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colehasapen · 5 years ago

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(CHAPTER 5) there's a river full of memory STAR WARS

First // Previous

Time Travel.

Theoretically, Obi-Wan had known it was possible; that in the Force time and space didn’t exist as he knew it. The Force is in everything, no matter the time or place, and could thus be anywhere. Through the Force, they could see the past, the present, and the future, so who was to say that they couldn’t also touch those times? Why wouldn’t they be able to interact with a time different than their own?

He knew it could be possible, but a part of him hadn’t ever believed that he would be the one to be thrown into the future. He’s just an Initiate - and Initiate that flunked out at that, who had been sent away before his thirteenth birthday because it was just that obvious to the masters that he didn’t have what it took to be a Jedi. He had gotten himself caught and sold into slavery, and he’d thought that he was going to die down in that mine. He thought he would die in the dark, with a bomb collar heavy around his neck, but instead he had been thrown twenty five years into the future, surrounded by dozens of identical faces that each had a different signature in the Force; signatures that also have familiar imprints on their souls. Every single trooper - cloned soldiers serving the Republic in a war against droids, with Jedi as their Generals; it horrifies Obi-Wan - they’re all saturated with Obi-Wan’s own Force signature.

Some, like Commander Cody, more so than others. They all know Obi-Wan, they all care for him, and he can’t understand how, or what happened to put him here of all places, when the masters had all come to the conclusion that Obi-Wan was so ill-suited to the life of a Jedi that they hadn’t even consulted him over his placement into the corps. The clones are all so bright in the Force, their emotions warm, and it chases away the chill of the Darkside that has settled into Obi-Wan’s bones. They’re angry too, aggressive and grieving, but somehow they stay Light, it makes him wonder if he could be the same.

Then the Darkness had returned, an open wound in the Force that cried of slaughtered innocents and hatred, and Obi-Wan, scared and remembering Xanatos, had fled. He’d climbed into the vent, and tried to get as far away as possible, mind a foggy mess of panic, and he’d found himself heading towards the Lightest part of the ship. It’s a bedroom, filled with small plants, datapads, and the smell of tea, with armour racks in the corner and cloaks scattered around like blankets. There was so much love pressed into every crevice of the quarters.

It was there, surrounded by Light and Love, that Commander Cody had found him. He’d been curled up under a heavy Master’s cloak that had his own signature woven into the wool. Commander Cody, who’s own signature was imprinted into the room just as heavily as his own.

He would mean something to Obi-Wan, something important and loving and warm, in the future. Him and someone else. Obi-Wan’s future self had loved them, he had loved them so much that Obi-Wan doesn’t know what to do with himself - Force, no wonder Commander Cody had flinched the first time Obi-Wan had reached out to him, leaking pain into the Force. Their love for him too, it all saturated every molecule of the room. Commander Cody, who Obi-Wan’s future self loved and trusted, is the one to find him, to coax him out and into his arms, and Obi-Wan had gone willingly. He thinks he can understand why his future self loved him so much; his warmth sinks into his bones. Cody was good at chasing away the cold.

Obi-Wan had curled up against Commander Cody’s chest as he’d promised that he was safe. He had soaked up his Light until he started feeling like himself again and couldn’t feel the Dark anymore, and he wished he had known Cody before. What could his life been like if he had known Cody when they were both children?

And then the Force had exploded around him in a blinding swirl of colours and emotions, and he’d barely been able to hear Cody’s voice.

Now, Obi-Wan sits in the infirmary once more, the cloak still held in his hands, but this time there’s another small shape tucked into his side, and Pace and Patchwork flutter around them, their eyes drilling into them. Shock is heavy in the air, but Obi-Wan’s attention is solely on the younger boy curled into his side and watching the room with suspicious eyes.

It’s Cody - or at least it was Cody.

Was going to be Cody?

Force, this is all so confusing.

He’s smaller than Obi-Wan now, younger too, with chubby round cheeks unmarked by the curving scar that Commander Cody had once worn. His hair is lighter too, fluffy and dark brown instead of the carefully controlled black haircut Obi-Wan had grown used to, but he still finds himself absently petting at the curls as Cody’s unease continues to grow the longer he’s in this strange place. Cody had decided that Obi-Wan was the safest thing in the room, and had tucked himself under future-Obi-Wan’s robe with him, curling one hand in Obi-Wan’s borrowed shirt.

“It’s okay, Cody.” Obi-Wan soothes, reaching out with the Force to brush against Cody’s mind like he would his crechemates after a bad dream, and the smaller boy seems to sink further against him. It’s easy for Obi-Wan to fall back on these instincts he'd developed as one of the older Initiates in his Clan. “Pace and Patch won’t hurt you.”

Cody scowls at the two medics, dark eyes nervous like a skittish Tooku kit, “But they’re not my medic.” The younger boy says pointedly, distress ballooning in his signature once more. “I want Baar - he’s mine. Alpha says I can trust him.”

Obi-Wan doesn't know either of those people, but he gets a flash of a memory from the other boy, of another clone’s voice telling him that ‘Baar will keep his mouth shut, Kote, you can trust him’.

“What’s the last thing you remember, cadet?” Pace asks, carefully out of range of any attack Cody might throw at him, and Obi-Wan doesn’t really blame him, not after Cody had panicked the first time Patchwork had approached him and had kicked the medic hard enough to break his nose.

Cody is quiet for a long moment, Force signature rolling with fear, and one quivering hand wraps around Obi-Wan’s own like a lifeline. Obi-Wan gets a sudden overwhelming feeling of I’msorry/forgiveme/fear/fear/fear/Ihatethem before Cody speaks, voice dull. “Something went wrong, didn’t it?” He asks quietly, words deadened and eyes flat. “I wasn’t supposed to remember. No one does.” He shakes against Obi-Wan’s side, and the young redhead squeezes his small but callused hand in his own. The two medics have gone quiet and still, and Obi-Wan can feel their muffled horror in the Force around them. “I was in the labs-”

Obi-Wan stiffens, head swinging towards the door, fear rising up again.

He made a mistake; so distracted by Cody, he had forgotten about the Dark wound in the Force that was on board the ship. He’d forgotten, and now everyone is in danger, because of him.

Master Jinn was right, Obi-Wan is a terrible Jedi.

Cody’s voice cuts off as Obi-Wan shifts, pushing the younger boy behind him. The former Jedi stares at the door, wishing desperately that he had a weapon he could defend his new friend with, but his training saber had been left behind at the Temple, his kyber crystal as well. He doesn’t want to see anyone hurt by a Darksider again, not if he could stop it. He had seen all those enslaved people on Bandomeer, he had seen the pain Darksiders could cause; he didn't want anyone to get hurt, not Cody, not Pace, not Patchwork. No one on this ship. He’s not a Jedi, he never will be, but that doesn’t mean that he won’t defend innocents from suffering.

He’d die to protect them if he has to.

“Obi-Wan?” Pace probes, signature worried, but Obi-Wan doesn’t tear his eyes off the door, gathering the Force around him, ready to fight if he needs to.

“Get away from the door.” He says sharply, and the two medics instinctively obey, stepping back and positioning themselves between the younglings and the only way in or out of the private medical room. He pushes Cody further behind him, shifting into a crouch, feeling the Dark signature moving closer and closer.

The door opens, and Obi-Wan falters slightly when it’s Waxer who steps through, his kind eyes dark with worry and honing in on Obi-Wan and Cody immediately. Pace and Patchwork are relaxing, but Obi-Wan’s eyes are sliding past the familiar clone, to land on the darkly clad figure at his shoulder.

Heart hammering in his chest, Obi-Wan can only stare in horror as the cause of the cold Darkness steps into the room.

Taglist: @a-mediocre-succulent @yellowisharo

#cole writes #swtcw fanfiction #codywan #obi wan kenobi #commander cody #memory verse #time travel #de aging

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 5 years ago

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But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 9: Follow The Rules]

Hi y’all, I hope you are all doing well 💜

Chapter summary: Veronica has some questions, Roger has a plan, John has a short temper.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, medical stuff, pregnancy.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @killer-queen-xo @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @bookandband @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk @herewegoagainniall @stardust-killer-queen

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

At the wedding, Roger is wearing a cast on his right arm and a dazzling smile...and a white suit that he looks criminally good in.

John is in black, Brian in blue, Freddie in maroon-colored velvet and heavy eyeliner. Veronica’s dress is high-waisted and falls in huge, billowing, shapeless ruffles to hide her silhouette. Her family knows, of course—it’s written all over the tense, grim lines of their mouths and the blades their pale eyes hurl at John—but none of those strict Catholics are going to mention an out-of-wedlock pregnancy in God’s house, nor at the modest reception in the church basement that follows the ceremony.

