It feels scarcely better to be below than above.

The pilot's haggard voice cries out: "UP AHEAD, LOOK!!! SWING PORT, SWING PORT!" Eyes gritting for lack of a helm, Trinimac casts his gaze in front of the ship. What appears to be a massive cyclone stands before them, a towering spiral of wind and water, lightning crackling at its head. His body tenses as he spots what looks like an eye, then another, then another, until the head of the cyclone is lit by a hundred tiny circles of light. He feels the ship rolling beneath him, fighting the waves to try and turn away, but they only seem to raise higher now as they're being pulled to the foot of this storm- this entity.

A massive limb of rippling magic shoots forward from the cyclone, crashing down towards the ship as a hand swats a fly.

The pilot screams again. "BRACE YOURSELVES!"

The ship, almost by chance, rolls to one side, but the near-miss takes affect as it crackles through the water, sending the ocean bright blue and surging a massive wave forth, hitting the ship with such ferocity as to turn it completely on its side.

The pilot and her assistants are able to right it just so in midair, a combination of the turning of rudders and powerful force spells. But they scarcely have time to be thankful, even after the ship lands once again- another wave of cold water soaking everyone aboard the deck- Trinimac looks and sees the eyes of the cyclone turn to face the ship, now doing its best to roll and rock along a path away from the storm. It retracts its limb of light and then raises it again.

"Hold on to the mast." Trinimac quickly says to the family, as well as his liege, and at once he turns and runs to the stern. His gleaming silver boots thud against the wooden floor, and as the ship rolls unpredictably, he almost trips in his haste. But he leaps, almost glides, to stand behind the pilot, who cannot spare the time to look over her shoulder at him. He levels his blade, Penitent, and his shield, and glares up at the limb of the many-eyed giant. "COME THEN!" He yells, his divine voice cutting higher than everything else. "MATCH BLADES WITH ME IF YOU DARE!!!"

The limb descends with greater haste, provoked by his demand. He reels back his sword arm and, with such strength as had never been needed in Aldmeris, cleaves straight through the massive hand, lopping it off at the wrist.

A horrible howl emits, more than just the wind of a storm, and a huge pulse of energy sends the ship skimming forward at a much greater pace. Trinimac is blown clear over the pilot by the force of impact, thudding against the deck below.

As the ship continues on its path, the storm subsides. The sky and sea settle, the clouds part to make way for the golden sky again- but it is not golden, as it always has been on Aldmeris, but deep red, and the great light hangs lower than any Aldmer could ever remember seeing it.

"What- what has happened to the sky..." A young boy asks.

None could answer him, they had no knowledge of this. None but Trinimac, stood again, offering aid to the wounded passengers.

He looks down to the child, who shrinks away at the bare face of the knight, sharp tusked and horned, yet radiant with a light that now seems a dim requiem for their home. "The sun sets here." He wears a frown as he scans the horizon. Nothing but a dull blue sea. Yet he knows where they must be. "We are in Mundus."

Gasps ring out from the few not still in shock. Many cannot bring themselves to believe it. "We... we are in the trap?" One woman asks. "The lie of the doom drum?" Many huddle closer to their loved ones, scandalized by the words she dared utter.

Trinimac only nods.

Silence overtakes the mer on board. The red sky slowly darkens, and again, the Aldmer are scared. None of them have ever lived in a changing world, a world where light fades, where summers set. Little dots of light give them some peace, they slowly fill the sky as the sun made way for them, a procession of sorts. Many distracted themselves by trying to count them all.

This is interrupted by the arrival of more objects in the sky. A girl looks up, eyes wide, and screams.

Everyone quickly looks to see, and now there is only stunned silence.

Many shake and tremble at the terrible sight in the heavens, others begin to sob, some scowl and curse the doom drum and all his wicked works, for it is he who delivers this revolting vision of horror and fear.

Trinimac feels bile in his throat. He turns, for he cannot bear to see the moons.

The Dawn is forever lost. The sky is full of corpses.

[iffeelscouldkill]

this is the place that they pull you to

A/N: I would say “my hand slipped” but this actually took me like a week to write xD

This is a post-season 2 episode 1 fic, so, here be spoilers! Basically I was talking to @dragonsthough101 about how I was expecting more emotional fallout on McCabe’s end from all of the conflict and tensions in episode 1 and the putdowns from Arkady, and while I’m sure we will get that in the podcast, it also occurred to me that I could... write that :D and thus *flourishes hands*

Title is taken from Wires by Savlonic, because I was listening to it and I realised it’s actually a very good song for RJ, both under the Regime and after. And now I earworm myself whenever I work on this fic xD

---

Once the door to RJ’s room on the Iris II has slid shut behind them and the red ‘lock’ light has engaged, they let out a shaky breath.

Then, only then, do they allow their lower lip to tremble.

RJ shuffles over to the bed – more like a cot really, but that’s long-haul space travel for you – and drops down onto it. Park’s words from earlier are looping inside their head. “I hope you’re right. But honestly, in this moment, McCabe? I’m glad we don’t have to find out.”

RJ lets out another shaky breath that’s closer to a sob, and blinks back the tears that are forming in their eyes. It doesn’t completely work, and a couple escape and track down their cheeks. RJ smears them away with the palm of their hand. “Get a grip, McCabe,” they mutter angrily to themself. Sure, they might be alone in their room right now, but they know better than to feel like it’s safe to relax or let go. Someone could be by any minute to check on them, or there might be a situation that requires all crew members to come to the mess hall, or the cockpit, and then how will RJ explain their red eyes and wrung-out demeanour?

It’s not safe to let their guard down. It hasn’t been for weeks. Even around Park, the one person on this vessel RJ knows they can trust, RJ feels – off-kilter, like they’re lagging a step behind everything. RJ is still trying to get used to not addressing him as “Agent”, to figure out what they can and can’t say now, to navigate their new relationship. As friends – but are they friends? Does Park even like RJ, outside of the context of them working together under the Republic?

It seems uncharitable to think, and RJ and Park had always had a good relationship as colleagues – they hadn’t been close, and Park had seemed pretty inscrutable to RJ at first, but then they’d got used to his way of working and communicating. Figured out how to make him crack a smile. Drawn some praise from him, even, and realised that underneath everything he was a caring person, and a good boss.

But RJ had also thought – been sure – that Park was loyal to the Republic, so how well did they really know him? Know this Park? And Park has been treating them… warily, especially these past few days. Not coldly or poorly, but a little bit at arm’s length. Like he isn’t sure what they might do. Like he doesn’t trust them, even though RJ trusts Park totally – to the point where they were willing to throw over their whole career, everything they’d worked so hard for, and follow him onto the Iris II.

Granted, they also hadn’t had a lot of other options at that time, but RJ still isn’t sure they would have made the same decision if Park hadn’t been there.

And yet here they both are, and Park is already a fixture in the cockpit, watching the controls when Tripat- when Sana or Krejjh needs a break, having apparently built up some experience as a co-pilot for long-haul transports after serving in the military (yet another thing that RJ didn’t know about him). And he’s comfortable enough with the crew to be on bantering terms with them, to suggest plans involving decommissioned government satellites. Whereas RJ…

“Cram it, McCabe!”

RJ’s lip trembles again, this time in earnest. And RJ would like to pretend that these are angry tears, or frustrated or indignant tears, but they’re really not. RJ wants to be angry, to stand their ground and fire back and give as good as they get and somehow manage to verbally earn the others’ respect; to be seen as a person instead of a suspect or a liability. But they’ve struck the wrong chord every time. RJ is sick of the awkward tension every time they’re in the room; sick of Arkady’s prickly snappishness and Sana’s increasingly weary peacemaking; sick of the unspoken communication between the crew that they can’t parse.

It doesn’t help to realise that the crew must have got practiced at that during the weeks they spent evading the IGR’s scrutiny before they made landing on New Jupiter. At least Park could say he hadn’t been there by that point. But McCabe had, headphones on, straining to parse something from every off-handed comment, every loaded silence.

Park wasn’t there because he was being tortured in Zone Z, McCabe thinks, and abruptly feels sick. Sick at the thought, and sick of themself for – not thinking, for even considering for a split second that Park might be somehow better off. After being imprisoned, cut off from his friends and family, tortured and maimed by a government he’d spent years of his life serving.

The same government that he believes RJ was thinking of selling them out to.

This realisation steals the breath from RJ’s lungs with a whoosh, and all of a sudden they don’t feel sick, or indignant, or hurt – they just feel cold.

RJ hadn’t been able to explain to Park in the moment exactly what they’d been thinking by withholding the information about the Fowleys being bugged and monitored (because of course they were). When the ‘offer’ from Jay Fowley had first come through, the crew hadn’t been desperate enough to seriously consider it, and by the time they were… well, they’d been on the verge of figuring things out anyway. And RJ had been feeling angry, and vindictive, and not in the mood to volunteer anything that would aid the crew; not when doing that had got them into this mess in the first place.

And maybe in the back of their mind, a voice had been whispering that they should keep their options open. It’s a voice that gets louder in the dark, when RJ is lying awake on their bunk, unable to sleep for replaying those moments in the corridor, the way that it felt like the ground was falling out from under them as Goodman denounced them and Park as defectors. It gets louder whenever RJ clashes with Arkady, whenever they catch uncertain glances from the other crew members, whenever RJ wanders the corridors of this godforsaken claustrophobic ship and realises that this is it now. This is their whole life.

But they never thought about how that might look to Park. It’s like in RJ’s head there are somehow two Republics: the one that would be capable of doing such horrible things to Park – to any person, much less one who hadn’t been demonstrably proven guilty – and the one that RJ had dedicated their career to serving, that they had believed was just and good and right.

RJ wants to find him and apologise, to try and explain, to share some of the fears and secret thoughts that have been curdling on the back of their tongue these past weeks.

But Park told them to get some rest, and RJ has enough awareness to realise that there’s a much higher chance of the conversation turning out well if they sleep a while first. So, reluctantly, RJ toes off their shoes and shrugs off their vest, and wriggles underneath the taut blanket attached to the bunk.

Either they’ve reached some kind of peace with themself or they’re more exhausted than they realised, because sleep overtakes them in minutes.

---

RJ is woken by a knocking at the door: light and tentative at first, and then firmer and louder. As always, it takes a moment for their brain to catch up with their surroundings: the hard bunk beneath them, followed by the bare walls of their room, still unadorned (RJ wasn’t exactly carrying any personal belongings when they fled CUI Headquarters, and the ship hadn’t made any stops since. Not that RJ knows what they would put in their room anyway. There hadn’t been much to leave behind on New Jupiter). RJ sits up and rubs an arm across their eyes, then goes to answer the door.

It’s Violet. RJ clamps down on the reflexive urge to say something like, ‘Did you draw the short straw?’, or maybe, ‘Did they send you to manage me?’ Violet doesn’t look like she’s here under duress, and to RJ’s memory, she’s not a particularly good actor.

“Hi,” they say instead.

“Hi,” Violet replies with a little smile. There’s always a weird dissonance – though RJ would never, ever bring this up – that comes from hearing the voices of the Rumor crew come out of the mouths of actual people instead of a recording. “How did you sleep?”

“Uh…” RJ thinks back, and is surprised to find that the answer is ‘well’. They actually feel… slightly refreshed. “Fine.” Belatedly, they tack on, “Thank you.”

“That’s good to hear.” Violet smiles again. She’s never been unfriendly to RJ, but these past several days, she’s seemed more on edge, more prone to sarcastic retorts, less willing to make peace between them and Patel- Arkady. RJ had believed that her patience was slowly fraying, that like the rest of the crew, she was only willing to put up with the new additions to the ship for a certain amount of time and that she’d stop pretending before long. But now, taking in Violet’s looser posture, the way some of the lines around her eyes and mouth have eased, RJ realises it had never had anything to do with them. Violet had been worried about the supplies. About her… medical emergency.

Speaking of supplies… “Did Park tell you what we wanted to add to the list?” RJ asks, figuring they’d better add a bit of verisimilitude to the excuse that Park had used to speak to RJ alone.

Violet’s smile widens. “He did. I definitely agree about replenishing our coffee supplies – though, I don’t know what kind of quality you’re used to, because I should warn you that the black market kind – the affordable black market kind, anyway – is pretty bad. We get non-freeze-dried coffee whenever we can, but out here…” Violet shrugs as if to say, ‘Beggars can’t be choosers’.

RJ manages to suppress a wince at the term “black market”. This is your life, now, RJ, they remind themself for the thousandth time. “That’s okay. The stuff in the IGR breakrooms was basically dreck. I can drink pretty much anything.” RJ is no coffee lover, but they drink it for the caffeine. Pretty much everyone in the Republic has a caffeine addiction or develops one at some point – no way to get through eighteen-hour shifts without it.

Violet chuckles a little. “It was always the same at my lab internships. I guess bad breakroom coffee is pretty universal.”

RJ recognises that she’s trying to bond with them by referencing shared experiences of working for the Republic. It’s not the first time she’s done it. But RJ still has trouble seeing their circumstances as equivalent.

Violet is – had been – a scientist, not an Agent; not one of the IGR’s most loyal, tasked with the defence of the Republic. She’d never had access to classified briefings; hadn’t dedicated her life to tracking down and apprehending insurgent forces. And given that the Rumor crew had deceived her into entering the cryo chamber, she could argue that she’d been duped – and had only co-operated in order to save her own life. Well, the argument would hold water up until Elion, anyway.

It wasn’t the same.

The silence hangs for a few moments, before RJ prompts her, “Did you want to… ask me something?”

“Sorry, yes – I came to tell you that dinner’s ready and uh, we’re about to eat in the mess hall if you’d like to join us.” Violet smiles again, with a touch of nervousness this time. No doubt she’s expecting a caustic brush-off.

“Is it veggie stew?” RJ can’t help asking, with a slight nose wrinkle. They’re expecting a rebuke from Violet, some kind of warning about being grateful for what they have, but instead she laughs.

“Unfortunately. On the bright side, though, it’s only for a couple more days and then we’ll be able to have actual flavourings again.”

RJ almost smiles, and is surprised when they catch themself. And – they were going to decline, make an excuse about continuing their nap, because they’re still feeling off-kilter and they doubt that Arkady will be thrilled to be spending time in close quarters with them so soon, but – they think about Park’s talk with them in the hallway. About how they’ve spent the past few weeks dodging any kind of connection with the rest of the crew, anything that will put them past, in RJ’s mind, the point of no return – and where exactly that’s got them.

“Sure,” says RJ. “Just let me, uh…”

They put a hand up to their hair, realising that it must be sticking up in all directions after their nap. Short hair is gratifyingly easy to take care of, but it sure does have interesting ideas about gravity.

“I have a comb you can borrow, if you need it?” Violet offers.

“It’s fine,” RJ declines automatically. “Park-”

They catch themself, wondering why it feels like such a concession to accept even this tiny piece of help from someone other than Park. They think about their bare room, empty of any personal possessions.

“I’m okay right now,” they say slowly. “But… is it too late to add something to the shopping list?”

Violet blinks, clearly surprised, and then smiles brightly. “Not at all.”

---

Five minutes later, hair tamed and clothes straightened, RJ makes their way towards the mess hall, which adjoins the kitchen. They haven’t spent much time in here so far – there’d been a couple of communal dinners at first, which quickly gave way to the reality of shifts ending at disparate times and the need to simply grab food however and whenever people could, something RJ had been grateful for.

Once, on their way to the kitchen, they’d walked in on Violet and Arkady having what looked like a picnic at the table in the centre of the room, just the two of them. That had been awkward for everyone. Since then, RJ has taken to finding their food and snacks at times when they know most of the crew are otherwise occupied.

Everyone else is already there and making more noise than you would think a group of six people could generate. Brian is in the kitchen, ladling bland servings of stew into the uniform polypropylene bowls that they’d found stacked inside the cupboards. Krejjh stands next to him, loudly enthusing about the virtues of the stew to anyone within earshot. Violet and Sana are waiting to be served, while Arkady – who has just been handed a full bowl by Brian – rolls her eyes and makes sarcastic comments as she carries it through to the mess hall. There, Park is sitting in one of the bolted-down chairs, watching the whole scene with a slightly raised eyebrow and waiting, if RJ had to guess, for the general hubbub to die down before he goes to get his food.

RJ pads over and slides into the chair on the same side as Park’s good eye. Park turns his head slightly, giving them a quick once-over, almost too brief to catch. “Hi,” he says quietly. “How was your nap?”

RJ hesitates over what to say. “It helped,” they reply. “Park, can we… talk? After dinner?”

The tiniest of frowns creases Park’s forehead. “Sure,” he says. “Everything all right?”

RJ nods, drumming their fingers on the tabletop and meeting Violet’s gaze as she comes over to sit next to Arkady, giving RJ a friendly smile. They don’t quite return it, but… it’s not as unwelcome as it would have been, before.

“Yeah,” they say to Park. “It’s fine.”

[hysterialevi]

Reið - A sequel to Naudr

Fanfic summary: Sigurd visits Valka after having a vision about Eivor, and finally admits his love for the man.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

Author’s note: WOW. I can’t thank you guys enough for the support you gave on my other fanfic, Naudr. I wasn’t planning to write more for that one, but quite a few people were asking for a sequel, so here it is. It’s a bit longer than the first part, but I really wanted to conclude the story between Sigurd & Eivor. Hope you enjoy :)

RAVENSTHORPE

AFTERNOON

Hovering his fist over the door to Valka’s hut, Sigurd found himself frozen by hesitance as he pondered whether or not this was a good idea, admittedly tempted to turn back around.

He wanted to find the answers to the endless list of questions that had been troubling him lately, but with the amount of possible outcomes that could’ve transpired from this visit, Sigurd couldn’t deny that he feared whatever awaited him in the future.

What if the dreams were right? He wondered. What if they signified that of which he already suspected? What if he didn’t need Valka’s interpretation to begin with?

For an entire month, these incessant dreams had kept him preoccupied. They crept into his thoughts; dug into his life. They distracted him during a time of war, and drifted him away to a place where there was no reason to be found.

And even worse, there seemed to be no remedy for them. No matter how much mead he drank, or how many extravagant tales Dag regaled him with, they always seemed to linger in the back of his mind, clawing at him like an itch that just wouldn’t go away.

It was exhausting, at this point. Sigurd could hardly get a wink of sleep at night anymore, and with the same questions repeating themselves over and over again in his head, he felt desperate to find some sort of clarification that would put his mind at ease.

Fortunately, there was one more option that he had yet to try.

And it was waiting for him on the other side of this door.

Finally deciding to go through with his plan, Sigurd briefly knocked on the wooden surface and patiently waited for a response, pacing back and forth in anxiety.

He had no idea if it was foolish of him to open up about his inner conflicts like this, considering how controversial they were, but Valka had never been a woman to judge him based on his private thoughts.

He just hoped the seeress would have some answers for him today. These visions had disrupted his life for long enough, and the longer he allowed them to fester beneath the surface, the more Sigurd feared they would eventually break through.

Odin willing, it would never come to that.

“Sigurd Jarl,” Valka’s voice suddenly said from behind, causing the man to whip around. “What a pleasant surprise to see you here.”

Sigurd smiled at the völva, trying to hide the unease he felt within. “Valka. I didn’t know you were out. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

She held up a reassuring hand. “Have no fear. I was simply collecting ingredients for my rituals. Normally, Eivor helps me gather them, but the man appears to be occupied with other matters today. I did not wish to disturb him.”

Valka stepped closer to the jarl, tilting her head in an inquisitive manner. “But set all that aside. What brings you to me, Sigurd? I must admit, it is a great curiosity to find you on my doorstep. Are you in need of my services?”

The viking sighed in fatigue. “I’m afraid so, old friend. I’ve been having... dreams, lately. Visions. They haunt me in my sleep, and consume my thoughts during the day. Their meaning continues to elude me, but I suspect there is something of great importance behind them. I’d like to hear your opinion.”

Valka nodded in understanding, eyeing Sigurd with a newfound interest. “Indeed. I sense a great burden resting on your shoulders; a battle being fought inside your heart. It would be wise to unravel the messages your dreams are attempting to convey, for one cannot fight while a war wages inside them.”

She beckoned Sigurd, gesturing to the hut’s door. “Come, my friend. Let us see if we can decipher your dreams together.”

Walking through the entrance, Sigurd stepped into the serene atmosphere of the hut as he followed Valka from behind, craning his neck downwards in order to fit through the short archway.

Inside, he was immediately welcomed by a strong mixture of aromas that consisted of incense and herbs, and the delicate clings of multiple wind-chimes could be heard dancing throughout the breeze. 

It was peaceful in here, Sigurd thought. Valka always seemed to give off a meditative aura wherever she walked, and now that they were in a more secluded area, he felt better suited to share his thoughts.

Though, that didn’t mean he was free of his skepticism just yet.

“Now, then...” Valka said, placing her freshly gathered ingredients down, “let’s talk about your visions, Sigurd. How often do you experience them? And when do they come to you?”

Sigurd leaned against a wall, crossing his arms in a casual manner. “They plague my dreams every night, I’m afraid. In spite of all my efforts to block them out.”

Valka rubbed her chin in thought. “And what of the images you see in them? Are they always the same?”

“Mostly. There are slight differences every once in a while, but ultimately, they seem to be variants of the same vision.”

“Then it would be foolish to ignore them,” Valka concluded. “One does not experience such persistent dreams as a coincidence. Especially ones that seem to be so strongly connected. The gods are trying to speak to you, Sigurd.”

The jarl shrugged in confusion. “But what are they saying?”

“Well,” Valka approached the man, “why don’t we find out? Tell me what happened in your most recent vision. And please, be as descriptive as possible.”

Sigurd took a deep breath and thought back to his latest dream, trying to recall every single detail.

“I remember... it started in a forest. The trees around me were tall and dense, and the space between them was filled with a fog so thick that it obscured everything in its path. It felt as if I was walking through the depths of Niflheim itself. I didn’t know where to go, or how to find my way out, but eventually, I came across a wild boar. It was alone in the forest, and... it seemed to be beckoning me. So, I followed it.”

Valka raised a brow in curiosity. “Oh? And where did this boar take you?”

“It led me through the woods, as if it knew the way out. But our journey was not without delays. First, the boar took me to an opening in the forest. There was a group of runestones there, all of them arranged in a circle. And in the middle stood a statue of the god Forseti, gazing down at me.”

That piqued the seeress’ interest. “Forseti? The god of justice? Most curious...” she paused for a moment, contemplating the vision. “Tell me, where else did this boar lead you?”

“Its next destination was a great bridge,” Sigurd remembered. “It spanned across a large river, and was thatched with glittering gold.”

“Gjallarbrú.” Valka instantly recognized. “The Bridge to Hel.”

Sigurd agreed with the statement. “That’s what I thought as well. But what could it mean? A boar leading me to the gates of Hel?”

The völva shook her head in uncertainty. “I do not yet know, but the message behind your dream becomes clearer with every word. Please, continue. Did this boar take you anywhere else?”

The man nodded. “Yes, there was one more location. In fact, the events that happened there are the reason I come to you now.”

“Then tell me, and let us hope that it offers some form of clarity.”

