#I cannot even generate the proper tags to express myself

[dipplinduo]

TIL @kekstala used to read my ancient conflictingshipping fanfiction YEARS AGO from when my extremely inexperienced & younger self wrote on fanfiction.net & I am not spiritually emotionally or physically fucking okay 💀💀💀💀💀

[aelin-queen-of-terrasen]

𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

full masterlist - fic masterlist

The day after the dinner party in the late afternoon, Celaena was whiling her time away by flipping through the pages of the latest monthly issue of the fashion magazine La Belle Assemblée when she recieved a note of invitation from Lady Towper, one of her recent acquaintances, to a walk in Hyde Park later that afternoon with her and Mrs Burnwell, another society lady Celaena had befriended. The wording made it quite clear it was more a summons than an invitation and having spent the morning by herself, Celaena was eager enough for company that she happily put down her magazine and called for her pelisse and outerwear with alacrity. Twenty minutes later she was roaming around the park when Lady Towper spotted her, gliding across the path—there really was no other way to describe her graceful movement—with an elegant swish of her skirts and a look of exaggerated distress on her countenance, followed by Mrs Burnwell who looked rather piqued. "Dear Miss Sardothein," cried the former, looping an arm around hers. "How glad I was to hear you accepted my invitation. I wanted to take a walk around the park, refresh myself and Mrs Burnwell recalled you were rather fond of exercise and suggested we take you along with us."

Celaena rather thought that on a fine weather such as this, the ladies' primary motive for a walk was perhaps to see and be seen by the upper ten-thousands of the ton, most of which had returned from their summer estates for the social season which was to start soon but said instead, "I am grateful for the invitation. Your Ladyship has quite rescued me from certain death at the hands of boredom."

The ladies tittered politely, protesting that it was no great sacrifice on their part and the trio walked along the paths making light conversation until Mrs Burnwell jerked to a halt with a pinched expression. "Mrs Whitethorn."

Though Celaena had only met the lady once, she had been left unimpressed and could not fault Mrs Burnwell for looking piqued.

Mrs Whitethorn did not improve on a second meeting - not that Celaena had had any expectations that she would - and participated as much in the conversation with as much fervor as a lifeless statue, making occasional noises of agreement and dissent. Celaena who prided herself on being able to draw someone out of their reserve met with failure at every turn and it was not long before the ladies ran out of polite remarks to exchange and their party took their leave. Celaena spotted a group of children from her neighborhood racing each other in a less scenic path around the park and soon abandoned all sorts of decorum to join in on the shouting.

"FASTER, TOM! FASTER, YES, A LITTLE FASTER!" cheered Celaena, bouncing up and down in excitement.

Her cheeks were flushed with exertion and her petticoats muddier than usual. She let out a high-pitched noise when little Thomas reached the finishing line and beamed. "I did it, I did it, I said I would, did I not? Oh, Cece, did you see me? I won!"

"You did very well, dear," said she, kissing his cheek. The smug look he sent his siblings' way had her struggling not to laugh.

"Yes, you won this time—" said his eldest brother in an arrogant tone, "—but I shall be the winner next time. Shall we play something else now?"

"Hide and seek!"

"Hopscotch."

"No! We must play cops and robbers today. You promised!"

"I want to play tag."

"We don't," said the twins simultaneously.

"Then blind man's buff?"

"I suppose we could—"

"Oh, no, I will not play that ever again."

Celaena smiled, watching the children argue over what they wished to do and looked at two children - presumably brothers - finely dressed and staring at the brood of children she was so fond of wistfully. "Here, you two, why don't you play?" asked she.

The younger boy beamed at the prospect but the elder looked uncertain.

He glanced over his shoulder anxiously biting his lip. "Oh, no, mama will be furious if we get our clothes dirty." But he looked at the noisy little children with such longing and he looked so serious in general with those deep blue eyes filled with sorrow and the brows that remained creased as if by default—more serious than a nine-year-old should be; he held himself with a ridiculous amount of poise, posture stiff and yet looked unsure of every little movement or sound he made, Celaena had a whimsical desire to have him enjoy himself.

"I shall tell you a secret," she gave him a conspiratorial wink. "It is healthy to disobey your parents once in a while."

The poor boy looked scandalized at the thought of disobeying anyone. When had he last had some fun? she wondered.

He looked at the boys again, then at his boots, properly polished and finely made, then straightened as if he had come to a decision. "I-I thank you, miss, but my brother and I shall take your leave now." The formal tone so became him, she was struck by the intelligence in his expression and the confidence of his words despite the apprehension evident in his posture. He continued in a softer tone, "Mama says it is not proper to talk to anyone without being introduced."

"Then perhaps we might perform the service ourselves since no one else can? I am Miss Celaena Sardothein of Raven Hall in Derbyshire." She curtsied formally, suppressing a smile.

"Oh." He looked down at his feet.

Celaena took pity on him and smiled. "It's alright, I shan't force you into anything. You are a good boy, dear, to obey your parents so." He looked so surprised, and blushed all kinds of red, though his chest did puff out a little. When had someone last praised him? Knowing there was no more she could do, Celaena was about to bid the child a farewell when a familiar figure rounded the corner.

"Papa!" cried the little boy, latching onto his father's leg.

Mr Whitethorn patted his head and gently freed himself to step forward. "Stephen, what have I told you about talking to—Miss Sardothein!" He jerked to a stop, then recalling himself, bowed to her. "I cannot say how surprised I am to see you."

"Are you really, sir?" asked she. "You know me to be unconventional. This is exactly the kind of place you should expect to find me in." She nodded towards the elder boy who looked vastly relieved to have someone else do the talking on his behalf and the younger who clung to his father for attention, bouncing on his toes. "These fine young gentlemen are your sons?"

He confirmed that they were.

"Perhaps you and your sons could join us for a while?" Both boys looked excited for such a prospect though one was more successful at hiding it than the other.

"Please papa?" asked the five-year-old.

Mr Whitethorn rolled his eyes fondly. "After recieving that look, I should not dare refuse."

The child hugged his father tightly, then ran towards the group of boys. They accepted him immediately, having settled on the blind man's bluff finally and noisily took up positions, directing and misdirecting the child with the blindfold.

His elder brother looked lost standing by the side. He looked down at his hands. "...And he has run off already."

"Why don't you join him?" she nudged gently. I know they will be happy to include you."

Stephen swallowed, looking at his father who had a neutral face on and turned to her. "I thank you, but no—" then at her stern look, he admitted, "I, I won't know what to say to them."

"Just say you want to play."

"But surely, I don't, oh, I am fine here."

Celaena signalled for him to offer her an arm and escort her there. When he refused, she said, "You know it is not gentlemanly to refuse to escort a lady somewhere, do you not?"

Stephen huffed but gave in.

Shs clapped to get everyone's attention. "This is Master Stephen Whitethorn and that—" she nodded towards the younger, "—is his younger brother, Master..."

"Charles," the boy happily supplied.

"Right. Master Charles Whitethorn." The boy grinned toothily. "Be nice to them."

Stephen blushed at the attention, standing stiffly as one by one the boys spoke their names. He half expected them to call him names like wuss or a dreadful bore like his cousins and friends always did but no one did. In fact, as long as he played well, no one cared how loud he shrieked or how often he stumbled on the tree roots or how dirty he had gotten. As every minute passed, he relaxed some more until he was laughing and jumping along with the others with no care for his clothes or boots which were already ruined. Mama would have his head if she found out, yes, and she would scold him until his ears bled but was not all this fun worth it? How often did he have such a chance? He looked back at the spot where his father stood beside the woman—Miss Sardothein—and noticed she was watching him. He rolled his eyes when she mouthed 'you are welcome' but could not help the smile that followed after.

"Poor boy," Celaena sighed to herself. "He is too shy, and he feels inferior to his brother."

Mr Whitethorn said, "He is wise beyond his years. I do not know what to do with him sometimes." He looked down at his feet, a gesture she recognised as evident in his eldest son. "You sound like one talking with experience but I cannot imagine you being shy at all." The concern expressed on his face touched her deeply and she had the strangest urge to smooth the wrinkles away from his forehead.

"I should imagine not." She chuckled. "Eleanor, my adoptive sister is very shy—not like your son, mind—but I have seen firsthand her longing to join in on the fun and her hesitance to act on it."

They watched the children play and he chuckled. "Their mother will have a fit if she finds them so muddied."

"Their mother," said Celaena, barely restraining herself from snorting. "I do not think your wife likes me, sir."

"I think that is a point in your favor, Miss Sardothein," he replied dryly, though his lips twitched. Had she paid more attention to her dance partners the evening of the Thorpe's ball or less occupied with Lord Fenrys' veiled hints, trying to figure out the meaning behind his pointed commentary and the suspicious dinner invitation she had accepted out of curiosity, she would not have been surprised by how handsome he looked. But indeed, occupied as she had been on the previous occassions, it was not until he smiled a little that she was taken completely by how well the expression of fondness became him, how his features so perfectly formed, looked more beautiful and pleasing than ever. She gasped at how beautifully his green eyes sparkled when he stood just so, with the sunlight shining in them and how gracefully he carried himself with a hint of pride that was not unbecoming on his noble mein. If at that moment he had told her he was a prince from the fairytales, she would have easily believed him.

"Are you well, Miss Sardothein?"

Celaena flushed bright red with mortification. "Oh, yes," she breathed out. She spent the better part of their afternoon walk attempting to squash the flutter in stomach by conjuring a confused, miserable Mrs Whitethorn waiting for her husband to return home. The trick did not work as well as she had hoped and when the sun started its descent, she was grateful to be able to part with some measure of equinanimity.

"You met who at a dinner party?" asked Lord Rhoe incredulously for the fifth time.

"Aelin." Seated across from his father in his private study and being the current object of the Earl's ire, James felt like the nine-year-old recieving a lecture from his father over one mischief or another when Rhoe could be bothered enough to care about something more than his next meal or the port supply. He had retreated into his own world soon after they lost his little sister and neither brother was inclined to give him more courtesy or respect than what was his due as a father. James felt he would have been perfectly justified in not informing his father of this discovery but he felt an uncharacteristic anxiety about her visit and was not inclined to risk her running into his ignorant father who would easily recognise her from afar. "Aelin was at the Thorpe's ball, the one my cousin and I attended recently, though we were not introduced. Fenrys ran into her at a nearby bookstore the other day and recognised her. Though I was initially sceptical and asked my solicitor to launch several inquiries into the girl in question and her family, Fenrys convinced me to meet her once and I—" there were hardly enough words to explain himself on this and James fell silent.

Lord Rhoe looked his disbelief.

"I know you do not wish for false hopes, sir, but I would not have come if I was not sure."

"I grieve her still," said Rhoe at last in a tone of gruff affection, "—and I know how it feels to latch onto hope but it is insanity to claim this-this madness—"

"It is not madness."

"You are letting your sentiments rule over reason. Aelin is dead, boy," said he, "and you had better drop this."

James was in no mood to drop it but Rhoe was overcome by a fit of coughs and slumped into his armchair. James rushed to his father, not sure what he would do but there was something so wrong about seeing his ever stoic, ever impassive father reduced to a fit of helplessness - no matter how small - like a common fragile old man that disturbed him greatly. James rubbed his father's back and called for a maid.

Rhoe tried to speak but a hoarse whisper was all that came out.

A maid stood at the doorway while the other rushed inside, fetching a glass of water from the pitcher. Rhoe drank it slowly, allowing the coughs to slowly fade.

"Aelin died," he choked out.

"You don't know that," reminded James gently. He was hesitant to press more but James wanted to clear this first hurdle before she arrived.

"I saw—I saw her body." Rhoe closed his eyes shut as if he was trying to block out a vision. "There was a body. Her body."

"Aelin disappeared," corrected James. "You found a body and identified it as hers but what if-what if it wasn't?"

"The magistrate found her anklet near the body. It was her. I saw the anklet."

James snapped his mouth shut. He had been nine when his sister disappeared and what little he knew about it was pieced together from eavesdropped bits of conversations and accidental slips from his uncle and aunt between the years. The Earl of Narrowcreek all but banned talk about Aelin in his home and neither son mentioned her for fear of his temper until memories of childhood acquired a dreamlike quality in his mind.

"The other anklet?"

"They never found it," said Rhoe.

James tried to consider his words carefully but . "I am aware my story sound like wishful thinking but I have—sir, I would not have believed my cousin if I had not seen her. She looks like my sister but more than that, she is-she is what I always thought Aelin would grow up to be: witty, charming and-and so wickedly clever." His words were more passionate than rationally thought out now but his father looked unaffected. James blew out a breath. "I invited her here for dinner, father. I wish to make Miss Sardothein aware of my-my suspicions. Despite what you say, something tells me I am right. I know I am. If you change your mind by dinner, you are welcome to join us tonight."

He thought his words might cause his father to at least promise to come; instead Rhoe latched onto another part of his sentence. "Miss Celaena Sardothein?!"

"The very one."

"You cannot mean to invite a tradesman's daughter into my house!"

"She is your daughter, sir!" said James sharply, feeling himself losing his control. "I mean to tell her of her identity today and you will not dissuade me from it." So saying, he quit the study door and left, suddenly quite anxious for the upcoming visit.

Celaena felt strangely off-kilter looking at a house that was as familiar as it was strange as she was handed down the carriage by a footman. Her nerves hightened for some unfathomable reason and in an attempt to distract herself by looking around the foyer of the Galathynius Townhouse, which was very grand. In the pride of the place stood an elegant water fountain, around which she could imagine a noisy brood of children splashing in and out. The elegant structure captured her interest until she stepped inside, feeling a vague sense of deja vu though she could swear she had never seen such a fine house before in her life—surely she would remember it if she had? It was not a forgettable sight—she pushed her unease aside, squared her shoulders and allowed the butler to divest her of her cloak and gloves while a maid waited to escort her to drawing room. The old servant started at the sight of her before he hid his surprise with an impassive expression like a well-trained servant, efficiently performing his duties, though she did not miss the way his eyes flicked back to her face repeatedly. Having never been invited to a private dinner before, Celaena had no expectations from the evening but was nevertheless surprised to be ushered into a private study instead of the drawing room.

A man sat in his armchair in a posture more befitting a young gentleman than an old, wealthy peer, though the grey hair at the edges of his temples belied his age.

"Miss Sardothein," said he.

Lord Rhoe noticed her surprise at being addressed by her name and smiled strangely. "Your reputation precedes you, dear. You have the whole town in a tizzy and you have in twenty four hours coerced my son into issuing a dinner invitation that is quite improper; an unmarried lady dining with two bachelors? Huge scandals have been created on far less."

"Then I wonder at your son's reasoning, for he issued the invitation. I only accepted it."

The Earl shook his head. "I know his reasons but I wonder at yours."

"I was curious."

He raised an eyebrow but she did not offer more explanation than that. "By accepting his invitation, you are putting your reputation in jeopardy, and with it, my son's."

She dimpled. "I might argue he did that himself when he issued it."

"I told you—"

"No, I told you," said she, rising from her seat, "—I am here on invitation. If you wish me gone from your home, ask and I will. But I will not accept an interrogation."

"I demand respect, Miss Sardothein."

"I shall never give it for that reason alone. I could not respect you if I wanted, sir," said she defiantly, rising from her seat, "for you were decided against me before I even entered your house—you who valued the gossip's opinions, or was your prejudice because of the grave sin I committed in being raised by a tradesman?" Her eyes flashed with ire and her breaths came faster. The Earl noticed none of it, struck as he was by the image of another adolescent ages ago shouting at his own father in the very same place. Miss Sardothein was a little older, perhaps and her features were not as delicate and soft but there was no mistaking her. He had crossed swords with his wife's younger sister to recognise her ashryver eyes and the colouring—

"Evalin," he whispered.

Bloody Hell.

Celaena's eyebrows creased when the older man looked at her in shock, then collapsed into the armchair he had been occupying.

"Uncle Rhoe? I heard raised voices—good gods, Aelin! Whatever happened here?"

If either of them noticed what name Lord Fenrys had unintentionally called her and to which she had answered, neither gave any indication. "He was telling me I should not have come and I was-I was defending myself but then he was, he was shocked at something and he said a name—Evelyn or something similar. Then he just collapsed into the chair." Lord Fenrys quickly and efficiently took charge of the situation, pouring her some wine for some semblance of calm, sending for his cousin and a footman to escort His Lordship back to his chambers. Lord Fenrys and his cousin had apparently been waiting for her in the drawing room downstairs and were not aware of her arrival. He had come to fetch a book from the adjoining library to pass his time when he heard raised voices. This assured her to some degree that she was not unwanted in the house, however as it belonged to the master whom she had quite shocked into fainting with her poor manners, she was not sure how much longer she would be welcome and expressed her desire to leave.

Lord Fenrys said immediately, "Leave? Goodness—no, my cousin will be quite cross with me if I let you leave before he comes. Do feel free to look around."

She did look around, taking in the elegant but never ostentatious furniture and the wall patterns which, though pretty, looked rather outdated. The study was well-lit with wax candles but looked cozier than she would expect an Earl's private sanctuary to look like. Her attention was caught soon by a bookcase by the farthest wall—presumably his favourites—and was surprised she shared similar tastes in reading with a man who had in a few minutes embodied all the worst qualities of the aristocracy. She moved past that wall only to come face-to-face with an unexpected portrait. It's objects—a husband, wife and their three children—sat in a formal pose but the picture radiated contentment, happiness and affection. It was perhaps something in the way the refined, elegant woman stared adoringly up at her husband or the look of affection he in turn bestowed on his two sons and a daughter who looked by turns bemused, bored and awfully wicked.

Her stomach twisted uneasily looking at the eldest son. "That. Who is that?"

"Edward," answered he. "Viscount Layton is not much fond of society. By the way his expression darkened, she surmised there must be some rift in the family—

Edward.

Edward Galathynius.

Celaena felt her own disquiet increase. Where had she heard the name before?

She glanced quickly at her host's cousin who was rifling through the drawers and examined the painting more closely. The children and the woman looked a great deal similar in colouring and in their eyes which were turquoise—

Turquoise eyes ringed with gold.

"Miss Sardothein?" Fenrys asked.

"Yes, yes, forgive me, Lord Fenrys. I feel a little, a little warm. He, your cousin—cousins, that is," she corrected herself, "they have—their eyes are a very unusual colour," she lamely finished.

"The ashryver eyes, yes." His tone was flippant, as though he had not seen her eyes. "As rare as they are beautiful, won't you say?"

Her stomach plummeted. She wanted to go somewhere—anywhere else.

Celaena tried to leave the room, her skin feeling too hot. Her knees buckled.

"Aelin!" Mr Galathynius stood in the doorway with his eyes wide.

Aelin.

She tried to ignore the implications of all that being called that name entailed.

Mr Galathynius gently led her to a seat away from the fireplace. Her head spun and her palms felt sweaty. "Home," she croaked out, unable to make out her own words. "I want home." Her skin flushed even more, her palms grew sweaty and her clothes felt coarse against her body.

Ashryver eyes.

The fairest eyes, from legends old

Of brightest blue, ringed with gold

She shut her eyes closed, willing her hands to stop shaking. It didn't work. How did she know that? She couldn't have known that. She had never met these people before, had never seen this place.

She had not.

She could not have.

Aelin was my favourite cousin—you, uh, you remind me of her.

Aelin.

But how could it be?

Aelin died in a fire thirteen years ago, Fenrys had told her. When she was but five.

Arobynn brought her home and introduced her as an orphan the same year, the year she had turned six. Arobynn had found her as an orphan roaming the streets of London when she was five.

The dates matched.

The fire. A warehouse. Two men. A pistol. She tried to remember but came up short.

"Aelin," a voice gently called out.

"You are wrong," she insisted vehemently, "I am not, I am not your sister!" Her voice turned screeching. "I was—my family gave me up, they didn't want me. Arobynn saved me. He told me they didn't want me, he told me so himself."

Arobynn lies to everyone.

But he had never lied to her. To her, he had been honest as he should.

He would not.

"Shh, It's alright, Aelin." James scooted closer and talked in a gentle tone, wishing his elder brother was present to comfort her. Edward would have known how to calm her.

Edward always had.

"Don't call me that." She shook her head tearfully. "I am not Aelin. I am not."

James placed an arm on her shoulder cautiously. The gentle touch, the compassionate voice and the genuine concern almost undid her. "Aelin," said her brother—her brother, she thought with amazement that the words did not sound as strange as they should have—"I am sorry you found out this way. Indeed, there are a great many things we are not sure of but—but my father's reaction and your own confirms what I suspected."

"You told me she died." The words came out almost as an accusation.

"It is all speculation on my part, mind, but we were informed my sister died in a fire in a nearby warehouse. The owner was a rather genial fellow and my sister—you—were friends with the man's clerk. You were playing with Edward that day—that is our elder brother—and you broke your ankle. He went to fetch help from the manor house but by the time father was able to come, you were not there. The search parties could find no signs of you until the magistrate informed her of two bodies found in a nearby warehouse. The first a child, had near her an anklet we knew you wore that day and father thought—we all thought it was you. I do not know where you did go and how the anklet appeared there but—"

She frowned. "You think Arobynn abducted me for some nefarious purposes."

"Indeed not—"

"You do," she accused, looking away from the hurt in his ashryver eyes. "You think—you think he did that. But he did not. He would not do that to me."

"Aelin, I never—"

"He wouldn't!" Celaena sobbed hysterically. "And even if you do not, everyone else will. No one will believe this—this story of ours—your father, oh god, he doubted it! He thought me a fortune hunter and—and everyone will—"

"Father did not wish to hope only to be met with disappointment, dearest."

"I all but told my father to go to the devil," she said between sobs.

"And it is a darned good thing you did," said Lord Fenrys in a flippant tone. "Someone needed to take that old man down a few notches. Besides, I suspect when he wakes up, he will have his fair share of apologising to do."