Veronica’s mother and aunts and sisters are just like her, docile and milky-skinned and small-boned, and you’ve helped them deck the vast room with enough flowers, ribbons, candles, and balloons to make everyone forget this event was thrown together in five weeks and on a shoestring budget. There’s a simple buffet with pot roast and potatoes and vegetables, a live band (some of John’s old friends from high school), and a homemade Polish honey cake baked by Veronica’s grandmother situated regally on a china serving dish. Veronica and John cycle through the tables of guests, smiling and nodding and thanking them for coming, dutifully and yet also seemingly genuinely cheerful.

“The boning is bloody impaling me,” Chrissie murmurs as she tugs at the bodice of her gown. It’s satin and a muted pink, just like yours and Mary’s and Veronica’s sisters’. “If I happen die, wrap me in one of those nice tablecloths I paid for and throw me in a ditch somewhere, will you love?”

“You got it.” You stab a piece of potato with your fork. “This should inspire you to be especially compassionate towards your own bridesmaids! Maybe no horrid shiny green.”

Brian chuckles. “Good luck with that.”

“Are you comfortable?!” Chrissie asks Mary, exasperated, fanning herself with a wedding program.

“I am,” Mary admits cautiously. “But...well...at the moment, I think my dress is a bit...roomier.”

Chrissie moans, dropping her face into her hands. “I always gain when the students go home for summer. My routine is wrecked, all I want to do is read Glamour magazines and listen to records, it’s too damn hot to go walking...and I adore ice cream.”

“I like you just fine,” Brian reassures her.

Freddie snickers as he taps his cigarette against an ashtray. “Yes, we’re all well aware of your anatomical preferences, Bri.”

Chrissie rolls her eyes. “Please do not elaborate.” She’s not offended—she’s far too used to Freddie’s shenanigans to be offended—but she’ll be embarrassed if he makes a scene at a wedding.

“Darling, I don’t care what anyone tries to tell you, plenty of men love a little extra meat on the bones. Particularly the ass bones.”

“We’re in God’s house!” you scold him in a hiss. “You’re going to give Great Aunt Zofia over there an aneurysm if she hears you!”

Roger quips: “Great Aunt Zofia stole the last kielbasa right out of my disabled, ineffectual grasp, so fuck her.”

You all burst into shocked, uncontrollable laughter. Great Aunt Zofia squints judgmentally at the commotion from several tables away, gnawing on her kielbasa; she’s been glaring at John and Veronica—the Tetzlaffs’ very own fallen angel—since she first ambled into the church. Roger rocks back in his chair, smoking with his unbroken left arm, smirking cockily and basking in the distraction from the real world that the wedding has gifted you all tonight. He catches you watching him—marveling at him, truthfully—and winks.

John appears and rests his hands on the back of your chair. “What’s so amusing? I swear, I leave you people alone for two hours and you’re having all sorts of fun without me, I won’t stand for it!”

“It was a lovely ceremony,” you tell him. “I’d forgotten how beautiful Catholic weddings are, all the music and ambiance.”

“And from what I saw, you knew most of the words.”

“We have a lot of Irish people in Boston. Saint Patrick’s Day is bigger than Christmas.”

John points at Roger’s cast. “It’s not paining you too much, is it?”

Roger holds his Dark ‘n Stormy aloft, and ice clinks in the misted glass. “Enough of these, and I can’t feel anything. Numb to the world’s many disappointments. I highly recommend it.”

“Noted,” John replies. Roger has pills for his arm, but they only take the edge off. You don’t know that because he’s told you; Roger never tells you that he’s hurting, that he’s frustrated, that he’s afraid. He wears grins and flippant humor like a second skin, shrouding his wounds—both physical and disembodied, old and new—in darkness. Still...you can see all those words he doesn’t say swimming in the depths of his eyes. “I think I’ll hunt down a Manhattan myself.”

“Dad made an impression!” you tell John enthusiastically. “I’ll have to let him know, he’ll be overjoyed.”

“He mixes a good one, that’s for sure. I doubt Cousin Bartosz will be able to compare.” He casts a glance at a perplexed-looking, flame-haired teenager manning a tiny wet bar.

“Booze won’t help you heal,” Freddie informs Roger, checking his reflection in Mary’s makeup compact and fluffing his lustrous hair. “Eat your vegetables. Get more sleep. When do you start physical therapy, again?” Then, to you: “Darling, when does Roger start his therapy?”

Roger sighs. “I’ve got it handled, Fred.”

“Dear, don’t have a fit, I just want to make sure you’ll be ready—”

“I’ve got it handled,” Roger repeats, his tone a warning.

Brian breaks the tension with a toast, his Vesper jangling against Roger’s Dark ‘n Stormy. “I’m thrilled, honestly. Now I’m not the only one who’s ruined a tour.”

Roger grimaces. “Thanks, Bri.”

“Yes, let’s all have a turn,” Freddie mutters, sipping champagne. “Deaky can electrocute himself while fiddling with his amp, and then I’ll...what? Have my foot chewed off by an alligator in New Orleans? Get gored by a wild boar outside Atlanta? It just can’t be a boring maiming, that’s my only request.”

“Alaska has grizzlies, huge ones,” Brian suggests.

“Darling, in what dimension would my luxurious self ever end up in fucking Alaska?”

You shake your head, frowning down into your wine glass. It’s June now, the dead center of a crestfallen year: the rest of the Sheer Heart Attack Tour is cancelled, the record company is furious, and the band is broker than ever. Queen is supposed to start recording their next album—their last album, the record company insists, unless it happens to be a runaway success—in July, but you don’t know if Roger’s arm will be healed in time. None of you know that. You wonder if this really is God’s house, or at least one of his homes, sanctified piles of bricks and glass scattered across the globe; maybe you could ask Him where Queen’s future lies.

Veronica swoops in and dusts an airy kiss onto Mary’s cheek, and then Chrissie’s, and then yours. “Thank you so much,” she gushes. Her high cheekbones are flushed, her watery eyes sparkling. She’s in heaven, sinner or not. Her massive white dress swishes with every step. “We couldn’t have done it without you. And you’re next, Chris! I can’t wait.”

Chrissie smiles. She and Brian are getting married just before Christmas. “Yes, well, time will tell if we’ll be serving Christmas ham or canned beans.”

“And then Mary...” Veronica’s gaze migrates across the table. Mary’s been wearing a ring on her wedding finger since Queen returned from Japan, a simple gold band that once belonged to Freddie’s mother. “What about you, Y/N? Any plans? Then we’d all be hitched!”

Red wine spurts from your lips and you fumble for a cloth napkin. Roger doesn’t believe in marriage, and neither do you; not after only four months together, anyway. And yet...is there some part of you that can’t help but think of papers and rings when you get lost in his eyes, of promises of forever, of some way to tie yourself to him like vessels to a heart? Sure; and that’s a little wonderful, that’s a little terrifying. “Uh, uh, oh, oh no, definitely no plans whatsoever.”

“What bollocks!” Rog sneers. “Really, what’s the point if you’re not religious? Who needs a bloody piece of paper to prove they love someone?! ‘I care for you so much I need the government to know we’re together and the hassle of divorce fees to make me stay,’ what the fuck. I mean, uh, no offense John, Bri, uh...this is all well and good for you, but...ah...”

“It’s just not your scene. That’s fine, Rog,” Freddie says with a tad too much empathy. Mary doesn’t seem to notice.

“But you’ll want children at some point, won’t you?” Veronica asks you, almost pained. She’s not trying to be cruel, you realize; she genuinely can’t fathom the pinnacle of a woman’s life as anything but being a wife and mother.

“Theoretically, sure. One day. Eventually.” You titter nervously. Roger’s good arm circles your shoulders, his cigarette lofting smoke. Oh, but wouldn’t he make beautiful children? You push that thought away. It’s too soon, it’s too much, it’s not in the cards for an impoverished maybe-drummer and his girlfriend; and a girlfriend—with all the intangibility and impermanence that title entails—is all I’ll ever be. “I think I need to travel the world a bit more first.”

John sighs and pats the back of Veronica’s hand. What is that weight in his voice...impatience? Annoyance? “Ronnie, please, don’t bother her.”

Veronica sulks, scraping the old scuffed linoleum floor with her pointy white heels. “I wasn’t trying to bother anyone...”

Mary comes to the rescue: “No, of course not. You didn’t, dear.” She likes Veronica more than Chrissie does. Isn’t she oppressively vapid? Chrissie has asked you more than once. Isn’t she so miserably naïve? Veronica is sweet, sure, but she has no fucking idea what she’s in for. “Babies are wonderful, but they do make things harder, don’t you think? Especially for the mother. You have to be ready to drop everything for them. All your other interests and aspirations.”