“Well, the boar led me deeper into the woods,” Sigurd carried on. “By now, the mist had become so thick that I could hardly see where I was walking. I had nothing but the sounds of the forest to guide me, and the boar had abandoned my side, leaving me alone. After a while of wandering though, I found myself standing in front of an ominous cave. The inside was shrouded in darkness, and the nature around it seemed to be devoid of any life.”

Valka posed a question. “Did you approach this cave?”

“Yes,” Sigurd answered. “I meant to search it. But before I could enter, I heard a horrible squeal coming from the inside, as if the boar had just been attacked. The stench of blood filled my nose soon after, and just as I reached for my blade, I heard a menacing growl rumbling from the shadows. Before I knew it, the head of a black dragon had emerged from the cave’s mouth, and its teeth were covered in red. But instead of finding the boar in its grasp as I expected...”

Sigurd paused, admittedly feeling somewhat disturbed, “...I saw myself. Dead, and clamped between its jaws. That’s when the dream ended.”

Taking in everything the jarl just told her, the seeress fell into a concentrated silence and paced around the hut for a moment, gazing blankly at the floor as Sigurd waited for a response.

“...Valka?” The viking said, walking closer to her. “Do you have any idea what this could mean?”

The woman turned to face him, briefly explaining her thought process as she analyzed his peculiar vision.

“Indeed. This dream speaks very plainly to me, Sigurd. Though, I must warn you -- you will not like what it has to say.”

The man sighed in nervousness, bracing himself for her interpretation. “I can’t say I’m surprised. These dreams have always given me a grim feeling. Very well, then. What do you think the message is?”

Valka walked him through her observation, addressing each of the key moments. “This forest you spoke of -- the one shrouded in mist -- it sounds like a labyrinth. A maze with no clear beginning, and no clear end. It seems to me that you are feeling lost, Sigurd. That you are uncertain of your direction in life.”

“...As for this boar,” she continued, “boars are often a symbol of fertility. Or love. They are even sometimes sacrificed during weddings to ensure good fortune for a new marriage. So the fact that this animal was the only way you could navigate the forest intrigues me...”

The seeress gazed out one of the windows in thought, speaking mostly to herself as she unraveled Sigurd’s vision. 

“And the appearance of Forseti -- that is no coincidence. As I said before, he is the god of justice, so I believe his presence indicates a feeling of being judged, or tried.” 

Valka faced the jarl, placing her hands on her hips. “Do you feel remorse for something you have done, Sigurd? A sense of guilt, perhaps?”

The man shrugged. “No, for I have done nothing wrong.”

“Not yet,” the völva corrected. “But you will.”

Sigurd couldn’t deny that he was alarmed by the statement. “And... what exactly do you think I’ll do?”

Valka skipped to the end of his vision. “Well, in order to answer that, we must first understand this dragon you encountered. You said it attacked the boar when you arrived at the cave, yes?”

“Yes. But as I later revealed, it was my own corpse being held between its teeth.”

“Hmm... then I believe this dragon was Nidhogg.”

“Nidhogg?” Sigurd repeated in surprise. “You mean the dragon that resides in Hel?”

Valka gave him a firm nod. “Yes. As you know, Nidhogg feasts on the corpses of the souls that occupy Hel -- specifically those who have committed the most egregious crimes. These crimes can include murder, oath-breaking, or...” she threw a glance at the jarl, “...adultery.”

The seeress stepped in front of Sigurd, closing the distance between them as she explained her final conclusion to him.

“The message is clear. You are in love with someone who you know you shouldn’t be. Someone who isn’t Randvi. You feel disoriented in life because you do not know how to confront these emotions, but you know that this person is the only one who can clear the way. Unfortunately, however...” 

Valka’s tone softened with sympathy, “...since you are spoken for, you understand that it is forbidden to chase after these feelings. This explains the presence of Forseti, and why Nidhogg would feast on your corpse.”

Valka placed her hands on Sigurd’s shoulders, looking him in the eye. “You are fighting a war against your own heart, and it is destroying you. You know you cannot endure this battle for much longer... and that is why you will betray Randvi.”

Sigurd’s eyes widened in shock at that. “What...?”

He pushed the völva’s hands off, backing away from her. “N-No. I wouldn’t do that. No matter how strong my feelings may be. Randvi is a good friend. I would never hurt her like that.”

Valka crossed her arms, unsurprised at the man’s defiance. “You would not be the first to fight against the Nornir, but heed my words, Sigurd. It is an effort doomed to end in futility. You will betray Randvi, and you will do so in the name of whomever truly has your heart.”

Still, Sigurd refused to believe her. “But I am a jarl, Valka! I have duties to carry out. People to take care of. There’s an entire community depending on me! Surely, I would not sacrifice it for something as... as reckless as this! No matter how strong the temptation is.”

“A man’s love can only be restrained for so long, Sigurd. You must learn to accept this. For your own sake.”

The viking’s shoulders slouched with worry. “But we are talking about adultery, Valka. One of the most severe betrayals of a person’s trust. My love may not rest with Randvi, but even then... I could not harm her in such a manner. I could not jeopardize this clan for my own passions.”

The seeress let out a sigh, worried for the future of her jarl. “The gods have spoken with this vision, Sigurd. The more you struggle within the threads of fate, the more you will simply hinder yourself.”

Valka returned to the ingredients she collected earlier, preparing them for her next ritual. 