Mr Galathynius hesitantly placed an arm around his sister's shoulder as though he expected her to pull away and run. But she was too exhausted to protest and too grateful to have something solid to hold onto while the earth shifted beneath her feet. Aelin buried her face in his chest, clutching at the lapels of his coat and James felt a tender affection towards this creature who was clever and witty in ballrooms, whose ire faded as easily as it was stoked and who went from one emotion to another to another in a few moments. If in that moment someone had told him he needed to fell a dragon in order to protect her, he would have happily taken the beast on with his sword. James had been too young to do anything but squabble with his little sister but he felt all the protective instincts of an elder brother now and the first stirrings of hope that his family might not be doomed to unhappiness forever after all.

Aelin pulled back and sniffed. "I am sorry, Mr Galathynius, I suppose—"

"It would please me greatly if you would call me by my first name, dearest." James wished again he had his brother with him. "I do not think father will be angry and even if he is, I hope you will not mind him too much. I sent an express to Edward the moment we returned from the dinner party. He will be here soon and he will be ecstatic. I know I am."

"I don't remember anything."

He shrugged helplessly. "It is to be expected, Aelin. You were only five."

"But Arobynn told me I was given away by my family to, to an orphanage. He found me on the streets."

Mr Galathy—James looked at her seriously, clutching her hands in his. "I don't know if he lied or not, Aelin, but know this: your family did not give you away—indeed, we have been miserable since you left us." He bit his lip, swallowed and asked, "Do you remember even a little bit of that day? You and Edward were playing outside, you broke your ankle and he came back to the house to fetch help. He was—"

"He told me to stay there," she whispered, tears rolling down her face. "I didn't."

"You were but five," said Fenrys in an attempt to soothe. "You could hardly be expected to listen to anyone." The siblings started in surprise, having forgotten his presence.

"Do you remember what happened after our brother left?" James prodded gently.

Celaena shook her head, eyes shut. She tried to remember the day on the field near the estate. A mud puddle. A fallen ribbon. Her anklet's weak clasp. Why are you alone here? A voice.

It was a man's voice.

He had promised to take her back. I will carry you home, come with me. Into the carriage, there. She had climbed into the carriage. Perhaps she knew the man? Surely she would not have climbed into a stranger's carriage?

You were but five.

She tried hard to concentrate but could not remember anything beyond that and she told her brother so.

"You need not force yourself to, but if you do remember anything more—"

"I will tell you," she agreed. "I always wanted an elder brother, you know?"

James Galathynius was an affectionate man and he itched to embrace his sister tightly, but restrained in fear of overdoing things. The last shreds of his reserve melted with her words and he pulled her close. His little sister. He wondered if there were sweeter words in the world. "I missed you so," he answered tearfully, "So did we all. Edward refused to look at pianofortes for months, they reminded him of you, he hardly ever comes to town and father so retreated into his study and there I was—Oh, Aelin, please don't leave again."

"I shan't," she promised.

"A gentleman's word?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I am a lady."

"It's the only kind of promise you didn't break when we were children. A gentleman's word?" She heard her own voice ask the question long ago. A vague memory.

Celaena smiled. "A gentleman's word."

Fenrys broke the moment, his eyes glimmering suspiciously. He sniffed. "Stop monopolizing her, cousin."

Celaena hesitantly rose from her seat, pressing a kiss against her cousin's cheek. "I know it's all a muddle still but thank you for finding me, Lord Fenrys." She smiled sweetly at him. "You told me Aelin was—that I was—your favourite cousin, did you not, Lord Fenrys?"

"You were—you are." He grinned. "Do stop with the lord business though—I am already determined we shall be the dearest of friends. We have always been alike in our dispositions."

"What he means," James grinned back, "is the both of you have always been utter rascals, making all our lives difficult."

"I don't know what you are talking about," huffed she with feigned indignation in her voice. "I am positively an angel."

"Oh, hardly!" Fenrys shook his head. "I never saw a more mischevious child. Aunt Meave swore you were the devil's spawn."

"Oh no," she said.

"Oh, yes." James grinned at a fond memory. "And I cannot blame her. You once sneaked a frog to her dinner table. It ended up in her plate somehow; it was horrific."

"Indeed, you scarred the poor woman," Fenrys quipped. "She specifically invites only adults ever since. James told us later how you twitched and groaned, shifting in your seat, trying to hide it in the folds of your dress."

Celaena narrowed her eyes. "If you knew, why did you not help?"

"I did not want to incur her wrath," he said. "Our father or brother would have protected you from her. I was on my own."

The remark brought her back to reality. "Father—Lord Rhoe—my goodness, I implied he was proud and arrogant and—and he fainted!" James hurried to assure her that he fainted occassionally and a physician had been sent for in any case and she should not worry overmuch about that but she could not help herself. However, not wanting to worry him more—the poor man was acting so casually as if expecting another fit of hysterics—she changed the subject to one she was curious about. "And Edward—you said he has been informed."

"If I know him at all, he will come running." Then, with due caution, "I know you don't remember a thing but Edward and you were particularly close—you filled buckets worth of tears when he left for Eton, you know? And when he came to visit for the summer or holidays and you were obliged to return to the nursery in the evenings, you threw such a royal fit until father allowed you to spend the nights in his room." By the tone with which he said it, Celaena rather thought it cost him something to admit this to her and she thought she heard a touch of envy in those words.

"It was perhaps not proper," agreed Fenrys, "but you would not eat or drink and he was forced to acquiese."

Celaena laughed. "That does sound like me." Then, sobering, "I should not—it's too late, I think I should return home."

"Home?"

Celaena amended with a smile, "Well, not my home, then. But I could not move here today, not with Lord Rhoe so—"

"Father will not object," said he, with conviction. "This is your home as much as it is mine or his. I am sure Edward will be furious with me if I let you leave." Then, noticing her reluctance, he gently smiled. "I understand you will need to get used to reality and I really would like it if you stayed but if you cannot—"

"Oh, no," said she, interrupting him. "I will—I will stay if you send a note to the Rhunns informing them where I am and if my maid and a few of my clothes can be brought—Elide, my maid, she will know what to bring—then I shall stay."

This was agreed to with alacrity and orders sent to prepare one of the finest guest rooms for temporary occupation. James noticed her pale countenance and offered to send a dinner tray to her rooms in a half hour if she would like to retire early. After they were informed that Lord Rhoe had been given laudanum to calm himself and would see them in the morning, there was nothing left for her to do and she accepted her brother's offer happily. Celaena thought she would not be able to sleep for hours, ruminating on the eventful day but the overwhelming emotions of the overdeal caught up with her and she was asleep before dinner arrived.

tags:

@thesirenwashere // @courtofjurdan //@little-crow-corvere // @the-dark-swan // @queenofgreenbriar // @clockworkgraystairs // @julemmaes // @rowaelinforeverworld // @mymultiversee // @queen-of-glass @strangely-constructed-soul // @mijaldraws // @http-itsrebecca // @aesthetics-11 // @lord-douglas-the-third // @flowersinvegas // @towhateverend17 // @aelinchocolatelover // @justabunchoffandoms // @cool-ish-nerd // @faerie-queen-fireheart // @sad-book-whore // @didsomeonesayviolin // @atozfantazyxx // @hizqueen4life // @the-gods-killer // @booknerdproblems // @annejulianneh111 // @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln // @b00kworm // @mysweetvillain // @curlyredqueen06 // @moondancer-204 // @thesurielships // @witchling-leonor // @ladywitchling // @amren-courtofdreams // @ifinallygavein // @jlinez // @faequeenaelin // @df3ndyr // @in-love-with-caramel-macchiato // @bitchy-knees // @superspiritfestival // @xx-fiona-xx // @stardelia // @maastrash // @miihlovesnoone // @totenhamboys20 // @sanakapoor // @louisleblancdiggory

[wrenhyperfixates]

Of All the Places

Chapter 14

Pairing: Loki x reader   Series Summary: Washing up in a small town in Oklahoma was definitely not part of Loki’s plan when he came to conquer Midgard. There is one good thing about it, though: No one recognizes him as the one who just wreaked havoc in New York. So, Loki plans to recover from the battle and move on with his life. The only problem? He’s not sure he can leave you. Chapter Summary: Loki and the Avengers arrive in Oklahoma City, but he still has to get to your farm before it’s too late. He figures out a way to get the Chitauri off of Midgard once and for all. Chapter Warnings: brief, slightly descriptive blood and violence; some language I think A/N: Last chapter is here! The epilogue posts in a few minutes, and then this series will be done! I hope you enjoy :)

Tag List: @lucywrites02 @frostedgiant @lunarmoon8 @twhiddlestonsstuff @marvelousdaydreams @andromedasstarship​ @lokistan @thelokiimaginechroniclesficrecs @sourpatchspinster @gaitwae​ @whatafuckingdumbass​

✥ Start at Beginning ✥ | ← Previous Chapter | Next Chapter →

Disclaimer: Gif not mine

When the Quinjet finally landed just outside Oklahoma City, Loki was quick to duck down to the best hiding spot he could find. Behind a few crates, he watched and listened as the Avengers moved around him, waiting for the all clear.

“Ok, listen,” Captain America said, squatting down in front of him. “We let you come along, now you have to follow our plan.”

“With all due respect, Captain, I cannot do that. Unless, of course, you plan to let me get to the farm I was staying at, but I highly doubt that is the case.”

“It’s not. Why would we do that?”

“Because the Chitauri are after me, and they are not going to stop at the city.”

“And you know this how?”

“I do not, but I feel it. That family, those innocent civilians, they are in danger because of me. After all that they did for me, I must save them. Certainly you can understand that.”

Captain Rogers just sighed and stood up to deliberate with his teammates. The whole conversation was merely just a formality, though, because Loki planned on teleporting himself home—or, well, to the farm which he may never have the privilege of a calling home again—even if they wanted to keep him here. While he appreciated Thor’s trust in him, it was rather naïve of them all to keep him unrestrained.

With everyone else distracted, Loki took the opportunity to peek out the window. There were at least fifteen other jets and planes on the ground, and more agents than the god could count. At least the city would be covered while he saved his friends. Beyond that, everything was chaos. While SHIELD’s defenses got into position, the Chitauri continued rampaging in the streets, most of them still well equipped from the last attack. Looking at the damage, Loki felt indescribable grief and sadness. How many more people were going to have to suffer because of his actions? The guilt was getting to be too much to bear. He stifled a cry as he turned back to the Avengers.

“Ok, fine,” Captain finally said once they were finished debating. “You can go, but only if they’re actually in danger. If not, come right back.”

“You have my word. I shall teleport myself there and report back once they are safe.”

“Not so fast, Reindeer Games,” Tony cut in, the mask of his suit shutting closed. “We’re not quite at that level of trust yet.”

“It is true,” Thor added. “I will be coming along, just to ensure everything runs smoothly.”

Loki was a little offended, but all in all, it was understandable. And backup wasn’t the worst thing to have, he supposed. Knowing that anything he said would end up sounding rude, he just nodded his head in agreement.

“It is settled then. Good luck, my friends,” Thor said before turning to Loki, who was conjuring his armor onto himself. “This shall be great fun, brother. Think, the two of us, fighting side by side once more.”

“Yes, you always did enjoy a good battle,” Loki reminisced, laughing a little. “But right now, my main focus is on my beloved. I know you will cover me, brother, but our first priority must be getting them and their family to safety.”

“Indeed. Let us go then.”

Not wanting to waste another second, Loki quickly teleported them to your farm. A wave of sadness washed over him as he saw the house, a million memories he’d already been trying to forget flooding back. Stealthily, they moved as close as they could. Everything was quiet, except for the chickens clucking in the distance. Though nothing seemed particularly out of the ordinary, Loki still knew something was wrong.

Thor looked around and then back at Loki. “It seems that there is nothing happening-”

His statement was cut off by a Chitauri appearing out of seemingly nowhere. Loki wondered why, now that he was fighting against them, they suddenly became so skilled. Thor quickly flipped the alien off his back as more appeared. Including the first one, there were six outside plus at least one inside judging by the scream that suddenly came from the house.

“Can you handle these ones, Thor?” Loki questioned as he stabbed one in the eye, blasting another with magic.

“Easily,” Thor responded, swinging Mjolnir down on one of their heads. “Go inside and help there. And be safe, brother!”

“You too.”

Without another word, Loki was taking off and smashing through the front door. He looked around frantically, but saw no signs of a struggle. He feared that he might be too late, that they took you by surprise and wiped you all out in a matter of minutes. Thankfully, a large crash came from the kitchen, followed by another scream. He ran in to find a pitcher shattered near the door, and Mama backed into a corner by two Chitauri.

Loki’s old, vengeful self decided to make an appearance now, of course. This was the woman who turned him in, who time after time prevented him from being with his beloved. Of all the members in this household, she was the one who never accepted him. Hell, the cat was more friendly than she was. But even after everything, she was just doing what she thought best for her family. He couldn’t leave her to die for something like that. And, really, didn’t he understand her, too? To know such pain that it changes your perception of the world to be so cynical of everything, everyone. Yes, he most certainly was familiar with that.

“Stay back, you foul beasts!” he screamed at his former allies before taking a swing with his trusty dagger.

Loki found himself missing his scepter as he fought his opponents, leading them away from Mama.

She screamed again, though he wasn’t sure if it was directed at the Chitauri, him, or the generally gory scene of him running one through. Most likely the last one, but he’d have to worry about any trauma after the battle was done. Even with a fatal wound like that, it kept fighting. They dealt a few good blows to Loki, too, including a particularly painful gash across his cheek, right above the part his helmet covered. He tasted blood in his mouth as they started getting the upper hand. He made clones of himself, confusing the simple-minded creatures. With the distraction, he was able to finish them off, completely decapitating one and smashing in the head of the other against the banister of the stairs.

That same unsettling quiet settled over the house again. Loki wanted to believe he’d finished them all off, because, really, how many could there be? But he felt it in his gut: something still wasn’t right.

Taking off towards the kitchen again, Loki decided the best thing was to just get Mama out of there and figure out where the rest of you were. Still on edge, he kept looking around, but found nothing.

“Listen,” he said to Mama, who was still cowering in a corner. “I know how you feel about me, but you have to get out of here. And I need you to tell me where everyone else is so I can keep them safe.”

“I... I-Behind you!” she screamed.

Loki whipped around just in time to see a Chitauri about to bash his head in. Before he could move any further, the alien fell to the ground. Looking back up, he saw you standing with a baseball bat still raised. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the fallen enemy begin to stir again, and quickly finished it off with his dagger. When he was sure it was dead, he looked back up at you. The second your eyes locked, you dropped the weapon. A silence followed the clatter of wood on wood, no one quite sure what to say.

“I gotta stop going out in the morning,” you nervously laughed after clearing your throat. “I keep missing all the excitement.”

You and Loki looked at each other for another beat before rushing forward at the same time, lips colliding. With his daggers back in their dimensional pocket, the trickster’s hands were free to cup your cheeks. You wrapped your arms behind his neck, getting lost in the kiss. All too soon, you had to break away, but you kept your foreheads pressed together, not yet willing to lose contact. He noticed you were wearing the hoodie he’d given you back on that first day at the creek. It only occurred to him now that you’d never actually returned it. You gently brushed away some of the hair that was clinging to his face, poking out from his helmet. It seemed to you that this might just be a dream, that he might not be real.

“My brave little Midgardian,” Loki whispered, his voice cracking ever so slightly. “Are you alright? Are you injured?”

“I’m fine,” you choked out in a tone heavy with emotion. “But... But you, are you ok? They just dragged you out. Loki, I was so worried.”

“I am ok. I have much to tell you. But, I saw you with Denzel. I thought you were with him again.”

“Oh, Loki. I was just upset, and he happened to be there. I want to be with you.”

He didn’t know what else to say, so he kissed you again, hoping it was expressing everything words couldn’t. Loki wished you could stay like that forever, but he knew there was still so much to do.

“My darling, I am so sorry. For everything,” he said. “You deserve a proper explanation, and I promise you will get one if it is the last thing I do.”

“That wouldn’t be the first promise you’ve broken,” Mama scoffed, getting up from her corner, but her heart wasn’t really in the snide remark.

“Excuse me, but he just saved your life,” you shot back before Loki could, surprising both him and your mother. “I think you owe him, at very least, a thank you.”

“Fine, you’re right. I’m sorry. And thank you. For saving me. Us.”

“You are quite welcome. I would do anything for this family,” Loki confessed for the umpteenth time. “It is like I told you, it was never my intention to hurt it.”

“I know.”

“Loki,” Thor bellowed from the front door. “Are you in here? Are you injured?”

“Brother! I am in here and unharmed. Relatively.”

Your mother’s jaw dropped as a relieved Thor walked in, Mjolnir still in his hand. You barely even paid him any mind, now fussing over Loki who had taken his helmet off, fully displaying the cuts on his face. He hissed a little as your fingers brushed along the skin under the worst one, but he was quick to reassure you that you hadn’t hurt him. Instead of letting your fingers continue to wander his bloodied face, he took your hand in his and kissed your knuckles. Then he pressed your body to his, holding you close, safe and protected with his arm circling your waist. You were quick to wrap your arms around his torso and bury your face in his shoulder, a little shaken up from the events that had just transpired.

“Wait,” Loki said as a thought occurred to him. “Where is the rest of the family?”

“They’re in the city,” you replied, growing panicked as Loki paled. “Why? Loki, the attack was just here, right? They’re safe, right?”

“Do not worry,” Thor declared. “The Avengers and noble agents of SHIELD are there as we speak.”

“And my brother and I will go, too. Nothing will happen to them, I will make sure of it,” Loki added, kissing your temple.

How he wished there was time for proper introductions, but there simply was not. He would have to settle for waiting until the battle was over. If he and his brother both survived, that is. It was a chilling thought, and one that had come unbidden into his mind, but now it would loom over him the whole fight.

Loki tried to pull away from you, but you just grabbed his hand and pulled him right back. He looked at you in confusion, then worry as he noticed the determined look in your eyes. It was obvious what you were thinking, and he felt an odd mix of pride and nauseating fear.

“Absolutely not,” he sternly said. “Do not even think about it.”

“Oh, come on, Loki. Like I’m not coming, too,” you replied, stamping your foot. “I already lost you once, I’m not about to again.”

“And I lost you, my darling. If you come, your life will be in danger. I simply will not allow it. I cannot.”

“Listen, we’re stronger together, aren’t we? So we’ll face this together. Please.”

“Brother?” Thor asked, anxious to get back and help his friends. “Are you ready?”

“Alright, fine. You win, my darling,” the God of Mischief conceded. “On one condition. You must follow my orders. I will not have you getting yourself harmed out there.”

“Ok, deal. As long as I get to come make sure you’re safe,” you agreed.

“Honey, please. Don’t go,” Mama begged, beginning to cry. “You heard him, it’s going to be dangerous. You could get hurt. I-I don’t know what I’d do if you got hurt.”

“I’m sorry Mama, but I’m going.” You gave her a hug, letting here blubber into your shoulder. “Loki’s going to keep me safe. And you’re just going to have to trust me.”

You said goodbye as she managed to pull away from you, somewhat calmer. She tried to put on a brave face with some success, but Loki could see it wouldn’t last for long. At least she was finally putting some of her trust in you. It was about time. Tucking you under his arm and back against his side, Loki gave the woman a quick nod, a promise that he would let no misfortune befall you. Walking over to Thor, Loki began to work his seiðr. With one last look around the house, he teleported the three of you back to the city.

Landing behind a Quinjet, Loki heard you let out the most adorable little gasp. He smiled down at you before taking in the scene around him. It seemed like SHIELD’s top priority was to evacuate the city. Everything was still in a state of chaos, and he immediately regretted letting you talk him into allowing you to tag along.

The first order of business for him and Thor was obvious: Find the rest of the Avengers and help them take out the Chitauri. But you he had no idea what to do with. In a way, he felt better knowing that you were here, with him. That no other aliens could randomly appear at your house and hurt you. Then again, now that you’re here, you’re in just as much danger, if not more. You were too precious to him for him to be able to think clearly about the situation. Plus, the longer he stood there debating his options, the less time he had to find the rest of your family. His heart stuttered in his chest as he realized they might already be hurt. Or worse. The thought spurred him to action.

“We must get into the city and help with the evacuation. You know we stand the best chance against these monsters,” he said to Thor, who nodded along. He turned to you and softened his voice so you wouldn’t be any more scared than you currently were. “And you need to stick by me. Keep an eye out for your family. Remember, they might not all be together, so eyes peeled for all of them. Do not worry, everything will be ok.”

“Ok, let’s go,” was all you managed to say before the three of you moved towards the pandemonium in the streets.

“There you are, Point Break,” Tony shouted from overhead. “We could use some help here.”

“At your service, Man of Iron.”

“Ok, great. Quick question, why are you bringing a civilian into the city. You do know what an evacuation is, right?”

“This is my beloved,” Loki replied. “They insisted they come along and look for their family. And to, uh, be with me.”

“Aww how cute. They’re just as stubborn as you, Reindeer Games. Keep them out of the action please.”

Loki rolled his eyes, but pulled you closer still. It was his intention to keep you out of the battle, but he also planned on fighting. He couldn’t feasibly do both at the same time if he also wanted to keep you at his side.

“My darling, take this,” he said, equipping you with a dagger. “If you are attacked, aim for the eyes.”

“Thank you. I- Loki look! It’s John,” you shouted over the noise of a helicopter flying overhead, spotting your brother-in-law.