“I suppose,” Veronica mumbles. You can tell she’s thinking: What other aspirations?

“But you must be so excited!” You beam up at Veronica. It’s her wedding day, and John’s; it should be happy, it should be optimistic. And you’re learning to like Veronica—less than Mary, but more than Chris—because you know that’s the best thing for John.

She instinctively rests her hand on the swell of her belly; or, rather, where it must be somewhere beneath all those heaps of satin and tulle. Great Aunt Zofia’s glare intensifies. “I’m scared to death, to tell you the truth.”

“Why?!” Mary cries.

“I’m so afraid something will happen to him.” Veronica’s voice is soft, her blue eyes glassy. She’s certain the baby is a boy, claims she had some sort of dream about it. “There’s a lot of bad luck going around for us, isn’t there? And my mother lost four babies. Any time he stops moving, I worry constantly until my next appointment. I haven’t felt anything in days, and I just...I just...” She trails off, staring vacantly across the crowded church basement. She’s trying not to cry, you realize.

“I can try to check for you,” you offer. “If it would make you feel better.”

“Really?” Veronica sounds hopeful, but guardedly so.

“This is embarrassing, but I carry my nurse kit almost everywhere I go now. That’s why I brought my huge blue purse even though it doesn’t match the dress. You know, you can’t be too careful...”

“Yes, who knows when someone will try something idiotic like jogging backwards down the stairs?” Freddie muses. Roger lobs a pierogi at him. Great Aunt Zofia wheezes out a disgusted huff and crosses her veiny, wrinkled arms over her sagging chest.

“I have a stethoscope,” you continue. “I can’t guarantee I’ll find a heartbeat, but I’ll give it a try if that would help.”

“Would you, Y/N?” Veronica clutches for John’s hand, and he lets her take it without any resistance; but he doesn’t seem to know how to comfort her. He has the same dazed look on his face that he has a lot these days, the same look that Bri and Freddie sometimes get: like they’re on autopilot, like they’re actively filtering through brainwaves to fish out any that wander astray. Roger lands a kiss on your bare shoulder and pitches you a playful smirk, his I’m so proud of my too-fucking-smart girlfriend smirk.

You grab your purse from beneath the table. “Does God’s house have a cozy private spot somewhere?”

Veronica leads you, Mary, and Chrissie to a small unoccupied room that is used (how pertinently) as the church nursery. The pink wallpaper is dotted with waddling ducklings, cloud-shaped sheep leaping over fences, smiling suns and winged cartoonish angels. Veronica settles into a faded blue couch, and Mary and Chris help her shove aside the massive plumes of her wedding dress to reveal the plain shift she’s wearing underneath. She’s over five months along now, and her entirely unremarkable bump seems colossal on her delicate frame.

You pop the headset into your ears and press the chestpiece against Veronica’s unyielding belly, gliding it over the pearly shift as you try different positions.

“Anything?” Mary asks anxiously.

“It’s not bloody instant, Mary!” Chrissie snaps. “Be quiet so she can listen.”

“No need to be cranky—”

“You can’t find a heartbeat, can you?” Veronica says, her voice quivering. “Oh god...”

“Found it,” you announce. You hold the chestpiece in place as you yank the headset off and pass it to Veronica.

She gapes at you. “You’re just saying that so I’ll stop worrying, aren’t you?”

“Hear for yourself.”

Veronica takes the headset and listens, closing her eyes as the rapid-fire and rhythmic swishing of her child’s heartbeat floods through her ears. “Oh,” she breathes, beaming. “There he is.”

“That’s incredible!” Mary trills. “Can I hear too, Veronica? Whenever you’re finished...”

Mary listens, and Chrissie does too, and then you all help touch up Veronica’s hair and makeup before you head back to the reception. The cake is due to be cut in twelve minutes. As you smooth the short train on her dress, Veronica turns back to you.

“Do you think I’m a bad person?” she asks timidly, hugging her belly. “You know...for this.”

“That’s something I’ve always liked about nursing. So many jobs require sorting out who’s right and wrong, casting judgment, assigning punishment. There’s no weighing of the moral scales in medicine. It doesn’t matter if a patient is trustworthy, deceitful, good, bad, worthy, undeserving, if they disappoint you, if they’re the ones who hurt themselves. You treat everyone, you heal everyone. And I would like to keep that part of myself for as long as I can.” You smile at Veronica. “But, for the record, no. I don’t think you’re a bad person at all.”

She sighs in relief, untethering an anchor she hadn’t even known she’d been dragging around by her throat. “Thank you,” she whispers, tears snaking down her powdered ivory cheeks.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Come on.”

“How do you feel about marble lion statues? You know, the ones at the end of long, winding driveways. Rich people’s driveways. Mansion driveways. Or do you prefer gargoyles?”

“Roger.”

He groans, grins, presses his right fist into your palm. You measure the force with your mind, with your muscle memory. He’s stronger than he was yesterday, the day before, last week. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Rog teases. “You’ve got a soft spot for damaged people. Helpless people. That’s why you warmed to Brian so quickly. He was lying there all gaunt and jaundiced and terrified, and you just couldn’t resist, you just had to make sure all his wildest dreams came true.”

“I have a soft spot for self-destructive musicians who end up in hospitals, evidently.” Your gaze cruises over the scar on Roger’s forearm where the surgeons popped his bones back into place, stabilized them, stitched the ragged gore closed. You hate looking at it; you hate reminders of how mortal Roger really is.

“I want lions,” Rog decides. “For the driveway of our eventual mansion. I like the Leo connection.”

“And the Queen crest connection.”

His grin widens, toothy and radiant. “See, I knew you were the love of my life.”

“Come on. Again.”

He winces this time. “Doesn’t hurt a bit.”

“Uh huh. I bet.” You’ve slathered his fresh blisters with numbing antiseptic ointment, iced his arm, administered pain medicine, allowed him the constant sips of alcohol necessary for him to work, to drum, to sleep. But he still hurts. You imagine he hurts all the fucking time.

It’s August now, and Queen is recording their fourth album at Rockfield Farm. You and Roger are sitting by the pool as Freddie splashes around in the clear chlorine-smelling water trying to get John’s attention. John, meanwhile, is lounging on an inflatable raft, wearing black sunglasses and most likely asleep. Brian circles the pool snapping photos with your Canon F-1.

“I have a plan,” Roger informs you as he starts his stretches without prompting. He knows the drill, even if he likes to be difficult about it.

“By all means, enlighten me.”

“Fred’s thing, the weird one. It has a name now.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah. Bohemian Rhapsody.”

“Oh, it’s perfect!” You try to stay out of the band’s business decisions as much as possible; it’s not your expertise, and it’s not your place, and there are already a few too many creative chefs in that kitchen. Still, you love when they share their magic with you. “Eccentric, whimsical, exhilarating. Just like the song. Just like Queen.”

“I’m so glad you approve. We’re going to make sure it’s the first single off the album. And I know exactly what song’s going to be on the B-side. Freddie and Bri don’t know yet, but I do.”

“Sounds like they’re going to murder you when they find out.”

“I’ll convince them.” His grin is crafty, daring. “Picture it: you’ve just finished the incomparable experience that is Bohemian Rhapsody. You’re a newly converted Queen enthusiast. What could possibly come next? You flip the record over. And the virile, screeching, pure rock and roll passion of I’m In Love With My Car is there to greet you.”

“Oh my god, Roger.” You shake your head in mock mourning. “They actually are going to murder you.”

“Listen, love, BoRhap is going to be a hit. I can feel it.”

“Sure,” you agree lukewarmly. You want to be supportive, you really do. But disappointment stings more than resignation.

“It will be,” Roger maintains, unmovable. “And it’ll sell mountains and mountains of singles...and with my song on the B-side, I’ll get half the royalties. Which means we’ll get half the royalties.”

“Which is how we end up with the hypothetical mansion.”

“I’m being serious.” Roger picks up his mini barbell weights from the water-splattered concrete and begins his bicep curls, flinching each time he lifts his right fist.

“Rog—”

“I’m fine,” he insists. “I’m going to make this happen. I’m going to get rich so I can provide for my family. You know about that, you know it’s on my list. And my family includes you now.”

“I don’t need a mansion, Roger.” I just need you. You stare at his right arm worriedly. “Are you sure—?”

“I’m fine!” he shouts, and you recoil. Brian peers over from where he’s taking pictures of blooming purple foxgloves. Instantly, Roger regrets it. “I’m sorry,” he says, setting down the barbells and cradling your face with his rough, bandaged hands. “I have to be fine, you know? I don’t have a choice. If I can’t play, I can’t be in the band. If I leave, John will leave too, and that’ll be the end of everything. Or worse, John will break the pact and stay and they’ll find a new drummer and forget all about me. Sail off into some blissful new future. And where will I be? Moping as I drag myself back to dental school? Becoming a freaking lab biologist? Resigning myself to being some excruciatingly ordinary bloke, someone who climbed just far enough out of Cornwall to know everything he’s missing out on?”