“I have given you all the aid I can. Do with my words what you will, but remember... the gods are always guiding us.”

~~~~~~~~~~

ONE WEEK LATER

NIGHTTIME

Sitting quietly on a wooden crate, Sigurd watched the soothing movement of the river in front of him as its waters gently rippled past the harbor, filling the air with a soft trickle that seemed to harmonize with the chirping of nearby crickets.

At the moment, the rest of the clan was celebrating the success of a recent raid and helping themselves to an abundance of food, all of which had been freshly provided by the newfound facilities in their settlement.

Joyous laughter could be heard echoing in the distance, and despite the overwhelming darkness of the blank English sky, the longhouse only seemed to shine brighter in its shadow, radiating like a beacon.

Unlike his fellow clan members however, Sigurd had little room in his mind left for celebrating. His thoughts still lingered on what Valka told him the previous week, and in spite of all efforts to fight against his feelings, Sigurd knew deep down that what the völva said was true.

He was in love with Eivor. And there was nothing he could do about it. 

That man was just... everything he wanted.

His personality, his spirit, his passion for poetry -- it all clicked with Sigurd in a way that he had never felt with anyone else before. There was a certain warmth that filled his heart every time he laid eyes on the man, and with each passing day, Sigurd found it harder and harder to hide his true emotions.

But why couldn’t he forget about this? Why couldn’t he just bury his thoughts and ignore them like he always did with previous men?

Why couldn’t he just... be normal?

Gods above, Sigurd cursed to himself. what would Styrbjorn have thought about him if he could see him now?

The last time he saw his father, he had left him behind to deal with the politics in Norway right after scolding him about giving up his birthright. He had forced Eivor and the rest of the clan to follow him into a hostile territory, and now, he was about to ruin his own marriage for the sake of his love life.

Everything was falling apart in his world... and as much as he may have wanted to scream at the gods for allowing him to go down such a path, Sigurd knew it was ultimately his fault.

And someday, the consequences would catch up to him.

“...Sigurd?”

Jolting his head in the direction of the sudden voice, the redheaded man turned around to see who had approached him, only to find none other than Eivor himself watching from a short distance.

“Brother.” Sigurd greeted bleakly. “I should’ve known you’d find me sooner or later.”

The younger man smiled, attempting to lighten his sibling’s foul mood. “What are you doing out here, silly bird? Everyone at the feast misses you.”

The older man brought a hand up to his temple, rubbing it in stress. “Now’s not a good time, Eivor.”

Still determined to cheer his brother up, the blond viking paused for a moment before taking a seat next to Sigurd, gazing at him with a humorous twinkle in his eyes.

“...What about now?”

Sigurd sighed. “Eivor, please.”

The younger man frowned, suddenly worried about what was going on.

“Not even a chuckle, huh. Must be pretty serious.” He leaned closer to the man, his voice quiet with concern. “...Care to share your thoughts?”

Sigurd let out a breath, unsure of how to broach the subject with him. 

“No. Not really. I have much on my mind right now, and I fear it would not do either of us any good to put them into words.”

Eivor’s expression sank with unease. “If that is what you wish. But I must admit, Sigurd... I’ve been worried about you lately.”

That caught the older man’s attention. “Oh?”

“Indeed. You’ve... changed this past week. And not for the better. You’ve become more distant. Reserved. Sometimes, I feel as though you’re trying to avoid me.” A realization crossed Eivor’s mind. “...Have I done something to upset you, brother?”

Sigurd shook his head, quick to reassure the man. “N-No, Eivor. It isn’t you.”

Eivor’s brow remained furrowed. “But it is something.”

The redheaded man turned away from his brother, annoyed with himself.

“Listen, Eivor... I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I need to be alone right now. My thoughts are caught in a haze at the moment, and being with you does nothing except tangle them even further. So, please... just leave me be.”

The younger man fell silent at the response, admittedly somewhat hurt by Sigurd’s words. Was he truly that much of a burden?

Picking up on Eivor’s discontent, Sigurd instantly felt a tinge of guilt tugging at his heart as he took a moment to recompose himself, hoping to reconcile with the man.

“Forgive me, Eivor...” he said softly. “I... I did not mean...”

Eivor slowly began to separate himself from his brother, not wishing to provoke him any further.

“...I understand, Sigurd.” He murmured sorrowfully. “I’ll... I’ll go now.”

Sigurd immediately rose from his seat and gripped Eivor’s arm, stopping him in his tracks.

“Wait!” He urged. “I...”

The older man trailed off into silence, uncertain of how he was going to explain his feelings.

“...I had a vision.” He finally admitted, deciding to open up. “Many of them, in fact. They had been bothering me ever since we left Norway, and so I asked Valka for clarification. I hoped she would be able to put my mind at ease.”

It didn’t take long for Eivor to catch on. “...But that’s not what happened, is it.”

“No. She was able to decipher my vision, but the message behind it was... unnerving, to say the least.”

The blond man turned back towards Sigurd, patiently waiting for him to continue.

“Speak plainly to me, brother.” He encouraged in a comforting tone. “What happened in your vision? Why are you so troubled?”

Sigurd took a deep breath, unable to hide behind this facade any longer.

“I’ll spare you the details of my dream,” he said, sitting back down, “but Valka claimed it was a warning of what was to come. She believes it indicates that I’ll... betray Randvi. That I will commit adultery.”

Eivor sat beside his brother, clearly surprised by the explanation. “Adultery? That’s a serious crime, Sigurd. Do you know whom you’ll commit it with? Did Valka say?”

The older man shook his head in a dour manner, his expression heavy with heartache. 

“No. But she did not need to. For I already know the answer.”

Lacking the willpower to explain his visions any further, Sigurd simply brought his gaze to Eivor and stared at the man with a prominent sense of despair in his eyes, wishing desperately that he could rid himself of these feelings.

“Eivor...” Sigurd whispered, not knowing how else to describe his emotions, “I...I think I’m in love with you.”

Taken aback by the sudden confession, Eivor froze on the spot and felt his body turn to ice as he processed what he just heard, admittedly unsure of how to respond.

“You’re... in love with me?” He repeated, still in shock. “But when I kissed you that night in Norway, you said--”

“--I know what I said.” Sigurd interrupted, his shell cracking with every word. “But I was wrong. I realize that now. The truth is... I’ve loved you for a very long time. I think I’ve always felt this way, even before our conversation in Fornburg. But I was never willing to admit it.”

Eivor listened intently. “And now?”

“Now...” the older man choked up, despite his efforts to conceal it, “I... I don’t know. I don’t know what to feel. I don’t even think it matters.”

Sigurd turned to face his brother, his tone sharp with frustration. “I’m a married man, Eivor. And a jarl. I have responsibilities to take care of. Matters to attend to. There is an entire clan watching my every move; reflecting my every thought. It doesn’t matter if I love you or not. The simple fact is... I can’t. I was never meant to.”

Eivor sensed the pain in the other man’s words, wishing he could help. “What do you mean you were never meant to?”

Sigurd chuckled, though not out of amusement. “Isn’t it obvious? We are both men, Eivor. When was the last time you saw a marriage between a couple like us? Or a jarl waltzing around with his husband in tow? It doesn’t happen because it was never supposed to.”

He dragged a hand down his face, shutting his eyes in embarrassment. “Can you imagine what my father would think if he saw me now? His only son -- the man who would’ve taken his place as king -- throwing away the marriage that he arranged for the sake of being with the man he adopted. What a joke.”

The younger man offered some insight, trying to heal his brother’s wounds. 

“...I understand if you’re concerned about betraying Randvi, Sigurd. But there’s no shame in loving another man. You wouldn’t be the only one who’s felt this way. And you won’t be the last.”

Sigurd remained obstinate. “That doesn’t mean it’s right. I need to set an example for our clan, Eivor. I need to be the one to guide them through this war. How can I do that when I feel like this? When I’m...” his voice began to tremble, “...when I’m in love with you?”

The redheaded man rose from his seat, pacing around the pier in annoyance.

“I just don’t understand why the gods would afflict me with such a nuisance. Is this my punishment for leaving my father’s side? Is this their way of testing my resolve? I know it isn’t right for me to feel this way, but...” Sigurd’s eyes became misty with tears, and he looked hopelessly out at the river, “...it’s just who I am. And I don’t think I can change it.”

Standing alone at the edge of the harbor, Sigurd buried his face in his hand as he silently stared down at the water, feeling as though he were already drowning in it. 

What kind of mess had he gotten himself into? Not only was he on the verge of endangering his marriage with Randvi, he was also one step away from turning Valka’s prediction into a reality.

He couldn’t love Eivor. He just couldn’t.

Too much was already at stake with the war against the Saxons -- and considering how they had next to no allies in Mercia at the moment, Sigurd knew he couldn’t afford to divert his focus.

But his heart had a mind of its own. No matter how much he tried to suppress these emotions, or pretend they didn’t exist, they always seemed to come right back up. Like a tide crashing against the shore.

Eivor was the only one he wanted. The only person he had ever longed to be with. There was a type of love between them that Sigurd had never felt anywhere else, and with the Nornir constantly pushing him to confront his fate, he wondered if there was any point in resisting it by now.

But it was a feat much easier said than done. Even though Sigurd knew this was something he couldn’t simply wish away, he was still hesitant to face it head-on.

There were too many risks. Too many unknowns. The future remained obscured by fog -- just like the forest in his dream -- and the deeper he found himself venturing into this dilemma, the less Sigurd was certain he’d be able to climb out of it.

Snapping back to reality, Sigurd’s head perked up in surprise when he suddenly felt a pair of arms wrapping themselves around his chest, drawing him into a tight embrace.

Eivor’s head was resting on his shoulder at the moment, and despite the harsh words Sigurd threw at him before, the man didn’t appear any less determined to help him through this.

“...I understand how you feel, Sigurd.” He reassured. “If I’m being honest, it wasn’t too long ago that I felt the same way. I hated myself for how I saw the world, and I wanted nothing more than to be like everyone else.”

Eivor gazed up at the sky, watching calmly as a blanket of stars flickered above them. “I remember I used to dream of the day when it would all make sense. When... everything would fall into place. But it never happened, because I was never willing to make the sacrifices that came with it.”

The younger man looked back at Sigurd, holding him close.

“The truth is, brother, there is no easy way out of this. The journey ahead of you is going to be full of denial and judgement, and there are going to be times when you’ll wish you never said a word about this to anyone. But when you find yourself trapped in those moments, just remember...”

Eivor brought a hand up to Sigurd’s cheek. “The best gift we can give ourselves is acceptance. It won’t always protect us against those who may wish us harm, but it will offer us peace. And sometimes, assurance in our identity can guard us better than any amount of armor can. After all, it is difficult to harm a man who does not fear pain.”

Sigurd took in everything his brother just said, admittedly a tad overwhelmed by it all, but feeling more content.

“...You always know the right thing to say, Eivor.” He replied with a small smile.

The younger man chuckled, separating the hug. “Not always. But as I said before, I understand your struggle. And I know a few other people who do too. You are not alone in this, Sigurd.”

The redheaded man placed his hand on top of Eivor’s, gripping it securely. 

“Thank you, Eivor. I mean it. It will take me some time to fully accept this, but... I think I’m ready to try.”

Eivor beamed brightly at the statement. “It gladdens my heart to hear it, Sigurd. You know I’ll always be here if you need me.”

Sigurd stepped towards the other man, his voice gentle with affection.

“I know.”

Pulling Eivor’s face closer to his, Sigurd suddenly placed a loving kiss on the man’s lips and held him tight, embracing him under the soft light of the stars that dusted the sky above them.

Every fiber in his being was screaming at him to stop, but in spite of the protestations, Sigurd felt more at peace than he had ever felt in his entire life.

There was a genuine sense of love between them. A sense of security. Everything about Eivor made Sigurd feel safe, and the shell he once wore had completely fallen apart.

Though, he knew he was going to regret this, come the next morn. The world always seemed to realign itself with the arrival of daybreak, and Sigurd had no doubts that their relationship would summon a storm in the near-future.

But this was what he needed. It was what he wanted.

A new path had finally revealed itself in the mist that often clouded Sigurd’s dreams, and even though he knew it would be full of obstacles just like the one in his vision, he now understood that it was necessary to traverse it.

No matter how harshly people judged him, or how drastically their view of him changed, Sigurd was prepared to face the challenges that lay ahead. He may have carried a heavy sense of dread in his heart, but now, he realized that Eivor was the key to his happiness.

That man was the greatest gift Freyja ever gave to him, after all.

And he had no intentions of letting him go.

[today-only-happens-once]

Scutum

Title: Scutum

Word Count: 9424

Summary: Sci-Fi AU. Roman sees the weapon first. The rest is just instinct. Found family. Platonic Logince, Platonic LAMP/CALM. Features Cartoon Therapy characters + Remy/Sleep.

Warnings: cursing (a lot woops); whump/angst/hurt/comfort; violence a la sci-fi/sci-fi weapons; science stuff that’s like 10% research and 90% made-up; sci-fi colonization stuff; passing mention of drunkenness; poison/being poisoned; feelings of guilt and misplaced blame and stuff like that; talk of death and dying; Elliot is briefly a little bit of a jerk but they’re anxious/traumatized and also kinda young so they’re doing their best; injury and blood; let me know if I forgot any.

A/N: Have some sci-fi escapist found family hurt/comfort. This took forever, wow. Several weeks and three drafts later and here we are. Glad it’s done! My huge, undying thanks to @creativenostalgiastuff for all of her help as my beta for this fic and answering my many, many questions and dealing with my general self-doubt. First time writing sci-fi. Would love to know what you think! <3

…

Captain Logan Sanders scrubs a hand underneath his glasses and leans his head back against the glass of the circular window. The metal of the spaceship—affectionately coined Foster by the ship’s medic, Patton Hart—creaks with a dull groan. The captain usually uses the window in the ship’s armory when he needs a moment alone, as its size allows Logan to comfortably lean up against the glass and look out into the “void of space”, as their pilot—Virgil Shea—tended to describe it.

Their relations officer and navigation coordinator, Roman Prince, usually hated looking too long at it. Logan had the feeling it made him feel lonely, or homesick. Maybe both.

Logan doesn’t mind it, though he also wouldn’t have necessarily called it a “void”. Billions of stars and the occasional swirl of color meant a certainty of life that existed out there. The universe is always teeming with it, and Logan finds a greater comfort from this distanced reminder than the crowded, bustling bazaars that Roman seemed to thrive in.

Logan hears the door swish open, his head swiveling over towards the sound. The light that floods into the room illuminates the dusty iron walls and the shelves of weapons—phasers and guns lined up beside one another, boxes of ammo on the shelf above—and Logan sees a familiar figure silhouetted against the light.

“Hey, Captain,” Kai Dwyer greets, unfazed by the sight of Logan sitting in the window.

“Kai,” he replies, pushing himself up to his feet off the window ledge. He grimaces slightly as he stretches his back, having forgotten how stiff the metal makes him when he sits too long.

Kai grabs a clipboard off the wall adjacent to the door. “Thought I’d do a quick inventory check before we dock.”

Logan frowns. “Are we close?”

“Virgil said we were still a few hours out. But I wanna be thorough. Make sure I know everything we need before get on planet.”

Logan inclines his head, rolling his shoulders to shake off the lingering stiffness before he crosses towards the door. “Acceptable. Carry on.”

Kai gives a small mock-salute. “Roger that, Cap’n.” The door slides shut behind Logan.

Foster is an old ship. Even to someone unfamiliar with the schematic, it’s evident in the grated flooring, the worn metal walls and beams that hold it together, the way the pressurizer hummed on occasion. Newer models tended to be sleeker, more streamlined, and generally brighter than the dark iron walls that adorned Foster’s interior.

Logan would never admit it—even to his own crew—but he trusted Foster more than he trusted other ships. Logically, he knew it was ridiculous. In the vast majority of cases, Logan believed that newer generally meant improved. But when it came to Foster, Logan had never even considered trading it in for a newer model. Instead, if something needed fixing on the ship, then Logan would consult Virgil and their engineer, Remy, to give Foster the needed updates. The ship was as much a part of the crew as any of the rest of them and it had gotten them through it’s fair share of close calls. As far as Logan was concerned, Foster had earned the loyalty of the crew.

But of course… that an inanimate object could earn loyalty didn’t make logical sense. So Logan kept that particular sentiment to himself.

Logan hears a familiar sound of the door swishing open down the short pathway and sees Roman duck out of his room. The relations officer is wearing his white and red armor suit, and Logan arcs an eyebrow when the officer meets his gaze.

“Hey, Specs.” Roman gives a small salute that echoes Kai’s a moment ago. Logan rolls his eyes.

“Greetings. Might I inquire as to why you’re wearing armor? My understanding is that we’re about to dock for a benign venture.” Logan pauses. “Unless you know something I don’t?”

“What? Oh.” Roman glances down at himself as if he’d forgotten what he was wearing. “Sorry to disappoint, Logan. Patton wanted to check the monitors in the suit, so I’m supposed to wear it around for a little bit. Make sure the readings are all right.” He bounces on the balls of his feet. “I’ve gotta say, Kai’s upgrades to the armor are pretty cool. Check this out.”

Roman stretches an arm out to his side, and Logan has barely registered that his palm has started to glow when something bright shoots out from it and Logan throws an arm up to protect his face.

A moment later, Logan lowers his arm to see a glowing hole through one wall of the ship. Through that hole, Logan sees the med bay and Patton staring out at them with wide, startled eyes. Picani is standing on the other side of the med bay, a ukulele in his hand, having just startled out of the chair he was sitting in. Logan clenches his jaw, turning a frustrated gaze at Roman before he hears the metallic clang of footsteps climbing up the ladder and the unmistakable voice of the ship’s primary engineer.

“Girl, you better not have busted a hole in my ship again!”

At the end of the hall, Remy García’s head pokes up with a glowering look as he pulls himself up onto the top layer of scaffolding. His dark goggles are pushed back into his hair, and he’s got streaks of grease smudged across his forehead and along his cheek.

“Your ship?” Logan asks, crossing his arms over his chest. His comment goes ignored as Remy stalks down the pathway and Roman starts stammering out either an apology or an excuse.

“You’re lucky you didn’t punch a hole straight through the outer shell or we’d all be dead.”

The intercom announces its presence with a familiar click and faint static before Virgil’s voice chimes through, echoing slightly off the metal walls. “Yeah, Remy and I might’ve fixed the damage from last week but we’d rather not test it while we’re floating through the great abyss of space.”

Roman’s holding his hands up in surrender. “It was an accident!” He glances through the hole in the wall. “Sorry, Patton. Sorry, doc!”

Patton waves. “It’s okay!” he calls from inside the med bay.

Picani chuckles and waves as well. “Nobody’s hurt!”

Remy sighs and looks to Logan. “That won’t be the cheapest fix, Cap, and we maxed on the budget for ship fixes last time we docked. That pirate gang did a number on Foster.”

Logan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Roman, it’s coming out of your pay.”

Roman opens his mouth as if to argue, then closes it before nodding. “No, yeah. That’s fair.”

Remy gives Roman one more glare before turning and heading back towards the ladder that descends to the lower deck. Logan is about to head to the bridge when he hears Roman say, “I mean… you gotta admit that was pretty cool.”

“I will admit no such thing,” Logan replies dryly as he heads in the opposite direction of Remy. “At some point, I’ll have peace and quiet on my ship again.”

“I wouldn’t be sure of that!” Roman calls after him brightly.

…

“We’re probably about 3 hours out from docking, Captain.”

Elliot—Virgil’s co-pilot—makes the announcement as the door to the ship’s bridge swishes open. The corner of Logan’s mouth quirks slightly, always impressed by Elliot’s ability to know who was coming through the door without looking. Anytime Logan asked them about it, they merely shrugged.

Foster’s bridge is relatively small. Green, red, and blue dots of lights cover both walls above a row of seats with harnesses for emergency cases. Each dot of light was information about how Foster was functioning, and Logan scans both walls quickly. Everything seemed to be operating efficiently.

“Understood,” Logan replies to Elliot.

A few feet past the emergency seats along the walls are the two pilot chairs, occupied by Virgil and Elliot. Virgil flips a small metal switch, then glances over his shoulder at Logan. Virgil had been the last person to join his team when Logan was first recruiting—Picani, Kai, and Elliot didn’t join until a few months ago. Logan had been uncertain when someone whose call sign was “Anxiety” responded to his flyer in search of a pilot. But word on the street had been that Virgil was the best of the best, and Logan was running low on potential candidates that measured up to his expectations.

Virgil had more than proved the rumors. Logan owed his life to him and his piloting skills more times than he cared to admit. The entire crew did.

“So why exactly are we docking in Vannaheim?” Virgil asks. “Not that I’m not, like, totally jazzed to be going to a planet that’s 99% desert.”

Logan crosses the short distance to stand between the two pilots chairs. “Vannaheim’s dune pattern is being impacted by gravity shifts that they can’t explain. We’re there to take some observations and perhaps help their scientists develop a solution.”

Elliot glances at Virgil, then snorts at the look on his face. “You’re just mad because you can’t wear your hoodie.”

Virgil points a finger at them. “I can, and I will.”

“You will do no such thing,” Logan interjects with a pointed look. “I will not have one of my best pilots suffer heat stroke.”

“It’s my aesthetic and I like to suffer.”

Logan shakes his head, looking out above the ship’s controls to the window that spanned in front of the pilot seats. It was a similar view to the one Logan had been enjoying a moment ago in the armory window, with the addition of Vannaheim in the distance—a small, red and orange planet that was approximately half the size of Earth. Hot and dry, but slightly higher oxygen levels than were present in Earth’s atmosphere.

Logan had been to Vannaheim six years ago when an old friend of his, Corbin Wright, had requested his help with developing vegetation alternatives given the arid biosphere of the planet. He’d been concerned at the potential ecological ramifications should they introduce flora and fauna that were not native to the planet. Instead, he and Corbin and a few other scientists spent a few weeks researching the native vegetation and fauna and determining what options were most compatible with human nutritional needs.

The effort had been met with some resistance from a minority of the colonists on the planet. They formed something of a resistance group—called themselves the ‘Retribution’, which Logan still thinks is a bit excessive—that started with some minor disagreement at community meetings, but quickly devolved into accusations that their ‘way of life’ was ‘under attack’. Which was ridiculous. Logan left as things continued to escalate, knowing that his presence on the planet was likely to only heighten the tensions. It was Logan’s original idea, after all.

When Corbin reached out about the gravitational shifts, he’d said tensions had remained after Logan left—even reaching moments when Corbin worried it would turn violent—but that things seemed to have mostly settled down in the recent weeks. Logan had asked if Corbin was sure that Logan returning wouldn’t have an adverse effect on the peace in the colony.

One way to find out, Corbin had replied dryly. Logan didn’t find it particularly comforting.

…

Two and a half hours later, Logan is passing by the med bay when the click through the ship’s intercom perks his ears.

“Heads up. We’re T-minus 27 minutes until we’ll be pulling into dock.” Elliot’s voice is distorted slightly by the static hum.

It clicks off in the same moment that the doors to the med bay swish open. Patton steps out, looking down at a chart that’s projected flatly from the gauntlet on his wrist. He glances up and smiles.

“Heya, Cap.”

Logan arcs an eyebrow. “Greetings. Everything satisfactory?” He inclines his head to the chart Patton had been looking at.

“What, this?” Patton glances back down. “Yeah. Just going over the charts from the new suit readouts. I was gonna have you try yours on before we docked, but Roman’s little… surprise earlier did some damage to the chest plate as I was downloading the software.” Patton laughs. “Kai said he can fix it, but not before we dock. I did manage to salvage your helmet, though. Ya have a minute?”

Logan follows Patton through the entryway into the med bay. Perhaps “med bay” was a bit of a gracious term for it. The room was relatively small, with two gatch beds fixed to one wall, and a variety of medical equipment and read-outs that Logan only vaguely understood how to use. The room was well-equipped for as small as it was, but Patton was also the only medical doctor on the ship.

On the left gatch bed, Logan sees black armor with blue accents—and the half-melted chestplate. It resembles, in style, to the white and red armor Roman had been wearing earlier.

“I updated the heartrate monitor display, plus the one for oxygen intake,” Patton is saying behind Logan as he minimizes the chart he’d been looking at and moves to a monitor on the far wall. “I also added a body temperature gauge and a toxin sensor since you can never be too careful, y’know?”

Logan nods, lifting the new helmet and inspecting it. The exterior of the helmet looks the same as before Logan had turned it over to be updated. A dark visor shields the face, the rest of it black with dark blue accents. It matches the damaged suit that sits in pieces on the gatch bed.

“Ya like it?” Patton asks. Logan looks over his shoulder at the doctor, who had stopped what he was doing on the monitor to look expectantly at the ship captain.

Logan glances back. “It appears to be the same helmet.”

Patton grins. “Looks that way. It’s cooler now, though. I also added in some ecological monitors. Simple stuff, at least for now. Atmosphere make up, surface temperature. Working on some other stuff, but that seems like enough for a prototype, don’tcha think?”

“I suppose it does make sense to limit variable additions when testing new technology.”

“Try the helmet on for me? Oh, and you should probably take your glasses off. Kai made sure the display will adjust for your vision.”

Logan obligingly slips the dark armor helmet over his head. He reaches up to his temple on the outside of the helmet and presses in. There’s a high-pitched blip and Logan’s vision goes from dark to a bright, staticky blue. Logan instinctively shuts his eyes against the blinding onslaught.

“Yikes!” Patton yelps, and Logan senses him suddenly standing beside him. A slight pressure on his left temple, a quiet blip, and Logan’s vision goes back to black. “I’m sorry, Logan. Not sure why that happened. I’ll have Kai take a look.”

Logan slips the helmet back off. “Not to worry, Patton. I’m confident in Kai’s engineering capabilities.”