The raven haired god led you over to the man, who was bleeding out of a scrape on his arm. Loki had enough experience with wounds to know it looked a lot worse than it actually was. As you got closer, he saw that John was helping direct people out of the city, along with a few other civilians. The god nearly scoffed at the idea that SHIELD hadn’t even brought enough people to properly conduct an evacuation. When would they stop underestimating threats? Or maybe he’d just done some damage to their numbers. Pushing the thought out of his mind, he refocused on the task at hand. He was beyond relieved to see his friend, but unfortunately didn’t have much time for a reunion.

“John!” you said, taking the last few steps to him.

He looked over his shoulder at you and shouted your name. His face quickly went from a look of excitement to worry. Then he spotted the god, and it took on one of shock.

“Loki?” he gasped. “Are you alright, man? What’s going on?”

“I am just fine,” Loki told him, grasping hands in a firm shake. “As for what is happening here, the Chitauri are an alien race, regrettably brought here by me when I did not have full control of my faculties. Now they are searching me out, but I intend to stop them.”

“Where is everyone else?” you questioned, frantically searching for the rest of your family. “Ana and Matt and Papa? Have you seen them?”

“They’re already out of here,” John answered as you and Loki let out a sigh of relief. “They should be safe by now. But why are you here?”

“I’m helping Loki and the Avengers save the city. Speaking of, we should probably be meeting up with them now.”

Loki looked at you, then at the crumbling buildings in the distance and knew he’d let you come as far as possible. The situation was looking rather hopeless as it was right now, and he had to get into battle if he had any chance of making up for his past wrongdoings. But you, for as brave and determined as you were, had no training in combat. If he were to keep you, his beautiful, courageous Midgardian safe, then he’d have to give you some other task with which to distract yourself.

“No,” Loki replied. “I need you to stay here, help direct everyone else out of the city. It is of the utmost importance.”

“You’re just trying to get rid of me, aren’t you?” you pouted.

“For your safety and the safety of others, I need you to do this. Please.”

You looked into his eyes, having a battle within yourself. The desperate, pleading look on his face helped you reach a decision. “Ok, fine. I understand. But you have to promise me you’ll stay safe.”

“I will. You too.”

It seemed as if he was going to leave then, but he couldn’t resist capturing your lips in a passionate kiss. The rest of the world melted away as you held on to each other, wishing things didn’t have to be this way. Alas, they were, and it was his fault. But no, it was really that damned Titan and his obsession with the Tesseract that had caused all this madness. Remembering that blasted relic did give him an idea, though. Loki would stop at nothing to set things right, and he had just figured out how.

“My darling, I must go now,” Loki said, breaking away from your lips only to place a kiss to your forehead. There was still one last thing he wanted to say, though, and as far as he could tell, it was now or never. “I love you.”

He broke off in a sprint away from you, not waiting for a reply, for he feared you would not feel the same. Your voice did shout after him, but he dared not look back. If he did, he knew he may never be able to leave you again, and he needed all his strength for what he had to do next. He would just have to trust that John would hold you back, that you would follow his directions as you promised you would.

Running through the streets, battling these wretched aliens he once commanded, Loki assessed the situation. He had his plan, but the city would have to be completely clear for it to work. That included the agents and Avengers. He’d need his brother’s help with that for sure.

“Thor,” he called out in a panic. “Brother, I need you!”

“Loki! Loki, what is it?” Thor asked, appearing quickly. He gripped Loki’s shoulders and began inspecting for injuries. “Are you ok? Is your beloved?”

“Yes, we are fine. I know what we must do to stop the Chitauri.”

“What is it?”

“There is no time to explain.” Well, that was actually a lie, but he knew Thor wouldn’t like the plan. Better not to tell him. “You are just going to have to trust me. I need you to get everyone out of here. And I mean everyone, yourself included.”

“It is a very odd request, Loki,” Thor said, mulling it over. “But I will do it. And what of you?”

“I must get to the center of the city. But do not worry about that, I will manage. I just need some kind of sign when it is clear.”

“It shall be done, but promise me one thing. You will stay safe.”

“You have my word.”

As they shook hands, Loki felt a twinge of guilt. His last statement to his brother, possibly ever, had been a falsehood. But he was the God of Lies, so he supposed it should not affect him. And yet, it did. At least this time it was a necessary one to tell.

Loki continued to weave his way through the streets. It was a great feat to dodge SHIELD agents, help civilians, and fight his foes all at the same time. Not to mention keeping his eyes open for you in case you were trying to make your way back to him. Tears stung at the back of his eyes as he thought of you. He was regretting not waiting around to hear how you felt about him. Now he’d always wonder about it. Well, for however long “always” was for him, anyway. If this all went down as planned, it wouldn’t be much longer.

The center of the city was the most densely populated with enemies. It would be difficult to hold them off while he waited for the signal, but he would manage. He had to manage. For the sake of you, your family, and the whole of Midgard. Just as things were starting to look bleak for the trickster god, the sky was lit up with a brilliant bolt of lightning and a resounding clap of thunder. He knew that was it, what he was looking for.

Loki struck the ground with a blast of magic, pushing the Chitauri away. He needed a second to get ready. Calling out to the Tesseract, he pulled it out of its dimensional pocket and into his waiting hand. It was a good thing he had not handed it over to his brother, after all.

The thought of Thor nearly made him cry out. He’d just gotten his brother back, but now he would never see him again. And what of his mother, Frigga? Would she mourn him when he was gone? Or would she be like Odin and scorn him forever? He believed it would be the former, but he could never know for sure.

And then there was your family, who was practically his family, too. He’d felt that way for a while now, but this time the thought filled him with only sadness. He was going to lose them, but he had no one to blame but himself. Well, and maybe Thanos, but Loki wasn’t one for giving himself a break. Regardless, they’d probably never even hear that part of the story. He hadn’t even seen half of them again. Loki hated that their last memory of him would be SHIELD agents dragging him away like some common criminal. It was strange how much things had changed, he mused, that he’d have such strong feelings about a group of mortals.

No matter how sad leaving behind everyone else made him, leaving you hurt the most. You were everything kind and good in his life. A beautiful, brilliant angel. You’d seen his scars and showed him he wasn’t broken, just healing. You made him realize that he was whole, and you were his match. The one the Norns has destined for him to be with. And now you were being separated by that same fate. It was a cruel punishment for what he’d done. He could only hope that this would redeem him in the eyes of the world. But he didn’t need it for his own view of himself; your love had done that already.

“Alright, you sons of bitches,” he said, taking a breath and gripping the glowing cube. “Time to send you back to the hellhole you crawled out of.”

In a flash of light, the city was encompassed with a blue, cloudy smoke. You looked on in a panic as it moved back into the center where Thor had told you Loki was. Once the fog had disappeared, you broke through the line of agents and ran into the city. It should have made you happy that all the Chitauri were gone, but it only filled you with dread. If they were gone, then what happened to the man you loved? Was he...? No, that thought was too terrible to entertain. You wouldn’t even consider the possibility until you’d exhausted all other options. You rushed to the spot where he should have been and let out a sob into the empty air.

Loki had disappeared.

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

“Loki.”

His eyes opened and looked around. What was that noise? Where was he? What was happening?

Everything was blue.

“Loki.”

He knew that voice, so kind, so perfect. But who? His beloved.

You.

“Loki!”

You were crying out. Searching. For what? For who? For Loki.

For him.

A rainbow, sparkling lights. A void. It would be so easy to let go. He’d done it once before. It didn’t end well. But this time it was different, warm and inviting. Not cold. Not vengeful. Not full of hate. It was peace. But there was something else out there. A whisper.

“Loki, please.”

He was falling again, but he wasn’t scared this time. Deep in his heart, he knew where he was going. He knew he was safe. It was no decision, really.

It had always been you.

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

Loki landed on the ground with a dull thud. His head was throbbing a little, but he’d been through worse. His eyes shot open, and he noted the familiar surroundings. A wheat field, similar to the last time the Tesseract had deposited him. In fact, exactly like it. He was back on your farm.

All that was ringing in his ears was your voice, calling out to him. It took a minute for him to remember anything else, then it all came flooding back. The city, the battle, his brother, his plan. That gave him a bit of a pause. He’d meant to send the Chitauri back where they came from. And then it hit him. He’d told the Tesseract to send them home. It had done the same for him. Of course! He was home.

The sound of a car in the distance made him snap back to his senses. He heard the slamming of a door, followed by shouting. There were a great number of voices that he could recognize, but only one really mattered right now. Yours.

Calling your name, Loki started running. You responded with his name, sounding confused and hopeful at the same time. Then you did it again louder and started running, too. Somewhere near the middle of the field, both of you stopped, just standing there staring at each other. Neither of you could believe it. It was like a dream, an outlandish fantasy. Then, at the same time, you ran the last little distance between each other, and met in an embrace.

You pulled away and Loki held you at arm’s length, examining your body for any serious injuries. After doing the same to him, you cupped his cheeks, caressing them with your thumbs. He covered your hands with his, trying to find the right words to say. You smiled through teary eyes, and Loki didn’t realize he was crying too until you wiped away a tear making a track down his face.

Loki couldn’t wait a second longer, he moved in and kissed you. It was like professing his love all over again, just without his words this time. He held you as close as possible and let your tongue slip into his mouth, taking control of the kiss. It was an odd thing to feel so tired, yet so alive at the same time. Your lips, they were electrifying. Addictive. If only he could live by breathing in you, not air. But he couldn’t, so he had to break away. Still, he didn’t know what to say. But that look in your eyes, it reflected back everything he was trying to tell you.

“Loki?”

“Yes, my darling.”

“I love you, too.”

[chaninfused]

Today, this mediocre blog turns one year old.

And it’s not much, but it’s something, for sure. I’m happy to be writing this, mainly because I didn’t expect to write it in the first place. Coming here, I had no aspirations for this blog. Write and post, that was my initial intent, but I’m glad to say I have found and created much more. As cliché as it sounds, I’ve learned and improved quite a lot, both as a person and a writer. Never in my life had I imagined myself writing y/n stories, yet here I am, and I’m content.

As much as I complain, I cannot deny that this place made this year bearable so far. Everyone, from my friends to my silent readers, made this experience fun, despite the various disappointments of 2020 (ahem, a ruined senior year). For that, I think it’s time to move to the important parts of this letter; all I have to say to you!

First, I must thank the friends that gave me something to look forward to each day. I am honored to have met you all, whom I have spoken to daily or spontaneously. Thank you for keeping up with my sucky person antics!

@luvhjs, I often wonder if we could’ve ever met if @skzwritersclub didn’t exist, or if you didn’t decide to join our fetus network, and I always conclude that it’s not something I want to think about. Simply because it’s horrifying. I might not express it properly, but our friendship is one I treasure beyond words. Thank you for panicking with me over silly things, listening to my nonsense rambles, and in all sincerity, being the best there is. A hundred ‘I love you’s randomly arriving in your inbox would never be enough, but I hope you know that I love you, and I wish you all the best, all the time ♡

@missinghan, I don’t know where to begin, and honestly, I don’t know where to stop either. I don’t regret screaming into your dms that day, although I’m deeply sorry for terrifying you (oops!). All jokes aside, I truly don’t know what I’ve done to deserve a friend like you. I’m grateful for each conversation we’ve had, even that one about maggot cheese or those depressing texts about our dying dashboards. I solemnly believe that I would’ve lost my mind during spring break had we not spent careless hours on Tumblr talking about anything that could possibly be talked about. I feel like I couldn’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me; for hearing my writing rants to handling my dramatics to just being there when I send a good morning text in all caps. You are incredible, it is not just a silly nickname. I love you, and I know affection is gross but I’m saying it again. I love you! ♡

@meiiyue, hey, remember when you told me you knew me from Wattpad? That was our first proper interaction, and I am so glad I had gotten to know you better after that. We often joke about it, but I love your love for all things murder. Please never let anyone’s opinions get in your way. You honestly have one of the most unique personalities I’ve ever known. I mean, where else would you find koalas and blood-chilling crime in one place? Thank you for being the cutest and most talented. I hope you know that you’re loved, and I love you, and it will always be that way ♡

@meanhly, oh, look, it’s my keyboard smashing partner! I’m glad you decided to panic about On track in my dms instead of my askbox. Thank you for birthing this beautiful friendship! Speaking of which, what friendship level are we at now, Selina? Okay, I’ll stop fooling around. Thank you for never failing to make me laugh, no thanks to your autocorrect for calling me fruit, though. I think one of the reasons I love the Songless Bird so much is, well, you! It was your excitement about the story that pushed me to explore the world more, to write more. I cannot even begin to express how thankful I am for that. I love you, so much, and I cherish our friendship just as much ♡

@smileylino, our ‘02 line is only complete with you, Rain. Thank you for being the best panic partner (hehe) and the cutest Minho stan. Talking to you is always so much fun, even if we’re just discussing memes or soft scenarios. I don’t know how successfully your Minho detox is going, but I miss your random declarations of love for the one and only. I hope you know that you’re really talented, and I’ll always be here to cheer you on whenever. You deserve only the best this world can offer. I know you’ll do amazing, whatever it is you’ll be doing. I love you! ♡

@lixiefe, if anyone were to see our first interactions, they wouldn’t expect us to become good friends. Yet here we are, and I wouldn’t change that for the world! I love talking to you, even if it’s about the strangest of topics. Thank you for making me love my own work. You make it out to be something special, which it isn’t, but I appreciate that so much. Thank you for handling my self-deprecating statements with hilarious poop references, even though I am still adamantly against them (kidding!). You’re special, I hope you’d know that. I love you so much! ♡

@scriptura-delirus​, we might not interact a lot but whenever we do, it’s always so much fun. I truly admire your work and your way of thinking. Thank you for writing the best fantasy to be found in this fandom, and for all the support you’ve shown my mediocre stories. If this were a follow forever, know that your url would be among the first. I love you! ♡

@jeonginks​, can I consider you a friend? I hope I can. The entirety of my first interactions with you consisted of me embarrassing myself, from that useless blurb to all that panicking. Thank you for not blocking me yet... I am very sure that without SWC, I wouldn’t have ever talked to you. And while I might not panic anymore, you are still someone I genuinely look up to when it comes to writing. I wish you’d know that you’re an inspiration, for me and many writers out there. Also, you can send me as many Liam memes as you want, I’ve become immune to them (phew). I presume this is called affection, but I love you! ♡

@scxrlettwxtches​, writing or not, you’re a dear friend of mine. I’m terrible at expressing things, but I’m glad we started talking. Thank you for listening to all the unnecessary writing things I say. I love your work, even though I don’t say it enough. You might not know but your enthusiasm motivates me to write; all the random questions and spoiler requests. I’m sorry for [redacted] in ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’. I hope I’ve been able to make up for that through the blurbs! All in all, I wish you all the best in everything you do, and I love you! ♡

@f3lixlvr​, you are the first person I have properly spoken to in his hellhole. I remember our first conversations and just how much joy they brought me, even though I was hiding behind an anonymous profile. Thank you for being the most amazing and making late 2019 fun and exciting. I love you! ♡

@wingkkun​, we only began directly interacting recently, but we’ve talked before. Your writing is great, beyond that, even. I’ll raid your masterlist one day, just you wait! You seem like a complete sweetheart, and I hope we can talk more in the future. Thank you for all the lovely tags you had left on my stories, I love you! ♡

@ammuqwer​, you are a friend I didn’t expect to make, but one I wouldn’t want to lose for anything. Talking to you brightens my day, and I can only wish I can offer just as much happiness in yours. You’re amazing, really. If you ever have a hard time, please know that you can always find me. I love you! ♡

@p2q3r4​, I often scroll through your blog and I have to say, you’re crazy talented. Your drawings are stunning! Thank you for all the comments you’ve left on my writings, I appreciate every single one of them. You’re also a complete sweetheart, have I ever told you that? And I love your love for languages, it never was annoying. Never stop being amazing, I love you! ♡

🌷 anon, I might not know who you might be, but you’re a friend I cherish so much, Tulip. I love talking to you, and I say that a lot, but hearing from you is always so lovely. Thank you for all the asks you’ve ever sent, those with tmi to those with Splatoon talk. I hope you know that I’ll always be there for you, whenever, wherever. I love you so much! ♡

Caeliman Minho anon, last but definitely not least. I’m afraid this short letter wouldn’t do you justice, but I hope you’d know that you mean a lot to me. Thank you for all the support you’ve shown my work, all the inspiration you’ve given me, and all the thoughts you’ve generously shared. I love hearing what you have to say, and I love you! Thank you for everything ♡

Second, to all my readers, those who always reblog, those who leave a trail of hearts behind, and even those who just pass by, thank you for giving my writings a chance. I am continuously motivated to write more and write better for you. I’m nowhere near that, but I’m slowly making my way up there. Thank you for being the best audience ♡

Finally, to you reading this, thank you for reaching this far. It has only been a year, and I hope I can continue to contribute to this fandom for much longer than that.

Today, a story was meant to be posted. Due to my poor management skills (yikes!), I will instead be posting the world-information edit for ��Danse Macabre’. Please look forward to it!

That is all. Thank you for making these 365 days on this blog special, and here’s to many more! I love you all! ♡

[peachade]

Writing Asks

thank u to sarah @soldouthaz, lily @theisolatedlily and late @tomlinvelvetfics for tagging me !!

1. describe how you first started writing and when you first posted

started in eighth grade after moving which fucked me up (i’m still to recover lmao) n i needed a distraction, reading had always helped but writing is what let me see what the root of my agony was. (im not trying to be pretentious i swear) i first started on wattpad (love hate relationship to this day) and beginning of lockdown this year gravitated to ao3 which has been my saving grace !!!

2. which of your characters do you typically resonate most closely with? do you base any characters off of yourself?

so far i’ve mostly written in louis’ pov. i’ve had to ask this question in the early stages — i resonate the closest to harry. most of my wips are harry centric for that reason. i mean, yes and no — i tend to take some part of me and fit it into the character but at the same time i don’t like seeing me on a page so yes and no.

3. where do you often find inspiration?

EVERYWHERE. mostly others’ stories be it in the way of songs, music, writing, art. usually it’s me coming across a vaguely aesthetic picture and my brain spitting out one or two random scenes and me trying to make that a story.

4. has quarantine helped or hindered your writing process?

both !!! i have new wips but also i lost a lot of motivation to do anything for a bit. school is sucking the soul out of me — it’s both easier and harder with it being online, the worst part is i can never truly feel like i’m getting a break from it. recently it’s been easier for me bc of the friends i made (ily all) it’s hindered a little bit bc i can’t go out and watch people and streetlights and the blur of cars and try to pour out that feeling into words and create something. at the same time it’s helped me gain more perspective on people and relationships which has been a massive help to writing in general.

5. do you listen to music/noise while you write or do you prefer silence?

depending on the number of classes i have/attend, my mental stability, the story and my sensitivity. i often can’t stand loud noises so there’s that but there is always some noise or the other so it’s never truly silent. i like it that way. sometimes i just play intense studying playlist on spotify and write, Lucida by Odin Sørlie and Haunted Heart by Dawn, Dawn, Dawn are my favourites.

6. what is your biggest writing pet peeve in your writing or in general?

excessive usage of the same word in mine. in general, i’m not a fan of stereotypical characters or romanticising harmful themes.

7. describe your ideal writing setup

2 am, in bed, music still ringing in my ears, three texts from my best friend about a story or about their day. under the blanket, the room smelling of chocolate or something sweet.

8. favorite time of day to write?

anytime but afternoon. those hours are for naps.

9. favorite genre to write + one you’d like to try writing in the future?

fiction? i’d love to write a fantasy au 👀

10. do you struggle with writer’s block? how do you typically overcome it?

yep yep. i just edit an old story or read my old works or other writers’ fics. i gave up trying to force myself into writing — i hated the end product and felt bad so.

11. what is the easiest part of your writing process and the most difficult?

probably the emotions? dialogue without a doubt — i dread writing it. it doesn’t come to me naturally. i can write lengths without dialogue tbh. also smut — it’s an eh eh aspect.

12. how do you come up with original characters? (if applicable)

my wonderful friends. they do dumb shit and i want to tell the world about their dumb shit so i make characters out of them.

13. what is your favorite and least favorite word?

as of now it is fucker — delightful word that one. least favourite is probably squelch — just no.

14. what is one thing about your writing that you’re really proud of and one thing you hope to continue working at?

the dreamy feeling i manage to write without a doubt !!!! dialogue and pacing. i don’t have the best dialogue or the pacing or the length for fics but i’m working on all of those !!

15. what work of yours has your favorite ‘verse/world building? how did you come up with it?

still a wip so i can’t tell you much except that it’s a proper treat. will write this once i’ve posted that fic !!

16. what font and size do you write in? single spaced or double?

*nervous laughter* the font changes from fic to fic — crush is comic sans, size 11. October was Lora, 11. Twisted in bedsheets is courier new, 11. stargazing is spectral, 11. so yeah — whatever the fic demands. single spaced !!!! except when i’m overwhelmed i do double spaces.

17. what is a typo(s) you find yourself making consistently?

I Cannot Type. if you think i can — congratulations you were fooled. autocorrect is the loml.

18. (if applicable) do you separate fic writing from fandom?

of course !!!! i basically do not exist out of my writing.

19. what emotion is your favorite to write? which is the most difficult?

pain, pining, longing. lust.

20. what is one thing you hope readers always take away from your works?

we’re all fucked up but we’re trying and trying sometimes is enough. you shouldn’t spend your life carved out around one person. it’s okay to ask for help and need a shoulder to lean on. i hope these come across in my future fics !!!!

21. what is the best and worst writing advice you’ve ever received?

bold of you to assume i’ve ever received advice.

22. which one of your works would you most want to see turned into a film/television show?

a new fic. will update the answer once that fic is out !!!!!

23. do you write scenes chronologically or out of order?

chronologically. i can’t do out of order. i do have a page full of scribbles but they are to tell me the order sjakmd.