You try to imagine who Roger would be without the band, but you can’t. You’ve never known a pre-Queen Roger. “No,” you say, amused. “You’ll never be just some ordinary bloke. You’re too brilliant, too determined. Even if you do have a dodgy arm.”

He kisses you, and you can feel his lips curling into a smile beneath yours. “So you’ll let me buy you a mansion.”

“If you get I’m In Love With My Car on the B-side, and BoRhap is a hit, and Freddie and Bri don’t smother you with a pillow in your sleep...yes, you can buy me a mansion. Buy us a mansion.”

He winks, his sapphire eyes glinting in the late-summer sunlight. “Watch out, baby. I get everything I want eventually.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s done,” John tells the others as he passes out copies of his new song, the second he’s ever written. There are only four sheets of crisp white paper; as you watch from the studio couch, you wonder what the song is about, why he didn’t mention it to you.

“It’s done?!” Brian yelps. “What do you mean, it’s done?! Nothing’s ever done after the first pass! That’s how it works, that’s how it always works, someone suggests something and then we all dice it and slice it and flip it around and stitch it back together like the world’s most maniacal surgeons, and then, only then, maybe, it’s done.”

You glance up from where you’re sewing an eleventh patch onto Roger’s jeans. “Must we disparage the medical profession?”

“Sorry, love,” Roger tosses to you with a laugh.

“It’s done,” John repeats.

“Deaky, darling,” Freddie ventures gently. “We should endeavor to keep our minds open to collaboration—”

“Oh, should we, Fred?!” Bri exclaims. “How extraordinary, you never seem to encourage collaboration when it’s your song on the cutting floor!”

“Okay space boy, you listen here—”

“‘I’m happy at home’?!” Roger reads, revolted. “We’re not the bloody Bee Gees, Deaks!”

John explains measuredly and patiently, as if to a child: “That’s the way it goes. We record it as it is or not at all.”

“That’s not how we do things,” Brian mutters, deep frown lines chiseled through his face as he scans the lyrics.

“Then just fill the album with your and Fred’s songs like you always do, I’m sure that’ll keep me and Roger loyal.”

Brian glares at John. John stares back stoically, his eyes like steel. Brian looks to Roger for support; Roger lights a cigarette and pretends not to notice.

“Darling, please, you’re not being reasonable!” Freddie pleads.

“I need it.” John turns to Roger now. “I need it to stay the way it is.”

Rog just watches him for a while, exhales smoke, shrugs. “Okay,” he says at last.

“Okay?!” Brian howls. “What do you mean, okay?!”

“He said he needs it,” Roger replies simply.

Bri throws his hands into the air. “Bleeding christ! ‘He needs it.’ What rubbish! Do something, Fred!”

“Oh relax, darling.” Freddie sashays to the microphone and points to Brian’s Red Special. “Let’s try it out.”

“But—!”

Roger claps Brian on the back as he trots by him towards the drum kit. “Come on, Bri. Big smiles. Just picture the nice shiny pounds from all those album sales plinking into your bank account. You’ll have fifty Christmas hams at the wedding, one for every guest.”

You listen passively from the couch as they rehearse, trying not to let on that you’re paying attention, trying not to overstep. But you can’t help being struck by the lyrics, feeling the somberness of Freddie’s voice and John’s tentative notes on the electric piano slink into your bones; because it sounds so familiar, because it echoes so many things that John has told you.

When Queen takes a mid-afternoon break and John slips into the kitchen for a Coke, you follow him.

“Hey John?”

“Yeah.” He rests his hands on the dining room table. They’re sturdy and unmarred and completely unlike Roger’s; and you aren’t sure why you notice this, but you do.

“I completely understand if I’m being intrusive, and if I am please just tell me to shut up and I will.”

He chuckles. “You’re never intrusive. Go ahead.”

“I was just wondering...who is You’re My Best Friend about?”

Now his smile evaporates. “No one in particular,” he says briskly. “It’s just a song. Just something to put on the album. Maybe a single one day. A soulless royalties grab.”

That seems unlikely. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He takes a swig of Coke, peers down at the table, traces swirls of centuries-old oak with his fingertips.

“It’s just...you know...well...it kind of sounded like...maybe it was about me.”

He looks up. And for the first time, John levels some of his infamous, razored words at you: “Don’t be such a fucking narcissist.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Two days later, John doesn’t apologize. But he smiles at you over tea, offers to clean off the fingerprints of strawberry jelly that Roger left on the Canon, splashes you from the pool as you sunbathe beneath lapis August skies. And you agree, wordlessly and unconditionally, to forgive him. Because John is your best friend, whether or not you’re still his.

Nine weeks later, Bohemian Rhapsody is released as a single. (And, as promised, Roger ensures that I’m In Love With My Car is on the B-side.)

Twelve weeks later, Bohemian Rhapsody reaches the #1 spot on the UK Singles Chart, and remains there for over two months.

Fifteen weeks later, A Night At The Opera becomes the #1 album in the UK.

Fifteen weeks later, Queen’s future is suddenly crystal clear.

#queen fic #roger taylor fic

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returnalpcdownload · 4 years ago

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gaze-into-whump · 6 years ago

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Fandom: Original Work (Project Oracle: Fantasy AU)

Prompt: Wound that Won’t Heal Red X: Filled. White Circle: Requested

@badthingshappenbingo, requested by @butchzambo

It started a day like any other. Or any other these days. After. After Attakius, after the fey wild, after losing everything Daisy thought made her her. Who was she if she wasn’t an adventurer? Who was she if she couldn’t lift a sword to defend herself, push a boulder up a never-ending hill, dig a hole that she refused to be buried in? She had used every part of herself to keep going, to spite Attakius.

And now she was used up. A shell of the person she used to be. She’d never had to think about what a damsel felt like before, she’d never been one. Now? Well, things had been getting better.

Every step feels like she’s slogging through mud wearing stones on her feet but she’d finally gotten to the point where she could help with the errands. Nothing that required her to carry anything, and nothing she could do on her own, which seemed to defeat the purpose of running an errand, but she won’t complain if it means she gets to feel the wind in her hair. And the market is nice too, even if she needs to sit down while Kyle browses the spices and herbs.

He gets enough to fill just a single bag, something he can carry easily by himself. She’s less annoyed about how little she’s helping on the way back. Sitting down has reminded her how tired she is, and Kyle got into an argument with one of the vendors about a mislabeled plant. Daisy didn’t know there were so many ways to describe leaves.

Kyle finishes the discussion (he was wrong but he still got a few coppers knocked off the price) and collects Daisy. The market isn’t too far from Gregor’s tower, and she has a walking stick now, so Daisy is confident they’ll be able to get back without too much difficulty. And then she can listen to Kyle and Gregor talking about magic, or maybe cooking, while she reads at the table. It’s a nice thought. Even sitting down is a nice thought as they push on through the slightly uneven path.

Kyle starts up a conversation as they walk. His training with Attakius didn’t leave him a lot of room to practice with material components for spells, so he’s learning everything like a beginner. Daisy can actually rival him in knowledge of the subject. She reads so much that her theoretical knowledge is impressive and near encyclopedic, though there’s not a magic bone in her body. She corrects him when he mistakes the uses for ragwort, it’s best for poisoning horses but he mistakenly said it affected centaurs. “You’re thinking of bat’s ear” she says. “But it’s hard to collect because the leaves secret the poisonous oil.” It hurts a little to breathe as she she walks and talks, but she leans more heavily on the walking stick and manages to balance the whole thing out. Twenty minutes, one flight of stairs and then she can rest. She’s dealt with worse.

Kyle’s mouth twists in that way it does when he’s trying to decide if he’s going to ask her if they need to stop or not. They don’t, and they don’t need to slow down. They’re already moving at a crawl and Daisy wants to be home more than she wants to rest her aching legs. She sets the pace. She can see the tiny steps Kyle takes to make sure he doesn’t overtake her. She appreciates the effort. She’s watching his feet, timing each of her steps with his, when his stutter.

Daisy almost stumbles herself, she was so attuned to him, but years of adventuring instincts make her look up. Just in time to jump back as something- someone drops from above her. She drops the walking stick, instinctively reaching for the dagger at her belt.