Patton gingerly takes the helmet from Logan’s arms and sets it back on the gatch bed in front of them. “Yeah, but still. We were so close to all of you getting to try the new suits!”

Logan rakes his fingers through his hair to pull it back under control from its disheveled state. It was always a mess when he took his helmet off. He slips his glasses back onto his face. “Nevertheless. Roman and Elliot’s test runs on Vannaheim should still be adequate in assessing whether the new software you’ve developed will serve its functional purpose adequately.”

Patton gives Logan’s helmet a sad pat. “Yeah, you’re right. Well, thanks for giving it a shot, Cap! Good luck down there.”

“Your luck is unneeded, but appreciated. Thank you, Patton.”

…

The blast of arid heat stings Logan’s eyes slightly as Virgil lowers the ship’s docking track. Logan smiles politely at Corbin—slightly aged from the last time he saw him, but unmistakable regardless—and the two other individuals that stand with him. Roman and Elliot linger closely behind him as Logan descends the ramp and shakes Corbin’s hand.

“It’s good to see you, Logan,” Corbin greets with a faint smile. “Allow me to introduce you. This is my partner, Sloane. And this is Valerie.”

Logan shakes both of their hands, thinking idly that Sloane’s evident excitable energy rivaled that of Patton’s. Valerie has her dark hair pulled back into a high ponytail, which isn’t necessarily a surprise given the heat. The orange and yellow sands stretch into rolling dunes in the distance, unheeded by the small colony network they’d docked in. A bright blue sky stretches above them, and Logan sees Elliot slip on a pair of sunglasses out of the corner of his eye. Roman squints and brings up a hand to shield his own vision.

“Rainwall’s gotten bigger,” Logan remarks as Corbin leads them from the dock and further into the colony.

The last time Logan had been here, it had barely been a few temporary settlement structures—really just glorified tents, in Logan’s humble opinion--cohesive enough to call a colony network but only barely. The structures look more permanent now, and there are certainly more of them. Pathways between them are not paved but are certainly worn enough with foot and vehicle traffic, and Logan is pleased to see that they put his prior suggestion of solar panels to use. The roofs of nearly every building—most of them white and domed structures of varying sizes—are covered with them.

There’s a gust of wind, kicking up the sand and dust at their feet. Logan turns his face into his shoulder to keep from inhaling. Roman coughs behind him. “Oh great,” he says with an air of drama that makes Logan roll his eyes. “This planet is going to ruin my hair.”

“You get used to it,” Valerie says.

“I definitely do not want to get used to it.”

The corner of Logan’s mouth quirks. “We could return to Dal’tera, Roman.”

“I thought we agreed to never speak of Dal’tera again.”

“You and Virgil agreed to never speak of what happened on Dal’tera again. I made no such promise.”

Although Logan doesn’t turn around, he can feel the way Elliot’s gaze flickers between Roman’s face and the back of his head. “What happened on Dal’tera?”

“It was four years ago—”

“Which is why we are leaving it in the past!” Roman cuts in insistently. “Unbelievable. The lack of trust. First, Kai disables the cool blaster-thingy on my suit, now my own captain is betraying my trust.”

The accusation is empty and with a certain familiar affection underlying the dramatics, but Logan holds his hands up in mock surrender regardless. “To Kai’s credit, you did damage the ship less than half an hour after having the technology made available to you,” he says, and Roman makes an affronted noise behind him.

“It was an accidental—”

Elliot interrupts him, sounding amused. “Did you just call it a blaster-thingy? Really?”

Logan glances over his shoulder in time to see Roman look down at his armored hand. “I don’t know the name for it.”

“It should be named something cool.”

“Yes, I agree. Perhaps we should come up with some options to run by Kai when we return.”

As they pass one of the vegetation fields, a pair of colonists wave at them from a distance. Logan sees Sloane wave enthusiastically in return out of the corner of his eye. Corbin lifts a hand in a more subdued greeting. A pair of children cut out between the buildings in front of them and barely dodge Logan and Corbin at the front of the group, shrieking with laughter.  Behind him, Elliot and Roman chat about potential names for the new technology that Kai had inputted into the suit.

It’s a familiar thrum of background noise as they make their way through the settlement. The excitable chatter and increasingly ridiculous suggestions for naming technology makes Logan vaguely grateful that Kai tended to name his own tech rather than leave it to those two. Regardless, Logan is content to let them chatter away. Especially if it kept their attention occupied as they navigate through Rainwall.

As much as the colony had grown since Logan had last seen it, it doesn’t take them too long to reach the far end of the small town. They’re led to one of the white domed structures at the far end of the network of buildings and worn pathways. Corbin inputs a four-digit code into the keypad beside the door, and Logan hears a lock click before the door swishes open.

…

Logan feels the beanbag hit the back of his head for the fourth time and doesn’t even bother to turn around.

“Sorry, Captain!” Roman says, also for the fourth time.

Logan, Corbin, and Valerie had been pouring over data spreadsheets, charts, graphs, and notes regarding the anomaly in Vannaheim’s dune pattern for the past three hours. Roman and Elliot both had tried to assist for the first hour and a half, but while they were extremely bright and intelligent people in Logan’s opinion, neither were particularly practiced or well-versed in theoretical physics or planetology. Elliot’s understanding of piloting had been helpful briefly in identifying some smaller anomalies in the gravitational shifts in the planet’s atmosphere, but that was about the extent that their expertise could help.

The pod—as Sloane had been calling the one-room building they were in—was small and simple on the inside, but certainly functional. The couch and table towards the front of the pod had been pushed against the wall to make room for the game that Roman and Sloane had started with a beanbag that Sloane happened to have handy. Towards the back were several computers, and a few chairs. Corbin sits in one, scanning over the contents of the most recent read-out, and Valerie sits in the other. Logan stands and paces in the space between them and the game of beanbag. There were a few unpacked crates blocking part of the pathway, having previously housed brand-new computer parts.

Roman sheepishly jogs the short distance between himself and the beanbag at Logan’s feet, snatching it up. Logan opens his mouth to say something when Elliot cuts him off, sitting up a bit from where they’d been lounged against the couch.

“Did you guys hear that?”

Logan frowns, but it’s Valerie who speaks up, looking up from the tablet in her hands. “Hear what?”

But then they do hear it. It’s distant, but rapidly getting closer. Shouting. Someone screams. And—

“Was that phaser discharge?” Sloane asks, his face draining of color. Elliot scrambles to their feet, crossing towards Logan and further away from the door.

“Corbin, take Sloane and get out of here,” Logan says immediately. “Valerie, you too. Get somewhere safe.”

The shout is right outside the door. Corbin grabs for Sloane and yanks him back behind him as the door swishes open, fumbling to pull the phaser out of the holster at his belt.

Logan barely has time to register that the strangled cry from Roman is his name before he feels a weight slam into him, sending him crashing to the floor just as phasers go off. Logan doesn’t know who fired first, his ears ringing slightly and Roman, a heavy weight, on top of him.

“I knew he’d come back!” a new voice—grating and sharp and a little hysterical—shrieks. “I knew fucking Logan Sanders couldn’t keep his distance! You’ve ruined our way of life one too many times you fucking piece of—” Corbin fires his phaser, a streak of green light slamming into the figure’s chest. Even through the chaos, Logan can see the switch set to stun.

“Roman,” Logan grunts as he shoves his relations officer off of him, “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Roman rolls off him with a tight grimace, an arm wrapped around himself. He doesn’t answer and he doesn’t sit up, and it’s only then that Logan sees the skin of Roman’s waist—a sickly green and black—exposed between his fingers and broken armor.

Logan’s mind kicks into overdrive, the shouting between Corbin, Valerie, Elliot and the intruders overlapping with exchanges of phaser fire fading into background noise.

Logan goes to reach for his comm at his belt before he realizes that it’s been shattered into pieces. Parts of it are melted, apparently having taken some phaser damage. Unusable. Logan changes tactics immediately, pulling the identical equipment piece off Roman’s shoulder and clicks in.

“Foster Crew,” Logan says, clipped and urgent. “Come in. We have a Code Black. Repeat: Code Black. We need immediate assistance.”

“Fucking shit,” is Virgil’s instant response, muffled from static. “What’s your location?”

Logan looks to Elliot on his left, who is staring at Roman with wide eyes having heard the call go through the comms. “Elliot,” Logan says. “Send our location.”

They blink quickly and nod, pressing a button on the gauntlet on their armor before firing another round of their phaser. It cracks against the wall. Elliot ducks back behind the create as the corner of it splinters into shards with a ricocheting crack.

Logan reaches for the wound on Roman’s waist, but Roman won’t move his hands. He’s pale, already with a thin sheen of sweat, and when his eyes flutter open, Logan doesn’t miss the glassy look in them, nor the way that they don’t seem to focus.

“Roman. Hey.” Logan taps his face, then pulls Roman’s hands away. “Look here.”

“Cap?” Roman’s voice is distant. Hazy. Confused.

When Logan yanks Roman’s hands away so that he can better assess damage, Roman makes a noise in the back of his throat that doesn’t sound fully human.

Logan doesn’t respond. The wound isn’t just phaser damage, from the little Logan can see. Phasers didn’t generally turn skin into that green-black mottled mess. There appears to be several tiny puncture wounds. Toxin, Logan thinks, and reaches for Roman’s comm again. He helps Roman sit up and lean against the crate behind him.

“Patton. Come in, Patton.”

Corbin is shouting something from where he’s taken cover against the wall on the opposite side to Logan’s left. He fires twice more.

“Roman’s vitals are all over the place,” Patton answers without having to ask what Logan needed to know. “Toxin levels are elevated and climbing. What’s happening down there?”

“Virgil, what’s your ETA?” Logan says instead of answering. He’s on autopilot, his mind racing. He can barely keep up with his own thoughts. Flashes of green phaser fire streak overhead and leave scorch marks on the white walls of the pod.

“Two minutes but it looks like you guys are pinned down. We’ll do what we can. Might be two and a half before you guys can get out.”

“Is anyone else hurt?” Logan asks to the open air.

“Not yet,” Corbin replies, ducking as another round of phaser fire hits overhead. “They’re Retribution though. No mistaking that.” He aims again, fires a few more rounds. Logan hears something heavy slump to the ground. Roman grunts and leans his head back against the crate he’s propped up against. His breathing is fast and shallow.

Despite himself, Roman gives Logan a pained smile. “I got pretty good reflexes, huh?”

“This situation hardly classifies as a testament to your reflex speed.”

“Virgil always said….” Roman grimaces. Shudders. Tries again. “Virge always said he was fastest but I could give ‘im a…. a run for his money.”

Logan frowns. “Your speech is slurring.”

“Sorry.”

Roman starts saying something about the last time he was drunk—Logan was there; they’d been celebrating Virgil’s birthday—but Logan has mostly tuned him out. His mind is still spinning. Toxin-equipped phasers were new technology to Logan. He’d heard there was potential for it, but he hadn’t looked much into the tech or its development. For it to be possible, then they’d need access to existing natural toxins. Synthetic ones wouldn’t pair as well with the phaser tech and would risk overloading or overheating the weapons. What natural toxins existed on Vannaheim?

More than one, from Logan’s memory. It had been a subsection of his research when looking into native vegetation options from the planet six years ago.

“Logan? Come in. Logan?” Patton’s voice over the comms not only interrupts Logan’s sprinting thoughts, but also causes Roman to cut off his slurred, barely coherent speech.

Logan grabs the device. “Here.”

“Roman’s getting worse. I think he’s panicking, ‘cuz his heartrate is through the roof, but that could also be the toxin. Do you know what it was?”

“I don’t. If I were to guess, based on the damage and situational factors, I’d probably assume it was a hemotoxin or necrotoxin but without more information or the ability to run tests, I cannot be certain.”

Virgil’s voice cuts into the conversation. “T-minus one minute.” Even distorted from the static, Virgil’s voice sounds strained in its own right. “Fuck, I’m going as fast as I can, Logan. Tell Princey he’s not allowed to die before I have the chance to kill him myself for being an idiot.”

Roman scoffs, but it’s weak and pained and sounds a lot more like a cough. “An idiot?” he demands incredulously.

“Message received,” Logan says dryly before setting the comm down. “Roman, take a deep breath.”

Roman sucks in a breath—shaking and thin—and winces. “Ow. Shit.” Roman’s arm wraps around his torso and he tosses a shaky smile to Logan. “I can’t believe I’m really gonna die having never beaten you at chess.”

It’s Elliot that answers him first, their voice tight and strangled and desperate. “You’re not going to die.”

“You’re not going to beat me at chess,” Logan adds. He can still hear shouting outside the pod. Roman gives a breathy laugh before his eyes unfocus again, blinking owlishly. Logan sets a firm, grounding hand on his shoulder. “Focus. Roman, tell me five things you can see.”

“Tell me five things you can see.” Roman blinks hard, then looks around uncomprehendingly. “Where… am I?”

“Vannaheim,” Logan replies smoothly despite the way his chest clenches. He cannot panic. Logan takes a breath.

Roman makes a face. “I hate Vannaheim.”

“Because the wind messes up your hair. Yes, you’ve told me.”

The door swishes open and Logan grabs Roman’s phaser from its holster and fires a shot. It cracks against the wall of the pod slightly to the left of the intruder. Logan had left his phaser on the ship. An oversight on his part. Deal with it later, Logan tells himself firmly.

“A prince has got to slay,” Roman says, his words slurred. He takes a breath that seems to tangle in his lungs, and wheezes out a cough.

“You’re wearing a uniformed suit of armor,” Logan finds himself saying. Wasn’t enough to protect him, something hisses in Logan’s mind. Logan shakes his head quickly. He’d deal with that thought later. “If you’re that worried about your appearance, wear the helmet.”

Logan estimates that it’s been about twenty seconds since his last communication with Virgil and Patton. They hear the door swish open. Valerie fires. There’s a startled cry and the door closes.

“I like the—” Roman cuts himself off with a clench to his teeth, his body visibly shuddering. He curls around himself, his head nearly pitching straight into Logan’s chest. The captain catches Roman’s shoulders, holding him steady until the trembling is back to a more manageable level a second later. He guides Roman to sit back again.

Roman’s head leans back to thump gently against the crate, his brow pinched. “Logan… you’re shaking.”

“Falsehood,” Logan replies distractedly, trying to tune in to the conversation Corbin and Valerie are having on the opposite side of the small pod given the lull in combatants. They can still hear the fight raging outside. Someone screams. Pounding footsteps.

Sloane is typing frantically into one of the computers. A second later, there’s a click by the door. “Doors are locked. Should at least slow them down,” he says.

Corbin glances back at Logan, his chest heaving in an attempt to catch his breath. His jaw sets when his eyes flicker to Roman slumped against the crate.

“You’ve gotta get out of here,” he says. “Valerie and I will cover you. As soon as Anxiety gets here, make a break for it. They’re not here for a war. They’re here for you.”

Logan opens his mouth to reply but Roman’s strained, slurred speech interrupts him. “Logan… give m’ th’ phaser.”

“Why?”

Roman’s brow furrows together like he thinks the answer should be obvious. “Figured I’d take a few of ‘em down with me while… while you two…” He grimaces again, but Logan gets the picture.

“No.”

Roman levels a look that would be a glare if his eyes would stay focused on Logan. “Be logical, Captain.”

Logan doesn’t deign the challenge with a response. He just stares at Roman—the sheen of sweat, the shallow and rapid breath, the way Roman can’t seem to support the weight of his own head—and then looks back at Corbin. “If we flee and they’re here for me, it’s not impossible that they’ll give chase.”

“We’ll ground as many as we can,” Valerie says, quickly adjusting some calibration on the phaser in her hand.

“Captain,” Roman insists, but Logan ignores him.

“Virgil will just have to shake the rest,” Logan says grimly.

“T-minus five seconds. Incoming.” Virgil’s cracked, staticky voice breaks through the comms on Elliot’s and Roman’s shoulder.

“Speak of the devil.”

“Let’s move,” Logan says, crossing back to Roman.

He figures that offering a hand to help Roman stand up wouldn’t be enough support, given that Roman seemed barely capable of holding up his own head. A fireman’s carry? Seemed excessive, at least for the time being. Perhaps Logan would default to that should Roman lose consciousness.

“’m gonna slow y’ down.” Roman’s voice is quiet, and it takes Logan a moment to decipher what he said given the way the words run together.

Logan crouches down and takes Roman’s arm, wrapping it around his shoulders and bracing one hand against Roman’s armored chestplate. “Think you can stand up?”

“Not lis’ning.”

“Answer the question, Roman.”

Roman swallows. Shudders. His arm tightens around his waist. “Yeah.”

“Three. Two. One. Up.” Logan stands, bracing most of Roman’s weight into his side. Roman nearly pitches into the floor, but he manages to get his legs underneath him and though Logan can feel him shaking with the exertion of effort, Roman is standing.

Progress.

“I’ll wait to unlock the door until you guys are right in front of it,” Sloane says and if there’s a bit of strain to his voice—if he casts a long glance at Corbin—well, Logan doesn’t say anything about it.

“Logan,” Roman says. “Lemme… lemme st…” Roman spasms, and nearly pitches right out of Logan’s grip. His hand on Roman’s chest is the only thing that keeps Roman from tumbling to the floor.

Logan goes to take a step with him—he can see black bleeding up through Roman’s neck like spilled ink and it tightens something in his chest—but Roman doesn’t move. Logan gives Roman a sharp look, opens his mouth to explain that they didn’t have time to waste, but there’s something fiery and bold beneath the haze of pain and poison that clouds his gaze.

“’m not worth—”

“It’s not your decision!” Logan cuts him off sharply. Furious. His gut twists against what he knows was the rest of Roman’s sentence. Roman releases a breath that would sound annoyed if there wasn’t a bit of a hitch to it.

“Doors opening in three. Two. One.”

Corbin and Valerie duck out first, and it’s a mess of dust and wind as Foster’s engine roars overhead, touching down as close as it reasonably can. Logan hears the reverberating pops of phaser fire exchanged somewhere in the cloud of dust. Streaks of green light criss-crossing in the sand-clogged cloud around them. Corbin yells for them to go. Elliot fires off a few shots of their own, sticking close to the two of them to fill in the gaps of phaser coverage left between Corbin and Valerie.

They run.

Or, as best as they can manage. It’s barely a loose jog, really, with Logan having to support most of Roman’s weight. But Roman manages to put one foot in front of the other and from his strangled breathing and how hard he’s shaking, Logan knows it’s about all Roman can manage to do.

Logan estimates that the distance between the pod and Foster is about a hundred or so meters. At the rate they’re moving, it should take them about twenty seconds to reach the docking ramp that Virgil lowers as soon as they touch down. Maybe less than that, if they can push the pace a bit more.

It takes ten seconds before Logan feels bright heat rip through his upper right bicep. Warm liquid spills down his arm.

“Captain!” Elliot yells, alarmed, over the chaos.

“I’m fine,” Logan grits out. “Go! Go!”

Patton meets them on the docking ramp, his eyes wide, and takes Roman’s other side to help Logan get him the rest of the way up. Elliot fires their phaser twice more as the ramp closes before ripping their comm unit off and calling into it.

“Virgil, punch it. We’re gonna have tails.”

“Fuck. Everyone accounted for?”

Logan grabs Roman’s comm. “Affirmative. Get us out of here.” Logan braces himself, and Roman, for the shift as Virgil lifts them off and takes off.

Roman sways.

Patton reaches for his wound. “Ro—”

The navigations officer collapses. Logan grunts as he and Patton both catch him before he crumples entirely, the effort tearing at the wound in Logan’s arm. Bright, hot pain ripples down his arm and up through his shoulder. Logan clenches his teeth against the sharp cry that tries to tear up his throat.

“Roman!” Elliot steps forward, but Logan holds up a hand, trying to get his breathing back under control from the fresh wave of pain.

“No, Elliot. Pilot with Virgil.”

“But I want to help!”

His arm is throbbing and Logan glances down at it, noting with a certain level of detachment that it just looks like a normal graze. No sign of toxin damage. “Help Virgil,” Logan tells them firmly, leveling a steady gaze that leaves no room for argument.

Elliot’s expression darkens before they turn and head towards the cockpit.

“I gotta get Roman to med bay,” Patton says quietly. “And get you patched up too.”

“I’m fine,” Logan says, helping Patton hoist Roman up from his half-collapsed state on the floor. “Just a graze.”

“But still.”

“It’ll heal, Patton.”

“Logan.”

Logan’s jaw snaps shut. He gives a single, stiff nod in return.

…

The next several minutes are frantic.

Patton and Logan carry Roman to the medical bay and Patton immediately pries Roman’s suit off him to get a closer look. It’s a flurry of movement as he hooks Roman up to various machines to read off information about his vitals, extracting some of the toxin from his system so Patton can run different tests on it separate from Roman’s body, all of which is made more challenging by the frequent shift in g-force as Virgil and Elliot try to lose the ships that had followed them off Vannaheim.

Logan is still on autopilot. He doesn’t stop moving. Logan helps Patton as much as he can, and it’s not until Patton is very gently helping Logan into chair to bandage his wounded arm after Roman has been fully equipped that Logan realizes the warm liquid that he’d felt down his arm was his own blood. Logan stares at Roman on the gatch bed with numb detachment and lets Patton clean and wrap the wound in his arm. It’s while Patton is tying the knot on the bandage wrapped around Logan’s bicep that Virgil clicks on over the intercom.

“I think we’ve shaken the last of them. Status update on Princey?”

Logan and Patton exchange a glance. Patton offers a sad smile and slight lift to his shoulders. Logan stands from the chair and walks to the intercom on the wall. He presses the button, waiting for the click before he speaks.

“No change. Did we take any damage?”

It’s Remy’s voice that answers him. “She’ll hold together, but Foster’s warp drive is out of commission until we can dock and I get some parts. What the hell was that all about?”

Logan swallows and leans his head against the wall for a moment. A damaged warp drive meant that getting to the next planet would take a bit longer than originally planned. He glances over at Patton, whose lips press into a grim line. Logan swallows before he answers over the intercom. “It appears that some prior work I did on that planet in an effort of sustainability warranted a minority of individuals harboring some… hostility.”

Behind him, Patton is peering at the monitors with Roman’s vitals. “Seems like more than just some hostility.”

“And we’re sure Wright is gonna be fine down there?” Virgil asks.

“Reasonably,” Logan replies. “Their hostility was directed predominantly at me.”

“And yet Roman—oh, wait. Hey, Cap, you might wanna come up here. We’ve got a message inbound from Vannaheim.”

Logan sighs. “I’ll be right there.”

Logan isn’t sure what to expect. He can’t fairly say that he is surprised. It made sense that they would attempt contact, especially given that they had successfully evaded their trail. And expecting the message to wait certainly wouldn’t have made sense—they’d be out of signal range within a few minutes. Logan considers, briefly, letting the message go unanswered. But there couldn’t be any harm in talking, right? Perhaps Logan could even appease them enough to quell some of the hostile action that could—had, did—put innocent people in harm’s way.

His arm throbs. Logan looks over his shoulder at Roman, prone on the gatch bed. Pale, except for the side that got hit being a smattering of mottled green and black. The black bleeds in curling tendrils across his chest, up his shoulder, his neck.

Patton catches him staring and gives him another one of those sad smiles. “I’m doing what I can for him, Captain.”

Logan swallows and nods. He squeezes Patton’s shoulder on his way out.

He tries very hard to not look at the hole through the wall that Roman had blasted earlier today. Instead, he focuses on the weight of his measured, calculated footsteps against the grated scaffolding. The very faint and yet oddly familiar, comforting scent of iron that lingered on the inside of the ship despite Patton’s best attempts to fix it. He counts in his head how many steps it takes from the door of the med bay to the cockpit.

The answer is eighteen.

The door swishes open and Virgil cranes his neck around. Elliot doesn’t even show signs of having heard the door opened at all.

“Ready, Captain?” Virgil asks, his finger poised over one of the buttons in front of him.

Logan steadies a hand on the back of Virgil’s chair and nods. “Yes.”

The screen in front of them blips on and Logan stares in surprise as Corbin, Sloane, and Valerie’s faces fill the frame. “Hey, they made it!” Sloane says brightly. Logan can still feel tension pulling his shoulders taught.

“Barely,” Elliot says, so quietly Logan almost doesn’t hear it. Logan sees Virgil glance at them, his brow furrowing.

“How’s Roman doing?” Valerie asks.

“We’re working on it,” Logan says.

“You mean Patton’s working on it,” Elliot cuts in.

“Yes,” Logan acquiesces. “I do mean that. Our ship’s medic, Patton Hart, is doing what he can. How are things there?”

“Our earlier assumptions proved accurate,” Corbin replies with a shrug. “They followed you. The ones that didn’t were angry, but hostility tapered off once they realized they were outnumbered and that you were gone.”

“I apologize for bringing you under some fire. That wasn’t my intention.”

“It’s not like you could’ve known,” Sloane says with a dismissal wave.

“We’re about to lose signal,” Virgil says quietly.

“Hey, keep us updated about Roman, will you?” Corbin asks.

Sloane and Valerie both nod. “We’re just as worried about him as you are!”

Elliot mutters something under their breath that Logan doesn’t quite catch, but from the suddenly furious look Virgil shoots them, perhaps it was better that he didn’t. Logan assures them that they will let them know as soon as there’s any change to report. Virgil cuts the feed and flexes his grip around the ship’s controls.

“What the hell was that?” Virgil demands suddenly. For a moment, Logan frowns in confusion before he realizes that the question was meant for Elliot and not himself.

“Forget it,” Elliot replies with a quick glance to Logan.

“Bullshit,” Virgil shoots back. His grip on the controls look too tight to be comfortable. “You’re not good with confrontation. Fine. But you don’t get to sit there and make passive-aggressive jabs at our captain after the shit-show we just dealt with. One that he got you out of, I might add. What’s wrong with you?”

“Okay—” Logan says, placatingly, but Elliot interrupts him.

“What’s wrong with me?” they demand, waving a hand towards Logan. “What’s wrong with him? He doesn’t seem phased in the slightest! Roman was shot trying to protect him and he just acted like he didn’t care—”

“Because that’s his fucking job!” Virgil turns a glowering look onto Elliot.

“Virgil,” Logan tries, bewildered at the argument, but they both seem to have forgotten that Logan is even there.

Virgil continues, tearing his gaze back to the stars stretching in front of them. “He’s the Captain, Elliot. It’s his job to make sure shit gets done, and that is especially true when one of us gets hurt. Logan doesn’t fall apart during a crisis but don’t you dare suggest that means he doesn’t fucking care.”