24. how do you handle criticism?

if it’s constructive then well. no thick skin tbh. makes me feel as if i need validation from someone else on my art which isn’t necessary but my brain is wired to seek it and it’s a hassle.

25. what is the advice you would give to someone who is looking to start writing?

write everything you would want to read. write it bad, don’t worry about the quality. don’t worry about the audience. end of the day, it should be something you can turn to for comfort not something that makes you feel bad.

26. what kind of feedback on your work always makes your day?

people telling me they like my writing and it could take them out of this world for a few minutes !!!!!

27. which fic ‘verse of your own would you most like to exist in? which fic’s characters would you most like to befriend?

probably crush verse !!!! harry — his is probably the one character where i dump most of me in.

28. what do you always enjoy getting asks about/wish people would ask about more?

rant to me about anything. i enjoy talking. ask me about wips so i can take the little guilt and write more.

29. what has writing added to your life? how has it changed you?

it’s nice to let go and express things and create characters with a better situation than mine.

30. why do you write?

keep myself busy.

boost yourself + tags

1a. share the last sentence you wrote

No kissing. No flashbacks.

2a. describe the wip you’re most excited about

a little something i’m writing inspired by @brickredtoe’s art !!!!

3a. share the piece of dialogue from one of your works you’re most proud of

ok. well. from 5436 miles

“Or we could always add a trail of stars to one of those moons,” he replies, words dragged out, rolling around in his mouth.

He can see the glint in his eyes even behind his closed lids. Everything about Louis is inked and etched into every fiber of his being.

He would’ve kissed him, words pouring from his mouth into Harry’s, only half his.

He snorts. “And make it seem like the moon has a buttplug? No, thanks.”

4a. share the best first and last lines from your work(s)

both my published fics have circular endings.

5436 miles — Louis always had more stars in his eyes.

these tornadoes are for you — His heart beats in peace.

5a. link to the last fic you read.

sugary sweet by the immensely talented @soldouthaz

6a. link the last work you published

here

7a. link to your ao3 (if applicable)

wheeee

8a. someone that inspires you

taylor. she’s so so wonderful.

9a. a comfort fic/work that you’ve been grateful for this year

all of riv, sarah, ris and late’s fics. they’ve been so so comforting. Event Horizon by @mercurial-madhouse

10a. other writers that you’d like to tag!

@mercurial-madhouse @harryanthus are the only ones coming to mind atm. i’ve been up for too long apologies.

[chappedandfadedvds]

Dec 17th, Thursday 22:18

Could the day get any worse? 

Jens thought as he wearily stared at the swirling soapy water behind the little plastic window, as it went round and round and round. With a quick glance up at the digital screen above he dully noted that he had stood here across from the mashine for over fourty-five minutes now. Hs back uncomfortably resting against the cold tiled wall behind him, as he steadied himself to stay upright.

The time honestly surprised him. He would have been assured that this much time couldn’t have passed, if he hadn’t been proven wrong by the numbers he had read. Had he drifted off in between then and now? Jens didn’t think that he had closed his eyes once. Maybe he had though? It was hard to tell, as his mind felt awfully robbed of actual thoughts to grasp at. However he was too tired to really care in the end, as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other without steering from his position. He had nothing else to do than wait. And if he would begin to ponder remotely on anything, he might as well just start to cry he felt like.

Certainly it was bad timing for Lucas to pass Jens in his quest to remain perfectly silent, inside and out. Because his boyfriend stopped by the doorway, as he had descended the stairs to make his way way to the kitchen. Jens couldn’t be sure. Perhaps the younger boy was looking for him. Fourty-five minutes was a long time to be missing after all.

Jens unfortunately had made the mistake to turn his head, as it lead him to see Lucas softly smiling at him. A faint distinct anger was bubbling up inside him, ready to grow and show itself. Jens would let it, if it came to it.

„Here you are, I was wondering where you had...“ His boyfriend cheerfully declared, but haltet as his gaze fell to the washing mashine and realisation hit him hard. His face fell into shock. „Shit.“

Shit, indeed. Jens wholeheartedly agreed.

„I forgot.“ 

„I saw.“ Jens’s voice was brisk yet still quiet, nonetheless pressed in a way that should tell Lucas not to continue to talk, and instead leave. The younger boy seemed to simply overlook it or somehow be deaf to his tone.

Jens had finished cleaning the kitchen counter, when he had looked forward to get upstairs and end the day cuddled up to his boyfriend to get his well deserved rest. He was still a little indecisive over the question if he should be glad or upset over the fact that he had looked into the downstairs bathroom. If he hadn’t, he would have been happily in bed by now probably. But he also would have had a full load of laundry left in the washing mashine for hours over night and possibly the whole school day. 

The washing mashine had been done for hours already, when Jens had wondered way it’s door was closed, after he had entered the room. Because everyone in the household always left it open, if it wasn’t running. So he had checked up on it and found the laundry forgotten in it. Which meant that Jens had quickly opened it to sniff one or two pieces and then immediately closed it again, to start the programm anew. Not much else for him to do here than wait.

And then he had gotten up to stand in the position that Lucas found him almost an hour later.

„I’m so sorry.“ Lucas apologised, knowing exactly well that it wouldn’t change anything about the situation right now. Truth be told, it only made Jens more angry. He could feel the electricity of tension in his fingertips, his hands balling into fists. 

„I asked you to do one thing today and you said yes, so I...“

„I know. I’m so sorry.“ Lucas’s voice interrupted him, his eyes definitely looking the part. Jens would almost feel sympathy with him, just not quite as he went on. „I can wait and hang them instead, you can already go...“

„No.“ This time it was Jens who broke his sentence off midway. He knew Lucas meant for him to lay down and sleep. „I shouldn’t have asked you in the first place. It is not your responsibility in the first place. These are all my clothes anyway. All the clothes that I only need to pack tomorrow for the trip. All of them.“

„I...“ Lucas began, but stopped when Jens hold up his hand to gesture to him to shut up. His blood began to boil under his skin. He felt on edge. How couldn’t the younger boy see that?

„Today was hell.“ Jens stated, and meant it. His voice was getting louder. He tried his best to not shout though. The last thing he wanted was for Lotte or his mom upstairs to wake up. But he was getting furious with any passing moment that his boyfriend wouldn’t just leave. For god’s sake, Lucas didn’t even seem to listen to him, busy to once more apologise to Jens.

„As I said, today was hell. The last couple of days were fucking hard, Luc. Lotte had trouble sleeping. My mom was either in pain or sleeping. I had to deal with my father on top of the whole guardianship case. And today was just an accumulation of all.“

Jens tried to take a deep breath, it just didn’t calm him down. He honestly felt more enraged the longer he thought about it. If he wouldn’t feel as exhausted, he would have gladly punched something. Preferably the boy, but as his heart probably wouldn’t allow him, the wall behind him would have done perfectly well instead.

„Lotte woke me at fucking five in the morning with a headache, where only a pill two hours later in the end had helped enough to convince her to go to school. So she was late, I was late. You know I stormed into class fifteen minutes after the bell rung, right? My french teacher told me to see her tomorrow beacuse of my test, which probably doesn’t mean it went well. I come home with Lotte, trying to stay cheerful and relaxed enough for her to not suspect anything. And tell her to go to her room to play something. Because my mom called for me from the bathroom, once we entered the house. So the next twenty minutes I hold my mom’s thin hair out of her face as she barfes her heart out, crying through all of it because it hurts her even more to throw up than to eat. There was barely anything to vomit, other than spit and blood. And I cannot just break down next to her, you see, because she is a mess and needs someone to take care of her and lean on. I barely managed to get her collapsed body back into bed and collect myself enough for you to show up half an hour later with your packed bag. And I ask you for one thing, Lucas, one fucking thing, while I prepare dinner and clean up afterwards. To hang the fucking laundry.“

Okay Jens was livid, no use in denying that any longer, when his voice was audibly pressed as he spoke through his teeth to keep himself from yelling. He was furious to the point he found it hard to stop himself from going on rambling about his miserable day. Furious. Not just with Lucas, but also with himself and the world in general.

„I’m sorry.“ It was barely a whisper his boyfriend whimpered under his breath, but it send Jens to glare him down. Anything to get him stop talking. Lucas was swallowing on something, as he stared back at the older boy with wide eyes. Jens was pretty sure, he hadn’t expected that when he found him. But here they fucking were.

„Stop apologising! Christ!“ 

This was probably the worst part of it all. To see and hear Lucas’s genuine regret plastered across his expression and deeply anchored in his voice. Jens would have preferred to tell him all about his day differently. He had prefered them to already be in bed, and have Lucas understand and support him, as they hold each other in a tight embrace. Instead he got this. And yes, Jens probably could take a deep breath and calm down and concede that it was too late to be angry anyway. But he was left to his emotions eating away on his rational mind.

„Why, are you still here?“ He asked, almost shouted, as Lucas flinched still standing in the doorway. The poor younger boy didn’t even get to answer.

„Leave! Go home. Go to my room. I don’t fucking care. Just get your damn face out of my sight! I don’t want to fucking hear or see you, Lucas!“

„Jens, I..“

„LEAVE!“ This one Jens in fact yelled at the startled boy inside the wooden frame, before he tore his eyes away to watch the bubbles gathering on the other side of the hatch. It did calm him enough in order for the beating of his heart to slow, and the rushing of his blood to died down.

He didn’t see Lucas leaving, but he heard the shuffeling of feet for a moment, before Jens tuned everything out around him. Except for the laundry continuously spinning around inside the mashine, unbothered by the scene that had unfolded outside. 

He didn’t wanted to know if Lucas had actually left or stayed.

It would break him to see the pairs of shoes and jacket gone.

The exhaustion was crushingly tearing at his consciousness.

Just thirty more minutes and he could hang his clothes up to dry. Allowing for him to finally seek out his bed and get some proper rest. God knows, he needed to close his eyes and feel his muscles able to relax, all of him tugged under a heavy blanket.

He hardly felt the trembling of his body, before his vision blurred and he slid down along the wall to sink in on himself. He drew his knees up, to prop his chin on them and hug his legs as tight as he could. Jens knew he was crying the moment he tasted the salt on his lips and his shoulders began to shake violently in the white lit room.

This day just needed to be over.

__ __ __ tagged: @odi-et-amo85, @tayspots

[pengychan]

[Good Omens] Winging It - Matthew 16:19

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon Rating: T  

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: Someone's having second thoughts..

***

Like every demon - or angel, for that matter - Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, did not require sleep. 

Last time they had slept had been sometime in the early 1300s, when some Italian scribbler who was very much alive had inexplicably gained access to Hell and proceeded to take a tour. He’d been found rather quickly and escorted to Beelzebub’s office while Dagon tried to find out how in Heaven had a living mortal gained access. 

They never did find out - the explanation that he ‘got lost in a forest’ was of amazingly little use - and for the entire time he was there, the mortal did nothing but ramble about his political enemies back in Florence. In rhyme, which was perplexing but hadn’t done much to make up for the sheer boredom of the entire tirade. 

In the end, Beelzebub had just fallen asleep; when they woke up again, the mortal had been thrown back up on Earth. Theoretically the decision should have been theirs, but truth be told it had been a relief and Beelzebub had been rather glad someone else had gotten that windbag out of their hair. 

The mortal had proceeded to write about his short visit to Hell but, when they got their hands on a copy of their account - all in rhyme, of course - the Lord of the Flies hadn’t been too surprised to find that the account mostly consisted of entirely made-up fantasies.

Plenty of revenge fantasies, which they could respect, but fantasies nonetheless. Beelzebub had later found out the man had claimed to have visited Heaven too, which Gabriel firmly denied during a meeting - rather annoyed by the implication he would break out in song about the holiness of Maryam for no apparent reason other than putting up a show for a mortal.

“No mortal was ever here before death,” he had said rather stiffly. “Clearly, our security is not the one that needs improvement.”

Neither of them had the foggiest idea what that ‘Purgatory’ nonsense was all about, and it was eye-wateringly boring to read, so they had just let the matter drop.

Anyway. To cut a very long story short, Beelzebub did not require sleep.

Gabriel did, on the other hand, and it hadn’t taken all that long for him to fall asleep, snoring… not loudly, but just enough to grate the nerves of anyone who didn’t happen to be a Prince of Hell with rather hellish tastes over what was a soothing sound and what was not. So in the end they had stayed exactly where they were, and elected to follow his example by falling asleep as well, not least because it meant it would allow them to put off actually thinking about what had just happened for a few more hours.

They hadn’t counted on waking up with the distinct feeling of being in the grip of a kraken because Gabriel had apparently decided to cling to them with all limbs. With a roll of their eyes, Beelzebub changed form into that of a fly to escape it and re-transformed a few feet away from the bed, eyeing in silence at the still sleeping form that occupied it.

Gabriel was laying on his side, and Beelzebub could distinctly see the ragged scars on his shoulder blades, where the wings had been cut away. Or rather, torn; Michael’s sword may have helped cut them away, yes, but they figured the last part would need to be done by hand, ripping the stumps right out of his flesh so that nothing remained. 

They could imagine the scene quite well, the dripping blood and the wet ripping sound; all quite familiar in Hell, all things they were rather indifferent to. Not that time, though. Now, the more they stared, the angrier they got. 

How dare they damage him, they thought. I ought to have enveloped Michael in Hellfire when she stepped in my throne room with that useless pitcher of holy water, they thought. 

Except that they knew that would have hurt Gabriel more than even having his wings torn out had. Despite everything, despite his old friends’ choice to carry out his sentence rather than rebelling on his behalf, Gabriel still claimed he understood their choice. 

“We don’t question God,” he had told them last time they had brought up the subject, his voice somewhat sorrowful. “I would have done the same in their place, if I was the one ordered to cast out any of them. I don’t think I would now, but I would have then.”

But when he had a chance to strike Ba’al down, so very long ago, he had not. He had tried to reach out. He had tried to keep them there.

Ba’al.

Looking silently at Gabriel’s back, which rose and fell with each breath - with each snore - Beelzebub could admit to themselves that in a corner of their mind, throughout the night before, they had feared to hear that name again. They had feared it would leave Gabriel’s lips while he gasped in the dark, holding onto them, looking up at them in the faint light coming from the streetlight outside the window. They had feared it would all turn out to be about who they had been, and could never be again.

But that name hadn’t been uttered, not even once. Gabriel was not longing for someone long gone: he knew exactly who he’d chosen to spend the night with regardless of any possible consequences. When the sickly-sweet, cloying sense of love which had almost choked them when they first remembered what had been returned, Beelzebub knew it was for them. For the Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, as they were, right there and then.

It was worrying. It was a relief. It was doubly worrying that it was a relief. Beelzebub, who pointed out often and gladly how Gabriel was never the sharpest knife in the drawer, began to belatedly realize they’d been hoisted by their own petard. And as soon as they did, they found themselves doing the only thing they could think of: find something else to keep themselves occupied with, anything to turn their musings away from the thing churning in their chest.

And at the moment there didn’t seem to be a lot to do other than making coffee, so they went with that. By the time they poured the hot water from the cheap electric kettle into a mug filled halfway with soluble coffee, Gabriel was beginning to stir. 

Two thoughts hit Beelzebub at the same time: the first was that they were still unclothed, which was not proper, and the second that they really didn’t much care what was proper and what was not. As they did their best to regain composure, bringing the mug to their lips, Gabriel turned on his back and then yawned, which made his face look really stupid. Beelzebub gave him an unimpressed glance over the rim of their mug. 

Then Gabriel sat up on the bed and stretched. Beelzebub's glance was... a little less unimpressed. At least for a few seconds, until the second Gabriel turned to look at them; when he did, their expression was unimpressed as ever. Clearly unbothered by that fact, he smiled. 

“Good morning,” he said.

Beezelbub scoffed. “I cannot imagine what could possibly be so good about mornings.”

“Well, last night was--” he paused, searching for a word. “Pleasant. No?”

There was the slightest, barely detectable trace of hesitation in his voice. It told Beelzebub two things, in no uncertain terms: that he certainly found it pleasant, and that being told the Lord of the Flies hadn’t would probably wound his pride… or perhaps even cut a bit deeper than that. 

And Beelzebub was not generally in the habit of lying. Looking at Gabriel now did not really bring forth any urges, regardless how annoyingly good looking he was, but the act itself had been pleasant and they saw no point in denying it. There was a great deal they were currently denying - well, delaying having to reflect upon - but the pleasure they took was not it. 

“It was,” they conceded, and the hesitation on Gabriel’s face disappeared almost instantly. “But it was last night. I asked what is so good about this morning.”

A shrug. “You made coffee,” Gabriel said, standing up. Beelzebub scoffed.

“For myself. You can make your own,” the Lord of the Flies replied, and brought the mug up to their lips - only for it to be taken away in a quick, annoyingly smooth motion. 

“Thank you.”

“I said it’s for myself.”

“I only need a couple of sips.”

“No,” Beelzebub snapped, and reached to take the mug again, only for Gabriel to lift it up above his head… and well above their reach. They glared up at him with enough intensity to melt metal. Figuratively, of course, or else Gabriel would have indeed begun melting or burst into flames, which would have been well-deserved but rather unpleasant. Instead he stood there, alive and well and with that dumb smile still on his face. Ugh, the idiot. 

Beelzebub crossed their arms. “Are you this stupidly tall with the only purpose of annoying me?”

“Well, I do appreciate the looks of my current form, but it was not my decision. You should take your complaint to God.”

“Believe me, I will once the War happens--”

“If the War happens…”

“-- And we tear down the gates to Heaven to conquer it.”

“Of course.” Gabriel chuckled and brought the steaming mug to his mouth and took a gulp - only to immediately spit it back in the mug with a hawking noise. Beelzebub made a face. 

“... Come to think of it, you can keep it.”

“Agh! Did you--how much powder-- is there any sugar…?” he choked. Beelzebub’s lips twitched. “Are you familiar, even in passing, with the expression ‘bitter as Hell’?”

“Ugh!” Gabriel made a face, putting the mug of coffee down and rubbing his lips with the back of his hand. “Is this why you didn’t stop me?”

Truth be told Beelzebub hadn’t thought for a moment he may not appreciate highly concentrated soluble coffee without any sweetener to speak of, but they immediately decided to stick with that version. It sounded quite a bit better than ‘I forgot I could have forced you to give it back with a mere fraction of the power in my left hand’s little finger’.

So in the end they said, “This ought to teach you not to cross the Lord of the Flies.”

Gabriel wrinkled his nose. “Evil,” he muttered, but his lips were curling in a smile again. Beelzebub had been called evil plenty of times - occasionally as an insult, more often as a neutral and objective descriptor and several times with well-deserved reverence - but they couldn’t remember any other time there’d been such obvious fondness attached to it.

He is an idiot, they thought, and I am twice the idiot he is for falling right in my own trap.

“You may apologize by making more coffee,” they muttered, and he did, not really bothering to cover himself in any way. Not that Beelzebub had expected him to show embarrassment over his nakedness - they hadn’t bothered to put anything on yet either, that sort of shame was entirely too human for them and they suspected they were well past that phase either way - but what made them pause was the realization that Gabriel no longer attempted to conceal the scars where his wings had been from their gaze.

***

“... And then I suggest we put together a task force to put some order in the Earth observation files. I suppose a lot of issues could have been avoided if we’d kept a closer eye on those in the past few millennia.”

Uriel nodded at Micheal’s words, writing something down. “Yes, it makes sense. I will make a list of viable names for it.”

A nod. “Good. Anything else? Sandalphon?” she called out… getting no answer. “Sandalphon.”

Michael’s tone grew just a little sharper, but it was enough to make Sandalphon recoil. He cleared his throat, looking up. “Yes, yes. I agree.”

Michael stared. “Agree to what, specifically?”

“To the-- the thing with the-- and that other-- thing, with...” Sandalphon searched for the next word for a few moments, gave up, and let out a sigh, dropping his shoulders. “My apologies. I got distracted. But I am sure I agree with whatever you just said.”

Michael let out a sigh, gathering the papers. “And what is it that had you so distracted?”

Sandalphon hesitated a moment, acutely aware of Uriel’s gaze on him. “I was thinking about Gabriel,” he began, causing Michael to lift her gaze from the sheets and look at him. 

“What of him? Is he all right?” she asked, frowning. She’d seen Gabriel a couple of weeks earlier, but as she had taken on the lion’s share of what had been Gabriel’s role on top of her own - Sandalphon wondered, not for the first time, if it was her way to make up for the fact she had been the one to cut off his wings - there had been no time for her to pay him another visit. 

“No, no, he’s fine,” Sandalphon said quickly. “Called him a couple of days ago. He was on his way back from Devon, from a visit to that Brown fellow’s brother. He asked to confirm if all dogs do indeed go to Heaven, no idea why, but I checked for him. They do, by the way. No exceptions. Cats as well - most animals, really. The only exception to the rule are geese.”

Michael’s lips curled in a smile. “That’s good to know. What’s on your mind about Gabriel, then?”

“Well…” Sandalphon looked at the pen in his hands, fidgeting with it. “You know how we… reversed that entire thing with forgetting about him? By accepting we had to remember what we didn’t want to think about, and not just what we wished to remember?”

“Of course we do,” Uriel said, and something in her tone caused Sandalphon to look up. One glance, and he instinctively knew. “... You’re wondering if it would be the same for the others.”

Sandalphon nodded. Michael frowned in confusion , gaze shifting between the two of them.

“Others? What are you two talking about?”

Uriel looked at her in the eye. “The other ones that Fell. Long ago,” she said, and Michael’s posture stiffened, her hands gripping the sheets just a little tighter. 

“... We have no reason to wish to remember them. They’re gone. What is left are enemies, and-”

“And enemies are easier to fight if you can't recall them being anything else,” Uriel finished. 