It feels like swords shoot through her legs as she stumbles back, but she keeps her balance and brandishes the dagger. She snarls, which should have been enough to scare away a common bandit (well, her somewhat imposing traveling companion helps). The someone barely pauses. Heedless of the dagger pointed at their tattooed neck, the would be bandit doesn’t pause. They slam forward so her dagger slams into their shoulder. Daisy keeps her grip and pushes, shoving the blade in as deep as she can manage. Her assailant doesn’t seem to notice. They push past her, forcing her arm to bend or else lose the dagger completely. She holds on until they step behind her. She gasps as she realizes that no, her arm can’t bend that way and doesn’t have enough air to scream as their hand closes around her throat.

They smell sickly sweet and if she couldn’t feel the pinpricks of claws at her neck, daisy might have gagged. Instead, she stands stock still. Another set of claws, no doubt similarly poisoned, press at her stomach. She’s caught. Her legs scream at her to readjust, to sit down, but there’s so much tension in her assailant that she’s afraid the slightest movement with spook them into stabbing her. So she stays still. She’s not sure which is worse, the fire creeping up her legs or the terrified look on Kyle’s face. It’s fine, she’s been in worse situations.

Kyle feels sick. The creature’s nails press divots into Daisy’s throat and he tries to focus on something other than her strained expression. He looks at the creature’s hands, stained black at the fingers, and their bare neck, where runes curl around the throat like a collar. The creature itself looks more or less human, with more tracing the curve of their cheeks to end under their silver eyes, but Kyle isn’t fooled. It’s Blake’s work, and nothing that came out of her dungeon was human anymore.

It smiles and opens its mouth wide, like a snake about to swallow prey. The runes on its skin light up green and Blake’s voice comes out of its gaping mouth.

“Hello dear.”

Daisy flinches, causing a small rivulet of blood to run down her neck.

“Since Attakius rejected my gift, it’s time for you to return to me.”

Kyle’s hands move almost without conscious thought, weaving a spell with the shadows around his feet. A black circle pulses in front of him, but before he can finish the spell, the creature’s hand closes around Daisy’s throat. It lifts her off the ground so her feet kick uselessly as she writhes and struggles to get out of its grip.

“Stop!”

The expression on Blake’s minion’s face doesn’t change, but the voice sounds amused. “Will you return to me?”

Daisy’s still struggling in its grip and Kyle wants to say yes, of course. Please just don’t hurt her. But he can’t force the words out. The thought of going back to that place makes his body seize, at least Attakius had liked him.

He shakes his head, tears falling down his face. I’m sorry Daisy. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.

“Disappointing,” Blakes’ voice tells him. He tenses, ready for the outburst of violence, spectral claws ripping down his back, white hot energy crackling through him, or the worst, Blake’s creature twisting it’s hands just so…

“I’m sorry,” he says. He’s not sure if he’s telling Blake or Daisy. Daisy’s barely struggling now. As he watches, her eyes roll back into her head.

“DAISY!” He screams, running forward, heedless of what Blake’s creature will do to him.

Now it smiles. It releases its hand from Daisy’s throat. As she falls, it shoves its hand into her stomach, spearing her with the claws. Her eyes fly open and her mouth opens in a wordless gasp. The creature pulls its hand away and flicks the blood off its fingers. Daisy falls to the ground.

“You’ll realize you need me,” Blake’s voice says. The creature is still examining its hand. “And then you’ll come crawling back.” It tilts its head, staring at Kyle until he bares his teeth and snarls, then it leaves as quickly as it came.

He runs to Daisy.

“Daisy?” He kneels by her body and tries to will his hands to stop shaking so he can check if she’s alive.

She gasps and rolls onto her side, coughing violently. Blood drips down her stomach.

He puts his hand on her forehead and her eyes close for a moment before she starts another coughing fit.

“I’ve got you,” he tells her. “I’ll get you help.”

Why the fuck didn’t Attakius teach him healing magic? He knows why, but why didn’t he demand to learn it?

“Kyle,” she says, raw and painful and alive. “Can’t…” her breathe wheezes in and out of her bruised throat. “Can’t move”. Her eyes close again.

“Okay. Okay, I’ll get you home. I’ll get you home and we’ll figure things out.”

He picks her up like he has so many times since she brought him back to the material plane. Blood trickles from her neck and stomach. Luckily, Daisy is light, and a little maneuvering means that Kyle can press a hand to the wound on her stomach while still carrying her. It’s an inelegant and timed solution, but it will have to do. He walks at a brisk pace, secure in the knowledge that Daisy has passed out and can’t feel any of his jostling.

When he reaches Gregor’s tower, he focuses on the shadows that he knows are in the doorway and pushes his magic toward them, enough to form a shade with arms, so it can get Gregor’s attention and make him open the door. Kyle half concentrates on that as he ascends the stairs to Gregor’s tower. The door opens as soon as he steps onto the landing.

“What happened?” Gregor demands, like it’s his fault.

It is. Still, Kyle glares at him. “We were attacked.” Gregor doesn’t need more details than that. “She’s bleeding, and-” Daisy crumpling to the ground plays again in his mind’s eye, “-and was choked.”

Gregor frowns as he examines Daisy’s neck. “With magic?”

Kyle frowns. “Not the choking.”

He looks down to see why Gregor could possibly think that and he almost forgets to breathe. The trickle of blood hasn’t dried yet and more than that, the vein on her neck is turning green. Kyle slowly pulls his hand away from her stomach. The blood hasn’t clotted and all, and there are green lines extending from the wound on her stomach.

“No… No!” He looks at Gregor. “Fix this! There has to be something in your books that will fix this!”

Gregor doesn’t rise to his bait. Doesn’t scream at him or tell him to shut up and or blame him. He just tells Kyle to bring Daisy inside and he clears off one of the tables. Kyle carefully lays Daisy on the table and smooths her hair out of her face. Her skin is cold but she’s still breathing. She’s still breathing, Kyle tells himself.

At least Gregor is hurrying. He runs to a shelf and grabs two crimson potions.

“You have two tasks as I do this,” he says, meeting Kyle’s eyes. “You need to make her drink the health potion and you’ll need to hold her down.”

“What?”

“Would you rather she fall off the table?”

Kyle frowns and after a second gets on the table. He lifts Daisy up so she’s more or less sitting up and reaches for the potion. Pinching her nose makes her open her mouth. He pours the potion into her mouth bit by bit, massaging her throat to help get it down before giving her the next sip. Eventually the whole bottle is down. Kyle frowns at Daisy’s limp body, then wraps one arm around her waist, just over the mess of a stomach wound, and leans forward to hold one of her legs down. He can’t reach the other leg from this position- Gregor will have to risk getting kicked by that one.

“You’re going to be okay,” he tells Daisy. “Gregor’ll fix you.” All that answers him is the quiet rasp of Daisy’s continued breathing. “I’m holding her,” he tells Gregor.

Gregor nods, then begins chanting and moving his hands.

When practicing together, Kyle and Gregor use subsets of elemental magic. The shadow magic that Kyle learned at Attakius’ feet was a subset of elemental magic rather than illusion. That was what allowed him to make it move like a living thing and made his performances so impressive. And Gregor, most comfortable with water, was able to pick it up fairly quickly, albeit with less finesse.

So Kyle knows what elemental magic looks like. It doesn’t pair with chanting, and as far as he was aware, it really didn’t pair with healing. Still, Gregor was the one with the whole library at his disposal, and he was also willing to do this for free, two good reasons for Kyle to sit down and be quiet.

So he holds Daisy and he watches. Gregor’s movements are familiar, even if the language isn’t. He looks like he’s manipulating water, though Kyle couldn’t say why until Daisy starts to shake. Then green liquid starts to rise off her skin. Well, green and red, for each drop of poison Gregor is able to remove, it looks like he’s taking as much blood.

Daisy screams and thrashes and it’s all Kyle can do to hold her still. “Hang on, hang on your going to be okay. It’ll be over soon.” He looks at Gregor. It will be over soon?

Gregor is still chanting, focused on the poison and the blood. The liquid flows from her stomach and neck into and around his hand. Daisy’s struggles get weaker and weaker as the Gregor works.

Soon she’s just shivering.

“Gregor!”

“I’m almost done,” he mutters. Green and red swirl in his hands. He makes a complicated gesture and the stream ends, finally detaching from Daisy’s body. She whimpers as the blood and poison truly leave her.

“Give her the second potion.”

Kyle hurries to do what he says, massaging the potion down her throat. Kyle didn’t know what he was expecting. Her skin to knit back together? Her to open her eyes? None of that happens, but a flush does return to her cheeks.

“The potion fixes the worst damage first,” Gregor explains “so it will start to replace her blood, but it’s not strong enough to bind her wounds. I have to do that by hand.”

Kyle holds her through the process, and when Daisy’s wounds are clean and bandaged, he carries her up to bed. She doesn’t wake for a few days, and it’s a full week before she’s strong enough to leave the bed. Who knows how long it will take before she can make it to the market again.