Elliot is silent. Logan doesn’t know what—if anything—he should say. Virgil heaves a sigh and rakes a hand through his long bangs. “I mean, shit. Look, I know today has been a lot. The past two hours have been a lot. And you haven’t been with us very long. But if you don’t know anything about our Captain, know this: Logan speaks how he cares in his actions. All you have to do is pay attention.”

Logan blinks. He forgot sometimes how closely Virgil watched other people, including himself. He’d noticed it in the beginning when Virgil had first joined, but Virgil had mostly dismissed it and said it was an “anxiety thing”. Logan didn’t know that he believed that, but over time, Virgil’s steady, watchful gaze had become less unsettling and more comforting. Until Logan forgot entirely just how much Virgil paid attention to the people around him.

Elliot sighs. They don’t look up, but Logan hears their words regardless. “I’m sorry, Captain. I was… unfair.”

“It’s understandable,” Logan replies, surprised at being suddenly addressed. His mind is still reeling. Too full of information that is racing through his mind to fully process the argument that just ensued.  “Take a breath, Elliot. Get some rest.”

“I…” Elliot looks like they want to argue, but they seem to change their mind. They stand up and look to Virgil. “Are… you good?”

Virgil glances at them, and something softens in his expression. “Yeah, kid. I’m good here.”

Elliot nods absently, then disappears through the cockpit doors. Virgil glances over his shoulder at Logan. “You should get some rest too, Captain.”

“I’m fine.”

Virgil sighs. He doesn’t press him.

…

Days go by. Patton manages to get Roman to stable vitals and Logan thinks he can hear the collective sigh of relief across the ship when the announcement comes over the staticky intercom. But Roman doesn’t wake up, and Patton tells them that he isn’t sure when—or if—it’ll happen. Logan spends most of these days in the med bay, doing what he can with his scientific knowledge to assist Patton’s tests on the toxin. Kai joins them for short periods of time, putting his knowledge of weapons and tech to some use in the long hours.

They manage to come up with an antidote somewhere around what would be a little past two in the morning Earth-time of the second day. It cleanses Roman’s system of the poison, but damage had been done. It was difficult to ascertain exactly how much.

Logan doesn’t sleep much. He thinks Patton notices, but whenever the doctor tries to bring it up, Logan shrugs him off. His usually rigid circadian schedule had been disrupted by bad dreams that echo with Sloane’s pale face and Elliot’s shaking hands and Roman’s strained words. The last words he’d gotten out. I’m not worth—and every time, Logan wakes up before Roman can finish the thought. So Logan gets enough sleep to function, and he spends the rest of his time in the med bay and around the ship making himself useful.

All the crew find time to stop in on occasion as the days press forward. Virgil and Elliot take shifts. Picani makes sure that Patton and Logan are eating, and sometimes sits and talks to Roman’s unconscious form. Patton does that too—talk to him. Whenever he gives Logan an update with a new chart read out, he speaks as if Roman can hear him.

When Logan eventually asks him about it—if he thinks Roman can hear them—Patton lifts a shoulder and replies, “I don’t know. I hope so. And it helps me to talk to him anyway, y’know?”

Logan tries it when Patton goes to bed that night. He sits in the chair that Remy had grabbed and set beside Roman earlier that day and listens to the way the silence of the ship at this hour seems to echo against the old metal walls and bracing. Foster had been quieter in general in the past several days. Less laughter. Less teasing. Less… vibrant.

“That’s your fault, you know,” Logan says quietly, looking at Roman. “As much as I always complain about your insufferable noise level, I’ll admit I had grown… accustomed to it.”

Roman’s face is still startlingly pale, but it had lost the sickly sheen of sweat. He breathes evenly. Regularly. Logan listens to it for a moment, grateful that it at least wasn’t the shaking, shallow wheezes it had been on Vannaheim. The black-and-green stain on Roman’s skin had mostly faded. He’d have a scar, Patton said, on his waist where the initial hit happened. But the rest of it should go back to normal in a day or two.

“Now the quiet just seems…” Logan sighs. He listens again as the ship groans. “It seems heavy. Though you’d probably mock me for the use of the chremamorphism. Ordinarily, I’d qualify it with literal or figurative, as I know that silence cannot carry a physical weight, but…” Logan breaks off. It feels like a literal weight, hanging over the ship like a fog and darkening the iron walls. Weighing on the shoulders of those who move within the space.

Logan sighs. Scrubs a hand across his eyes under his glasses with exhaustion. “There’s something that has been bothering me, Roman. Something that I need to say to you.”

Logan leans forward. Bows his head. “You tried to tell me that you weren’t worth the risk of getting you to safety. Which is, honestly, bullshit. I don’t leave my people behind, Roman. You, of all people, should know that. And you… you shouldn’t have taken that shot. That was meant for me.”

Logan wonders, now that he’s said it aloud, if the weight on his shoulders from the silence is really the weight of his own guilt. Poised over his head like a pendulum on the verge of snapping.

Bearing Roman’s weight on Vannaheim had not felt this heavy. Logan realizes suddenly that his hands are shaking. He clasps them together in front of him between his knees.

“I’m the Captain,” Logan says. “It’s my job to keep you all safe, and I let you down. That’s on me. And… I am sorry, Roman. I am sorry for my shortcomings as a leader and as a friend. Because if you felt unworthy of being saved, I’m afraid I have failed in both responsibilities.”

A voice from the door to the med bay startles Logan. “It isn’t your fault, L.”

Logan looks over his shoulder towards the sound and finds Virgil leaning against the entry way. Logan blinks in surprise. He hadn’t even heard the doors open. Virgil just watches him with a quiet, unwavering gaze, even if there’s something a little softer in his eyes than Logan is used to seeing.

“Virgil,” Logan greets, pushing his glasses further up his nose and standing. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Virgil shrugs a shoulder, glancing to Roman. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d check in on Princey.” He pauses, his gaze flickering back to Logan. “And you, too.”

“I’m fine.”

“He doesn’t blame you for what happened,” Virgil says, stepping further into the medical bay and letting the doors swish shut behind him. He’s got his hands shoved into the pockets of his purple plaid-patched hoodie.

Logan shakes his head. “But I do. I should have been more vigilant.”

“Weren’t you the one who taught me that dealing with ‘I should have’ is a dangerous and unproductive thought pattern?”

Logan hesitates. He can’t argue with that. He remembers the conversation from years ago. “Roman shouldn’t have been put into that situation.”

“He did it to protect you.”

“I didn’t ask him to do that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“But—”

“Logan,” Virgil cuts in, tossing his hands up in exasperation, “All of us? On this ship? We’re a family. You didn’t ask for that, but it happened. You are not the only one who cares about other people on this ship.”

“I know that.”

“Then know that any one of us would do what Roman would do if meant protecting you. We look out for each other.” Behind him, the door swishes open again but Virgil doesn’t even turn around. “We protect one another. All of us. You protect us, we protect you. That’s how this shit works.”

Patton steps into the med bay in a cat onesie. His pajamas. He pads quietly into the room, tugging the hood off his head. “Virgil’s right, Cap. We’re a family here. Like it or lump it.”

“And while this may be your ship,” Virgil says as Patton crosses to the monitors on the wall. “We don’t plan to go anywhere any time soon. You’re stuck with us.”

Despite himself, Logan cracks a faint smile.

“Yeah,” croaks a voice from the gatch bed that makes Logan whirl around. “Couldn’t get rid of us if ya tried, Cap.”

Roman’s eyes are open and glinting with something that Logan can’t quite decipher in the dark. Amusement, but something softer too. Patton gasps and rushes over, helping Roman sit up a bit more and grabbing the glass of water with a straw that he’d been refreshing each day for this very event. Roman takes a grateful sip and leans his head against Patton in silent gratitude. Patton smooths his hair with a gentle pat before helping Roman lean back in the bed again.

“How do you feel?” Virgil asks.

“Like I was shot.”

Virgil snorts.

Patton asks him a series of questions that are a bit more pointed—“Any dizziness, Roman? Do you know who I am? Do you know where you are? Are you feeling nauseous?”—and adjusts some of the machines to accommodate for an awake patient. Roman is a bit slow with his answers, and a bit slower still for the orienting ones, but he answers them accurately and cracks a few jokes in the meantime, and Logan just watches, feeling some of the tightness in his chest ease a bit.

When Patton makes a joke and the ship hears Roman’s laughter for the first time in almost a week, Logan thinks maybe he’ll finally be able to sleep through the night.

 ...

Tags: @helloisthisusernametaken, @ren-allen, @quoth-the-sparrow, @princelogical, @random-pianist, @ravenclawicecream, @erlenmeyertrash, @milomeepit, @at-least-seven-pretty-potatoes, @rileyfirstname, @pinkeasteregg, @sassy-in-glasses, @vigilantvirgil, @generalfandomfabulousness, @lacrimosathedark, @thepoolofthedead, @monikastec, @heir-of-the-founders, @yourworstnightmare999, @artistictaurean, @kanejandkruge, @cdragontogacotar, @damienswifeolicitydallysgirl, @angst-patton, @savingshae, @noneed4thistbh, @awesomelissawho, @unikornavenger, @bopthesnoz, @spiralofsilencetheory, @finger-gunsss, @crownswriter123, @swlotakulady34, @gaylotusthatexists, @analogical-mess, @dolphidragon, @flix-net, @narniasfinestavengingsociopath, @friedlieb-ferdinand-runge, @bibbidy-bobbity-booyah, @procrastinations-my-middle-name, @theburntesttoast, @monroig, @secretlyawyvern, @puddinglec4t

[zutaraangtastic]

I have a prompt idea! This idea fits into more of an Aged up Zukataang headcanon. Drunk!Katara preferably interacting with both Zuko and Aang. On the Fluffy side. I think it would be amusing and cute.

hi! if you're still doing prompts, may I offer "little spoon zuko" ?

Combined these two prompts, accidentally went overboard and wrote more like a whole fic than a drabble! (Can be read without context, but for the best experience, read as a missing scene from ch. 10 of Heartlines by kuchi/Mod K.) - Mod J

There’s always been casual touch between them and Zuko: Katara’s instinctive hand holding, borne of navigating her village with her family during fierce white-out blizzards; Aang’s penchant for hugging him like a panda on a tree, which became all the more comically ridiculous when he outgrew Zuko. 

But it had taken Zuko time to adjust to those habits, even when they meant only friendship. Katara knows to expect some hesitation, now that they’re adding another layer of love to their actions. They’ve agreed to take this slow, ease into the newness of being able to show their full affection.

It’s a good thing, too, because he seems almost overwhelmed just by this, sitting with them in the near-dark as they take turns playing with his hair, leaning into his shoulder, kissing him. 

When Katara breaks their latest, lingering kiss and looks up at Zuko, his pupils are wide, shaken, though she’s already lost track of how many times she’s done this. How many times Aang has. They’ve been in too good a mood for any lingering nerves to interfere. With Zuko’s enthusiastic—if stumbling—assent, it’s hard not to kiss him, and hard not to do more.

Talk has dwindled, but they’ve been here for hours and said all they possibly could. About their feelings, about their future, about everything. It’s a relief to finally let loose after the whirlwind the past few months have been.

The sweet palm wine helps, leaving Katara pleasantly fuzzy-headed. She’s come to suspect Aang doesn’t mind the secondhand taste of it on her tongue, or Zuko’s, nearly as much as he pretends. And she doesn’t mind watching them, feeling the bloom of nervous warmth in her gut, almost like the old eagerness of first-time teenage exploration with Aang.

The lantern’s firelight blurs a fraction when she tilts her head, gaining sharpness only in the twin reflections between Zuko’s and Aang’s eyes, which flicker open as Aang pulls back to let Zuko catch his breath. Katara notices the subtle tell of Zuko about to flip the script, the stubborn squint a moment before he takes the back of Aang’s neck and yanks him in, harder this time. Aang makes a muffled, surprised sound. The warmth in Katara’s stomach drops into a tense thrill, like when Appa plummets suddenly during flight.

Aang is the one left breathless this time, and it’s more than a little impressive, considering he’s an airbender. After a moment, the fierceness in Zuko’s posture eases, and the delightful tension fades. His voice is raspy when he murmurs, glancing to Katara, “Stay. It’s gotten late.”

It wasn’t initially part of their plan, but Katara nods, smiling over the rim of her glass. She’s game if they are, trusts that they can all handle themselves—it’s wonderful that Zuko thinks so too. They’ve shared beds as pairs before, though that was without this passion simmering so openly between them.

“Is that your way of saying you’re ready to take us to bed?” Aang asks, grinning and wiggling his eyebrows. Katara might have to think twice about it, in that case, because he’s the only one who hasn’t been drinking, and poor Zuko’s gone strawberry-red.

“Not like that, I’m not – I mean, no pressure, only if you want—”

Nothing will come of it yet, rationally speaking; Aang’s a flirt, but when she thinks back on it, he said things like that to Zuko even before confessing his undying love for him, so Zuko must know better than to take him seriously.

Then again, nothing feels serious right now, everything perfectly light and crystalline and dreamy, all the weight of secrecy lifted from her heart. She can’t help but laugh. It infects Zuko, too, his embarrassed glower slipping and lips twitching into a smile as he shakes his head at Katara.

“So much for waiting for our honeymoon at the palace,” she says, leaning across him to poke Aang accusingly in the chest.

“Okay, okay,” Aang says, glancing at Katara as he nuzzles into the crook of Zuko’s neck with playful smugness. In return, Katara sticks her tongue out at him as she wraps herself around Zuko’s arm. “Maybe His Royal Hotness just doesn’t want to admit he’s getting sleepy.”

Zuko rolls his eyes, but he makes no move to escape them. “I changed my mind. I’m kicking you both out.”

“Too late!” With a huff of air, Aang sends himself flying backwards and lands sprawled on the nearby mattress, making himself at home.

Katara’s laughter keeps bubbling up like a running stream, trickling off only when she curves her arm around Zuko’s head and pulls him into another kiss of her own. When she stands, she’s only a little unsteady on her feet, and takes hold of both of Zuko’s hands to pull him with her. He goes to snuff out the lantern, while Katara sits on the edge of the bed and starts to let down her hair for the night. 

Aang helps without being asked, taking extra care to disentangle the ties painlessly. Katara closes her eyes with a pleased hum, enjoying his familiar hands massaging her scalp.

Yawning, she cracks her eyes open again to find Zuko still crouched by the lantern, watching her and Aang with something inscrutable in his expression, something both fragile and ardent. The low-burning light casts half his face in a mellow orange glow, until he shakes himself from his reverie and puts out the candle’s flame.

“Come on, I promise I won’t let my husband jump you,” she says, patting the space beside her.

“Hey, I’m not planning to do anything indecent!” Aang protests. Katara glances over her shoulder to find him pouting and giving Zuko his best innocent Appa eyes. “I am staying in the middle, though. Unless you want to?”

Zuko shakes his head, drifting closer but still hesitating. “No, it’s just – three’s a crowd, right? I can take the sofa, and you two can have the bed, if it’s easier.”

There’s a point to that—this bed is probably meant to comfortably accommodate two at most, and Aang might as well be a person and a half, all lanky arms and legs everywhere, but Katara’s not about to let that stop them. “Zuko,” she says, with the specific kind of misplaced authority she gets only around the time that tiredness overtakes tipsiness for her. “After everything we’ve said, you really think we’d even think of stealing your bed without you?”

Zuko opens his mouth, closes it again, and eventually says, smiling, “That barely makes sense.”

“C’mere,” Aang says, and finally, Zuko does. 

He’s still awkward when he sits next to Katara, still stiff and uncertain when Aang wraps his arms around them both. She doesn’t know whether to call it silly or sad, that Zuko has such trouble letting his guard down, letting himself accept their love, even after admitting he’s wanted this for a long time. That he never thought he would have it. Maybe that he never thought he deserved it?

She’s reached the point where she wants to cry a little bit, but she doesn’t, just presses her forehead together against his and Aang’s and lingers in the quiet intimacy of the moment. Everything she wants is right here in this room.

Eventually, Aang reaches for Zuko’s casual evening robes, with a gentle “Can I?” As he helps Zuko out of his clothes, Katara unwinds the ribbon securing Zuko’s topknot and adds it to the pile of her hair bands on the bedside table. She smooths out his hair before shrugging out of her own outer layers, down to sarashi. Normally, she likes the freedom of sleeping without the wrappings, but she figures they’re trying to maintain some propriety for Zuko’s sake, both he and Aang keeping their loose pants on.

Katara runs her hands lightly over Zuko’s bare shoulders, presses a kiss to his collarbone and then his cheek. “I’m glad we’re here with you,” she says sincerely, raising her hands to cup his face. “Earlier, I thought, we could be ruining our friendship, that we’d be forcing our feelings on you. And if you ever don’t feel what we feel, we can always stop, or—”

“Katara, please,” he whispers, and it’s a genuine entreaty, his lips ghosting against the side of her thumb. “It’s not – it’s just me, I’m not…good. At any of this. But it’s not that you’re forcing anything, I promise.”

“Hey, you are good,” Aang says, taking both of Zuko’s hands in his. “You’re amazing, in fact. You’ve changed our lives in so many ways.”

Zuko exhales a shaky breath, a hint of a self-deprecating laugh. “Not always for the better.” He pauses, looking everywhere except for them. Katara and Aang exchange a stricken look; it’s always heart-wrenching, to hear the way he mistrusts himself. “I just worry I’ll…what if I mess it up? Everything you have, it’s already perfect, and I don’t want you to have to sacrifice that for me. What if it’s not worth it, what if I’m…not?”

Wordlessly, Aang pulls him into a tighter hug. Zuko makes a slightly distressed sound, but holds on when Aang starts to let go in confusion and worry. With his nails digging into Aang’s arm, Katara can’t help but think he looks almost like a scared animal, utterly incongruous with the Fire Lord she knows, the image of confident power he projects. In a way, she’s always known it to be a projection, at least in part—that beneath the surface, there’s still the old volatility, like a riptide beneath a calm stretch in the waves. 

He’s grown so much, but there’s still something lost about him, something hunted. As if he still doesn’t think he’s earned his peace, and makes himself restless with doubt in recompense.

Katara’s throat closes up, and she blinks through the wateriness in her eyes as she twines her fingers with Zuko’s. He squeezes her hand so tightly it trembles.

“Listen,” she says with difficulty, “I’d gladly sacrifice plenty of things for you, I know we both would. But it is so much more than that, it’s – it’s hoping, and it’s knowing you better every day, and knowing Aang better through you, and seeing you both in everything I do for the rest of my life. You’re not taking anything away from us.”

“You’re giving us so much,” Aang finishes the thought for her, perfectly on the same wavelength. “We’re figuring this out together, all three of us. Maybe it won’t always be the easiest thing, but it is the most freeing. It already makes me so happy, just being able to be close to you. And if this makes you happy, too, then it’s so worth it. You’ve just gotta let yourself trust in it. Do you trust us?”

Zuko nods slowly, but unhesitatingly, and the nervous hunch of his shoulders starts to relax. He loosens his grip on Aang and Katara with an apologetic glance. Noticing her tears, he reaches up to brush them away, and when he meets Aang’s eyes, Katara can tell Zuko’s really seeing him again. He kisses Aang’s knuckles, then hers, softly. 

“We all have to leave in the morning, don’t we?” he says. “It’s probably time to sleep.”

Katara sighs and sinks back into the mattress, and Aang follows, pulling Zuko with him. “I wish we had more time,” she murmurs, resting her forehead against Aang’s back. 

“Someday we’ll have all the time in the world,” Aang says, and he sounds so assured that Katara almost finds it easy to believe the same.

“Maybe when we’re retired,” Zuko says with a small snort.

“Hey, lucky you, you get to retire! ‘Avatar’ is a lifelong job title, Mr. Fire Lord.”

Zuko musters a chuckle, and Katara props herself up with one arm beneath her head, so she can look at him over Aang’s shoulder. He’s lying on his side, facing her and Aang, bathed in the moonlight pooling in through the window.

It’s not the first time she’s noticed their matching lightning scars, the wounds she healed for each of them. These days Zuko is only shirtless during sparring matches with Aang, though, and those are always a blur of acrobatics and heat—not that she ever complains, when she gets the chance to watch. But it’s rare to observe them both so still together. Katara can trace around the familiar, messy red sprawl midway down Aang’s spine that interrupts the line of his tattoo, and almost be able to reach out and touch Zuko’s, sharper and neater on the edges, maybe from his partial redirection back then.

She resists the urge, not wanting to dwell more on the turmoil of the past when they’ve worked so hard to focus tonight on the shining bright future ahead of them. For now, she can content herself with knowing that they’re both safe, here with her.

Aang’s breathing is deepening into near-sleep, one hand extended and tangled with Zuko’s. Katara stretches her arm to join the hand pile, though Aang’s is inconveniently longer and in the way. Zuko scoots closer to accommodate, offering up his other hand to her. His long lashes sweep in a slow blink, but he’s still awake. For the first time, she notices those are mismatched in the same way as his eyebrow, never regrown on the burned side.

“You know, you have to actually close your eyes to sleep,” she says softly.

Zuko gives her a faint smile. “Yeah. I just don’t want to open them again, and find out I’ve been dreaming.”

“Aww, you’d—” Aang interrupts himself with a wide yawn “—you’d dream about us?”

“Hah, you have no idea.”

Aang laughs, and Katara raises an eyebrow with interest. But again, they’ll have to leave that for another time.

“It might help if you get comfortable,” she says, before Aang can tease Zuko further. “Turn over.” After a moment, Zuko complies, but just stays there, facing away. “Not like – I meant, turn over, and come closer, too.”

“Like spoons,” Aang adds helpfully, as Zuko shuffles into cuddling range, his back close to Aang’s chest.

Katara curls her arm across them both. “There. Now, relax. We’ve got you.”

It takes several minutes of hesitant shuffling, tiny adjustments, tensed muscles beneath her palm. While Aang’s hand rests automatically around Zuko’s middle, Katara moves hers up, reaching for his hair to thread her fingers through it, trying to soothe him. Surprisingly, it seems to help. Zuko leans his head into her touch, eases back against Aang, and breathes out a sigh that sounds…relieved.

“Love you,” Aang mumbles, almost asleep for real now. Katara knows he doesn’t intend it just for her, but she kisses his forehead, making him hum pleasantly and tangle one ankle with hers as he secures his gentle hold on Zuko.

As she’s drifting off, she hears Zuko murmur, “I –” and hesitate, his quiet swallow audible in the stillness of the night. “I’ll be better at this next time,” he says eventually. “I promise.”

Katara lays her hand over his heart. It’s still beating too fast for him to be totally at rest, but slowing, little by little. “I love you too, Zuko.”

[lothirielswanmarvel]

The Earthen Goddess

Summary: Long ago, in a time before spidermen and avenging heroes, Loki convinces Thor to undergo a vision to meet his future lover.

Love interest: Thor

~Thor, Asgard, 500 Years Earlier~

“You jest.”

“I can do it. Swear on Freya’s cursed boar.”

I scoffed at my brother. Loki was slim and long-limbed compared to other Asgardians. His face was even more unique; it had potent cheekbones that jut out like his daggers. They always made my brother look refined, and incredibly conniving.

My brother’s emerald eyes lit up with mirth. “I’ve been working on visions with mother.”

“So you are a witch after all?” I teased, raising my draught to my lips.

Loki rolled his eyes. “And you a lumbering oaf—this is a discussion for another time. These visions give me a glimpse into the future. Tell me there aren't things you don't want to know?”

I didn't bother with the maze of words he weaved. I simply tipped my drink back, stealing a glance at him over my mug of ale.

Loki huffed. “Come on—you’ve been with countless men and women. Don't you want to know whom you might end up with?”

My eyebrows furrowed. Loki and I had different opinions on the subject of love. For him, it was a dance. It was a mental game. I thought of romance as more of a sensation; something deep and warm and trusting. It was suspicious for him to bring up the matter.

“I’ll know when I find them,” I told him, setting down my drink with more force than I intended.

“Why not know now?”

“I like surprises—except when they involve you.”

Loki paused, his thin lips pressed together. My eyes widened as I realized what my words had implied.

“I am happy you are my brother. I would replace you with no other, Loki.” My hand clapped on his fragile, bone-thin shoulder. “Although, I prefer when there isn’t a knife in your hand.”

Loki nodded. His face still held that slight distortment. Sometimes that warped expression appeared around Volstagg and Hogan. Our friends. He called them my friends.

“Alright, I’ll agree to this vision.” I surrendered, watching the triumph glint in my brother’s eyes.

“You will not regret this, brother.” Loki stood from the wooden chair of the inn. It was a quiet night, and we had sat together in peace. Sometimes the crowds were smaller in Loki’s presence. “We’ll retreat to my chambers. We shouldn't require anything.”

“And if this is a trick…” I warned as I rose beside him.

“You’ll zap me at meals in the dining hall, or leave that damned hammer of yours around where I can stub my toe—like you usually do.”

“Mjolnir likes you, brother!”

“My knives are better.”

“But mine is more famous.”

“Oh, shut up.”

It was a quiet night. None pursued us in our journey back to the kingdom—perhaps it was Loki’s doing with some deceptive spell. My thoughts were confirmed when we stumbled upon a pair of guards and Loki suddenly cried, “Mmblerg, it's me!”

The stabbed guard was ushered to the infirmary.

The golden halls were easy to navigate. Their grand splendor was a common sight to us. There was an air of formality to our home, a dignification that made it hard sometimes to be at peace. We had to appear strong. Father preferred a projection of grace that Loki took too seriously.

We arrived at Loki’s chambers. The walls were furnished with books and peculiar objects and glaring daggers. Loki placed himself before a basin of what appeared like water, drizzling a few herbs and murmuring words I didn't understand.

“Boys?”

The voice was elegant and poised, and yet it still managed to be warm and loving. Mother peeked in curiously from the open doorway, assessing us. Her eyes were blue, most of the time—other days they were a colder gray, or a darker green. Tonight they were a pale cobalt, like a calm sky before a tempest.

“Hello, mother.”

“Loki, if another guard ends up in the healing rooms…”

“I know, I know!” Loki remained concentrated on the small pool of water.

Mother’s perfectly curved eyebrows dipped slightly. She leaned more into the room. “What are you two scheming?”

“Loki told me that you’ve been instructing him in visions of the future. It sounds exciting,” I said, hoping the enthusiasm for magic sounded real.

“Hmm,” Mother looked me over. The hem of her pink robes billowed at the entrance. “I think you’ll be pleased, Thor. But you must be patient.”

I didn't understand, but I never questioned her. “Of course, mother.”

She nodded, somewhat satisfied. “Well then...I’ll leave you to it.”

“See you in the morning light, mother.”

Mother lingered a few more moments. “What, no kiss?”

“We’re not three hundred years old anymore, mother.” Loki remarked.

I ignored my brother’s words and embraced her at the door. “I love you.”

“And I you, dear. If you could reiterate that to your brother when I leave, I would appreciate it.”

“Anything for the most magnificent woman in the nine realms,” I replied.

Her hand stroked my cheek. “She’s very lucky.”