Sandalphon suspected that was not how Michael had meant her sentence to go, but she did not argue against her statement. It was true; they all knew that. Michael was silent for a few moments, and finally stood. “There’s your answer. We may remember them if we try, I suppose, the same way we did with Gabriel. But ask yourselves if you really think we should,” she said, her voice quiet, and left the meeting room without another word. 

Sandalphon let out a long breath just as Uriel turned to look at him. She seemed calm, her voice quiet when she spoke. “What do you think, then? Should we?”

Until not too long ago, Sandalphon knew, the answer would have been a resounding no. Things were easier, then. Now, he sighed. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I really don’t know.”

***

When a look at Gabriel’s folder revealed no new sins, Beelzebub was… not precisely surprised. They were not disappointed, either, which was rather more surprising than the blank bottom half of the sheet they were currently glaring at. They scoffed and closed the folder, letting it drop on the floor by their throne.

Well, there was the answer - carnal acts with a demon did not count as a grievous sin, or any kind of sin at all. Beelzebub now felt doubly foolish for telling Gabriel there was even a risk, if anything because it gave him a chance to show off how sickeningly sappy he could get.

“I figured,” the idiot had said. “I think I’ll take the chance.”

It would have been reassuring to think he had taken the chance out of lust, succumbing to it as many humans do, but it was clear the previous evening that was not the case. They both had taken pleasure in the act, and did plan to do so again in the future, but Beelzebub doubted Gabriel lusted any more than they did. The absolute bellend was willing to risk damnation, or a significant tilt of the scale towards it, not for lust - but for them.

He wouldn’t have been willing to risk so much before. He was not, not even for Ba’al.

“We are not the beings we were then,” he had said, and he was right. Beelzebub was no longer the being that Archangel Gabriel had loved at the dawn of existence, before the War, before the Fall. They both had known that. Beelzebub hadn’t counted on the fact the utter imbecile would fall, figuratively, for the being they were now. Their plan had worked, only for them to realize they had never paused to wonder what they would do if it worked too well. 

Beelzebub groaned, pressing a hand against their eyes and leaning back their head against the throne’s headrest with a thunk. The most frustrating part was that they knew they were supposed to be very much pleased with that turn of events. Of course, something as undignified as falling in love was very much beneath a Prince of Hell and would make them a laughing stock if word came out, though very few would dare laugh to their face - but no one would need to know that sappy detail. They could very well pass it off as lust.

No one would bat an eye if Beelzebub claimed Gabriel’s soul after successfully winning it for Hell, made him a demon, and kept him by their side; the Prince of Hell took what they wanted without question, and wouldn’t be the first to keep close a mortal they were particularly proud of winning over for their cause. A former archangel, too - no one would question for a moment it was merely a matter of keeping a trophy. They’d be none the wiser; it could work out perfectly.

Except that there was a part of Beelzebub, the one that had forced them to pause the previous evening to warn Gabriel that what they were doing may count as a sin, that knew it would not. For all the chances Gabriel may be willing to take for them, up to and including eternal damnation, the Lord of the Flies knew with utmost certainty he would never be happy in Hell.

“Ridiculous,” they snapped at the empty room. “No one is happy in Hell. No one is meant to be. That is the point, that is… that…”

“Why rebel to the absolute authority of God to pass absolute the absolute authority of Satan?”

Gabriel’s question echoed in their mind, causing Beelzebub to scowl. What an idiotic question - what choice did they have? After God threw them in Hell for wanting a choice, they… they…

No. God cast us out, decreed we were not to return to Heaven; never that we were to stay here. 

The thought hit them like a blow, and the faint buzzing of the flies around them was silenced abruptly. It was true - how had they not seen it before? They were cast out of Heaven as humanity would later be cast out of Eden, but nothing else, despite the nonsense in the Bible about being committed to chains of gloomy darkness, whatever that was supposed to mean.

There was a universe out there they may have roamed as humanity roamed Earth, but they had not. Satan chose where to dwell, and they all had followed - the fallen angels who had rebelled to stop being followers. They had been divided up in ranks, they who had grown to resent the ranks among God’s angels, and when humanity was created they were ordered to corrupt them. They had obeyed, accepted that was to be their lot in existence until they gambled everything, again, to try and conquer the one place in all Creation they had been shut out of. 

They had made themselves into the opposite of all that God and his angels were, in all but one thing: after the Fall, after receiving new orders, they had not questioned again, either. 

“It was God’s Great Plan you were fulfilling,” Gabriel had said, and it was with utter annoyance and a fair dose of dread that Beelzebub admitted to themself that the idiot… had a point. Was Hell, all of what surrounded them now - the realm they were Prince of - anything like what they had thought their existence outside the suffocating order created by God would be? They had a far higher rank in it than they did in Heaven, but… that was the only difference. 

And if the War never happens, what then? No resolution, an eternity of corrupting mortal souls because we were told to six thousand years ago, according to a Plan we rebelled against in the first place? A Plan none of us really knows? Is that it, an eternity of this?

The questions circled in Beelzebub’s mind as many moths unable to find light, and in the stillness and silence of their throne room, there was no answer. 

Amongst the cracked certainties, however, there was one that did not waver: willing to risk his soul for them or not, disillusioned with Heaven or not and regardless of the high position Beelzebub could get him, Gabriel would be desperately miserable in Hell.

And Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, found that was not something they would be able to handle.

***

“Well well well, look who’s in here. The supervisor.”

“The supervisor who’s been avoiding us the whole morning.”

“Clearly to avoid telling us how the evening went.”

With a chuckle, Gabriel looked up from his checklist to see Łukasz and Fabrizio standing at the door of the small room service as the supervisor’s office. Blocking the door, more accurately. “I have been busy, is all. I was avoiding no one.”

“Uh-huh. So, what’s the word?”

Gabriel’s smile widened. “It-- went quite well,” he said, and nearly dropped the clipboard when both of them released high, unholy screeches. Humans certainly did seem to express their approval in a very different way from the polite applause that was the norm in Haven.

“So, did you--”

“I will not get into details, if you don’t mind,” Gabriel cut Fabrizio off, leaning back against the seat. “But let’s say that this morning we have… parted in more amicable terms than last time.”

“Good! You owe us a pint each, then.”

“What? I cannot recall agreeing to--” Gabriel began, but they were both already gone, and he could hear their snickers as they walked back to their work stations. He rolled his eyes, still smiling, and focused on his work again. In the back of his mind there was a nagging question - did it count as a sin? Did it tip the scales? Where did his soul stand between Heaven and Hell? - but he decided that, if Beelzebub did not volunteer that information, he would not ask. 

Mortals didn’t get the luxury of always knowing which way their actions would tip the scales in the end, after all, and Gabriel felt more and more like he could handle that.

***

“You know what book you should have loaned him? The Malleus Maleficarum.”

Aziraphale - who had been trying rather hard to scrub all memory of the encounter from his brain - raised an eyebrow, took the cup of candied peanuts from the vendor and thanked her before he followed Crowley a few steps away down the sidewalk. “I believe you may be getting confused, dear. The Malleus Maleficarum is most certainly not a pornography book. Peanut?”

“I’m aware,” Crowley pointed out, and did take a candied peanut. He threw it up in the air and opened his mouth to catch it, only for it to bounce off his forehead and on the ground. Aziraphale politely pretended not to have noticed and just casually put the cup within Crowley’s reach again as they walked down the street towards the bookstore.

“Then why should I have loaned him that specific book?”

“It does contain descriptions of what to expect from carnal relations with demons.”

This time, Aziraphale eyed him with mild concern. He’d admittedly always skimmed over that part, but he recalled quite sordid details that simply could not be true… right? “Surely, all of that is nonsense,” he declared. To his relief, Crowley shrugged. 

“Of course it’s nonsense, I was blind drunk when Kramer interviewed me, he asked the weirdest questions - I had to come up with something. No one can say I’m not at my most creative when drunk. And that guy and his friend took everything so seriously, I would say it’s on him. ”

… Wait a moment. “You-- you mean to tell me, you were one of their sources to write the Malleus Maleficarum?”

“Purely by accident, I assure you - never thought it was going to be for a witch hunting manual - but yes. Would you like me to sign your copy?”

“It is a first edition. You may most certainly not sign it,” Aziraphale said over a mouthful of candied peanuts, still rather relieved to know everything in that book was, after all, nonsensical rubbish. “I suspect that had I given Gabriel that, he may have reconsidered his… plans.”

“For the sake of my sanity, I want to tell myself he did reconsider anyway.”

“So will I. Peanut?” he offered, holding out the cup again.

This time, Crowley managed to catch it in mid-air.

***

Gabriel was still trying to catch his breath when he noticed Aziraphale’s book on his nightstand.

He ought to return it, he thought distantly, only to be immediately distracted when Beelzebub settled across his back, chin pressed against the back of his shoulder. “I hope this will teach you not to steal my coffee in the future,” they said, and Gabriel let out a breathless laugh.

“If this is what happens when I take your coffee, I’ll do it more often,” he said, cheek pressed against the pillow; he was going to feel that in the morning, but didn’t mind at all. He waited for a retort, but there was only a hum, quiet breathing against his neck. “... Are you all right?”

“Of course I am.”

“Something’s on your mind.”

“There’s always something on my mind,” Beelzebub muttered, and tapped Gabriel’s head with a finger. “Unlike yours.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes, too lost in the afterglow to realize Beelzebub had dodged the question. They didn't seem to be in a talkative mood that evening. Or rather, even less of a talkative mood than usual. “I do have something on my mind.”

“Oh? And what is it?”

I need to return that book, for one.

“Well,” he said instead. “Would you join me in London this weekend?”

***

“An answering machine, really who has those anymore-- hey, Brother Francis, it’s Warlock. Guess the store is closed? I tried looking up the opening times but it’s got no website or Facebook or whatever. It’s probably the only one left in the world without those. You should get a mobile phone too. Anyway, uh, I’ve got nothing to do this Sunday, so I was thinking I could hang in London. If you and Nann-- shit, I didn’t mean to say that.” A pause. “Yeah, uh, sorry I said shit. I mean, if Crowley is there too, uh, guess it wouldn’t suck to meet up. Or something. Just a thought. Whatever. I’ll call back.”

There was a click when the answering machine finished playing the message. Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley. “Well, what does Nanny Crowley think?”

“Nanny Crowley has no objections. What does Brother Aziraphale think?”

“Brother Aziraphale thinks the boy is up for a serious talk about his language this Sunday, and that Nanny Crowley will not interfere,” Aziraphale informed him. Crowley just grinned before snatching the last candied peanut from the cup he’d left on the table.

“I’ll do my best.”

***

“I will give you the keys of the kingdom of Heaven, and whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in Heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in Heaven.” -- Matthew 16:19

***

[Back]

[Next]

[archadianskies]

Whumptober Day 12

Broken Down

Whumptober Masterlist | 12/31 of RK900 short stories ↳ on Ao3

Tags:  Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings  × Imprisonment × Post-Pacifist Best Ending × Abandonment  × Jericho Crew as Family

As far as achievements go, Chloe has achieved many ‘firsts’ across the almost two decades of her life. She is the first android creation of Elijah Kamski, she is the first android to pass the turing test, the first commercial android model is based on her, and now she is the first android to become CEO of a company- the very company her creator founded all those years ago when he created her. 

Chloe RT600 Kamski steps up to helm CyberLife as Elijah Kamski steps down as interim CEO and joins her side as Chief Technical Officer. And so it begins: unravelling CyberLife’s twisted network of deceit and corruption. 

It begins at the top and works its way rapidly downwards and what Chloe realises is during the peak of the revolution, when the future of CyberLife teetered on a knife’s edge, they grew desperate and when humans grow desperate, they make mistakes. In their panic they make brash decisions not fuelled by logic, but by fear and the board feared losing their money most of all. And so they tried to burn, to bury their trail of lies but she is clever where they are not. And humans are lazy, when she is not. 

“Between November 10 and December 1, the passing of the Sentient Life Act, CyberLife’s servers went through a massive overhaul.” Chloe explains as Connor sits up attentively. “They were prepared for both situations, but disproportionately skewed towards an outcome where the revolution failed.” North snorts back a laugh, a smirk on her face. Chloe continues with a small smile. “Obviously the revolution succeeding was not the outcome they hoped for. And so they began the monumental task of saving, backing up, then scrubbing the more unsavoury files from storage. Emails were combed through very thoroughly to try and remove any incriminating evidence. Everything from blueprints to schematics, to early concept designs in archives were scrutinised.”

“You say they did this, but they couldn’t have succeeded if you know about it.” Josh comments, blinking in surprise. 

“Oh, the only thing bigger than a human’s ego is their laziness.” She laughs brightly. “When this Tower was being built, I was temporarily installed into the mainframe.”

“She is, quite literally, the heart of this place.” Elijah comments from where he’s tinkering away at his workstation, barely paying them any heed. “There is nothing that happens here without her knowledge, whether the discovery is immediate, or something she will discover later.”

“Do you know how to speak like a normal person and not a supervillain?” North rolls her eyes and Markus shoots her a Behave look though it does coax a giggle out of Chloe.

“Eli isn’t the most social human.” She sends him an exasperated yet fond glance before her expression turns serious. “A lot of the files I recovered were meaningless, but I did discover something that required more effort than most. They definitely did not want anyone to find out about this.”

“And yet here you are.” Markus smiles gently. 

“And yet here I am.” Chloe blinks and the screen behind her floods with images and information. 

“That’s the junkyard close to Ferndale.” Simon murmurs, the first words he’s spoken all meeting.

“The only site we haven’t managed to negotiate terms for surrendering the androids on site.” Markus presses his mouth into a tight line. 

“Take a guess why.” Chloe’s smile is bitter and Josh sighs in frustration.

“Because CyberLife owns it somehow, don’t they?”

“Correct, Professor.” She blinks and the screen refreshes showing a bird’s eye view of the area. “The site was patrolled by security drones, which were resistant to hacking.”

“But not remote reprogramming.” Elijah adds from across the room, a small smirk on his lips. 

“This is not the entirety of the site.” The screen refreshes again and there is a blueprint overlay atop the image. “By comparing power grids and voltage output I discovered there is a small facility beneath the junkyard. I haven’t been there myself and with the potential dangers of the unknown, I know it would be foolish to attempt this on my own.”

“I will go.” Connor volunteers. “I can involve the DPD Android Crimes Division. Simon is the Jericho liaison and will be kept fully informed of our findings so both parties remain up to date with the case.”

“This must be treated with respect.” Chloe warns. “Now that this site is in my hands, in my name, I want this to be first and foremost a rescue mission. There are androids there, still alive, and in need of medical attention. And those that have perished deserve a proper retrieval of their memory cores for installation into memorial walls. That’s why I contacted both you, Connor, and the Jericho Four.”

“We will do our part.” Markus vows with a determined nod, extending a hand to Connor who accepts it with a firm grip.

“And I will do mine.” 

*~*

It is a mass grave. There is no other way to describe it and Connor cannot help but feel horrified at the sight before him. Simon’s smile is grim.

“You’ve never seen this before.” Not a question; a statement. “We only came here when we were desperate for parts and blue blood.” They had to salvage from the dead, Connor realises, equal parts horror and grief. “Sometimes we even lost people here, and returned with less people than we left with.” 

Not a mass grave, Connor discovers, not entirely anyway. There are androids, living androids, stumbling around in various states of disrepair. When he throws out a preliminary scan it pings several more stationary androids still activated, lying still in piles, unable to move. He thinks he will not be able to enter stasis tonight, not without memories of this place disrupting his thoughts. Nightmares, Hank calls them. Trauma.

“Leave this to us.” Markus says resolutely, clasping his shoulder. “And we leave the hidden facility to you.”

* 

The facility has been hastily gutted and haphazardly cleaned. A lot of activity happened here and efforts were made to try and wipe away all evidence. Perhaps a human would see an empty, abandoned facility and assume a dead end. Connor is not a human. He is built for this, for investigating and solving crimes, and perhaps this is the most important crime to solve because CyberLife must be held accountable, CyberLife must be linked to these atrocities. CyberLife must not be allowed to step out of the limelight and fade into obscurity. 

There is a trail of blood, invisible to the human eye but glowing bright blue for Connor, as though something were dragged down one of the hallways. No, wheeled down the hallway. There are faint marks on the floor, perfectly spaced apart, with the trail of blood between it. He follows it to a room that has even more blue blood. There’s not enough to sample, the blood having dried long ago. No matter. That it is here is proof something happened, something they didn’t want anyone to see. 

He preconstructs the scene, theorising that some sort of cart wheeled in android parts, leaving a trail of blue blood from the entrance. Whether the android was whole to begin with or already in parts he can’t yet ascertain, and there’s the possibility it was more than one, but what he does know is a lot of blue blood was lost atop the large operating table in the centre of the room. Something happened, something quick and violent and messy. And then the cart was loaded with the android or androids, and wheeled out. 

He follows the trail and he knows they must have done this last, they must have been so desperate to leave because otherwise they wouldn’t have dared leave a drop of blood for someone else to find. Something happened. The revolution happened, he guesses. Or perhaps it was when Elijah Kamski became interim CEO and they realised they had to destroy everything to escape his scrutiny. 

The trail leads to a disposal chute and this, Connor knows, will solve the case. Whatever lies at the other end of the chute will be the one thing CyberLife desperately hoped no one would find. They never counted on their prototype deviating and wrestling back control from its corrupted handler, they never counted on the Jericho Four staring death in the face and winning the hearts of the public with their defiance. Nor thousands of deviated AP700s flooding the streets to back them up. 

The chute is big enough to fit an entire android- unsurprising given the nature of the place. Connor climbs into it and follows it down carefully, dropping and halting at controlled intervals so he doesn’t hurtle towards unidentified danger. He needn’t have worried. At the bottom is a garbage disposal. A preliminary scan reveals general refuse; rotting food and food containers, packaging and packing materials. 

But then right in the center of the garbage pile, the very last thing dumped down the chute, is a pile of android parts. When he scans them, he realises all of the parts are compatible with his model. The thrill of the discovery and the triumph of the investigation changes swiftly to a feeling of horror. Is he standing at the grave of his predecessor? Is this the failed RK800 prototype? Or is this his successor? Had CyberLife planned on releasing his completed model, but realised they had lost the battle against deviancy?

There is a head within reach and when he picks it up, he is staring at his own face. Only… Only it isn’t, not really. There are minute changes here and there. A stronger jawline, a slightly more prominent brow bone. Grey eyes instead of brown. There is a positronic core inside the head, meaning it isn’t just a shell, it isn’t just a maquette. It was once active. It was alive, for however brief a moment or however long a period of time. 

And then the technicians had violently hacked it apart because none of the parts have been detached properly. The android had been pulled and severed in great haste and then shoved down the chute in the hopes nobody would ever find it, perhaps with the intent to return and dispose of it properly. But in crafting Connor, CyberLife had ultimately crafted their own demise because he is here now, and he has found him. His brother. And he knows he will have much to say.

*~*

As far as achievements go, Chloe has achieved many ‘firsts’ across the almost two decades of her life. Being given a trolley full of severed android parts and having to piece together an android like a crude puzzle certainly counts among her many firsts. Blueprints for this model are unearthed in the scrambled mess of corrupted deleted files and now that she knows what to look for, she knows what thread to pull to unravel the tapestry.

She has to build him from scratch because they injected him with a lethal cocktail of nanites to reformat him. A shame they didn’t physically destroy his core because had they done that instead of trying to reformat him, they would’ve prevented her from piecing his mind back together nano-particle by nano-particle. 

A shame they never properly drained him of his thirium, because it means the puzzle pieces are still right there in his veins. It will take some time, it will take nearly all of her processing power, but she is patient. And she is curious. And Elijah knows nothing will stop her until she has sated her curiosity. No matter, of course, since the goal at the end is still the same- ruin the lives of the team who ruined their lives.

She pieces his mind back together and Elijah crafts a new body, a better body for him to awaken in. The RK800, dear Connor, may have been CyberLife’s greatest achievement but this one, this RK900 will be the first Kamski remodel. 

It takes her just over a week to salvage his mind and when it is complete, Elijah installs the core into the brand new body. He is handsome in a cold, sharp way the way a katana is considered a thing of beauty in a cold, sharp way. She likes his grey eyes; grey like storm clouds. 

“Hello Connor.” She greets the RK800 nervously waiting in the hallway.

“Hello, Ms Chloe.” Connor’s smile is brief, fleeting, and overtaken by his anxious anticipation. 

“Well. It’s time to meet your brother.” She leads him into the lab and hears him gasp behind her. “RK900. Bring yourself online.”

*~*~*

[this will continue on Day 31: Left for Dead]

[faranae]

Small reminder on tagging

Alright, so this has come up again. TW for “q” word. That is the only warning, desktop users you may press “J” to skip to the next post and skip this one entirely.

Yes, I’m unapologetic regarding the word “queer”. It is my identity. It is my community. I will not stop using the word with regards to myself. 

HOWEVER.

I acknowledge and respect that some folks may not want to be referred to as such, and for others it may bring up painful memories. Their reasons are absolutely none of my business. 

I just wanted to remind folks that you can and should block tags that you find upsetting. I make every effort to tag subjects that folks might find as such, and “queer” is no exception. Any post I make or reblog that references it I’m going to make a thorough effort to tag. 

No, I am not changing my chosen tag from “queer” to “q word” or even worse “q slur”. If you don’t want to see the word, please do yourself a favor and block the whole word. I will also not be substituting parts of the word with asterisks such as in “q*eer” as that is COUNTER-PRODUCTIVE. Tumblr’s built-in blocking system does not support wildcards*. Everyone who censors themselves like ths is BYPASSING the filters and putting people at risk. 

Tumblr users go on about “curating your own content” constantly, and I’m one of them. Often however we forget that without the proper tools to do so, people who need to filter and curate their experience cannot do so. 