#whump #writing #project oracle #fantasy au #wound that won't heal #ambush #here's the monster i've been working on!!!#it's finally done i'm very proud #please send me more requests #or questions!#there's a lot of history referenced here

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dorms-fic-archive · 6 years ago

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What are we going through, you and me?

Summary: Faced with an opportunity to address that which he’d thought was long-forgotten, Armin was still able to acknowledge the existence of his own human frailties. (Takes place sometime after the recapture of Shiganshina. Canon-divergent.) [Ao3 | FFNet.]

a/n: And now for something completely different!

Despite the pairing(s) listed, I wouldn't really call this fic purely romantic, at least not in the traditional sense, which is why it's not labeled "romance"; in terms of the themes addressed herein, I'm leaving it up to you to decipher what you will. It's certainly not the happiest story, but it's not complete doom-and-gloom, either. Mild pretentions aside, I haven't written Armin in ages, so this was a nice change!

Title comes from the song "Hairpin Turns", by The National.

It had been three months to the day the Titans surrounding Paradis were all exterminated, yet there was nothing much to be done at present. Rebuilding the damages and consoling the families of those recently deceased took up time, consumed resources, and once the illusion of immediacy fell away it left Armin bitter, yearning for an attack, something, anything to indicate their victory was not so hollowly earned; but that change had already come, and he did not wish to consider that he might for a minute sound like Eren.

To-day: a sunny after-noon alone in the library at Trost’s Legion HQ, waiting for Eren to come back from another series of tests with Commander Hanji; his powers were only beginning to grow, and making guillotines out of crystal was just one proven expenditure. Mikasa was busy enough, training with Captain Levi to assume a similar position; Armin was happy for her, even if it didn’t alleviate his loneliness. Annie made decent company when she decided to tag along.

“Why does he do it?” Armin thought aloud, already knowing the answer. Eren will never be content until he’s sure that his actions are well-earned. It might kill him someday.

“He wants to think he’s in control of himself,” Annie said, matter-of-factly. “What about you?”

Armin hesitated. “What about me?”

“Are you in control?”

“That’s a broad statement. I don’t have the context to answer you appropriately.”

Annie seemed to ruminate on that for a while. “What context?”

He figured she could see it in his eyes, or sense it in his hunched posture; the duality he tried to suffocate, this conflict between the friend he feared to lose and the tenuous alliance he’d formed with her — for now.

(Annie’s betrayal was old news to most who were there when she’d first crystallised herself — and there was really no one left to care about her besides Eren or Hanji. She’s like a bug behind glass, he’d thought, in the days before she’d woken up. A petty nuisance. I don’t know why we’re bothering to keep her.

Though Eren had likely surpassed her in sheer ability, by now; perhaps she was still superior in terms of technique? Supposing Eren’s Titan would be able to consume her — well, it’s called the Female Titan — or was the title more significant?)

“He’s told me before, what he thinks will happen after the Marley arrive. I don’t think he’s too keen on budging,” Armin grumbled.

“Have you asked him lately?”

Armin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Why do you care?”

She shrugged. “I don’t, really.”

Armin considered that. Regardless of his inheritance, he was sure that he had never felt anything towards her before, besides apathy. He told himself in his head until it stuck — but it was something beyond his control, at least theoretically, and he could not afford that kind of vulnerability. It made him leery to talk to her, but it also forced him to try; he would not be cowed by mere hypotheticals. Besides, it was nice to talk to somebody who didn’t expect much in return.

“You’re his friend, Arlert. It’s not my job to be a messenger.”

He had tried talking with Eren. Several times, in fact. It usually went something like this:

“This revenge you want so desperately; it’s not end-all, so what will be left afterwards?”

“We’ll have ended the war,” Eren said simply. He sounded tired, more often these days, in a sense that Hanji’s ruthless testing or the strange new anxiety brought on in a world without Titans could not be faulted for; it penetrated his eyes, went beyond the physical strain. Armin did find it wearisome to keep running around the same concepts like this, day-in, day-out, like military ritual. That was one of the bigger reasons they weren’t talking so much; let Eren come to him for a change, for old time’s sake.

And Armin couldn’t remember the last time they had talked about unimportant matters, but he himself had no patience for triviality anymore. The sight of the ocean had thrilled him, yes — enough to smuggle back a shell with him in his quarters, while Eren had carried nothing at all but his newfound revenge — but that had been some time ago. Armin did not want to see the new cadets that would never quite understand what it was exactly they were being trained for, would never experience the fresh horror of something like Trost, watching your best friend slip away into the belly of a Titan and know you could do nothing but scream.

(There was hardly a need anymore, Armin mused, to strongly emphasise teaching them how to use manoeuvre gear. Give them guns, and instruct them more thoroughly in how to lead each other to victory in human combat — it was only a matter of time, given what he and Eren had seen in flashes, this terrifying, beautiful World Beyond the Walls.)

Eren was the only one who would humour him and listen when they talked about strategy — Annie was becoming familiar, but Armin did not like to dwell on this notion for long, as it incited the same pit of mistrust in his gut; she was never your friend, she may have spared you once, better not to test it, despite what Bertholdt’s memories say.

This ritual began every time he put his thoughts to paper: your name is Armin Arlert, you are sixteen years old, no, seventeen, and you are in the Scouting Legion.

He supposed his friendship with Eren was not something that would last indefinitely, no more than Eren’s relationship with Annie, but nothing was truly indefinite from the human perspective. Mortality was their only constant.

Armin was a patient boy, now nearly a man, though he did not feel like he had grown up very much between the years. Several years of exhaustive military training had hardened his body, but that could be said for any one of them. Now, the miraculous, unexpected nature of his rebirth turned him strange and flawless. Cuts were quick to heal and he did not tire as easily as he had before. Energy was abundant, always itching beneath his skin and muscles.

The Colossus Titan, when he transformed, was nothing like what he had imagined it would be, all those times pulling Eren from the nape of his Titan, feeling the heat of his skin. It was a laborious thing, heavy on his back and in his chest, burning so intensely he knew it would have grievously wounded him as a mortal boy.

It stuck with him upon reawakening in the Garrison’s infirmary, Mikasa at his side.

“Eren’s worried,” she’d confided, “about you.”

Of course, he had thought. Eren is still my friend. We may have our differences, but even so, he’s my friend. He’d die for me still, and I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve him.

All he had said was: “Tell him I’d love to talk.”

“I’m worried about you,” Armin told Eren now, careful to keep his tone clinical. “You shouldn’t push yourself too hard; you’ll be ill-fit for combat.”

“You sound like Mikasa.” Eren wiped his nose, sitting up on the cot. “Both of you worry too much. It’s going to shorten your lifespan.” He flashed him a grin through the crimson blotting his lip; Armin did not reciprocate.

“You don’t talk to anyone about normal things, anymore. All you seem to care about, from my perspective, is this war that we haven’t even started yet. We don’t know exactly what is out there waiting for us.”

“It’s out there, we can’t ignore it forever. And why d'you care?” His tone was oddly brittle, churlish. Armin didn’t understand.

“You’re — we’re friends, Eren.”

“So what? I can look after myself.”

If the right person talked to him, gave him a clear sense of direction, he would probably do almost anything if it meant getting a leg up over the enemy. Armin felt tired again.

“I never asked you to worry about me,” Eren said bluntly. “Not all the time. We can —” he glanced back at him, suddenly anxious “— shit, I mean. I want to look after you, as well.”

“You’re not — this isn’t like what you have with Annie,” Armin said, defensive, “and you know it, don’t you?”

Eren let his hand drop, curling to an empty fist. “Armin,” he croaked. “That’s not what I meant.”

But the emotion was there, bleeding into his voice, the clenching of his jaw. Armin felt light-headed. “What are you saying, then?”

Eren’s face contorted, like he was at odds with himself. “I…” he licked his lips, would not meet Armin’s eyes, “I thought you’d moved on, so.”

Armin resisted the urge to take him by the shoulders and demand clarification. “You replaced me in your mind with someone else? Is that it?” He could not help the incredulity.

Eren’s scowl deepened. “What? Goddammit, no. You’re different from her, but that’s not…” he grit his teeth, “I-I care about you. Both of you, not like Mikasa, and — I don’t want to see you hurt, but… Christ, I don’t know what that means.” He looked miserable within conviction. Armin wasn’t sure what to make of this.

“Does Annie know?”

Eren flushed. “Shit, I dunno.”

Mikasa wasn’t around often enough to give counsel; Armin had never really how much they struggled without her until now. But they were only getting older, and there was the ambiguity of the future ahead of them. They would need to work this out on their own.

“Are you going to tell her, then?”

Eren blenched, but did not answer.