Mother left without a sound in her wake. I moved towards my brother and stopped a few paces away.

“Stop scowling at me, I spend many hours of the day with her—my love is known.” Loki snapped.

“Did you tell her telepathically? With your witch powers?”

Loki muttered an irritated tsk sound like a provoked snake. His fingers flashed across the surface of the water, and the surface bled crimson.

“Is it...supposed to do that?” I asked warily as the scarlet color possessed the entire basin.

Loki shrugged with little concern. “Mostly. Here,”

His fingers flexed and suddenly a goblet was in his grasp. He filled the goblet with the red mixture and offered it to me. “The future awaits, brother.”

I took the offering tentatively, holding my stare with my brother. There was no hint of mischief in his eyes, but Loki was good at hiding things.

I raised the potion to my lips. It had a sweet taste, but not an enjoyable one. I had a stomach of steel; I would endure, but it didn't make the experience any more glorified.

When I finished the draught, I handed it back. The room began to spin.

Loki’s words floated to my ears. “Your future lover may not show up immediately. Your surroundings will change, sometimes there will be others present, but you will know it's her when you see her.”

“How?” It was hard to frame the question. A sick feeling grew in my stomach. The room was dominated by green. A dark, thirsting green that feasted on every other color.

“You’ll know.”

Loki was gone.

Asgard was gone.

I was now in an empty corridor. The change in scenery was contrasting to the lit golden halls: it was a narrow hallway with dark wood. I noticed a few peculiar stains. I glanced around. A sneer of disapproval began to grow on my lips.

This is my future? This is where the love of my life is supposed to be…?

It had to be a trick. Would I ever learn to stop falling for my brother’s mind games? What act was he avenging this time—?

“Thor.”

I peered down the edge of the hallway. A man appeared. He was blond, hair cut even shorter than Loki’s, but he did not have the appearance of a serf. His appearance didn't match any social ladder on Asgard. Well muscled, like a warrior. The fabric he wore was frail and common-looking.

“Good work out in the field today. Stark says we’re meeting up for a rendezvous at the shawarma place a few blocks off—see you there.” The man clapped me on the back as he passed. I frowned. He didn't appear familiar. I didn't believe he was my future lover—Loki preferred the company of men more than I.

I shook my head and continued walking down the dreary hallway. I was curious now—who was I looking for? Was she Asgardian? Did she like snakes? I hoped she liked rain.

“You don't look like him.”

I turned, shocked that I hadn't heard the newcomer arrive. She was far more intimidating than the last visitor—raven locks, eyelids bruised.

The woman smiled, like she knew a secret that I didn't. “No. You don't look like him at all.”

Like the last one, she turned and vanished into the endless void of the corridor.

I paused for a moment. She did look familiar, but I couldn't place her. Somehow, she reminded me of Mother. Her resemblance to Loki left me uncertain.

I carried on, suddenly curious about what the future implied. Loki said I would run into others—but would I ever find her? I wasn't interested at first. I liked to think that I would decide my own fate, shy away from those cosmic forces and claim my destiny on my own. But now, I was curious. I wanted to know what the universe had in store.

The smell was the first thing I noticed. It was sweet—not like the draught Loki offered, this actually smelled nice. Like the royal kitchens of Asgard when preparing a feast for a celebration. This was a sugary scent, something savory I had never smelled before. It aroused my senses.

There was a window at the end of the hall. Light stretched out and danced across the dark panes of wood. I followed the smell. I heard someone faintly humming.

There was a door at the end of the hall, wide open. I couldn't see inside yet, but it was the only door I had passed that permitted others entrance. The smell intensified, becoming mouthwatering.

“—Mmph, these are good. Cassie’s hooked on these, can I take the ones that you messed up on back to her?” The voice was male. I didn't recognize it.

“Don't be ridiculous, Scott. I’ll whip up a new batch for her.”

“Seriously? No wonder you literally got ‘angel’ in your name. I think I'm in love with you.”

“That love is called cupcakes.” A woman spoke. She spoke in a silvery tone, so light and friendly. It was nice to listen to.

I reached the doorway and peered inside. The room left me in shock. Despite the dreary hallway that led to it, this room was light. Bright colors on the walls, the counters. The windows were open, ushering in the aroma of flowers planted along the edge. It was small, yet radiated more warmth than the bifrost. It was the most cheery atmosphere I had ever entered.

Then my eyes fell upon her. The room suddenly paled in comparison.

She was like an earth goddess—bronze skin, dark hair. The color of her locks fascinated me; it wasn't a dull black, it was a deep brownish hue, rich like soil. Her hair curled into untame forms like tree roots and cascaded down her back. A cloth was wrapped around her head, similar to what servant girls wore, but she made it look like a crown.

I took a step closer, and the nearer I came, I was overwhelmed by every enticing detail. Her hands were tiny, wrapped around a wooden spoon as she stirred something in a bowl. Powder and smears of whatever she was making covered her, yet it did nothing to dampen her beauty.

All of the air in my lungs left when I stared upon her face. Roundish cheeks, full like ripe fruit. Her eyes were big and round and had this hazel-greenish hue to them like a forest, a forest I got lost in the longer I stared. My gaze dipped down to her lips, not too thin, yet not too full.

Her tiny hands paused and her eyes fell upon me. Her smile shone brighter than Asgard. “Hi, sweetie.”

The earthen goddess moved with the bounciness of a fairy or some nymph wandering the wilds. At some points it was almost like her feet left the ground.

She leaned up and pressed her lips to mine. I was unprepared for the intimate gesture. It was a swift kiss, merely a greeting, but a thousand of the kisses I had given and received in my lifetime did not compare to the softness, the pressure, the warmth. Her lips tasted sweet—almost delicious like pastries. From that moment on, I knew any dessert would remind me of her mouth.

The earthen goddess lowered, her heels returning to the ground. Those perfectly balanced lips parted like a blossoming rose to say something, “Are you okay? You seem a little stiff. Did you fight anybody today?”

I racked my mind for an answer. The logical, most common one appeared first. “Uh...my brother?”

“Ah. Did he try world domination again? I think he should aim smaller, like a park or something.”

I heard scuffling. Reluctantly, my gaze left her and rose to the table. A man was there, hands full with pink boxes and a light blue stain around his mouth. His face reminded me of a mouse, with the nose poking out and the beady eyes. “I’ll uh...leave you two alone. Thanks for the cupcakes, and the story.”

“Sure, Scott. See you later.”

The Mouse-Man shuffled off. We were alone.

The earth goddess wiped her hands on an apron tied about her waist and returned to the table with cooking ingredients. I seated myself across from her while she worked.

“What...story?” I asked. I was not used to this feeling in my stomach, a knot of emotions I wasn't used to—wariness? Awe? I was the Prince of Asgard. I did not get rattled so easily.

“Something with my aunt that happened a few years ago,” She shrugged like it was a well-known truth.

“Tell me,” I said.

Her hands froze. She folded them midair and sat her chin upon them. “Okay. It was the summer, and I was still in school. I decided that I wanted to go into political science. I already established tons of relationships with business owners through internships, and Pepper promised me more connections through Stark Industries.

“My aunt said if I was serious about the career choice, she would help me with it. And the first thing she did was force me into all of these gross jobs; cleaning houses, scrubbing toilets. I learned a lot about humanity in that summer, bleck. And so I continue doing all of these crappy jobs, but I have no idea why my aunt insisted this was the best way to prepare me. One day I asked her why I was doing it. And she responded with this,”

The earth goddess leaned close, and I found myself leaning in as well, drawn to her like the force of the earth. She continued, “ ‘Sometimes in the world of diplomacy, you have to get your hands dirty.’ ”

She was wise, but not in a flashy fashion like my brother. She was kind and worked hard and had an independent air about her. She was the strongest woman I had ever met.

Yes. This is the one.  

“The cosmos has rewarded me too much,” I murmured, feeling unworthy for the first time in my life.

“Does that include or exclude the cupcakes I saved from Scott for you?” She replied.

I laughed, although I did not know what “cupcakes” were. I was surprised that my future was so small and simple, yet I found myself already longing for the love I had discovered. “I suppose I shouldn't worry about my future. It looks bright to me.”

The earth goddess resumed mixing things in the bowl across from me. “What's all this stuff about the cosmos and the future? Did Loki get in your head with something—do you wanna talk about it?”

I smiled. She was a clever one. “Actually, Loki made this potion that would show me the future.”

“Mmm, see anything good?”

“Yes.” I looked at her. “It was magnificent.”

~*~

Loki’s laughter filled the high golden walls of the dining hall. “Do you hear yourself, brother? She was a baker, a cook, a mere servant girl!”

“Loki,” Mother hushed him a few seats away. My brother’s chuckles did not quiet.

“There was more to her than that!” I argued. “Her wit was as sharp as yours, and she didn't need tricks on her tongue to prove it!”

Loki’s lips pressed firmly together. Father's gaze rose from his plate.

“I do hope that the future Queen of Asgard is more than a baker and a storyteller.” Father remarked. “The qualities of a servant and an entertainer…”

My fist tightened around my goblet. I still did not know much about the earth goddess, but I detested these harsh accusations. What was so wrong about the future love of my life?

“Was she kind?” My mother asked quietly.

I looked up from the feast. I nodded once.

“Perhaps these qualities are a good thing, my husband. Is it not modesty and humbleness that every ruler should have?” My family, and some of my friends, shot me looks I found curious.

“Asgard should not be ruled by pride, or a hunger for power.” Mother’s words were pure reason. “They should be ruled by love.”

Father stared at her for a long time. It seemed as if they were speaking without words, about something I could not determine. Brother noticed it, too.

“Your words ring true, my love.” Father took her hand. “But it is merely a vision, and the future can change. Who is to vouch for a conjured vision’s accuracy?”

Loki flinched, and glared at his food. Mother simply put down her cutlery and shook her head.

“She must be a rare breed of a lady for the Mighty Thor to be rattled,” Whenever women were the topic of conversation, Fandral was not a shy one. “What was the woman’s name?”

I froze. I ran through the earthen goddess’ words in my mind, searching, hoping for an answer.

“Don't tell me you forgot.” Loki remarked beside me.

Volstagg chortled, “She must be some woman for you to forget to ask a simple question such as a name.”

“The Mouse-Man said something about her name,” I said, squinting at the table before me as I focused. “Yes...he said she had ‘angel’ in her name.”

Father stood abruptly from his throne. “Enough. There shall be no more talk of this wench. These halls shall not be disgraced by tales of Midgard.”

I rose from my seat. “Do not forbid the talk of my future love!”

“Ah! Future, but not love yet. Fate may change,” Father said. Mother’s facial expression did not agree with him. “Has she even been born yet?”

“No, my king,” Heimdall said quietly. “I cannot see her. Forgive me, it is not my place, but I would not underestimate Fate. Most men that have done so have paid the price.”

Father’s mouth opened, then his lips sealed together tightly. Heimdall’s wisdom could not be challenged. The meal carried on in silence.

“What else did you see, Thor?” Sif’s voice rose, wary as she cast a glance at the king and queen. “Was there anything else that the future showed you?”

“Before I saw her, I ran into others in the corridor.” I recalled, stroking my beard with one hand. “One man had the build of a warrior, he referred to a ‘Stark.’ There was also this woman…”

I fingered the knife that lay next to my plate. “She had raven hair, like yours, Sif, but it was not you. She wore green and black…”

I glanced at mother and found that both of my parents were staring at me. She leaned forward, “Did she...say anything, Thor?”

“She said, ‘You don't look like him.’ ” I answered.

Mother gave father a warning look. Odin sighed, “No more visions.”

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

A/N: Hi Awesome Adventurers and thank you so much for tuning in! I wrote this little drabble as a kind of pre-scene scenario to my new novel out now, Avengers: Love and Lightning, soon to feature a love triangle between the God of Thunder himself and Star-Lord! Yay! Come over and join us to see Thor and this "earthen goddess" get together (also to swoon over tall blond men and join us in denial over Infinity War!) Love, fortune and glory to you, Awesome Adventurers!!

[vannahfanfics]

A Place in this World

Category: General Fluff, Angst

Fandom: Naruto

Characters: Ino Yamanaka

Hello, everyone! I wanted to do something for Kunoichi Week (since we all love our ninja ladies)! So, here’s a story for the Day 6 prompt, “Sad Moments”! 

A faint mist drifted through the headstones of the graveyard. The grey-white clumps of condensed water molecules swam through the dark gray stones like wispy-finned fish trawling a kelp garden. They would flit between the mounds, ghosts of once corporeal forms, before they would dissolve into the air without so much as a sound. They fled the oncoming of the sun, which poked over the top of the full-branched oak trees ringing the cemetery; its warm rays would evaporate them into nothingness, which was a pretty depressing way to end, Ino supposed. With lidded periwinkle-blue eyes, she watched the ghostly school of fog-fish traverse the invisible currents between the headstones from the threshold of the iron-wrought gate. 

“I’d better get going. I don’t want to be late for the mission briefing,” Ino quietly encouraged herself. The plastic wrapping around the freshly-cut green stems of the lilies she held crinkled as she clenched her hands. So many times she had visited this place, yet it never grew any easier. It still felt like she was diving into dark black water to sink into a crushing abyss; her lungs spasmed in her chest, screaming for oxygen because she simply couldn’t will herself to breathe. Just as her cheeks would tinge with the faintest hint of blue, Ino would gasp, flooding her ailing tissue with the life-giving air. She stood there just like she had so many times before, panting as the fear and dread crept into her body. “I-I’d better get going,” she whispered again. 

This time, Ino willed her feet to move forward. 

Her mind was far, far away at this point, somewhere amongst the ghostly fish swimming in the mist around her. Yet, muscle memory navigated her to the desired headstone. Her eyelashes fluttered as she stared unseeing down at the rock, which had darkened slightly with the clinging condensation. ASUMA SARUTOBI was carved into the surface in neat characters. Ino pinched her bottom lip between her teeth as it threatened to wobble. No, it never got any easier, reconciling with the fact that her beloved sensei was dead. 

Ino sank to her knees before the gravestone. With quivering hands, she laid the bouquet of lilies at the base of the smooth rock structure. The tears beaded in her eyes like the dewdrops clinging to the grass. The water droplets splashed against her bare calves as she tucked her legs underneath herself. She rested her hands on her lap and just stared at the gravestone. Most of the time, she struggled with what to say. Most people just talking monotonously about their day or sobbed about how hard it was without them when they visited a loved one’s grave. Those sentiments held for Ino, yet somehow she felt like it was a disservice to Asuma. Would he sit there and listen to her blather mindlessly about the humdrum of her daily life? 

“Heh. Of course you would,” Ino chuckled softly under her breath. Asuma’d light a cigarette and listen in silence, with the faintest hint of a smile upon his lips. Ino shifted slightly as her legs began to prickle with numbness, then straightened her back. 

“Shikamaru, Choji and I went to see Mirai yesterday for her first birthday. She’s gotten so big! Her hair is just like Kurenai’s, dark and thick and wavy… Her eyes too, so bright and red. I see you in her smile, though,” Ino smiled wanly as she imagined the funny little girl running around. “Shikamaru and Temari are keeping on with that weird ‘we’re-into-each-other-but-totally-don’t-realize-it-thing,’” Ino laughed amiably. “I wish they would just get a move on and start dating already! It’s so obvious to everyone but them, apparently.” She felt a little silly at first, just talking to a rock, but once the words started coming, they came more naturally. She could almost feel the man sitting in front of her, with one knee kicked up with his elbow propped on it while he took a deep drag from his cigarette. The wispy currents of mist floated around her still, and she imagined that it was the smoke from the orange-and-white bud trailing down from his smiling face. 

“The flower shop is doing well! We just got a new shipment in,” she said with a gesture to the fresh cluster of lilies. “I haven’t decided yet if I want to take it over completely,” she frowned and puffed out her cheeks pensively. “I enjoy medical ninjutsu. I’ve also considered working in the hospital with Sakura, but… I’m just not sure.” With a forlorn sigh, she hung her head. “I’m not really sure of my future at all, Asuma-sensei… When I was younger, everything seemed so simple… I just had to keep pushing forward. The problem is, I’m just not sure what exactly I’m heading for anymore.” She fiddled her feet behind her, digging little trenches into the damp earth with her toes. “I wish you were here. I know you’d give me really good advice…” 

Ino’s eyes became lidded as she gazed sadly down at the stone. It remained silent, though she wished so desperately that she could hear Asuma’s voice drifting out of it. Ino knew that she would have to come to these decisions by herself, but sometimes it was just reassuring to have an older adult to ask for advice. It was something she sorely missed. 

The sun had bubbled over the canopy of the trees to spill its hot yellow rays over the village. The spears of light kissed Ino’s shoulders to spread a soothing warmth over her skin. The mist tendrils had vanished with the oncoming of the sun, not wishing to vanish so unceremoniously. Despite the heat gracing the world, Ino’s heart remained a cold, sad core within her body, making it feel like ice flooded through her nerves. The tears resting in the corners of her eyes finally slipped down her cheeks. 

“I miss you a lot, Asuma-sensei.” 

A breeze rolled in, making ripples across the smooth glass blades. It plucked at Ino’s long tresses of platinum-blonde hair to make it ruffle like the cascading waters of a waterfall. The droplets falling from her cheeks stained her plum-colored skirt a violet hue. Ino wasn’t sure why all the uncertainty of her life was mounting up on her just then, but regardless, it spilled over like boiling water over the edge of a pot. She wiped at her face with the heels of her palms, but the tears continued to stream down. “Nothing seems certain anymore… I know it’s not really that big of a decision, but I feel overwhelmed, just the same,” she lamented. “I love that our future is peaceful and bright, I just… I’m not really sure of my place in it anymore.” 

Ino’s words faltered in her throat, and her nose wrinkled when she smelled the sudden acrid aroma of cigarette smoke. She straightened up and looked around wildly, thinking that perhaps Shikamaru had come to visit the grave as well and had lit up one of the tobacco buds. However, aside from herself, the cemetery was empty. The scent was unmistakable, though; she could never forget that faint hint of smoke clinging to Asuma’s clothes. The familiar aroma wafted around her body not unlike the morning mist, as if it were embracing her. 

“Hehe, you’re right. Of course I have a place,” Ino laughed wanly. How silly of her to think such a thing. Regardless of what the future may hold, Ino always had a place in the Hidden Leaf. The scent of cigarette smoke continued to waft around her as if to agree. She smiled brightly and tossed her hair lightly over her shoulder. “You know, who’s to say I can’t do both?” she reasoned amusedly. “The beautiful medical-nin who moonlights as a florist. What do you say to that, Asuma-sensei?” 

The smoke scent intensified for a second, or at least, she imagined it did. Perhaps the smell was all in her head, but it comforted her nonetheless. “I think it sounds pretty great,” she laughed. She pretty much decided on her own. Still, she liked to think Asuma listened to her and showed her the way in some sense or another. Ino rose with a pleased sigh and brushed the dirt and grass bits from the fabric of her skirt. Based on the position of the sun, Ino still had a good fifteen minutes to report to her mission briefing. “Thanks, Asuma-sensei,” she smiled amiably at the stone. The smoke scent had faded, but she imagined that he was still listening to her. The breeze rustled the lilies sitting at her feet. 

Just like I have a place here, you’ll always have a place in my heart, Asuma-sensei, she thought gratefully. Now. Off to the future! With the sun on her back, Ino strode onward to an uncertain, but definitely bright, future.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

Tag List: @deliathedork​ @searchfortheonepiece​ @kunoichiweek​

[michaels-blackhat]

the sea beneath, the journey home

day 3/31 of my massive holiday project

for @isakvaltersnake, you didn’t get a RNM fic. This was supposed to be post-canon Gendrya... and it’s there... it’s just not the fluff I set out to write <3

Eventually the coast blurs until it is one with the sky and Arya turns from her family, her home, and focuses on the ship around her. The men are all experienced sailors, all with more experience than her for all that she is technically better traveled, and they know their business. She does not have to worry about directing, about actually captaining her ship.

She breathes in the salt air, a deep breath that feels more like purification than anything else. Out here she cannot smell the fire, the smoke, the burning and rotting flesh of King’s Landing and of the North. Here, surrounded by nothing but the great salt water sea, she can forget about the death and destruction. Here she can forget No One. She can forget the legacy of the Starks. She can forget about it all without forgetting herself. Here, at sea, she can learn how to be.

-

At night the gentle rock of the ship lures her to sleep. She sleeps in a hammock, same as the rest of her men. It swings her as the sea rocks a lullaby. On the wind she hears the great songs, the tales of love and battle the men sing as the dark calls them all to sleep. At night she lays and images a life where the stories were not real, where the frost only nipped and didn’t bring worse than death. She imagines a life like the one her father once promised her- a good husband, a household to run. She imagines a life where she could be content.

The ship gives a lurch and she remembers that life was never one she wanted.

She turns over and turns off her mind. Thinking has never helped her anyway.

-

Two weeks at sea and they do not expect to see anything beyond that. Arya stands at her desk with a map open in front of her. Her navigator stands at her side as they debate the best course. Neither know for sure, any travel to the west has been avoided and Arya did not consult with the remaining Ironborn before she left.

Arya did not consult with anyone beyond the shipwrights and the sailors on the docks. She had not consulted her family, just told them she was leaving.

She never told Gendry she was leaving at all.

“My lady,” her navigator addresses her, “we should reach land within two weeks, if the weather holds.”

She nods her agreement before she turns her attention to her quartermaster.

“And our supplies?”

“They will hold for months, as long as we find fresh water on land, my lady.”

She nods again.

“Then we stay the course,” she says as she rolls up the map. 

-

There is plenty on a ship to keep her mind occupied, but the night wrecks the careful control she has over herself. At night her mind wanders to the far corners of Westeros, to her brothers on opposite ends of the continent, to her sister ruling in the North, to the bastard blacksmith lord in the Stormlands.

Every night the men sing on the deck. They gather to tell stories and to sing songs. She leaves them to it, afraid to hear her own song, afraid they will ask about the Long Night and the Night King.

Sometimes they sing the new songs, but often they keep to the older ones, the ones they heard as they grew, the songs that gives comfort.

Arya lays in her hammock as their voices sing about a lady of the forest and the little lord who loved her.

She does not think of a similar story, a lady of the forest who was actually a Lady and the boy who loved her when she was covered in filth, when she was covered in silk.

-

“Land!”

The cheers of her crew quickly drowns out the cry from the crows-nest. Four weeks at sea is not that long, not for seasoned sailors or even for a woman who traveled the discovered world, but four weeks where it is uncertain that there is even land is a strain.

It is still far in the distance, but the breaks in the horizon can be seen even so far out to sea.

Arya smiles at the exuberance of her crew until she sees a speck in the distance, which grows closer the longer she looks. Her smile starts to fall as the distinct shape of a raven forms.

Her first mate gives her a look, but she gives him a reassuring smile. Only one type of creature could find them, no raven could be trained to fly to the unknown. This raven had her brother riding its back.

She lifts her hand and the raven flies to her. It lands with ease and stays still as she releases its paper burden. It flies away the moment the note is free.

-

At night she lights a single candle and sits on the deck of her ship. The light does not cast shadows, it is too small to do that, too weak. She imagines the flickers of fire against the carved direwolves, against the folds of the banners and the sails.

She imagines the heat of a forge as it warms her to her core.

She reads the words on the paper her brother sent, over and over as if it would give her more answers.

The lesser Lords of the Stormlands have asked me to intervene on their behalf, as their liege Lord refuses to marry. He said he will not find a wife to make into his lady, that he already has one.

I thought you might like to know.

The ship does not rock her to sleep that night. The faint glow of her flame does nothing to burn away memory.

-

The land is rocky in a way that reminds Arya too much of the jagged coast along King’s Landing. She takes one look at the shore and returns below deck.

She does not join the men when they weighed anchor and rowed to shore.

-

The hammock stays still beneath her as the sunlight creeps in from an open hatch. They are anchored down as close to shore as they dare. She keeps below dock, away from the sight of the coastline, away from the ghosts of memory.

A dark figure flies through the open hatch and lands on the ropes that tie your hammock to the wooden poles. The raven waits patiently as Arya unties the note, once again flying away the moment it is free of its burden.

Some memories you cannot hide from.

Arya takes the note note to the deck and throws it into the ocean.

She looks out into the horizon, ocean and air mixing until it’s nothing but uniform blue.

-

Her men find water and berries that the local wildlife can eat, berries that look close enough to ones she ate in Bravos that she is willing to risk it for something fresh.

She and her navigator decide to continue west, to follow the coastline and see where that may lead them.

They stay for a few days, long enough to replenish their water and to ensure the berries have no unsavory effects. They hunt for fresh meat and open another barrel of ale in celebration. It is a warm affair, the men jovial. Even Arya stays in good spirits, laughing with her men and joining in on their songs.

The evening winds down and the songs turn somber. They sing of lost loves and of family gone. They sing of war, but not the glory just the cold aftermath. Arya looks out from her place on the quarterdeck, the moon and the stars glow on the sea, the dark of the island shimmers as the moonlight hits the jagged rocks. Arya sees the ghosts dance on the shore. 

-

Arya never had the same dreams as her sister. She did not want to be a lady. She did not want to be a wife. She wanted to rule a castle, yes, but she did not want to do it in the name of someone else. She did not dream of dresses, of a maiden cloak around her shoulders.

She did dream of love, of family, of villagers to help and people to care for.