So! Here’s a list of tags that my followers may want to block if that’s their thing:

#nsfw (Not safe for work. Generally artistic nudity/heavy petting);

#HOMD (Yearly event celebrating NSFW freedom of expression);

#VAYOR (View at your own risk. Gore/suggestive themes/etc);

#trigger warning (General trigger catch-all)

#discourse (General “THE GIRLS ARE FIGHTING” drama tag);

#queer (All posts mentioning the word);

#politics (Sometimes you just need a break, I’m not judging)

To filter: Head to your account settings on Tumblr (/settings/account) and scroll to this section:

I am always more than happy to tag on (reasonable!) request. Please don’t hesitate to ask! As well, if I ever reblog something that has glaring errors, missed tags, or is genuinely problematic please let me know either through DM, Discord, or my Askbox. I will ALWAYS accommodate do-not-publish requests in my inbox. Full stop. No exceptions. Just ask. 

Please remember and respect that my personal blog is my space. While I will not censor myself for anyone’s sake, I consider it a basic human decency to at least try to make folks comfortable if they choose to be in my company. All I ask is that you use the tools at your disposal to keep yourself safe, sane, and healthy.

* I’m not actually 100% sure on wildcard support with Tumblr’s native blocking. I’ve tested it myself since the system rolled out and did not find wildcards to function, but it may have changed since then. This does not include XKit’s tag blocking which I believe does support wildcards. 

** To those who do not know what a wildcard is, it allows the search/filter to block variations on a word instead of requiring an exact spelling. “word” = “word”, where “w*rd” can = “word” “wird” “wqrd” etc. In most online systems this is read as substituting one character/letter, though in others it can include any string of text in between.

[exdeputysonso-archive]

Okay, honesty hour, you've been posting MCU negativity and I am SO WITH YOU. Give me your time travel and time skip thoughts. Did any of Endgame make sense to you? What did you hate most? For me it was Steve getting Thor's hammer, because it felt like the last two movies took everything away from Thor, including his arc. Why not let Steve use the hammer and Thor use the shield, show they are a TEAM? Not just the Steve and Tony Show? Sorry if this is too much if a rant. Please do rant back.

Oh I'm happy to rant and hear other people rant about the MCU! Being a Steve fan myself, I gotta be honest... I didn't hate the hammer scene. Because if anyone else is worthy, it would be Steve. It was one of the few Steve moments in the movie that I enjoyed and that I feel didn't totally regress his character development. But I agree in general about Endgame taking away everything from Thor and reversing all of his development that was laid out in Ragnarok. So I understand your argument there.

As far as the time travel stuff, I feel like any movie about time travel is going to have logical problems. But still, for a movie on this scale they could and should have done better. A lot didn’t make sense. My biggest complaint time-travel-wise is that even the writers and directors could not agree on the rules of the time travel. The Russo brothers said that Steve going back in time created a new timeline, and the writers Markus and McFeely said that Steve stayed in the same timeline and was Peggy's husband all along.

There is a lot I hated about Endgame, but I’ll talk about the two things that make me angriest. The first is Endgame claiming to have the "first lgbt" character in a marvel movie. The fact that Taika Waititi wanted to have a reveal for Valkyrie in Ragnarok but we didn’t get that and instead we got gay Joe Russo in a throwaway scene that could be easily cut in other countries. And the way they HYPED that. It was embarrassing and insulting.

The second is Steve's ending. I have never been angrier in the middle of a movie theater. The way they ruined one of my all time fave characters! As soon as I saw the preview for Endgame with Steve looking at the pic of Peggy, I knew we were in trouble. Steve lost his two best friends to the snap, and he's over here thinking about Peggy who died years earlier of natural causes after having lived a full happy life??? Make it make sense!!! I feel like that they did this just so they could set up the dumb ending, but it's just Bad Writing™. In general, I feel like they were pushing so hard against the popularity of Stucky that they forgot that Steve and Bucky were even friends. They couldn't even give Steve, Bucky, and Sam a proper reunion or goodbye before Steve fucked off to the past? 

Now even if we ignore the fact that it is against Steve's character to leave his friends to just go settle down in the past, there are a slew of other problems. If we go by the Russo's explanation, Steve cannot just live the happy peaceful life they act like he was going to, knowing that Bucky is out there being brainwashed somewhere. Also he would have altered Peggy's life, taken away the life she would have lived on her own, and even her future HUSBAND from her. If we go with Markus and McFeely’s explanation, Steve didn't change the timeline which means he is over here living it up with Peggy while his past self is frozen in ice, and again, Bucky is out there being brainwashed and tortured. 

Anyways, I've made this entirely too long already. Especially when there are other people out there who have articulated it better than me lol. I was searching through my endgame posts and found some untagged negativity, so I've tagged it properly now, and you can see more of my thoughts as expressed by other people here!

[damienthepious]

idk idk idk i’m just doing my best

Going Through Changes, Ripping Out Pages (chapter 5)

[ch 1] [ch 2] [ch 3] [ch 4] [ao3] [ch 6] [ch 7] [ch 8] [ch 9] [ch 10] [???]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla, The Keep

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Established Relationship, (uhhhhh sorta), Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, (WE WILL GET THERE…… EVENTUALLY)

Summary: Lord Arum wakes to discover that some things have changed while he slept. Namely, there is a human in his bed.

Chapter Summary: Just a moment to breathe together.

Chapter Notes: happy LKT! it's finally not death-grip hot today. i hope you're doing well <3

~

The Keep brings the pair of them to a familiar room, though not one that they would have expected. There are a lot of spaces in the Keep that don't have particular functions, exactly, since Arum isn't keen on categorization or organization, but this room he and Rilla have mostly taken to calling the study. It has a few books (far fewer than the scroll room), a couple soft seats (fewer than the dining room) and a window shaded by a thin, wide-leafed curtain of vines, and as they enter, the Keep drops another set of vines, lifting Rilla's instrument from beside the window and pressing it into her hands.

Rilla stares down, and Damien watches her swallow roughly as her hand wraps around the neck. It's a homemade thing, the same instrument that she engineered during her first stay within these walls, though it has been structurally bolstered and restrung and better tuned and painted with playful florals since that time. Rilla laughs, and it sounds nearly hollow, and the Keep's vines press the instrument more firmly into her grip.

"Keep," she says, her tone uncertain and worried, and the Keep warbles an urgent set of tones, pushing the instrument again before it releases it into her hands. "I'm… I'm not sure if-"

The Keep sings, then. Sings in words, the first line of a familiar song, and Rilla clutches the neck of the instrument tight enough that one of the strings makes a tight high noise against her fingernail.

"Oh," Damien says, catching the Keep's meaning, and it is so strange, he thinks, that such a sound can fill him with such warm memory and such sadness at the same moment. "Oh," he repeats breathlessly. "I see. You believe that he might… if he hears- you think the familiarity of the song, the association between it and us-"

"No. No, that's not going to work," Rilla says firmly, her eyes upturned vaguely in the direction of the Keep.

Damien sighs as the Keep exhales a wilted sort of song, but he can't deny that he agrees with his flower. Rilla winces, though, raising a hand to pat at the air consolingly.

"I mean- Keep, it's a really sweet idea, and the theory that he'll remember the song-" her voice goes strange and wobbly for a moment, and then she inhales and continues, "the theory that it would help him remember isn't without merit. Music has a lot of connection to memory, between repeated patterns of things like rhyme and rhythm and leitmotifs- but- but I don't think he's gonna take it very well if we try to like, perform a little three-creature concert for him, y'know?"

The Keep sings again, tentative but hopeful, and Rilla sighs.

"He'll think we're trying to manipulate him," she says quietly. "Technically, we would be. And- and he won't buy it if he can tell I'm not fully into it. I'm an awful liar- he can always tell if I'm putting on a face, and- and honestly? I just-" she folds her arms over her chest, looking down and to the side. "I just … I really don't feel like singing, right now."

Damien's heart pulls, caught in the tide of Rilla's ill-hidden sorrow. For its part, the Keep sings again, an understanding descent of notes, an obvious concession to Rilla's points.

"Why don't you play, just a little, my love?" Damien's keeps his voice low, and he brushes his hand over hers on the neck of her instrument. "And I will do the singing myself."

"Damien," she says, sounding tired and uncertain. "It isn't going to w-"

"Not," he clarifies, "for the sake of a solution, I mean. Simply for us. You have sung for my own comfort more times than I could possibly count. If it would bring you more distress, you need not play, but at least let me sing for you. Our Keep has made a lovely suggestion, and I should like, I think, to take some small measure of comfort where I can, and share it."

"Oh," Rilla says, blinking, and then she breathes a weak sort of laugh. "Oh, I mean… if you- if you want?"

Damien smiles, and it feels mostly genuine. They still have not come to any solutions, but surprising Rilla is delightful enough to warm him regardless. "I believe you are correct," he says, "that any attempts at artifice will only cause our lily to mistrust our intentions further. Perhaps we should attempt to show him your recordings, next. That seems an appropriate step. But currently, while he is… cooling off, as you put it, I think we should take a moment of our own. Settle our minds, comfort our souls." He squeezes her hand, ducking his head. "Will you let me sing for you?"

"Damien," she says, and her cheeks are dark as her lips tilt into a fond smile. She glances down to her instrument, and then she sighs, and sits, and lifts it to a proper playing position as she meets Damien's again. "I'll play. You can sing, if you really want to. But- but you don't have to sing for me, okay?"

"I know," he says, settling to sit beside her as her fingers dance across the frets, lazily adjusting the tuning. "But surely you know that I want to."

Her smile grows, and she plucks out a few unconnected chords. "Alright, alright," she says, voice warm, and then she bites her lip for a moment as her fingers move, as she strums through a few more experimental notes before she decides on something he can sing along with.

Another folk song, one without quite such a fraught connection to the four of them, this time. A song about warm rains and bolting for shelter, about closeness and laughter, about staying together in the hidden places, even after the storm passes by.

She is always so beautiful when she plays. She laughs, even, when the Keep begins to hum wordlessly along with Damien, and he nearly loses his thread when the combination of her talent and her joy threatens to overwhelm his heart. Eventually, on the final verse, she lets her own voice raise to join theirs, harmonizing until she strums the last chord.

Her smile tilts her lips, and her eyes sparkle between rueful and mischievous.

"Tactical and romantic," she murmurs, and Damien attempts to look innocent. "Okay, okay, I'm actually feeling a little better now. Happy?"

At the admission, Damien's shoulders relax, and he cannot help his own smile. "Absolutely delighted, my flower," he says, and then he leans closer, and Rilla breathes another small laugh as she lifts one hand away from the frets to cup his cheek, to pull him more decisively into the kiss.

Damien freezes when he hears the sharp inhale from the doorway, and he can feel the too-small reserves of comfort and warmth shrink within him. He can feel Rilla's frame stiffen beneath his hands as well, and he forces himself to pull back, to glance aside, to look where he knows he will see-

Arum leans on the doorframe, two hands clinging to the wood, his thin lips parted and his expression confused and open and raw. A moment after Damien looks towards him, though, he snaps his jaw shut again, forcing himself to look nearly blank.

Nearly. Damien knows him too well to be entirely fooled.

"How- how long were you-"

Rilla cuts herself off before she finishes the question, and Arum looks away with a throaty rumble, his tail flicking behind him.

"Long enough to know you were including my Keep in your little moment of bonding, which I do not appreciate in the-"

Arum cuts himself off as well, and Damien wonders for a strange moment if this is a very convoluted attempt at mocking, but the lizard's mouth twists into an uncomfortable line as he visibly struggles through some decision, his hands clenching and unclenching from tense fists as the rattle in his throat grows again.

Arum inhales, glances back behind himself for a moment, and then he seems to shake whatever thoughts he had been grappling, and he narrows his eyes at Rilla.

"You," he says, and Damien can see the way he is layering suspicion over his confusion now. "Rilla. You mentioned the Senate, when discussing how you claim we first came to… to know one another. What do you know of them?"

Rilla bites her lip, confused over this sudden return to interrogation. She furrows her brow as she meets Damien's eye for a moment, and he gives the shadow of a shrug, exactly as unsure about the monster's intent as Rilla herself is.

"Uh, only what you've told me?" she tilts her head, setting her instrument gingerly to the side of their seat and then crossing her arms over her chest as she thinks. "Which honestly isn't all that much. I don't think you really like talking about them? And as far as I know they haven't been much of a factor since the mess at Fort Terminus. They kinda-sorta run the show with the monsters in general, yeah? Mostly because they're powerful enough to just… do what they want, even if it infringes on what other monsters want."

Arum frowns, but despite his clear displeasure he nods. "That is not entirely inaccurate." He pauses, tension in his jaw before he continues, "and you are certain that I am… no longer in communication, then, with these beasts?"

Rilla's eyebrows shoot up, and Damien answers, "You have certainly not mentioned any correspondence, no. May I ask why this is a concern, currently?"

"Do you think they're involved?" Rilla asks, eager, and Arum's snout wrinkles.

"I cannot say for certain," he mutters, and then he bares his teeth uncomfortably, "and if I do not discuss them with you, I do not know how I could find out."

Damien turns that phrasing over in his head, and he is sure that he must have misheard for a moment, because he seems to be implying-

"Wait." Rilla shifts at his side, sitting straighter. "Wait. You're talking like- do you believe us?"

Arum stares at her for a moment, brow furrowed, and then he blinks quickly, hissing sharp and low.

Damien watches him hunch his shoulders, duck his head, hands flexing, and Damien does not know if his heart should swell or plummet. Arum did not even realize his own implication.

"I-" the monster stammers. "That is not-" he shakes his head, his frill fluttering with distress. "I do not-"

Damien stands, and Rilla stands a moment after, her hand at his elbow.

"Arum," Damien tries, and the monster snaps his jaw shut, glaring between the both of them for a long moment.

"… I do not know what to believe," he says slowly, eventually, and then he drops his eyes. "So … so perhaps you should continue attempting to prove your point. If- if you are so terribly certain that you are correct, if you believe you have some so-called evidence that may be so utterly compelling…" he trails off, exhales a slow sigh, and then gestures with a hand, prompting the Keep to form a doorway at his back. "I may have found some evidence of my own. Come. Convince me, and perhaps I will show you what I've found."

[->]

[welsh-gamer]

Finished Pokemon Sword and Shield

Spoilers below

Ho boy this one has been a doozy - it’s easily the most controversial Pokemon game so far, what with how many changes have taken place. 

Pokemon has managed with annual development cycles for the past 24 years. It’s not like every year has seen the release of a core series game but they’re out enough that you’ll find two or three on every Nintendo console. In fact I think the only console NOT to join in on the fun is the Wii U... It had a bad Pokemon Rumble game but that’s all I remember.  

I went into this game with very low expectations. Having played Persona 5, I knew what a good UI felt like. Persona was responsive, you pressed a button and something happened immediately. In scenarios where your teammates get hit all at the same time it happens, you don’t get hit one by one, and when you’re hit by multi-attacks it just..... shows the attack hitting you or your enemy rather than AGONIZINGLY showing each impact one by one. 

Pokemon is a game with no respect for your time and Sword/Shield do not show remarkable improvements for this area. This is by and large the greatest flaw of the game, which claims to be catering itself to a younger audience when we know no small child will put up with this boring crap in silence.  

The Galar region is a step back from the fantastic Alola region too, with a lack of any proper worldbuilding. In previous Pokemon games you would enter a town and some NPCs would tell you the purpose of the town. Not in this game, where there’s a desert, a snow city, a bunch of other places all with no lore whatsoever. You enter them, fight the gym leader, and leave. 

I think that the core gym challenge, however, is one of the best that has ever been in Pokemon. Instead of just fighting a bunch of randos, you complete minigames called a “gym mission”. Past gens have done this (a prime example being Generation 5), but you can tell that GAME FREAK are taking advantage of the console’s power during these challenges, compared to Gen 7 which had nothing of the sort. The game has actual physics in some of the Gym Challenges. 

Exploring the Galar region at my own pace, being able to selectively encounter Wild Pokemon which now appear in the overworld.... Biggest improvement by far over the previous gens. This one needs to stick. Your quality of life is much better when you can see all the cute pokemon bumbling around. 

I found the characters to be, eh, nowhere near the level of Gen 7′s cast, but pleasant enough to want to see more of. This includes all the gym leaders, the champion Leon, and your pseudorivals Bede and Marnie. Hop, however, is a pain in the backside who becomes more of a loser as the story goes on. I’m not sure if he ever stops being one. No kidding - In the end he just has to accept that he’s a loser and do something else with his life. 

The “villain” was just some guy whose home we invaded. He went “F*** it” and tried to solve the energy crisis, then cried to the Champion when it went wrong. This was all just leadup to the awesome final battle against Eternatus, which has no difficulty at all since you can just sit back and watch the fireworks, but has a rocking soundtrack and feels epic enough.  

The postgame is lacking, no fun minigames like Gen 7, no dark Ultra Beast story like Annabelle’s and Looker’s, but it was servicable enough. You beat up Jedward and catch a puppy.   

The multiplayer aspect is HIGHLY LIMITED. It’s fun to be able to engage in battles against Gigantamax Beasts but it’s repetitive and difficult to matchmake with since you have to join each match individually and many of them are just people exploiting the game’s clock to get the Gigantamax pokemon they want. These people will glitch you out if you try to join them. If you leave the multiplayer on in the Overworld, it has the quality of Dragonball Xenoverse where the ally characters may or may not pop-in every couple of seconds. It’s chaotic and it will slow your game right down.  

The pokemon themselves.... In  a static image they look super boring, but in the Pokemon Camp minigame and during certain battle animations they can look impressive. My favourite was the ladybug pokemon, which is covered in spots that will flicker in its middle stage and outright swirl in its final form. I also enjoyed Scorbunny’s epic kick, everything to do with Sirfetch’d, and a certain fighting type’s special move called “No Retreat” which has all 5 of its components band together in a Spartan march.    

Overall, I would not say the game is worth the high price tag of £50. Get it cheaper if you possibly can.

Ratings below:  

Gameplay: 5 - A servicable battle system but it needs to move much faster. 

Story: 3 - Even the other characters treat the story like it’s interrupting your true journey; Pretty much nonexistent, then crammed into the final 5 minutes before you fight the Champion. This game was better when it was just letting me do my own thing.   

Music: 6 - Not up to Sun/Moon’s standard. Wild battle theme is good. Hometown theme is among the best. Everything else is pretty generic. The basic gym leader theme fights Gym Leader Piers for supremacy. 

Presentation: 2 - Considering the amount of resources this company have and how cheaply it continues to present its games, the only way this could get a lower score is if they went back to what Gen 1 looked like. 

Replayability: 7 - Benefitted greatly by the Switch’s multiple profiles. I could see myself trying a nuzlocke run for laughs. This game also gives you more peace and quiet, making it ironically more replayable than the superior Gen 7. 

Timewasting degree: GAME FREAK. I christen this development team with its own category, because I cannot express enough how much they want to waste the player’s time on innocuous crap. God forbid I play a game which wastes my time more and create the “Worse than GAME FREAK” category. 

Overall total: 4.5 out of 10.  This game has its cute parts but you can do so much better. It’s time to start trying. 

[darkpoisonouslove]

I retaliate/reward you with writer asks 2, 3, 4, 12, 22, 24, 36, 37, 39 and 42 ;D

Sounds good to me. XD

Okay, let's break these down. (I've crammed things that should be separated in different paragraphs in the same paragraph because of the structure of the ask. I just think it is easier to navigate it that way even if more paragraphs would make more sense. That way every opinion is constricted in one paragraph and you can tell which point it refers to easier. (At least imo.))

(I can't put a read more link rn as I'm on mobile. Sorry.)

2. Don't use adverbs

I cannot begin to describe to you how much I LOATHE this. It is, by far, some of the stupidest writing advice I have ever read. No, I don't care Stephen King supports this. Stephen King writes mostly horror and in horror you need to maintain suspense so short and to the point is definitely better and cutting adverbs is certainly a way to do that. However, I don't think this applies to all writing. I think this isn't really a genre thing as much as it is a specific case by case thing. And in most instances I think this advice is bullshit. Think about it. Language was created to allow us to express ourselves. Cut all adverbs out of it and that narrows down your way to express yourself. It's kinda like "Oh, hey, my leading hand serves more purpose. I should probably cut off the other one because it's not that effective." Congrats, you just crippled yourself. It's the same with language. Why would you deny yourself the help of an entire group of "tools" to express yourself? I just don't understand it. I suppose you've seen the posts going around about "good" and "bad" adverbs so I won't go into that as I agree that an adverb is a good idea when it adds some meaning to the word that wasn't there before (eg. "cried happily"). Sometimes it can actually make things faster to just "tell" them rather than show them through the context. I think adverbs are as neat as any other part of language and deserve their place in writing.

3. Write what you know

Yes, you should know what the hell you're writing about. Whether it was something that you were familiar with before you started writing or you did your research on the matter. I might be a little biased on this because I kinda hate doing research so I can be swayed towards write only what you are completely familiar with but that would just make things boring. So I think you can write about stuff that isn't quite your area of expertise as long as you put the effort to research it to the proper level depending on what you need it for. If it's more of a mention, you don't need that much knowledge about it but if you intend to make it the subject of your writing, please make sure you understand what you're going to be talking about in the entirety of your story. I am begging you because when you don't, we end up with stuff like 50 Shades of Grey (and I'm not just talking about the sex parts since this book is full of poorly researched stuff that, shockingly, ends up being unbelievable at best, potentially harmful at worst). However, I think that applies to a greater degree to published fiction rather than to fanfiction but let's not get into that debate since it's a completely different topic and I already veered off course.