It was a week or so before Eren got back with him; during this time, Armin found it difficult to hold conversation with Annie, who had gone quieter than usual. He threw himself into his duties as a solider and tried very, very hard not to dwell upon ambiguities.

Puberty had afflicted him later than most of his peers in Military Academy, which had kept his mind sharp, of course, but also disillusioned him greatly to the prospect of sex and desire — even now, it was something he treated as inefficient, messy and not something he could afford if he wanted to get ahead in life. Ignoring it was less of an option as he grew older. Masturbation was only a short-term solution; and it was difficult not to acknowledge who it was he circled back to in the end; he had tried blocking this out, thinking about other boys who would never look his way — not a difficult feat. This was hardly the time to address it. But when was that prudent moment, exactly? Was he going to be hoping until the day he died for something that simply didn’t exist outside the boundaries of his ill-fitting, selfish desire to be wanted, like anyone else?

But Eren had said that he wanted him. He wanted him. He would not, could not, dispel this truth from his mind, invoking a dangerous, possibly hedonistic sense of optimism that kept him humming, impatient for what was next.

“Armin.”

“So what did she say?” Armin asked him at last. “Annie, I mean.” Eren didn’t answer immediately. “You did ask her?”

“I think she knew.” He sounded mystified. “She didn’t really say anything. Is that, uh.” He looked hopefully to Armin, who wasn’t sure he liked where this was going — he told himself this firmly.

“What are you getting at?”

“Is it bad?” Eren mumbled, “that I, you know.” They bumped shoulders; in the context of their conversation, it was a strangely intimate gesture.

Armin chewed his lip. “I don’t know, Eren.”

Eren laughed, low and nervous. “Well, I meant what I told you. And…” he chanced a glance at him, “I want to show you, what I mean.”

Armin’s head was spinning. Eren’s hand was rough and sure in his.

“I-I really don’t think that’s —” Armin trailed off, half-hearted.

Eren squeezed. “I want you to know. Not just by me saying it.”

“What about Annie?” Armin blurted.

“Didn’t you talk to her?”

Armin could feel his face go hot. “What are you — oh God, Eren, she’s not my friend.”

Their laughter was shared, anxious. “O.K., O.K., I’ll get her. We can talk —” his thumb kissed the ridges of his knuckles “— about this, someplace quieter. Meet me up at the square to-morrow morning, I’ve got nothing to do before then.”

The place to meet, as it turned out, was a non-descript inn somewhere in Trost’s outskirts. The man at the bar seemed confused when he asked for the names of his fellow soldiers.

“We’re travelling through the city together on down-time,” said Armin confidently; it was a white lie, after all. “We were planning on staying for a while —”

“Three of you?” the man cut in. Armin did his best not to look confused.

“That’s correct, sir.”

“If they’re not out on the town, I expect they’re up there. Already paid in advance. The room’s the second one on your left, as soon as you come up the stairs.”

Armin could barely contain himself. “Th-thank you, sir.” Climbing the stairs with a mounting sense of anticipation, his hand gripping the rail tightly. He barely took in his surroundings, looked instead for the room on the left; the door was closed, which was a little worrying. He heard movement behind the door and lifted his hand to knock.

Someone cursed; footsteps approaching, and before Armin could hope that he’d picked the right room, the door opened and Eren was there. He looked dishevelled, missing his jacket and boots — Armin’s eyes settled on the ridge of his clavicle.

“Armin,” he said lowly. “Glad you could make it.”

“What’s with — oh.”

Eren looked at Annie, who looked back at him half-naked from the bed, and Armin felt a little like dashing out quickly, inconspicuously, while there was still time to forget this had ever happened, but his feet wouldn’t move.

It was Eren who met his eyes again, muttered: “Close the door behind you.”

“Arlert?” Annie, sitting up, eying him intently. Her nudity seemed less indecent in close-quarters — or maybe he was just starting to accept this as a venerable outcome.

He was afraid, in the back of his mind, of what he would see when he looked at her — the memory of the surrogate intercepted by its inheritance — but they had known each other before, as cadets, then enemies, now soldiers, and had talked with their own names, and he was sure enough that he possessed memories before the retaking of Shiganshina, a personality that was all his own. But the same could be said of Eren.

“I-I’m not sure what you expect me to say,” Armin muttered, staring intently at the wall above her left shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d get started without me.”

“Is that what you think it is about?”

Armin flustered. “God, no. I don’t — want that to be the reason I’m agreeing to —” he could not look at Eren for very long without his mouth going dry.

Annie frowned. “No one said you had to agree to anything.”

It was Eren who reached out and touched his shoulder; his hands were very warm, and Armin wasn’t sure anymore, what or who he needed. “Armin,” he said, very quietly. “What d'you want?”

“I —” his voice broke; he sucked in a furious breath “— I want to be sure this is my choice, right now, not — anyone else’s.” He did not add that there were several other, less emotionally compromising ways to accomplish this feat. “I don’t want to get in the way of this,” speaking quickly, evasive, “I can leave now, if you —” Eren’s grip on him turned brusque; Armin flinched before he could stop himself.

“This isn’t just about us,” said Annie. “It's… ” she faltered; offering reassurance was clearly not what she was used to, “…you and I, Arlert, we’re not together. So we have nothing to lose.”

“Because you have each other,” said Armin, forcing himself to be patient, because neither of them would acknowledge what seemed to him so laughably, irrefutably obvious.

Her eyes hardened. “Well, you aren’t like Bertholdt, are you?”

Armin shot her a furious look; how dare she bring that up now.

“Enough,” said Eren curtly. Annie relented. “Right, Armin. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want, but. I don’t mind if you stay a little longer.” He had softened at the edges, his gruffness giving way to a kind of reckless certainty that Armin knew all-too well.

“What do you mean, stay?”

“You could watch,” Eren muttered, going pink. “Think about it, then decide for yourself.” He looked once more to Annie; she was sitting up straight, almost impatient. Armin didn’t quite understand when Eren flashed him a cautious grin before walking over to rejoin her.

“Hold on, what about her?” Armin retorted.

Annie blinked. “What about me, Arlert.”

“I —” suppressing the need to roll his eyes, because he didn’t always want to be the sense of reason “— shouldn’t we talk about this, first?”

Annie blinked. “He’s willing, I’m willing, and you’re still here.”

Armin opened his mouth to dispute the point, but what was there to dispute? She didn’t want him the way she did Eren, and he wouldn’t have asked her to feel that way, but — maybe it wasn’t so concrete, anyway.

“You want me to watch,” he repeated. “Both of you.”

He could see the blush splotching her cheeks as Eren rucked down her trousers. No one said anything to the contrary. Armin was still able to acknowledge the existence of his own human frailties; bit his tongue, weighing the desire that he had thought he’d long-since forgotten, but had known to be there all along.

“O.K.,” he said lowly. “You, uh, don’t have to wait for me.”

Annie’s eyes glinted. She took Eren’s face in her hands, muttered something he couldn’t make out at this distance. Eren swallowed dryly.

They were kissing again. A tentativeness persisted in Eren’s hands as he pulled her into his lap, cupping her thighs and stomach and breasts, kissing her slow. Armin wondered if that was ritual, or if he should be thinking about their private lives in detail; in the present, Annie grunted and held Eren to her breast. Armin wanted to avert his eyes completely, but that would defeat the point, so in compromise he tried looking at her face.

They locked eyes and Armin couldn’t have said a word, even if he’d wanted. She seemed to jolt in turn, wide-eyed and flushed, but then she groaned, rolling her hips against Eren’s thigh, mussing his hair.

“Armin,” she tried, the syllables heavy on her tongue, “Armin, c'mere.”

Eren’s shoulders shifted beneath. “Oi, are you still over there…?” he teased.

They weren’t putting him on the spot, but it elicited the same swoop in his gut. They had talked about this before, then. He did not love her, not in this way; but of course, one didn’t need to be in love to fuck another person? Shouldn’t think like that. Shouldn’t think at all, actually.

“Shit —” groaning, she tucked her head away. Eren kissed her in concern.

“Wanna stop?”

“No.” Her voice was small.

“Hey, look. We, uh, don’t have to.”

“Do you want —” she bit her lip, undulating “— this? Us?”

Armin wondered who she was asking, really. Eren shivered. “Fuck, I…” he seemed to forget how to speak a moment, “yeah.”

Annie raised her head. Her eyes were shiny when she called: “Arlert?”

On the bed, in a daze, he didn’t remember getting there. And they didn’t kiss, didn’t touch, just held him. Mainly Eren. He could smell him, this close. Now, kissing him — would she feel left out? — Eren, palming him roughly through his chinos. “You want this, too?”

Armin nodded. “What do you…” going quiet as it struck him that perhaps Eren, like him, hadn’t thought about this in a while.