You would be my lady, he had said years before, before she even knew what she had asked him.

He had a castle now, villagers to help and a whole section of the country to care for.

None of it will be worth anything if you’re not with me. He said that too, before he asked her to be his lady, different than that first time he said it.

“His lady wife,” she snorted as she crawled up the rigging, small enough and strong enough to do it quickly, to do it right.

The coastline changes as they sail past, from rocky to rolling hills and gently sloping beaches, and Arya stares blindly at it, caught up in memories and letter.

With an arm firmly around the ropes she pulls out the most recent letter from her meddling brother-king.

We dance with our ghosts in different ways, sometimes you need to confront your fears.

“Cryptic as always Bran,” she says into the wind, aware that he hears her a world away.

-

The hammock sways with the storm, a quick summer squall that they can see the end of already, blue skies in the distance waiting to carry them onto the next part of their journey. She listens to the sound of the men on deck, those who replaced the first shift. She is still soaked to her bones, exhausted more from a dreary mood than from trying to the ship storm-ready so quickly.

Ghosts still dance behind her eyes, the frozen dead, the burning dead, green eyes and blues eyes and brown eyes. She has shut those eyes forever. No one never minded. Arya does.

She looks up at the wooden planks, water-sealed and sturdy. This is her penance, in a way. She spent years getting back to her family and when she did she couldn’t stay. She couldn’t look them in the eyes and pretend she was ok, pretend that she did not see the dead everywhere. She could not look at any of them and say that she deserved peace.

-

The next raven had no note, just a small leaf made of gold tied from a string around its neck. She places it around her neck and ignores the tears in her eyes.

-

There is no coast to follow anymore, just more open sea. They continue west, after a stop for fresh water and more fresh meat to supplement their slowly dwindling dried rations before the land disappeared to their backs.

“What do you hope to find?”

Her first mate stands next to her, map open in front of them as their navigator adds more details. They will need a new sheet soon.

“Honestly?” Arya asks, eyes fixed on Westeros. “At first I would have said adventure.” She looks up at him, unable to look at the symbols on the map that meant home. “Now? I think I’m just looking for peace.”

“You won’t find that on the sea, my lady,” her first mate responds with a sad smile. “That’s not why any of us are here. I suspect that’s not the reason for you either, not really.”

She snorts out her answer. “I think maybe we spend a little too much time together, if you can say something like that.”

“We’re on a ship my lady,” he laughs, “we can do nothing but spend time together.” His smile goes sad again, after the brief laughter. “We all saw things, my lady, in King’s Landing. Things that will haunt us for the rest of our lives. For most of us, we spent our whole life at sea. This is our home, this is familiar. That’s not the case for you. You’re running my lady, none of us judge you for that.”

Arya closes her eyes against the truth.

“Has my brother been sending you ravens as well?”

“No my lady, as you said, we just spend that much time together.”

-

The golden leaf is warm against her skin when she goes to sleep. She never takes it off, just lets it lay against her chest day in, day out. She does not let herself think, or so she tries.

The ship sways beneath her, but it does nothing to lure her to sleep.

“Some things you cannot out run,” she says into the darkness, feeling foolish as the words leave her mouth. “I am running.”

The darkness says nothing in reply.

-

They reach land two days later. They see ships first, ships of  Yi Ti make fishing or loaded down with cargo. Her quartermaster smiles, happy to restore their depleted supplies. Her navigator smiles as well, smug that his prediction was true.

“What is west of Westeros?” He asks into the crowd.

“It’s just the east,” one of the crew members calls back.

Arya lets her eyes linger on the ships, on the port in the distance.

“What were you hoping to find?”

She startles, surprised that her first mate could sneak up on her. Surprised that she has reached a point where she can let her guard down at all.

“A reason to go home,” she replies, “to go home and know I deserve it.”

-

She cannot sleep, not with a feather mattress beneath her. Her crew would not let her sleep on the ship, not when there was comfortable accommodations worthy of their lady captain. Through the open window she hears the splash of the waves against the distant shore, the cries of the gulls. 

She sees the sun rise through her window, rising to greet her in the east and moving from her home in the west. The world is a sphere and her life is a cycle of death and destruction. The sun rises after the long night. Fields are razed and burned. They grow again.

Maybe, by the time she reaches west again, she will be like the crops after winter, budding and ready to grow.

-

Sometimes you need to relearn how to be.

Arya reads the note before they leave port and head west again. This time they have a plan, they have rations for weeks before they port again and restock, aware of their path now that they are back in the known.

Your family misses you.

The note is accompanied by another leaf, gold again but held together by a rope made from some type of grass. She never forgot the song, never really forgave Tom Sevenstrings for how often he sang the song to her and Gendry on their travels. It makes her smile now, to remember the good times mixed in with the rotten.

“Subtle,” she breathes out as she drapes the leaf around her neck. “Real subtle Bran.”

-

“Where are we headed my lady?”

Her first mate gave her a look over the map in her office. 

“Home, I think. Eventually.”

“And did you find what you hoped to find?”

She smiles, small but not sad. 

“Not yet,” she replies as she moves to roll up their incomplete map. “But by the time we make it back I think I will.”

[perspective-series]

Vampire Perspective (16/17)

By: @arc852 and @hiddendreamer67

Warnings: betrayal (?), death threats, fighting, injuries, car crash, talk of owning people sorta

First Chapter || Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

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Patton didn’t try to speak to Virgil when his roommate came storming home. He only bothered to give a sniff, making sure Virgil was unsuccessful, before watching Virgil swoop upstairs and slam the door.

That was the last he saw of Virgil for a few days. Neither of them knew what to say to the other. Patton didn’t want to talk to Virgil unless he was ready to apologize, but he couldn’t tell if Virgil was moping in self-loathing or simmering in self-righteous anger. 

It didn’t matter. Patton knew he had done the right thing; he hated the idea that he might have driven Virgil away, but if this was what finally drove a stake in their fragile friendship then so be it. Patton wasn’t going to come crawling back if Virgil had finally chosen his family’s path of darkness. Despite his eating habits, Patton was stronger than Virgil thought. 

“I’m going hu- out.” Patton called out to the quiet house late one evening, still not comfortable with calling it ‘hunting’. It was an invitation, a peace treaty to let Virgil join him.

There was no response.

With a sigh, Patton walked out the door, letting his feet travel at a mortal speed as he wandered into the woods. He shoved his hands into his pockets, kicking idly at a few stray pebbles. He winced, watching his superhuman strength kick the rocks far out into the distance, where Patton heard the yelp of an injured animal. Quickly he rushed in that direction, pushing the underbrush aside to view a dazed fox.

“Oh, you poor thing…” Patton cooed, but his fangs were already extending. The frightened animal began to whimper, and Patton tried to shush it as he placed his hands down to keep it still. “Shh, it’s okay, I’m sorry, it will only hurt for a second-”

The fox yelped again when Patton bit down, the bitter blood filling his mouth. Patton drank his fill, wiping at his lips as soon as the animal started to go limp.

“I’m sorry.” Patton whispered again, licking the wound clean. He gagged a bit, getting dirt in his mouth before setting the fox on the forest floor. Its’ breaths were shallow, but present. At least Patton could still control himself tonight. Some needed rest and the fox could still live.

“Aww, look at that.” A sly voice purred, and Patton felt his undead veins turn cold. “The little pet’s still got no bite.”

Patton kept his head down, knelt on the forest floor submissively as he tried to figure out how he was going to get out of this. How had they found him? 

“What’s the matter, Patty-cake?” A second voice giggled, and Patton nearly cried out at his poor luck. Just one of Virgil’s relatives was enough. “Has our brother’s plaything finally lost his voice?”

“I think perhaps you’ve forgotten your manners.” The first one growled, and a gloved hand smacked painfully along the side of Patton’s face, sending him sprawling.

It seemed this was the trigger for action. Within moments a shadowy figure launched itself out of the glade, Virgil having heard the commotion from the hovel. 

“Leave him alone, Deceit.” Virgil growled, standing protectively between his brothers and Patton as the latter hastily stood up. 

“Oh Virgil, it’s been decades.” Deceit groaned, looking bored as Remus stood at Deceit’s left side. The two held twin smirks, both clearly gloating at having found the weaker pair again. “I thought by now you’d be past this whole rebellious goody-two-shoes act.”

“What the hell is your problem!” Virgil screeched. “You both have plenty of vampires in your stupid little bubble, there’s no need to drag us back into your mess.”

“Oh come now, you know we’re always looking for new toys~” Remus waggled his fingers in Patton’s direction, giving Patton a wink. 

“Look at it, it’s starving.” Deceit made a tut-tut noise. “Oh Patton, I do apologize for my brother’s behavior. Come with us, darling. We can show you the care you need.”

“I don’t need anything from you.” Patton spat. 

Remus growled, his smile fading. “Why, you little-!”

“Wait.” Deceit stuck out an arm, stopping Remus as he gave a sniff of the air. “Do you smell that?”

Virgil paled, knowing what was getting them so riled up as Remus sniffed too. He had hoped that a few days would give them a slight bit of cover, but the scent of Logan and Roman was still ingrained in their clothing.

“Borrowers.” Remus gasped, gleefully clapping his hands. He lunged forwards, shoving Virgil easily to the ground. “Oooh, and they haven’t even eaten them yet!”

“What luck- I was feeling a bit peckish.” Deceit licked his lips, his eyes glowing dangerously.

“Run!” Virgil hissed, ducking from beneath his brother, grabbing Patton’s hand and dashing towards the edge of the woods. Underfed as they were, they stood no chance of winning a fight. They also couldn’t outrun the stronger vampires. Within moments the brothers were at their heels, cackling. Virgil could tell they weren’t even putting in their full effort.

“Look out!” Patton instructed, gripping Virgil’s arm tightly as they attempted to duck beneath branches and leap overturned roots. It was a difficult task, traveling at such vampiric speeds. At least this was their home, and therefore easier to navigate. The other pair could be heard stumbling and cursing, likely Remus running into Deceit’s path. They had never been very cohesive.

Virgil paused, uncertain where to go once they ran out of forest. They couldn’t lead his brothers home- after all, vampires could travel into each other’s homes. There would be no solitude there. Effectively they were trapped.

Patton seemed to have other ideas. “This way!” Patton instructed, dashing towards the streetlights glow. Hopefully the vampires wouldn’t follow them into civilization.

Unfortunately, Patton underestimated their obsession with borrowers. With a shriek he felt himself pulled back, scraped along the sidewalk only halfway across town.

“Patton!” Virgil whirled around, ducking under the swipe of Remus’ claws as instead he fought to save his friend.

Patton kicked up, nailing Deceit in the jaw and forcing the vampire to loosen his grip momentarily. Before he could take advantage of this though, Deceit was on top of him, snarling in his face. 

“I ought to tear out your throat for your insolence.” Deceit informed him, his breath forming goosebumps on Patton’s neck. 

Patton didn’t think about his next action. Survival instincts took over, and he snapped at Deceit’s face. 

The elder reeled back. “Feisty, aren’t we?”

“Get off him!” Virgil tackled his brother to the ground, the two rolling out into the street. 

“Virgil!” Patton cried, surprised when Remus said the same thing. The two shared a surprised glance before racing into the street with different intentions.

Quickly the four were engaged in a violent scuffle, limbs getting yanked and hair being pulled. Patton felt several times a joint painfully found his ribs, certain they would leave a bruise. So engaged in tearing at each other’s throats, not a single immortal noticed the threat approaching until it was too late. The truck honked, headlights blazing. Under normal circumstances any one of them could have dodged, but entangled as they were the vampires were not fast enough and the silver hood plowed right into them.

As it turns out, automobiles and vampires do not mix.

 Even with their super strength that amount of force was enough to leave a good bruise, and the fact that it was made partially of silver, a vampire’s known weakness… let’s just say all four were sure to feel that in the morning as they painfully skidded several hundred feet across the asphalt.

Patton groaned, ironically taking the least damage because of his more human qualities giving the silver little effect over him. His first instinct was to rush over to the truck, where it had swerved off the road into a small patch of grass. The airbags had gone off and the front of the car was wrecked, but looking inside the human was still alive.

While Patton called for an ambulance, Virgil slowly lifted his head. Everything ached, and Virgil felt like he could sleep for a million years and never heal. A Quick glance around showed the brothers had disappeared, either having scoured off with their tail between their legs or the truck had simply knocked them into next week.

But that didn’t mean they were safe. “C’mon.” Patton urged, stumbling over to where Virgil was. He hefted Virgil up by the arm, helping lift his friend despite his legs trembling. “We have to get out of here. The human medics can’t see us.”

“We- we can’t stay here.” Virgil gasped, clutching onto Patton like a lifeline. “If we go home they’ll just attack us tomorrow night. And if we try to skip town, they'll just watch us leave and follow us…” Not to mention, they were running out of time. Virgil glanced wearily at the sky. He wondered if he truly would turn to ash if the sun touched him in this state.

Patton paused, biting his lip as he seemed to be heavily debating something. “I...I think I know somewhere we can go.”

Virgil didn’t ask questions, simply allowing Patton to lead them both further down the street. 

Patton grimaced, limping along at the fastest pace he could manage. There was no doubt the brothers would recover faster, considering how unhealthy and weak Virgil and Patton both were. Patton only knew of one place that was vampire-proof, and he hoped the occupants could find it in their hearts to forgive him enough to let them take sanctuary for the night. 

Taking a deep breath, Patton knocked on Thomas’ front door.

 It was several moments before Thomas made it to the door. It was well into the night after all. Well, more like very early morning at this point. Thomas yawned and wondered who the heck was at his door at this time. He opened the door, his eyes widening when his eyes fell on Patton. “Patton? What are you doing here? And why do you look like you were hit by...a…” Thomas trailed off as he took in the person next to Patton.

 “Ah! Patton, get away from him!” Thomas cowered, recognizing the sight of the vampire that had tried to drink his blood.

“...oh, bite me.” Virgil cursed under his breath, wondering why the universe would be so cruel.

“What?” Patton gave a confused momentary glance between the two. “I- Thomas, please, this is my friend, Virgil. I know this looks… weird, but please, can we come in? I can explain everything.”

 “Patton, that’s a vampire! He tried to suck my blood! Just...Patton back away slowly. If you come into my house, Vampires can’t come in without permission right? You’ll be safe in here.” He said, still cowering half-way behind his door and looking between Patton and Virgil, urging Patton to come to him.

If looks could kill, Virgil would most certainly disintegrate at the look Patton gave him. “You what?”

“I didn’t drink his blood.” Virgil defended weakly. He turned to the human. “Look, sorry, I didn’t realize you were Patton’s friend. We’re cool, yeah? Let us in already.”

 “Like I’m going to fall for that! You-You probably have Patton hypnotized don’t you! Let him go!” Thomas yelled, glaring at the vampire. Though it didn’t appear very threatening, since he was still shaking a hiding behind his door.

“That’s not how hypnosis works, you idiot.” Virgil sneered.

“Virgil I swear to the high heavens I will throw you to the giant werewolves.” Patton glanced up at the fading moon as if it would grant him patience. He closed his eyes, before once again giving Thomas a pleading glance. “Thomas, I promise you, I’m not hypnotized, and… and we really need help. The sun will be out soon. Nobody is going to hurt you, I promise, but please, just let us in, even for a day?”

 Thomas shook his head, unable to tear his eyes away from the red ones of the vampire. “N-No! Patton, why can’t you just come in? I-I’ll help you but I’m not trusting a-a vampire!”

Virgil raised an eyebrow, glancing at Patton and wondering why he hadn’t told his human the truth.

Patton bit his lip, tears sprouting at the corner of his eyes at Thomas’ harsh words, even if Patton knew they weren’t directed at him. Not intentionally, at least. Yet. His mind helpfully supplied.

“Please.” Patton weakly pleaded, out of options. “Please trust me, Thomas. We’re- we’re friends, aren’t we?”

 “Patton, of-of course. But this vampire, he-he must have tricked you or something. Please, as my friend, just trust me and get away from him!” Thomas pleaded, only wanting Patton-and himself-to be safe.

“Virgil’s my friend, too!” Patton insisted, frustrated that he couldn’t go inside even if he wanted to; but of course, he couldn’t leave Virgil. Not like this. “He- he’s a little misguided, but he’s not all bad, I promise!”

 “How do you know that! I wouldn’t put it past a vampire to trick people! He probably just wants our blood!” Thomas practically shouted.

“Stop freaking out!” Patton put up a hand hastily. “It’s not like that! I- I mean if he wanted my blood, he would have taken it already, right?” Patton gave an awkward laugh, hating that the statement was true. If a few hundred years late.

 “Maybe he’s using you to get to me so he can have twice as much blood!” Thomas reasoned. “Patton, why are you trying to defend a vampire. They kill people.” It was a surprise the vampire wasn’t killing Patton right now. But he supposed he was still hoping to get in his house to have more than his fill of human blood.

“They don’t kill people, they just drink blood.” Patton corrected a bit bitterly. “And that doesn’t even make sense. Vampires can’t even drink two human fulls of blood in one sitting, it’s physically impossible!”

 Thomas blinked and suddenly he was eyeing Patton warily. “How do you know that?” Thomas asked carefully, hoping it was just a tidbit of knowledge Patton had picked up.

Patton froze. “I...I’m friends with a vampire.” Patton winced, gesturing to Virgil.

 “And...why are you friends with a vampire?  How are you friends with a vampire?” Thomas asked, feeling as though Patton was hiding something.

“The same way I’m friends with anyone, I guess…” Patton said timidly, shrinking in on himself.

 “No, no, you don’t just become friends with a vampire, Patton.” Thomas looked at Patton, really looked at him. “Patton...what are you hiding?”

“Look, Thomas was it?” Virgil huffed, frustrated that a human dared to grill his Patton like this. “Patton just got hit by a truck. Forgive him for not being chatty, and let us in so he can get some ice packs.”

 “What?! A-A truck?!” Thomas yelled in shock. He looked Patton over but...something didn’t seem right. “Wait...but...if you were hit by a truck then...h-how are you even standing?”

Virgil tensed, realizing his mistake. “Well I really took the blunt of the blow…”

Patton had gone silent, clammed up as he stared at Thomas like a deer in headlights.

 “Patton?” Thomas swallowed nervously. He was mentally adding up everything he knew about Patton in his head...and he wasn’t liking the answer. “Are...Are you a vampire?”

Patton licked his lips nervously, always hating this part. The distrust. The betrayal. The rejection. “...yes.” He answered, in a voice so quiet it almost didn’t exist at all.

 Thomas froze, looking at Patton with something akin to betrayal. “I-I...I can’t, I…” Thomas shook his head and was about to close the door and bury himself in bed when two faint voices shouted from behind him.

 “Wait!” Thomas turned around, his eyes widening as he saw two tiny people standing on his coffee table.

 “Wh-What?” Was all Thomas could get out.

 Roman and Logan both looked at each other. They had heard the ruckus, recognized the voices and had come here immediately. Sure, they were still weary of Virgil but...they trusted Patton enough for the two of them. They turned back to the vampires, still standing in the doorway.

 “You two can come in.” Roman was the one to say, hoping it worked.

[notbecauseofvictories]

For the character headcanon meme, Finn!

Finn, having spent most of his life shuttled between off-world military stations and Imperial-class warships, used to breathing recycled air and seeing the black of space through transparisteel doesn’t realize he’s doing it at first. For him, the hum of engines is a lullaby, the sound of other bodies breathing beside him in the dark as natural as his own skin. Even crowded onto the Falcon, which has seen better days (maybe a hundred years before your father was born, Chewbacca growls ruefully) he feels as though he’s come home. Home-ish. Home-adjacent. For a certain definition of ‘home’ that Finn mostly learned from propaganda films, and the gossip of troopers. 

But he remembers most of this. They sleep in shifts on narrow bunks, and Finn wakes up second shift to see Lt. Kinam wailing on the caf generator in order to get it to work. Poe and Rey and Chewbacca argue about navigation while the General sits serenely the berth, reading from her datapad. Everyone has squirreled away their handful of remaining possession in strange places—there are datapads tucked between engine components and hologram chips sellotaped to the underside of bunks. Finn opens a cupboard one day and finds a nest. With eggs.

(He very carefully shuts the cabinet again, and doesn’t ask.)

It’s all so normal, so instinctual—the low whine of the engines, the smell of other humans, sweating and living around him—that he doesn’t notice. At least until one afternoon when Poe grabs him by the shoulders and forces Finn to stand, just there, so that Poe can look at him.

Really, apparently, look at him. For several awkward minutes of looking.

Finally, just as Finn is about to fidget, Poe sighs. “Buddy, I love you, but if you don’t stop humming I will push you out the airlock,” he says, in that extremely earnest way he has. (Finn will give him that, no one in the First Order did sincerity like Poe.)

“Oh,” Finn says with a grimace. “Was I humming?”

“Only for the last three standard weeks,” Poe says. “And honestly—it’s fine. Nice, even, you have a decent sense of pitch. I’m happy you’re happy, apparently? But we’re all stuck in this tiny space with each other and between your humming the same song over and over and Bysh refusing to flush the fucking sanisteam, it was you or them. And they scare me sometimes. So.”

“I’ll stop humming,” Finn says.

“Great,” Poe breathes with obvious relief, only—

Finn didn’t realize, before, how much he hummed. That had never been a problem in the Order—he was pretty sure that would have been mentioned to him at some point, a junior officer screaming in his face: WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, TROOPER? Stormtroopers had been dressed down for minor uniform violations, Finn couldn’t imagine something like persistent humming going unnoticed.

“What song is that?” he asks, interrupting his own humming to ask Rey, who looks back at him with wide, startled eyes.

“Uh,” she says. “I don’t know. I don’t….know music.”

“Me neither,” Finn says with a laugh, shaking his head. She flashes him a grin, and he returns it. Which is why it’s weird, right? Finn wants to ask, to see if he can get Rey to laugh at it. (She’s still the one who understands what it’s…like, to be a creature out of time. Hers was a desert and his was military stations and warships, but both of them have been out the galaxy most of their lives, lack the lexicon to speak to the others fluently. Finn only just knows who Luke Skywalker and Han Solo are, and his mind is still blow by how now he spends a lot of time talking to their widow. It’s unfortunate.)

“Do you…?” Rose squints at him. She’s still recovering from Crait, and her hands shake. Finn has gotten used to holding her arm, waist, elbow, her, despite her protests that she’s fine, really. “Are you humming ‘Bright Freedom-Day’?”

“Oh, maybe?” Finn says, since he hadn’t realized he was humming at all. “What…is that?”

Rose gives him a quizzical look and then she—

Rose Tico’s voice is uncertain, thready, but she’s singing a melody he recognizes: “Make the waves stand still—make the wall that will not break—”

Finn’s aware, suddenly, of all the Resistance fighters he’s never talked to, all of them suddenly looking across the width of the berth to the both of them, where Rose’s hand is in Finn’s hand. His saving grace is that it’s only the berth of the Falcon, there isn’t much further to actually look. But Rose beams, and Finn can’t look away. 

“And now, now there shall be peace on this world—-”

“Is that a song?” Finn asks, and Rose only laughs—a true laugh, even better than any stupid alarm bells Finn has ever heard and heeded in his life, and he wants to hear it again. He takes her hand, squeezes it.

Even Rey is singing now, joining on on the chorus, “It’s always the old to lead us to the war; it’s always the young to fall. But I—I shall make the waves stand still, make the wall that will not break, and now, now there shall be peace on this world—”

“I hate you all,” Poe says dryly, not even looking up from his protein pack as he listens to them, as Rose and Bysh break into a two-part harmony, with Rey happily providing counterpoint. “So—gods, so much. I’ll never get it out of my head now.”

When General Organa, her face mostly hidden behind her datapad, joins in, Poe just puts his head on his arms down and groans.

[fundeadasylum]

This Photo of Us Part 2: Promise I’ll Be Kind

I was going to hold off on posting part two but everyone knows I’m weak and can’t help myself from spreading pain and suffering wherever I go. So here it is, part two, where things go to shit ‘cause Sage doesn’t know how to write happy or nice things.

By the way, all the chapter titles are lyrics taken from various songs that are blatantly about stalkers/stalking/being a general creeper. :)

Warnings: psychological and emotional manipulation, non-consensual drug use, some language, kidnapping

Part 1 / Part 3

********************************

It was raining and Jake was miserable and grumpy and cold but he had medication to pick up and there was no avoiding it, not when he’d been putting it off long enough already. Besides, it was only a short drive away and he could probably snag a bagel on his way home too.

But as he was unlocking his car door, hood pulled low, hunched against the drizzle, a familiar voice spilled ice down his spine,

“Jake.”

He looked up and saw Rosie standing by the trunk of his car, an unreadable expression on her face and a funeral black umbrella clutched in one gloved hand, a small plastic bag of groceries in the other. They stared at one another for a long, quiet moment until Jake sighed, dropped his head, and let the ch-chnk of the car unlocking break the silence. He didn’t even have to tell her, Rosie just opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. She didn’t look at him as he plopped into the driver’s seat and threw his meds into the back before turning the car on to get some heat flowing.

“Well, this isn’t how I wanted to apologize but, uh, I’m sorry,” He mumbled to the steering wheel, flexing cold fingers over the grey pleather texture, “I guess...it was something we should have talked about before I just--it’s been a while, a long while, since I was on the dating scene, I’d forgotten--it honestly wasn’t meant to hurt you, I just--”

“Jake, it’s okay.” Rosie said in a low voice and her hand was blisteringly warm when she put it on top of his, “Honestly, I think I overreacted. You put your feelings out there and I was...inconsiderate, I guess. I’m very sorry for hurting you.” She bit her lip and Jake felt that little rush in his chest again, “Can...can we maybe start over?”

“Um, sure.” He smiled awkwardly, still stiff and uncertain. But she beamed at him, sunshine through the rain outside the windows, and clasped her hands in her lap.