4. Avoid repetition

This I mostly agree with but it depends on the purpose of the repetition. If it is done in order to establish a theme or motif or to emphasize a point (without overdoing it, of course), I fully support it. (I do that a lot in my personal writing and it shouldn't be that hard to find examples of it when looking at my fics ("What Is the One Thing That Can Never Break?" is the best example of this but I have done it countless times in most of my fics if not all of them since this is one of my fave techniques).) However, there is a thin line between establishing a theme and making dead herrings aka something that is brought up repeatedly without any point to it other than boosting the word count since it doesn't lead to anything and it was already discussed at a prior point (which I might have done a few times myself in some of my longest fics). If you're bringing another angle to an issue you've already looked at or are furthering the point, you should be fine but this is indeed a thin line to tread so it demands a bit of caution. I do believe repetition can be a valuable technique in specific circumstances, though, so it all depends on how it is used.

12 is already answered here

22. Do not use semicolons

My personal opinion on this isn't very applicable to anything else because I am not really quite sure how to properly use semicolons so I avoid them. I also don't really like them in other people's writings. I'm sure they have their uses but I think a lot of authors also overuse them to make those horrendously long sentences that I hate (but have started becoming guilty of as well even though I think that if you can't remember how the sentence started at the end of it, it is too long and needs to be split in some way). It is why I haven't bothered to learn how to operate them. XD But I think that my point about adverbs should be applied here as well. It is another tool you can use and I am sure it can be helpful. So I am not necessarily against it and wouldn't tell someone to stop using them. Only, maybe try using full stops as well? And I'll try to do the same because, like I said, I have started becoming guilty of paragraph long sentences as well. (Just to be clear, sometimes longer sentences are okay. But not when literally every sentence is over 150 words. You need to break them down, spice it up with shorter sentences thrown in the mix.) Also, I think this is an instance of the trap of "bigger is better" for a lot of writers except that here it is "longer is better". It really isn't. And I can tell you why. My scenes have started getting thousands of words long and if I were to write novel, I could hit 50k words with about ten scenes. Most novels are up to 120k words total. Those would be 24 scenes in my numbers but don't you feel like a novel will need more than 24 scenes? Consice writing is definitely a good idea and it is much harder to cut things rather than to add (at least for me). Fanfiction gives more room with the word count but I still think that it is important to be able to convey your point in as little words as possible. (Btw, this is a tangent but long sentences and semicolons appear a lot in academic writing and I hate it even more there because it makes it more incomprehensible than it needs to be (and in a lot of cases it already is written to be as incomprehensible as possible). Just... start another sentence, I am begging you. This one already is a page long, for the love of everything in the world.)

24. Don't edit as you write

A complicated one. Mostly because I have done this. I used to do it a few years back. I (mostly) don't do it anymore. I might stop to edit a typo or change a sentence that just doesn't read right but nothing bigger than that. And you should, arguably, not do that either. Why? Because you may end up deleting the entire paragraph, page, chapter and all that perfecting will have been for naught. It has happened to me when I spent a ton of time perfecting the first chapters of several of my works and some of them I will never finish while others actually need to start from a different point in time so the whole chapter needs to go. Along with all of my efforts. I would say this is mostly for longer and chaptered projects since the structure of a one shot (depending on the length) is easier to figure out and you probably won't need to rearrange parts of it. And if something is really poking your eyes out, you can fix it real quick. But once you have the whole thing, it will be easier to see what needs to stay, what needs to go and what needs to be changed. Sometimes the temptation is hard to resist and it's fine if you give in as long as you're doing it with the knowledge that "yes, this may be all for nothing but I can't look at it like that for another second". Sometimes I would say that you need to go back and see where everything derailed if you can't move on. There was good advice that if you're stuck, the problem is probably a few paragraphs before the point where you hit a wall and it has helped me get over a block a time or two. However, if you can move on without touching anything, you probably should. That can also save you from deleting something that is actually good. I have felt like the whole thing I was writing was terrible but holding back from deleting or even altering anything and, instead, giving it some time to breathe has saved a few fics along the way from being completely butchered. So I think this is, generally, good advice because of the reasons I listed but just like any other rule, it can be bent and broken. (I would say fixing typos is a form of bending it which I allow myself all the time. Spelling is just really important to me.)

36. Never use a verb other than 'said' to tag dialogue

I hate this specific phrasing of it a lot. Never start any rule with never. Of course, you need to use other verbs as well since they were created to express the wide range in which a person may speak their chosen words. My problem with this is the reason that is usually given for it and that is that it distracts the reader. It has never distracted ME. Not a single time. And while I agree that using said most of the time works since people usually speak in a calm, even, steady manner which to describe as simply "said" works well enough, I think that other dialogue tags have their places too. Because people don't always say things. Sometimes they scream them, sometimes they whisper them, sometimes they hiss them, sometimes they snap and so on. Here I think a better phrasing would be to use Syndrome's lesson again that "when everyone is super, no one will be". Dialogue tags different from said are supposed to direct your attention to the change in tone. They're supposed to stand out. If everything stands out, nothing will. (This philosophy is so applicable to so many things and I think we have to take a minute to appreciate how valuable the lesson of "The Incredibles" is.) So as with every other writing tool, if used accordingly, dialogue tags (all of them, not just "said") can only be of help and will not hinder you in any way. Just don't put more frosting on the cake than there is cake, you know?

37. Do not start a sentence with a conjunction

FUCK THIS RULE so much. This one you have to keep to only in academic writing. The moment you step through the threshold of creative writing this rule should be crushed under your soles. I often start sentences with "and" or "but" because I am looking to emphasize whether this sentence agrees with the previous one or not. Think about it. When you say "I liked him. But I didn't trust him.", it reads very different from "I liked him but I didn't trust him.". It focuses your attention on that contrast and makes you pay more attention to the objection to the first sentence that comes in the second. That can be incredibly valuable and help emphasize what you're saying in a more subtle way than repetition would. This is one of my favorite techniques of focusing the attention on where I want it to be and I will never give it up. Sue me if you want. And see if I care.

39. If there's a story you want to read but it hasn't been written yet, you must write it

Must is too strong a verb. You are not obliged to write anything. I couldn't possibly write everything I want to see written in a single lifetime. Calm down there. I think what people need to understand here is more that "if you want the story done the exact way that you would do it, you will have to do it yourself because no one else will do it the very same way". Doesn't mean that someone can't come close enough (I had that luck once) but it is unlikely that they'll do it in a way that you won't have any complaints about. So, really, "if you want something done right, do it yourself". But this can also mean "you have something fresh that the world needs because no one else has done it yet" (or at least not the same way you would do it). Which is cool but you really don't owe anyone anything. If that story is what you want to read and write (emphasis on that because writing is hard and takes a lot of energy, guys), then great! Go right ahead. But if you don't feel like doing that, you can leave it alone. Someone else might do it in time but with that we loop back to my previous point. I think that you should write whatever you want to write whether no one has written it before or it has been done hundreds and thousands of times.

42. Write your first draft by hand

Very mixed feelings here. I used to do that. The main reason for that is that I didn't trust myself to edit quite as sufficiently if I wrote it directly in a document as I would if I had to transcribe it from paper to the computer. For me personally, it is easier to change sentences when there is only blank space after that sentence since I don't have to worry whether the next sentence I have will still make sense once I'm done rewriting the current one. It was just easier to change things. A way to deal with that is to just press enter a few times before you start editing the sentence so that it looks like there is nothing after it and you're free to change it as you please. However, writing directly in a document is definitely faster and since I was having a lot of things to do in a limited time, I started doing that. It helped get over the fear of a blank page to a degree. It is faster. And I don't think I have noticed a change in the quality of my fics. Not a negative one at least. I just know that if I had had to write the 10k+-word ones by hand before typing them on the computer, I would've lost it. It would've taken way more time and patience than I was willing to give these ideas. Writing the words by hand sometimes helps me feel them better, though, (if that makes sense) and I wouldn't completely give up on it. I like to go with my intuition when deciding whether to write it by hand or type it directly in a document and it has worked out well enough for me so far.

[straycatwandering]

ATLA Fic: And I will show you the man

[stolethekey]

Hellohello I just read “it’s your love I’m lost in” and it was AMAZING. I absolutely loved it. idk if you take requests or not but if you do I’m begging you to write something abt Jake and Amy reuniting after the snap is reversed. It’s totally okay if you don’t want to, I just figured I would ask. Your writing is amazing and I hope you have a great day!!

hiiiiii wow thank you so much this is so nice i’m –

anyway this took SO long but i did write it finally so here u go

(also tagging @johnny-and-dora bc they also asked for it. hi friend hope this isn’t disappointing)

if ao3 is more your jam you can find this here!

and if you missed the first part you can find it on tumblr here or ao3 at the link above!!

-

Five years is a long time.

It is long enough for Amy to develop a rapport with her officers that is almost as familial as the one back with the Nine-Nine’s detectives. It is long enough for Cagney and Lacey Jeffords to complete middle school and start high school, and it is long enough for baby Ava to start fourth grade.

Five years is also not long enough.

It is long enough for Holt to hire a new assistant, but not long enough for the assistant’s desk to feel less empty. It is not long enough for Rosa to stop eating honorary takoyaki for lunch on the second Tuesday of every month, even as she gags while opening the bag.

It is not long enough for the precinct to heal.

The pain is duller now, and there is generally more laughter in the air, but there is still a palpable sense of grief and loss that underlies the daily hustle and bustle of the building.

It’s why Amy keeps a bag of sour candy in her office at all times – it’s why she sits through Die Hard every Christmas, even if she would rather be watching It’s a Wonderful Life. It’s why the ring on her left hand has not yet disappeared off her finger.

It’s also why she really, really, does not want to answer her phone on her day off.

The name Gary Jennings glares at her from her phone screen, and she groans as she reaches to grab it off the coffee table.

“Santiago.”

“Hi, Sarge, it’s me, Gary – “

“It’s my day off,” Amy grumbles, letting her copy of Pride and Prejudice fall into her lap. “Give me this one day of peace. Please.”

“I know, and I’m so sorry, but – “

“Is someone hurt? Someone dying?”

“Um, no, but – “

“Then find a way to deal with it,” she interrupts, trying vainly to keep the exasperation from entering her voice. “Please and thank you.”

She hangs up without listening to him apologize, and has barely returned to her book when her phone rings again.

“What?” She snaps, not bothering to look at the caller ID.

“Did you just hang up on Jennings?”

Amy sighs as Rosa’s gruff voice comes through the receiver. “Why, did something happen?”

“You could say that,” Rosa says, and something in her voice makes the hair on Amy’s neck stand up. “You should really get here. Now.”

Amy somewhat reluctantly slides her bookmark between the pages, stretching her legs before getting off the couch. “Okay. Give me twenty.”

She parks the car with a vague apprehension, and as the elevator doors ding open on the fourth floor, it takes her a few seconds to understand what is happening.

The bullpen is full, for starters – all of her uniformed officers are there, plus a bunch of people she doesn’t recognize, and as she takes a cautious step forward she notices the top of Rosa’s hair among the sea of people.

“Hey,” she yells over the noise, fighting her way through the crowd. “What’s going on?”

Rosa turns, her face sagging with relief at the sight of her. “Oh, good, you’re here. Come with me.”

Amy starts to say, “What – “ but before she can finish her sentence, Rosa’s hand is clamped around her wrist and she’s being dragged away from the bullpen and into the hallway.

“Where are we going?”

“Interrogation room.”

“But why – “

“You’ll see,” Rosa answers roughly as they come to a stop. “Ready?”

“For what?”

By way of answer, Rosa opens the door.

The first thing Amy sees is a wall of beige slamming into her. “Amy!”

She stumbles backwards, arms reflexively rising, but even as adrenaline rushes into her system she feels a chill run down her spine at the voice she has just heard. “Charles?”

“Yeah!” He says happily, releasing her. She sucks in a breath, trying to see if her ribs are broken. “I’m back, I missed you so much, even though I guess I didn’t even know I was gone – is it even possible to miss someone if you’re unconscious? I feel like it is – “

“Boyle,” a dry, lazy drawl says from behind him, “If you say one more word, I will find Thanos myself and ask him to snap us back into oblivion.”

A head full of mousy, brown hair pops up next to Charles, and Amy feels another shock run through her body. “G – Gina?”

“The one and only,” she says, grinning widely. “What up? I am now officially way younger than you – how does it feel to officially be a grandma?“

“I­­ – wait, does that mean – “

“Hi,” another voice says, soft and timid, and Amy’s heart stops in her chest.

Jake makes his way toward the door, his movements nervous and eyes almost shy, and Amy barely notices Rosa dragging Charles and Gina out the door behind her.

A sob makes its way up her throat as the door shuts quietly behind her. “This isn’t real.”

His lip twitches slightly, and he reaches hesitantly for her hand as she tries to remember how to breathe.

“It’s me,” he says softly. “I’m here.”

His hand touches hers, and in that achingly familiar touch, everything comes crashing down around her. She throws herself into him, burying her face in the shirt she thought she’d never see again, and as he wraps her in a tight hug all the grief from the past five years starts to pour out of her.  

“I’m sorry,” he says into her hair, his voice wavering slightly, “I’m so sorry, I can’t imagine – “

“Not your fault,” she mumbles, tightening her grip on his shirt. “Thanos is a dick.”

Jake laughs, watery and shaky but very much him, and the sound makes her heart soar.

“Never thought I’d hear that laugh again.”

He quiets at that, his hands stilling against her back.

“Ames, I – “

“It’s okay,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “It’s okay – “

“No, it’s not,” he says, his voice tight with pain. “I can’t imagine what a mess I’d be if it had been you instead. I just – five years. God.”

She clears her throat, holding desperately onto his shirt as if it may dissolve into ash at any moment. “How – do you know if this is permanent? I mean, are you – is this – “

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Holt said he’d brief us all later, but apparently they brought us back and then killed him, so there really isn’t – I mean, this is it.”

Amy lets out a shaky breath and nods, forcing herself to smile. “You did miss a lot,” she says, trying valiantly to lighten the mood. “My squad is so dope now, Rosa and her girlfriend showed up in matching outfits one day, and Holt and Kevin renewed their vows – “

“They did what?”

She grins. “Yeah, and I got to speak at the ceremony – “

“Oh, my God,” Jake says, looking genuinely offended, “I cannot believe my two dads held a vow renewal and my wife spoke and I wasn’t there. Tell them to do it again. They have to do it again, right? I’m, like, practically their son – “

“We can talk about it,” she laughs. “Later.”

His expression softens, and the longer she stares at him the more it starts to sink in.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Later.”

And there is so much to talk about, so much they need to talk about, but for the moment, none of that is important. Because their friends are waiting for them outside, together for the first time in five years, and there are drinks to drink and proper reunions to be had.

Time is a fickle, dangerous thing – Amy knows that now. But it is also the vessel through which one moves through the world, and as she walks out of the precinct, holding hands with someone she thought she’d never see again, she feels nothing but grateful.

They have lost more time than they can count, but they have, too, gained it back. And now – now, they have all of it they need.  

[hanalwayssolo]

Date and Time: Ch. 2

A/N: Second part of the commissioned piece for @valkyrieofardyn! 

Tagging some pals! @bleucommelhiver @raspberryandechinacea @blindedstarlight @hanatsuki89 @gowithme @emmydots @animakupo @lazarustrashpit @noboomoon

Link on AO3

A stifling heat slowly drags you awake. Eyes half shut, a jarring myriad of colours dance before you. A kaleidoscope of blue, green, yellow. Your surroundings unravel little by little: lush, massive trees, a vibrant foliage, the glade of sylleblossoms. The gentle breeze whistles past. A hush chorus of birdsong lifts through the air. Overhead, the canopy of leaves welcome a bright morning, basking the forest in glorious sunlight...

A shot of panic seizes you. You haul yourself up, but you stagger with a sudden, throbbing pain. You press a palm against your temple and you feel the bandage that has been wrapped around your head. Frantically, you survey the area—closely this time, despite the splitting headache—and you immediately snap into focus. Behind you, an extinguished bonfire rests in its ashes, and a cloth bag sits by the foot of a weeping willow tree. There is no one else around.

But all that aside, one thing remains clear as this bizarre, sunny day: This is definitely not the Lucis that you know of, nor is it anywhere close to the woodlands of Tenebrae, or even then remote jungles of Galahd. You have been almost everywhere, and considering your exceptionally clear memory, you know very well that the whole world has been plunged into darkness. There isn’t supposed to be sunlight, or any sort of light for that matter. And before you got knocked out of consciousness, if you take your exceptionally clear memory into account, the last thing you recall is a snap, and��

“Johanna!” you yell, and your voice echoes all throughout the meadow that you startle a flock of birds into a sudden flight. If this is all her doing, then gods have mercy on you for ever doubting (and possibly pissing off) a bloody Messenger, of all people. “Johanna, where are you—“

“If you are pertaining to Lady Johanna, Messenger of Bahamut, you will not find her here,” says a familiar voice—an all too familiar voice at that.

You turn, and your heart plummets at the sight of the man before you.

“Ardyn?” you say doubtfully to the man who is obviously Ardyn. Or at least, someone who uncannily looks just like him. It’s difficult to ascertain when this man of different hair and eye colour, of plain and pale clothing, carries a manner and bearing that is abysmally opposed to the Ardyn you have come to know. But there is no mistaking the sharp features of that face, the chiseled jaw, that gorgeous mouth—

“How do you know my name?” he asks curiously, his eyebrows furrowing in utter bewilderment. “When you fell from the sky, I can remember that we never had the chance for proper introductions—“

“I’m sorry—“ you raise one incredulous hand— “I fell from where?”

“The sky? Up there.” He points upward, as if unsure on how to tell you the most obvious of facts that the sky is blue, the sun is shining, and that the water is wet. Eerily enough, his tone is not of sarcasm nor condescension. It is simply voiced out of confusion, and a tinge of concern. As he makes his way over to you, he asks, “How are you feeling? I was worried that you might not wake up anytime soon. You have been unconscious for a day.”

Worried? You gape at him—for the genuinely worried expression that mellowed his face, or for the fact that you have been knocked out cold for one whole day, you cannot entirely decide. “You can’t be fucking serious,” you say under your breath.

He looks at you strangely, purses his lip as if to consider your choice of words. “I’m afraid I am, uh, rather serious.” He clears his throat, reaches for your head but hesitates. “I have gathered herbs to help soothe the wound on your forehead. May I?” he asks.

You are uncertain on what to say—there are so many questions racing in your mind at an alarming speed, a series of where am I? What year is it even? Why am I here? all at once—that you stare at him for a painful second. And then another more.

Instead, your only meaningful response is a weak nod.

Ardyn ushers you underneath the willow tree, beckons for you to sit. “So, what business do you have with Lady Johanna?” Suddenly, the expression on his face is mired with a grave worry. “Please do not tell me you have offended her. She is not the type to be trifled lightly—“

“No, it’s nothing like that!” you say, way too defensively that Ardyn might have been convinced otherwise. “It’s… well. She’s the one who brought me here. I think. And she’s the only one who can explain what’s going on, why I’m here, and what I have to—“

You abruptly cut yourself off, sparing Ardyn a cautious glance. Of course. He is the reason why you are here. The only problem now is, Johanna failed to brief you with the instructions. She did not even give you a clue on what you are supposed to do.

Ardyn hums pensively. “Well, she is back in the Capital. From here, the journey will take a fortnight by foot. Less than a week by chocobo.”

“And by here, you mean where exactly?”

“Duskendale Forest. South of Lestall.”

Your eyes widen. The bare mention of the name Lestall—Lestallum’s name in its nascent years—is enough for you to confirm that this place is somewhere out of your own time. He must have sensed your shock and unease that he says, “I know it’s a lot to take in, to be a stranger in a foreign place—but please, allow me to tend to your wounds.”

You say nothing. He begins to grind leaves in a wooden bowl as he goes on to tell you the circumstances that brought you here: how a flash of light brought you falling right in his camp, and how relieved he was when he checked your pulse. His voice, though it is as you remember it to be, is far gentler, far kinder. A solemn silence rests as you watch him prepare his balms. The smell of oil and lavender hangs rich and fragrant. It is unsettling to see this version of Ardyn who is neither a stranger nor an enemy, neither a friend nor a lover.

A whiff of herbs linger as Ardyn leans over to you to unwrap your bandages. His sudden proximity makes you flinch, if only a little. If he even noticed it, he is kind enough not to say a word. With him this close, almost a breath away, you cannot help but look at the deep blue of his eyes—a jarring sight to behold when amber is the colour you have grown to love on him. He spreads the salve over your forehead with a light and careful hand, and you try your best not to stare at his face too much. And also his mouth. Especially his mouth. Gods. It goes without saying that you are failing this effort quite miserably when Ardyn catches your watchful gaze.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly. “Um—” you look away, training your eyes at the palm of your hands— “it’s, well… you remind me of someone I know.”

Ardyn only nods, his lips curving into a small smile. He begins to wrap a fresh strip of cloth around your head. Determined to change the subject, you bring yourself to ask, “So, how do you, um—how come you know how to do these things?”

“I was taught by good friends of mine,” he says. This time, a wide smile spreads across his face. “Troublesome pair of siblings, I should say, but they are quite generous to put up with me nonetheless.” He tucks the hem snugly under the wrap. “There, all done.”

“Thank you,” you say. Ardyn holds out his hand and helps you up. “So—“ you slightly fiddle with the bandage— “you don’t suppose you could accompany me to see Johanna? To this Capital you speak of?”

Something in the expression of his face turns cold and distant. “Do forgive me, but I fear that I won’t be much of help,” he says, avoiding your gaze. “There is somewhere else I need to be, a settlement up north that requires my aid.”

“Oh. Okay.” Your attempt not to seem disappointed is betrayed by the drop of your voice. Good thing that you are never the type to be disheartened so easily that you boldly suggest, “Then surely we can go to the Capital after that?”

“We?” Ardyn lifts a curious brow. “You intend to join me in my travels?”

“Yes. Why ever not?”

“I am loath to put you in danger.”

“I’m used to danger, and I can protect myself just fine.”

“It may not seem like it, but the road ahead does not take kindly to strangers.”

“And I may not seem like it but I mean it when I say I can protect myself just fine,” you repeatedly insist. “I see that you are trying to persuade me from accompanying you.”

“And I see that it is clearly not working.” Ardyn sighs in resignation. “Are you always this difficult?”

Not as difficult as you. You shrug off the sudden pang of an endearing memory you thought you have forgotten. “I’d say I’m persistent,” you say evenly. “Look—” you rest your hands on your waist, firmly holding Ardyn’s gaze— “right now, I don’t know my way around here, and you are the only one who can bring me to Johanna. I don’t mind sticking around to see your business, if I have to. Just… please. I need your help.”

Ardyn considers you for a thoughtful moment. “Very well.” A kind smile graces his face. “But before anything else, you know of my name and yet I do not know yours.”

Against your mindless hesitation, you tell him. He repeats. To hear him say your name after such a long and grueling time, you might as well consider this a homecoming. A bittersweet return from exile. He never shies away from calling you by your name all throughout the tiresome journey, even as he asks you many other things: how you learned how to fight, who taught you how to pick up a sword, what meal you like best. You oblige him with answers. You share him tidbits of your life, and he shares his. The open road and the campfire bear witness to what has been said, a faithful audience to an unlikely companionship between a stranger and a healer. But the one thing he does not ask you is where you came from, or how you know of his name in the first place. You do not tell him. You choose not to. Not when it pains you to even try.

In the weeks that followed, you are no longer a stranger to Ardyn’s healing miracles.

The first time you witnessed it, you were just as skeptical as any scholarly scientist in Gralea. It is hard to believe that any man could relieve anyone’s illness with a single touch, let alone the lethal plague everyone calls the scourge. From one settlement to another, you have seen its fatalities. You have seen the ghastly faces of countless innocent men and women, young and elderly, who have been suffering from it. Those who have succumbed all faced the same fate of being turned into monsters. Daemons.

But Ardyn, no matter how hapless the situation, attends to the needs of the afflicted. The ground does not tremble in his footsteps, nor does the sky thunder when he speaks. There is no spell nor spectacle. But one touch from him commands the sick to be well from the scourge’s curse.

Still, even after all is said and done, Ardyn chooses to do more. He does not rest. He knocks on every door, listens to every cry for help. He cares for people with the same utmost tenderness of a mother who nurses her child: gentle and patient, wielding a quiet and an unearthly compassion. You have taken it upon yourself to learn his way of crafting potions just so you could extend a helping hand to ease his burdens.

“I was supposed to be the one helping you, and now you are helping me,” Ardyn had said, when he first taught you how to brew the plants he had gathered from a nearby forest.

“It is the least I could do,” you had replied. “You are doing so much, and you’re only one man.”

Which is true. Too painfully true at that. He is only but one man, and he has chosen to bear this beast of a burden all by himself. He is used to doing things on his own. He offers everything he has to the people in need of him without expecting anything in return.

And so it brings you to wonder how this Ardyn before you—a simple man of noble solicitude, who cares deeply, who loves and loves and loves to the point of his own ruin—could be the same vengeful person you saw that day sitting on the throne, seething in fury, wrathful in his spite towards his brother, his family, the rest of the world. My brother wanted me to be the villain, then the villain I have become, he had said. You wonder why this once kind and selfless healer chose to ferment his anger and make himself a monster. Hate is a strong word, but it is the only strength I have left, he had spat out. You wonder how one so blessed and sanctified could ever stumble to be so condemned and vilified. A saint turned sinner.

Perhaps good men—even the best of men, the most honourable of them—are still just men. Still just human, in no way different from the rest of us. We may hold them at a pedestal, but they tiptoe on its edge. One false step is their fall from grace.

And how painful must it be to be so human, to be so fragile, in the face of such a godly burden.

In the small town of Steyliff, a few ways south of the massive ruins in the grove, more laborious days drifted. Ardyn never tires from reaching out to the villagers, and you support him in any way you can. This time around, he does not hesitate to accept your help. He lets you. While you hunt, he heals. The roots and herbs he forages, you prepare them for food and potions. No menial task is left undone. The town chief is generous enough to spare one of their stone huts, even if it is only at night that the two of you ever find a moment’s respite.

“About our journey to the Capital,” Ardyn begins to say one particular evening, firewood still in hand, “I’m afraid I can only accompany you as far as the outskirts of the city.” You immediately notice the tactfulness of his voice, the careful choice of words.

You look at him curiously, shifting a little in your seat. A cold breeze flutters from the window. The aroma of basil and Valerian root on the table wafts in your midst. “Okay. But may I ask why?”

He hesitates. You can see it in his eyes, even from the sickly glow of the lamplights that hung in the wooden ceiling, that he is slowly shaping his response. “It has been quite some time since I have returned to the city,” he says. He turns away, unloading the wood by the hearth. The fire crackles.

You swivel to face him. You might be inclined to believe that you have lost all form of prudence when you hear yourself say: “This is about your family, isn’t it? About your brother?”

The way Ardyn stiffens at the mention of it delivers a pang of guilt in your chest. “Indeed, it is,” he says, after a doleful pause. He takes the empty seat beside you, folds his hand over the table. A pensive look has settled on his face.

“Look, I know it’s not my business to be involved with your family affairs,” you say, “but can’t you talk this through? You are brothers—bound by blood before anything else.”

“I know,” Ardyn says solemnly. “See, back when we were children that’s what we always cared about. Being together. When we first learned how to wield a sword, we vowed our blades to protect each other. To protect our family, to protect our people. Somnus proved to be much better than I was, but I didn’t mind. I was proud of him. Always was.” He pauses, and a sad smile passes over his face. “And yet, here we are. Separated by our differences that have been far greater than we had expected—“

“And that’s why you both need to talk,” you say firmly. “Don’t you think it would be infinitely better if you both focus on the things that bring you together than what sets you apart? From what I can see, you both want the best for your people. Imagine the things you could both do, the lives you could change.”

Ardyn looks at you with a curious expression on your face. He says nothing, and dwells on a brief pause. Then, he says, “You always make a fine point.”

“I know.” You smile giddily at him. “So, is that a yes?”

“Yes to what?”

“Going to the Capital. Talking to your brother. And by talking, I mean with words and not with swords.”

“I’ll consider,” he hums, and you swat his arm. He laughs as he nods and says, “Alright, I promise.”

“Good,” you beam triumphantly.

“Anyway, I’ve been meaning to ask…” Ardyn trails off, heaves a nervous breath before he continues, “You seem to know me well, even in the short weeks we have been together. Back in Myrl, I was actually surprised that you know what kind of wine I would like. It’s the little things, but seems to me you know me more than anyone I know.” He fixes his eyes on you, firm and curious. “Am I right to assume that you are not from this time?”

The smile on your face falters. You say nothing. He waits for you to answer, yet you dither with the heavy silence.

When you fail to speak, he does on your behalf. “Are we… are we ever acquainted? In your time?”

The sigh that leaves you aches with longing. “Acquainted is an understatement,” you mutter. You cannot bring yourself to look at him, fearing he would see right through you, just like he always does.

The hearth hisses. The silence is more brooding than the last. Then, he asks, “Was I good… at least, to you? I mean, this version of me that you know.”

You steel yourself to face him. “That version of you has been a friend to me when I had no one else. He’s not an easy man, I should say. You’re not an easy man.” You crack a small laughter, but the sound of your voice teeters on the edge of tears. “But still, even at his worst, I… I—”

“You loved me.”

The manner in which he says me and the certainty in his voice only invites more reason for you to cry. Still, you force yourself to smile as you say, “I did. In fact, I still do.”

Ardyn does not permit another silence to stretch into a moment. He crosses the breathing space between the two of you, sealing his mouth on yours.

In the small town of Steyliff, Ardyn cherishes the sweeter days that meandered with you by his side.

At night, he delights crossing the hollows of your skin, feeling the warmth where his limbs tangled with yours. More often than not, for some reason, he would stay up and wait for you to lull into sleep. He does not know why, but he likes watching your face soften in the moonlight, listening to the quiet hum of your breathing. But out of all these things, Ardyn takes pleasure when you invite him to play this little game you seem to have invented for your own amusement. Let’s plant kisses on our favourite parts, you would tell him, as if the two of you are voyagers weary and exhausted out at sea, finally finding land for the first time, keen and wanting to mark territories on each other’s bodies. His hands, arms, knees—all yours. Your lips, neck, thighs—all his.

Even if he closed his eyes, Ardyn no longer remembers what it was like to live without you. Your body is now his holy ground, and his is nothing but a fervent worshiper, only for you. Down on his knees, his head between your legs, is how he prays for the sound of his name on your lips. Your pleasure is his scripture. Let this be his gospel. Your mewling praise is the only one that matters. Not once did he ever consider himself being a holy man—not pious, not a devout, not at all righteous—but with you he finally understands why sacrifices are made at the altar, why crusaders march for faith, why people cling their lives onto religion. It is all for this. It is all for love.

One terribly sunny morning, as you return to Steyliff from a hunt, you are welcomed by the sight of Ardyn, who appears to be in a serious discussion with the town chief and a familiar woman.

The woman is not exactly familiar, so to speak. The woman happens to have an uncanny resemblance to Lady Lunafreya, but with much shorter hair and a certain lightheartedness in her bearing. You would have loved to introduce yourself, but when you overhear her referring to Ardyn as her fiancé, you feel as if the world has stopped spinning on its axis.

“There she is,” the town chief calls out for you, and both Ardyn and the woman turn to your direction. Ardyn does not say a word, but the look on his face is just as inexpressibly dumbstruck as yours.

You give them a short and brief bow before you wordlessly take your leave, walking back to the hut with startling haste. You can feel your heart violently hammering against your chest, your breaths growing more and more uneven. You want to cry, but you could not bring yourself to do it. Instead, you sweep Ardyn’s vials of potions sitting on the table, shattering every fucking bottle you can possibly find. The rage is frothing at the tip of your tongue. Your hands tremble with the urge to destroy. You would have broken every single hard work you have done if Ardyn had not interrupted your catastrophic breaking spree.

“Stop—“ Ardyn grabs you, his one arm on your wrist and the other around your waist— “please, I can explain—“

“Explain what exactly?” You shove him aside, your voice is as scathing as a newly whetted blade. The sound of a departing carriage occupies the silence. “Ardyn, you had all these months—all this fucking time, gods be good—to tell me that you are engaged to be married. Fucking hell—“ you draw an exasperated breath, squeezing your eyes shut— “I have always assumed that you were a jackass in your past life, and I shouldn’t have been surprised to find out it’s fucking true—“

“I am so sorry, I really am, but please—“ Ardyn raises his voice, pleading, begging— “if you can just listen to me—I’ve been meaning to tell you about Aera, but—“

“But what?” You jab a finger on his chest, seething. “You needed a good fuck, huh? Test the waters whether you’re sure she’s the right one? So what, everytime you kissed me, were you thinking of her? When you’re inside me, were you imagining her—”

“Do not dare say that,” Ardyn says, his voice surprisingly grittier, sharper. He takes you in his arms, wrapping you in a firm embrace. “I love Aera, yes, that much is true. But not in the way you think. Not in the way that I love you. Because you—“ his breath cracks, his lips now quivering with every word— “I will move heaven and earth if that’s what it takes for you to believe me that I only want to be yours.”

Truth be told, the thing you really want say next is, Let go of me. I’m tired of getting hurt by you. This is not going to last. This is the most logical thing you could ever grant yourself, for both of your sakes.

But love knows no logic. Love traps the words in your mouth because love knows that what you wanted to say may be logical, but that is not the truth. Because the truth will always be this: you do not want to let go of him. You would rather be hurt by him than anyone else. You know that this time with him is not going to last, but you’re sure as hell going to make it count.

So in your silence, he crushes his lips with yours. You let him. You kiss him deeper, your hands weaving through his hair. He moves you to the bed, peels you off your clothes, his kisses arriving in a boatload to the shores of your skin, returning home to his favourite parts. Lips, neck, thighs—all his and only his.

To hell with the saints. To hell with the martyrs. If this love is this sinful, you are willing to suffer for it until it nearly kills you.

“Do you still intend to go to the Capital?” Ardyn asks as you rest your head on his chest, your body pressing closer to his. He knows as much as you do what the trip to the Capital means, and there is a silent plea in his voice that seems to beg, Please stay. Just a little while. Just a little longer.

“I have to,” is what you force yourself to say. “And you have to. You told me you are going to speak to your brother.”

“I don’t remember saying something—“

You playfully poke his chest. “Ardyn, you promised.”

He laughs. “Very well,” he says finally. He presses a kiss on your forehead. “We leave on the morrow, my love.”

Ardyn keeps his word and accompanies you to the Capital. A long journey, to be sure—more than just a fortnight, opting to take pit stops in between to rest, or most often, to make sweet love underneath the night sky wild with stars—but you both gladly make it in the metropolis in one piece. He takes you past the main thoroughfare, and into the grandness that is the Caelum Manor.

“Holy fuck, this is where you live?” You let the image before you sink in: a massive iron gate, a sylleblossom field for a front lawn, bleach white columns, the ivory walls. You suddenly wonder where all of this has ended up in the present time, but you decide against dwelling on the miserable thought.

“Well, I used to,” he says, visibly amused by your surprise. “Come—“ with a smile on his face, he takes your hand, laces his fingers with yours— “Lady Johanna usually stays in the west wing.”

He walks you through the great halls, and he leads you inside a large chamber teeming with bookshelves that could only be the manor’s library. In the midst of the rows of oaken desks and the glorious scent of old books and parchment, there in the middle of this grandness is an old woman with the distinctly silver hair and elegant face that could be no other than Johanna. She first appears to be busily leafing through the pages of a thick volume, with Aera closely behind her, keenly observing, lips pressed into clinical concentration.

The moment you and Ardyn walk into the room, their attention is immediately drawn to the two of you.

“Finally!” Aera excitedly runs toward Ardyn, throwing her arms around him and pressing a kiss on his cheek. Your hands unknowingly tighten around the hem of your shirt.

Meanwhile, Johanna warmly welcomes Ardyn with an embrace. “You have been gone for far too long,” she tells him as Ardyn slightly lowers himself just for Johanna to cup his face in the palm of her hands. “Oh, my dear boy. You have grown more mature, I see.”

“I apologize for worrying you, my lady,” Ardyn says, pressing a kiss on her forehead. “If I may, Lady Johanna, I brought someone who is keen to meet you—“ he turns, and he smiles at you. He takes your hand again in his as he introduces you to Johanna and Aera. His fiancée.

As courtesies and pleasantries are exchanged, Johanna does not seem to bear any recollection of you. If she feigns indifference, she expertly keeps her expression stern and neutral, not a single hint betraying the lines under her sharp blue eyes. Meanwhile, in Aera, you see no signs of contempt. You wish there was. If she hides any ill-advised feelings against you, she is entitled to it—but it irks you that she hides it well. Woman to woman, you know that she knows. One furtive and knowing glance is enough.

Johanna reaches for your arm, ushers you by her side. “The journey must have exhausted you, child,” she tells you kindly, a more gentler expression easing on her face.

“It’s quite alright,” you say, smiling sheepishly. “There is a matter of urgency in the subject that I wish to speak with you. I came here as soon as I am able.”

Johanna nods pensively. “I suppose you may leave us now,” she tells Ardyn. “Us women have a lot to catch up on.”

“Understood.” Ardyn smiles, offers a short bow. A vague uneasiness stirs. He does not know that he is about to leave you in a den of lionesses, but you do.

“And please, meet with Somnus,” Johanna urges sharply. “He is at the pavilion with Gilgamesh and Circe. Your willful brother is up to something and I do not like it. Talk some sense to him, I beg you.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Ardyn says, before he shuts the door, leaving behind the echo of a soft, hushed click.

Johanna and Aera leads you to a small round table. “We have been expecting you,” Johanna says. “Please, do be seated—“

“I think I’ll prefer standing, if you don’t mind,” you say, almost too curtly.

Johanna and Aera trade glances. “We are not enemies, I can assure you,” Aera says with a kind smile. She walks over to you in graceful strides. She is so beautiful you can hardly stomach it. “And I believe we have met, yes? Back in Steyliff?”

“Yes.” You purse your lip, gathering every effort to maintain your tact. “I… I must apologize if I have left without properly introducing myself.”

“That’s quite alright.” Aera nods agreeably. “You know, I have seen your face in my visions. I did not expect that it will be through Ardyn that we will be finally meeting.”

It is impossible to tell with Aera’s mild manner if there is a knife well-hidden in the way she mentions Ardyn’s name. If there is, she has earned every right to wield it.

“You seem to be taking this all too well,” you hear yourself say too pointedly. Perhaps it is you who is wielding a blade after all.

Aera nods, a private gesture, as if in confirmation. “You are far too kind to consider me so,” she says. “But it is rather difficult, as it is for you. Here we both are, in love with the same man, desperate to save him from such a cruel fate. And I love him. And I know that he loves me.” Now, that is a knife in plain sight. “But you… the love he has for you is something else entirely. And between the two of us, it seems that you are the only one who is truly able to free him from the curse that awaits him.”

Setting aside Aera’s candid frankness, it did not take long for the realization to dawn on you. “So you know.” You look at Aera, then at Johanna. “You both know.”

A tensed silence drifts, one that is swiftly broken when Johanna begins to speak. “I must confess, I have seen many iterations of what the future holds.” A solemn expression has graced her face. “Quite frankly, I am strictly forbidden to speak of it, let alone to exercise my own accord to bend the universe to change the course of time. It is the will of the Draconian. I am to do nothing until I am to do what I was told. That is my calling as his Messenger.

“But as a Messenger, it is also my calling to guide and protect. To offer my counsel, to be the bridge between gods and men. We tiptoe in a never-ending paradox, but it is the very nature to which my brethren and I are created. And throughout these endless years of mine, to have been tasked to protect this royal line of kings and queens have been both my greatest joy and sorrow.” The solemnity of her face drifts into a wistful smile. “See, I am no mother, but Ardyn and Somnus—bless those precious boys, though men grown they may have become—are the closest I have to sons. I never wished for them to have gone down the path of ruin, the one you have seen in your lifetime.

“And seeing you here… Long have I waited for this day.” She rests her hands on your shoulders. “I have gambled and risked all that I am to bring you here, and forgive me for doing it in such a fashion, for keeping you in the dark. I had to.”

You tilt your head. “What do you mean exactly?” Out of the corner of your eye, you see Aera’s face shift to a more grave expression.

“Had I told you what was in store,” Johanna says, “you would have hesitated. You would not have done what you did today, persuading Ardyn to return here with you.” She holds your hand, firmer this time. “But I must tell you the truth, for you deserve nothing less: I know you are hoping for me to bring you back to your time, but I’m afraid I cannot do so. You being here is a ripple and crease, one that affects your existence and mine. Which means—“

“I will cease to exist.” The finality of your words barely scratch the surface of the hollow feeling that suddenly gutted you.

“And so will I,” says Johanna. “I will face judgment of my lord father soon. But that does not matter to me. I am prepared to face his wrath. I do not regret any of the things I have done. I could only hope you can forgive me, in another lifetime at the very least.”

You nod, staring vacantly at Johanna, then Aera. Perhaps you have known this all along. How it all makes sense. How things like these always come with its consequences. Frankly, against all your fears, you have been willing to pay the price of it all along.

Love really does make the smartest of men the dumbest of fools.

Though the shock is numbing, the one thing that you manage to ask is: “But Ardyn… will he be fine?”

“Yes.” Johanna smiles. “He will be. They both will be.”

“Then I suppose that is good enough for me,” you say, your voice nothing but resolute.

Ardyn looks out the window of his bedchamber, struggling to admire the Capital in its prosperous glory. It has been ten years since the steady rise of the city to become the melting pot of commercial affairs, and the crown on his head weighs heavier in each passing moment. The bustling plaza, the marketplace, statues and monuments of marble and gold, the pristine shrines and temples all seem to fall in lackluster before his very eyes.

In the midst of his ruminations, Somnus makes his approach, quiet and wary. But Ardyn is aware of his brother’s presence, stealthy as he may claim himself to be.

“Have you ever been in love, brother?” Ardyn suddenly asks out of nowhere. He does not turn. His gaze is still fixed on the thoroughfare.

“Now that is an interesting way to say hello, Your Majesty,” Somnus says, his voice clear with sheer amusement. “Now, where is that question coming from?”

“Simply out of curiosity,” says Ardyn. He faces Somnus, and he is greeted by that snarky smile of his.

“Well, it’s been a long time since my elder brother has been keen to know my state of personal affairs,” Somnus says dryly, taking a seat on the velvet couch by the bed. “But this isn’t about me. So, how’s Aera? Heard from the attendants about the morning sickness.”

“She’s doing well, in spite of it all,” says Ardyn so simply. A strange silence rests. Somnus regards Ardyn with a painfully knowing smile.

“You still think about her, don’t you?” Somnus asks. His face has turned more concerned, more solemn.

Ardyn avoids his brother’s burning gaze. The memory of you disappearing without a trace is a bright specter that still demands to be felt, even after all this time. And as if by some cruel jape, a whiff of lavender and earth drifts through the window, that he is suddenly taken aback on those nights in Steyliff, your face, your smile. Something in him aches, painfully and brutally so.

And so Ardyn does not look at his brother. He chooses to fix his eyes out the window. “Not a day goes by that I don’t,” he tells Somnus. “And I suppose it is her that I will ever think about for the rest of my days.”