“As a real apology,” She said excitedly, “Can I offer you some tea and homemade treats? Or coffee, if you’d like.”

Jake hesitated, clenched his hands on the steering wheel, and reminded himself that he was allowed to have nice things, “Yeah, sure. The usual spot or…?”

“Actually, if it’s not too weird, would you like to come to my place?” Rosie asked the question shyly, ducking her head and looking up at him through her bangs. Jake felt the collar of his jacket get hot and he cleared his throat.

“Oh, uh, s-sure. Should we take your car?”

“I actually walked here. I like the rain and I could use the exercise.”

“I can drive if you navigate.”

“Deal!”

She smiled at him and, damn him to hell and back, he returned it with all the jittery glee of a child in a candy store.

----

Rosie lived in a cute two story at the end of a long drive outside the city. It was tucked out of the way on a side road, inoffensive and quaint and shaded with a thick circle of trees whose leaves were just starting to burn with the warm colors of fall.

“This is the cutest house I have ever seen,” Jake blurted as he pulled up behind a dark colored Chevy. Then he blushed so furiously he swore he could feel the roots of his hair burning, “I didn’t--that was, um, I was just--”

Rosie giggled into her hand and was merciful enough to leave the car first to give Jake a chance to compose himself. He stumbled out after her, clearing his throat and looking off into the forest so she couldn’t see the blush still lingering in his face.

The inside of her house was warm and cute and full of soft yellows and even softer looking furniture. There were paintings of forests or wildlife on the walls and wide windows with lovely views of the surrounding woods. It was all very picturesque and quaint and for a moment Jake felt as though he’d stepped into some fairy tale with a magical cabin in the woods. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of freshly baked cookies, old coffee, and pine. It was relaxing, quiet, peaceful in a way his suburban life wasn’t.

“It’s really nice,” He said, shedding his damp jacket and handing it to Rosie so she could hang it in the hall closet, “Your house, I mean. If I didn’t know the city was, like, four blocks from here, I’d think we were in the middle of nowhere.”

“I like it like that,” Rosie said, “It might seem lonely out here all by myself, but I don’t mind. I like the quiet.”

“Me too.” Jake shared a knowing smile with her and followed her into the kitchen where she went about setting the kettle on and pulling a tin of cookies out. She didn’t open them at first, just rested her hands on the tin, staring at the blue metallic surface with something in her eyes that Jake didn’t quite understand.

“Jake,” Her voice was low, soft, broaching a subject that made her wary, “Do you believe in destiny? Fate? That sort of thing? That some people are made to be together no matter what and that the universe brings them together through all kinds of circumstances?”

Something made Jake’s spine tingle and he figured it was the idea of soulmates making his ears turn red, “Um, well, I’d never...really given it much thought, to be honest. I don’t know if I like that idea of my life being predetermined by some outside force. But I can believe that people come into our lives for a reason, that we’re led to people who can help us to grow or understand ourselves better. Why?”

Rosie shook her head, dirty blonde hair sliding over her shoulder, “Just fantasizing, I guess. Can you get some mugs for our tea? They’re in the cupboard right behind you.”

Jake turned around and reached up to open the aforementioned cupboard. He was about to grab a mug from the shelf when he heard footsteps behind him and suddenly Rosie’s arms were around him, her face pressed against his shoulder, her chest against his back. He froze, swallowing hard, heart hammering in his chest so hard he was sure Rosie could feel it against her arms.

“I’m sorry, Jake,” She said into his ear, her voice silky smooth and velvet dark in a way that made goosebumps rise down his arms.

“F-for...for what?” He croaked, palms sweaty, mind racing.

“That it didn’t go the way it was supposed to,” Rosie said, “I had the perfect script all written out but...I guess sometimes you have to improvise.”

Something made the hair on the back of Jake’s neck stand on end.

“Rosie? What’re you--”

“I love you, Jacob Pierly, I always have.”

There was a pinch in his neck and ice burned through his veins.

Jake yanked away with a gasp, shoving Rosie back and tripping over his own feet as he stumbled against the counter. One hand pressed against his neck, his breathing rapid as he felt something fuzzy rapidly clawing its way into his brain. He blinked, shaking his head, sucking in shaky breaths, and looked up to see Rosie still standing where he left her. There was an empty syringe in her hand and a hurt expression on her face.

“Wh-what...what did you...do to me?” Words were hard to force out past a tongue that was being turned into cotton, through lips numbing with an unfamiliar chill. He fumbled for the counter beside him, missed, and slumped to the floor in a heap, his legs unresponsive and tingling with lost sensations.

“Nothing you won’t sleep off, darling,” Rosie murmured as she approached, her voice indistinct and muffled from behind the pillows pressed against his ears.

“Stay ‘way…” He slurred, waving a sloppy hand at her, trying to bat her away even as he lost more control, even as darkness swarmed into the edges of his vision and his eyelids began to fall shut, “Geh...get…’way...s...nh…”

Rosie watched passively as Jake’s eyes closed and his body crumpled bonelessly to the floor with a dull thud. He would looked almost peaceful laying like that were it not for the awkward bend of his limbs and the sheen of sweat on his forehead. With a despondent sort of sigh, Rosie crossed the kitchen and carefully picked up his unconscious form so she could move him into another room before going about the rest of her business.

She had a lot of preparations for finish before the sedatives wore off.

----

Jake woke up to the sensation of warm water spilling over his head.

He jerked, floundering between wakefulness and a dizzy sort of sleep, blinking rapidly to try and clear his vision and his brain. A voice shushed him gently, placing a hand on the back of his neck to keep his head bowed and let the water spill into the deep, white plastic sink he was bent over. The side of his neck throbbed and his arms were pinched to his sides, his legs and ankles pinned against something hard, a board pressing into his sternum.

“Wh--what--where am I? What’s happening?” His head was spinning from panic and the sluggish dregs of something still pumping through his system.

“Sshh, darling, it’s okay,” Fingers combed through his hair as his panicked breaths strained against whatever was pressing into his front, “Just relax, it’s all okay. I’ll take good care of you, just relax.”

Jake’s eyes widened as he saw black-blue streaks of water spiral down the drain. He bucked against his restraints with a wordless cry, whipping his head up and trying to pull away. His wild gaze found Rosie’s concerned expression first, her damp fingers hovering close to him, too close. He tried to back away and whimpered when he only succeeded into twisting his shoulders, looking down to find himself tied to a chair, his chest pressed against the back of it to keep him upright over the sink. Panicking, chest heaving and heart roaring in his ears, Jake struggled to get away, ignoring the raw pain of the rope scraping against his skin, static and fire pounding in his ears and drowning at the world as he shouted and screamed and cried out for help.

Movement in front of him caught his attention and he froze. Silence dropped around him like a blanket of heavy winter snow. He could see the tap running, could see Rosie’s mouth moving, but all he could seem to hear was the raw scrape of his own breathing in his throat. Even then, it seemed like it came from someone else.

Because staring back at him in the mirror above the sink, pale and wide-eyed in panic, was a Jacob Pierly he hadn’t seen since he was in high school. Maybe he looked older now, a little more tired, a little more world weary, but it was like a mirror into the past.

She’d dyed his hair black.

Black as pitch, black as the tar that suddenly swelled in his throat and choked him, black as Aaron’s eyes when he pummeled him, black as the abyss Jake had spent so long staring into that the abyss had finally deigned to glance at him and scoffed at the weakness it saw before turning away.

His eyes burned and his breath hitched.

“What’ve you done…?” He barely recognized his own voice as it was squeezed out of his mouth like it was his last gasp of air.

“Nothing that didn’t need to be done, sweetie,” Rosie told him, stepping closer and wrapping her arms around him. She pressed his head into her stomach, carding her fingers through his soaked and dripping hair, a smile in her voice, “You look just like you did in your band days now! So much better! I like you much more with dark hair.” She giggled and it made him want to wretch, “You’re going to be okay, honey, I’m going to take good care of you.”

Jake couldn’t tear his gaze away from his own reflection. So he was the only one who saw the horror of realization dawn in his eyes as Rosie kissed his temple and promised him safety and love and everything he could ever need.

----

Everything he could ever need did not include everything he wanted.

“I want to go home.”

Rosie looked up at him but Jake was staring at a spot in the tabletop, frightened eyes burning a hole through it. He was afraid that if he looked at his captor, he would throw up. As it was, the artfully crafted sandwich in front of him looked anything but appetizing at the moment.

“But you are home.” Rosie said, a giggling tone in her voice that made it sound like Jake had been making a silly joke, “You’ll be safe with me, here, in this house. Now, please eat so you keep your strength up.”

Jake’s jaw clenched and he breathed out heavily through his nose but he didn’t move. They were in what Jake suspected was the basement of Rosie’s home, sitting at a fold-out card table in a patch of sunlight coming in through the room’s only, narrow window several feet up at the top of the wall. The room also contained a cheaply built bed, the huge sink Rosie had forcefully dyed his hair in, and two doors, one of which led to the stairs to the first floor and another that Jake suspected held a bathroom near the foot of the bed.

“Rosie,” His voice sounded hard and cracked through his clenched teeth as he struggled with a fury that had grown from the cold terror inside him, “You need. To let me. Go. This--this is wrong. It’s wrong and you know it’s wrong and if you let me go right now I won’t say anything to anyone and--”

“The Problem Sons.”

Cold sweat peppered Jake’s forehead and he couldn’t stop himself from looking up at her, his breath shallow in his constricted lungs, a lump in his throat. There was a blank sort of endearment in her eyes, bright and hungry and drinking up every inch of him, and it made Jake want to run away as fast as he could. But he ankles were still tied to the chair he was in and he didn’t dare try to escape with his captor sitting right in front of him.

“What?” The strangled word slipped unbidden from his mouth.

Rosie tilted her head a little, “Problem Sons. Your band. We met at one of your shows and I fell in love with you the minute I saw you.”

“Th-that was years ago!” Jake sputtered, clutching at the edge of the table with white knuckles and a shaking grasp, “That was--we were just--”

“You had such raw passion,” Rosie was saying almost dreamily, gazing at him in a way that sent shivers down Jake’s spine even as he tried to scoot his chair away from the table, “You were so...so visceral. So pure. So angry. You had such a life and energy about you that it was like watching a meteor shower bring on the apocalypse; so breathtakingly destructive.” She stood up and moved around the table, came closer to him despite his whimpered protests, “I was enchanted. I have been ever since.” She leaned over him, one hand on the back of his chair, the other on the table, pressing into his personal space with a heady, lidded gaze,

“You were the only one who understood what it was like to hurt so much. I could see it in your words, in the way you played your music, you were hurting! You were hurting just like I was and nobody cared! Nobody cared about kids like us! But I care. I care about you so much I could burst. And I’ll take care of you. No one will ever hurt you again. Not while I’m here.”

Jake forgot how to breathe. His eyes burned and his vision blurred and he heard Rosie tut softly. Her hands came up and cupped his face, her thumbs brushing away the involuntary tears that had fallen. He was too stunned to even pull away as she leaned in closer still,

“I’m going to protect you, my love. All you have to do is listen and do everything I ask and we will be perfect and happy and safe forever.”

And she kissed him.

She held his face in her hands and pulled him close and pressed her lips against his with a hot ferocity that sparked life back into Jake’s veins. He let out a muffled yell against her mouth, trying to back up, but she only held onto him harder. He gritted his teeth and raised his hands to shove her away, gasping for air as she stumbled backwards, spitting and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“What the hell is wrong with you!?” He snarled, twisting in his seat to glare at her, “What the actual fuck!? You can’t just--just kiss people without their consent! And you can’t just kidnap me! If you care about me so much, then why did you tell me no when I asked you out!?”

Rosie stared at him, straightening up and smoothing out her skirt, “Well, I had to get you away, of course.”

“Away!?” Jake repeated, his voice rising. He tried to stand, forgot about his bound legs and fell against the table, wobbling until he sat down hard again, “Away from who!? From what!? From my family!? From the people who care about me!? From my home and my life and everything I love!?”

“Oh baby…” She cooed, like she was talking to a misbehaving child, to someone who was too ignorant to understand, “You just don’t get it. You don’t see what they were doing to you. It’s all right, though. You just stay here for a while and then you’ll see how much better off it is if you just--”

“I’m not staying here.” Jake said abruptly, his face contorted into a furious curl of disgust the likes of which had not been seen since his early years, “If you won’t let me go then I’ll get out on my own.”

Rosie’s expression hardened, “I was worried you would be like this. Honestly, I was really hoping you would just be happy to get away from all those awful people in your life. But I see now that it’s going to take some work to break their hold on you.” She reached into the pocket of her skirt and withdrew something black and heavy looking, walking towards him as she did so, “I’m sorry it had to be like this. But you’ll understand once I fix you.”

“Don’t touch me,” Jake pressed back against the chair, trying to push himself away, trying to keep her at a distance, “Don’t come near me! I said don’t!” He leaned back as far as he could, tilting his head back to keep her away from him. But she easily reached around him and clicked something across his throat before stepping back.

Jake raised a shaking hand to his neck, let his fingers trace over the flexible plastic and key-locked clasp, and then over the large, heavy chunk of technology resting against his shoulder. He shivered and then couldn’t stop shivering, panic racing through him in a mind-numbing blaze of horror and revulsion.

A collar.

A fucking collar.

It was at that moment that Jake’s brain decided it had had enough and promptly shut itself off.

His eyes rolled back and he felt himself falling as the world around him faded into a blessed and silent darkness.

[randykorn]

2019 Writing Roundup

Under the cut because I have never been succinct in my life and this is no exception

JANUARY: Welcome to Aglionby

“Okay, okay,” Maura said, holding up her hands for peace, swinging her gaze between Blue and Gansey.  “We don’t know everything-“

“We hardly know anything, really-“ Persephone interjected.

“But I will tell you what we do know.  This boy is on a quest for a lost king.  This boy is touched by death.  This boy will either save this town, or doom it.  And you, Blue, are going to help him do it.”

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“It means that there’s a prophecy,” Maura said, “that we’ve been monitoring for quite some time now.  It means that the cards say that you’re both at the heart of it.  It means that you’re both going to face danger and decisions that will change you forever.”

“It means that it’s starting,” Persephone said with a laugh that struck Gansey like lightning.  “It’s finally starting.”

FEBRUARY: Welcome to Aglionby

Slowly, he unfolded the letter, already dreading what he’d find.

Henry Cheng called.  Went to Hirshhorn.  Be back soon.  Safe dreams.  -Gansey

The crumpled letter was hitting the opposite wall before Ronan even realized what he’d read.

This close to the full moon, Hirshhorn would be an endless maze, easy to enter but impossible to leave.  And that wasn’t even accounting for the line’s gathering energy.  Gansey would be in there alone, without Ronan to guide him and keep him safe by navigating the fluctuating magic.  But Gansey wasn’t alone, was he?  No, he had-

“Henry Cheng,” he hissed.

Henry Cheng, who modeled for Ronan’s art classes and gently kissed him in empty hallways, never forcing Ronan to speak, instead trusting him to act. Henry Cheng, earning Ronan’s voice and truths and fears when he was drunk enough to give them.  Henry Cheng, who promised something softer than Kavinsky, but just as exciting, and likely more real.

Henry Cheng, who seemed to be involved in this fucking prophecy.

MARCH: Welcome to Aglionby

“What in the nine heavens is that?” Henry asked, pressing against Ronan’s seat to get a better view.

Something moved in Gansey’s peripheral vision, in front of the car.  Something large and white and glowing.

“That,” Adam said quietly, sounding just as shaken as Gansey felt, “is The Beast.”

Gansey whipped back around so fast he felt the Camaro shake.  Standing directly in front of the Pig was the largest deer he had ever seen.  Easily twenty feet tall, the sight of it made his stomach drop out, equal parts fear and awe.  It was just as Adam said - glowing white fur woven from moonlight, with a subtle sheen of blue.  Small, silver butterflies fluttered around it, dancing in its glow. Moss and vines draped elegantly between its antlers, forming a natural crown of delicate, pale blooming flowers.

The Beast suddenly struck him as a wholly inaccurate name.  It was far too crude, too rough, too lacking for such a magnificent creature.  What stood in front of them contained all the delicacy of the moon and all the strength of the sun.  The Beast simply didn’t come close to capturing it.

It looked at him, stark white eyes meeting his through the windshield, and Gansey found that he couldn’t breathe.  Its gaze bored into him, looking far past his physical appearance.  Gansey felt a shiver run through his mind, his soul, through everything he was and everything he would ever be.  He felt himself pulled into that all-encompassing white expanse as it read him, judged him, measured him against what he needed to accomplish.  For the moment he felt blank, peaceful, and if he hadn’t known better, he would have thought that this soft, floating space within himself was akin to death.

APRIL: Welcome to Aglionby

“I’ll do it,” Adam said, standing up and turning toward The Beast.  “I’ll do it, if you’ll have me.  If you’ll keep him alive.”

He couldn’t change the past, couldn’t help his younger self when no one else would, but maybe, just maybe, he could help this boy here, now, right in front of him.  Maybe he could manage to be what his younger self had always needed, by being what this boy needed now.

Adam climbed up onto the stump, standing tall as the wind whipped and swirled around him.  He still had to look up to meet The Beast’s eyes, but at least they were on more even ground, now.  The boy shook beneath him, beside him, within him, and Adam hoped he was making the right choice.

“Well?” he asked, staring upward with a confidence he didn’t really feel, spreading his arms to the sides.  Open.  Vulnerable.  “Will I do?”

Yes.

MAY: TRC Rewrite (unpublished)

Adam was quiet for a while, slowly unwinding his anger as his eyes searched Gansey for some unknowable quality.  Gansey, for his part, let himself be studied in silence.  

This was the moment he had told Ronan about Glendower - about the truth and the pain and the magic - but reversed.  Inverted, a mirror reflected out.  He had watched Ronan like Adam was watching him now, carefully cataloguing everything he knew of his friend and weighing him against a lifelong desire to be believed.  To be known.

He could feel a secret rising up in the air, and he hardly dared to breathe lest he scare it away.

Trust me, his mind whispered.  Trust me like I trust you.

JUNE: TRC Rewrite (unpublished)

For an instant, Ronan imagined the scene.  Gansey waking to find Ronan missing, sighing to himself as he pulled on days-old clothing and grabbed the keys to the dreadful Suburban.  Gansey wandering the streets, worry squirming in his gut, holding off on calling the others - but only just.  Gansey finally making his way to the church as the dawn inched across the sky.  Gansey seeing the blood spattered across the steps, already turning brown, before noticing Ronan’s broken body crumpled on the ground.

For an instant, Ronan wondered if the Grey Man would be smart enough to make it look like a suicide.  

For an instant, Ronan wondered if Gansey would believe that.

Of course he would.  A part of Gansey was always braced for the worst Ronan had to offer, even as he yearned to believe that Ronan was better, now. Ronan was starting to believe that “better” was a myth, that healing was an unattainable platitude forced upon grieving teenagers that no one knew how to handle.

Did he still want to die?  

Sometimes.

Did he want to die under the hands of the same man who had murdered his father?

Fuck.  No.

JULY: TRC Rewrite (unpublished)

A flash of darkness surged out of the trees, landing on top of his car with enough force to dent the roof inward.  Adam cursed as the back wheels buckled and skid sideways, sending the car into a wild tailspin.  He wrestled for control as an inhuman screech scraped against his ears, calling for blood and destruction.  Gleaming claws pressed against the windshield, and Adam screwed his eyes shut as glass exploded inward, several large shards shattering into dust as they hit his skin.  

Cabeswater, protecting him.

But from what?

Adam blinked upward, just long enough to catch a glimpse of an amorphous dark shape against the swirling vortex outside the car, everything in shadow except for the small details.  The teeth glinting in the shuttering light of his dashboard. The claws curling around the space where his windshield had just been, piercing the underside of the roof.  The six eyes glowing like ravenous fire, ready to swallow him whole.

The trees, he thought wildly, abandoning the steering wheel entirely to brace his head with both arms.  I’m going to hit the-

AUGUST: Welcome to Aglionby (unpublished)

There was no ground, no sky, no way to orient himself as he fought his way through the smoke, the darkness, the voices that rolled around him, over him, through him.  His body felt heavy, sluggish, each small movement taking more energy than he was sure he had.

He lifted his hand to his face, knowing it wasn’t the first time he’d done this, either.  The memories fell into place in his mind, identical dominos all collapsing into a single, present moment of uncertain fear.

He was fading.

His skin was transparent; wispy and thin, layered over his bones like an indistinct x-ray.  The bones themselves gave off the faintest glow, making it easier to pick out the tiny veins and arteries that curled through him, rivers that wound their way through the valleys and peaks of his physiology.

This would be great for anatomy class.  The thought startled a desperate, panicked laugh out of him that faded within seconds, and he was left with a terribly hollow feeling.  Something told him he wouldn’t be going back to anatomy class for quite some time.

Noah pulled his hand to his chest, feeling the frantic beat pulsing through him, steadying some wordless fear within him.

Alive.

SEPTEMBER: TRC Rewrite (unpublished)

Adam remembered carefully researching the cheapest way to get to New York, remembered thinking that it would be easy to get lost in the crowd of the city. He remembered slowly filling his backpack with clothes and snacks over several weeks, remembered shoving in his toiletries in the panicked silence of that final night.  He remembered sneaking into his parents’ room and stealing the credit card out of Dad’s wallet.  He remembered biking to the nearest gas station and buying a bag of nuts so he could get enough cash back to fund his trip.

He remembered the terror of the bus ride.  The freedom.  The hope.

He remembered New York, a blurred haze of uncaring crowds and dirty sidewalks.  He’d been one face among millions, impossible to notice, impossible to find.  The sudden release from his life - from what it meant to be Adam - had completely overwhelmed him, and he’d spent most of the first day squatting in a back alley next to a dumpster, struggling to breathe through his decision.  The second day he’d managed to find his way to the library and began the process of figuring out how to live on his own at fourteen without his father finding him.  The third day, someone far more desperate than him had stolen everything he had while he slept in a park, including Dad’s very traceable credit card.  The forth day, the police picked him up and dropped him into Officer Soltero’s sympathetic but useless hands.

OCTOBER: Welcome to Aglionby (unpublished)

Now it was Adam’s turn to look pained.  “I don’t care to hear his tragic backstory.”

“I think it’s related to the ley line,” Gansey said.  “Ley lines.”

Adam paused.  “You didn’t know, did you.  That there were two.”  Gansey shook his head, his perfect lips pulling into a frown.  “Ronan did.”

“I know.  Ronan seems to know quite a bit more than he ever let on.”

“Why didn’t he tell you?  Haven’t you been poking around here for a while with him?”

“Years,” Gansey whispered, his eyes somewhere far away from here, surrounded by memories that Adam couldn’t reach, emotions that he couldn’t fully see.  “But I’m sure he had his reasons.”

Adam couldn’t imagine how it would feel to be searching for something for years, only to find out that your best friend and partner in magic had held the vital clue all along.  Ronan had been by Gansey’s side for every step of the way, as far as Adam could tell, and he’d still chosen not to mention his obvious connection with magic, with the lines.  He’d chosen to keep Gansey searching in the dark while he’d held the light.  Adam couldn’t imagine the anger he would have felt.  Or, he could, which was why Gansey’s utter lack of animosity was both perplexing and alarming.  Adam didn’t trust silence.  Stillness.  Not when there was reason for it to break.

“I’m sure he didn’t,” he said instead.

“No offense, Adam, but you don’t know him very well.”

“No,” he agreed.  “And I don’t care to.”

NOVEMBER: Carry On Rewrite (unpublished)

If I don’t kill Baz, he will kill me.

I’ve always known this.  It’s been the foundational fact of our relationship, the thing that’s driven us to become mortal enemies for the past seven years.  It’s why he and his family have tried to kill me so many times.  It’s why I hate him.

It’s easier to kill someone you hate, especially if that someone is trying to kill you.

I shift my sword into a two-handed grip.

If I don’t kill Baz, he will kill me.

He lunges for me, bloodied hands reaching for my face, fangs reaching for my neck, eyes swirling with a desperate, wild hunger that will only be sated by my blood, my death.

I don’t think I hate Baz.

I don’t think I want to kill him, either.

I don’t think I ever have.

I drop my sword, feeling it vanish - and with it, any real chance of killing the bloodthirsty vampire in front of me.  Feral, ruthless, deadly.  Broken, starving, terrified.

I’d rather save him than hurt him.

I hope I haven’t made a mistake.

DECEMBER: TRC Rewrite (unpublished)

Noah drew close to the girl for the first time in seven years.

It’s starting.

She sat on a crumbling stone wall, tapping her pen against the notebook open in her lap, diligently scribbling names down as the woman called them out. Later, her family would contact their customers if their names appeared, giving them time to get their affairs in order.  It was a macabre job, but Noah didn’t mind.  Death came for them all, and perhaps it was best to be prepared.

He drew even closer, leaning over to read the names scrawled into the book. He wondered if his own name was there, pages and pages back, or if his spirt had failed to walk the line all those years ago.  He was stuck, after all.  The normal rules didn’t seem to apply to him.

Her hand jingled pleasantly as it slid across the page, the multitude of bracelets tinkling like bells in the night.  He looked up into her face as she frowned down at the page, a mixture of frustration and wonder woven into the slant of her lips, begging to be wiped away with a quick joke or a quicker kiss.  Her hair was pulled into a dozen pigtails with a dozen mismatched hair clips, the variety of spikes making her look like a hedgehog.  Noah fondly brushed his fingers against it, smiling at the way the tight, prickly curls tickled his palm.  He had always enjoyed this, even if this was the first time he’d done it.