“Strip,” he told him. “I want to see you.”

Armin unbuttoned himself with trembling fingers. Eren drank him in silently, the same unabashed desire in his eyes.

“You’re beautiful, both of you,” Eren muttered, flushed up to his ears — Annie bit her lip — and Armin felt ten times warmer than he had before. Eren seemed at a loss for what to do with himself after this revelation.

“Armin,” he croaked, nuzzling him, reaching for her. “Annie.” She stretched herself out languidly on the bed, eliciting a low sigh. Armin still felt overwhelmed. “You wanna go first, or…?” he grunted, nudging him with his shoulder, and Armin realised he meant him.

Armin scowled. “You were busy.”

“Now I’m not.” Licked his lips, hesitant, then said bravely: “Want me to suck you?”

Armin stared blankly at him. Even Annie made a little huffing noise in the back of her throat.

“I meant it,” Eren grumbled, going pink again. “I want to.”

Annie made no effort to conceal her amusement; Armin scoffed in retort. Eren took him by the shoulder.

“You trust me, yeah?” he muttered, and the sudden switch to undertones told him that he had not had much practise.

In an effort to save face, Armin said: “I’ll do it first.”

Eren stopped dead. “Shit, Armin.”

“Let me try,” he insisted. He did not add that he was worried he wouldn’t be able to control himself.

Eren shivered with delight, kissing him. “O.K., O.K.” Then put him on his knees — must’ve known, then, what he really wanted — and he ached for what was going to happen. It was Eren who sighed, offering himself promptly.

So Armin kissed it. Eren gasped a little, which was encouragement enough to continue; kissing, tonguing the head, until he was pushed back and Eren was muttering his name, yes, his name, stricken, and it was the same heady rush of infatuation as in dreams, only dizzyingly strong. So Armin took it in his mouth and the hand in his hair drew a fist, tugging him forward. Annie’s weight shifted, came around his back, her mouth soft and sure over his nape and — he moaned drunkenly when he felt her hands curl around him, and Eren cursed, tugged a bit harder.

Armin felt him hit the back of his throat and gagged; Eren cupped his face, mumbling feverish apologies. He wanted Eren at his back, touching him, kissing him; he wanted him inside, he wanted to be fucked, giddy and terrified at the thought, but not in front of anyone else, not Annie.

In the end, Eren didn’t let him finish and he was left gasping, indignant. “Don’t wanna come like that,” he mumbled. “You O.K.?”

“Fine,” Armin grunted, sitting up and blotting at his mouth. Annie kissed his cheek tentatively. “Oi,” he muttered, reaching back for her, “you don’t have to —” melting when she pumped him again, and he moaned “— God, will you just — ah!”

“Shh,” she breathed, catching his thighs and digging in lightly with her nails. “Not yet.”

Armin groaned, his hips churning on air. Eren just laughed hoarsely, leaning in close enough to kiss but speaking soft instead: “How do you want us?”

So Armin rolled over onto his back and Annie was straddling him, cautious; he understood, vaguely, what he was supposed to do and took her by the hips, sank. He felt Eren come up behind him again, nipping his jaw, sitting him up, pulling him back by the waist and grinding recklessly against his ass and — it was too real, all of a sudden.

“Wait —” he gasped, arms back to brace himself insufficiently. “Eren, I can’t.” Too many variables outside of his control; diseases, the lack of any proper lubrication — he felt again like an obstruction, the weight of reality becoming an insufferable inconvenience.

Eren didn’t let go, kissed his neck: “We don’t have to.” The same anxiety echoed in his voice; Armin was light-headed.

It was Annie who gripped his chin, said: “Arlert.” She drew herself up on her knees and sank down slow. It felt good enough that he could relax, somewhat.

Eren, to his credit, wrapped his arms around them both and started to move in tandem. Clumsy, because none of them had ever done this before, but Annie was solid in his lap, kissing him pointedly, and Eren behind him, holding his hips, nose in his hair — he was getting taller every month, it seemed — this was such a simplistic, base way to express affection; Armin tried to think, but it was easier to hold her waist, kiss down her throat to the little jumping pulse in her neck — read once about this, because he was curious about the stimuli that was all — and her breath stuttered, walls squeezing him aptly.

He knew he wanted to move faster but couldn’t, pinned between their bodies, too warm to think with any kind of clarity.

“Wait,” he gasped. “Wait, you two.”

“Hunh?”

“What?”

Their responses were almost synchronous; Armin had to chuckle. “I-I can’t really do much, from this position.”

“Oh.” Eren was sheepish. Annie held his gaze.

“Move back a little,” Armin said to her.

She raised her eyebrows, but obliged; she was pretty enough, he supposed, leaning back on her hands against his knees and exposing herself inadvertently — he didn’t look down, figuring that would be too much. She didn’t look away as she sank onto him again, but her eyes fluttered when he twitched, unable to help his body’s reaction.

She tried a couple more times, panting slyly, grunting in satisfaction once she found whatever she was looking for: “There, Arlert.”

Eren perked up. Armin was trying not to make any noise. Her brow creased.

“Oi,” she said, tapping his chin again. Armin squeezed her hips out of reflex.

Eren reached around and cupped her breast; she hummed, arching forward and Armin wondered if this was too far, too private, but she rocked faster atop him, grabbing his idle hand to place it on her other breast, huffing: “you can touch me, Arlert,” and who was he to refuse?

Eren throbbed insistently against the small of his back; Armin was nearly there himself.

“Annie,” he hissed, “stop, I’m going to —”

She shuddered, raising her hips. “Pull out.”

He did so, and Eren, wrapping a hand around his dick, nuzzling his jaw, groaned, “‘rmin, let me help you —”

And Armin grunted, shunting his body back like they were wrestling. Eren’s mouth curled, capturing him in a feverish half-kiss, their skin wickedly hot like the aftermath of a Shift; he kept fumbling over Armin’s name between rough strokes, kissing harder, thumbing him; Armin, curling into his chest, felt his eyes roll back, knew he was going to scream, so close it almost hurt to be touched; knew that Eren wasn’t going to stop pushing this time until he snapped.

He tried to gasp, or call out but his voice was halting. Ended up coming in Eren’s fist and across his own stomach. When he recovered, Annie was still there, flushed and considering him through her bangs. She also had her hand between her knees, grunted something like: “Jaeger.”

“Armin?” Eren’s voice was thick at his ear, a little strained. He was still hard.

Armin moaned stupidly.

“Shh. That was good, you’re good — you rest for now,” Eren pecked him on the cheek, brief and brusque before he disentangled himself, crept over to Annie and teased, “oi, oi, we’re not done,” hefting her by the waist, he threw her left leg haphazardly over his shoulder and sank into her cunt without preamble.

Armin heard him grunt as she hissed, cursing — turning his head to catch the sight of them, tangled up in each other — Annie coiled her arms around Eren, snarling: “hurry up and fuck me, Jaeger” and they went at it for about half a minute, hard enough to make the headboard rattle, before she lost herself with a hoarse shout; Eren muffled a growl into her neck, pinning her to the mattress — he couldn’t keep the momentum going after he spent.

Annie caught his eye and blushed, like she hadn’t expected him to watch. “Sh-shit, Arlert.”

The uneasy feeling returned, more like envy or guilt — he really shouldn’t be here at all.

“Mm. Armin?” Eren, unravelling himself from her with a fleeting buss to her forehead. “How was that?”

Armin didn’t know if talking was even necessary.

“Arlert?” Now Annie was up, crawling over and gripping him by the shoulders. “Speak.”

He sighed through his nose. “You really need to work on your approach; you’re much too brusque for this.”

Annie stared blankly at him. Eren came over and kissed her jaw, making her suck in a breath. “Ease up with him, yeah?” he chided, thumbing circles into her hips.

“Shut up, Jaeger; he’s fine,” she huffed, pressing into the contact nonetheless.

“I’m right here, you know,” Armin groaned, and for the first time he felt left out in a way that didn’t leave him guilt-ridden.

Eren smirked. “C'mere, then.”

So Armin sat up and turned into his embrace; Eren kept him close, Annie did not reach for him so easily.

I don’t know if this was a mistake. I don’t know what I’m going to tell Mikasa, or if I’ll tell her anything. Maybe she’ll know. Maybe she already knew. I’m not going to think about this now.

“Armin,” said Annie quietly.

Armin hesitated. “Yes?”

“Do you think,” she began, “that you would come to regret this, to-morrow?”

Eren shivered. “No.”

“Not you,” she said, impatient, “I mean Arlert.”

What he said was: “I don’t want to lose either of you.”

Eren pulled them closer, while Annie offered him a tired smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

a/n: I still can't quite believe I wrote this, but I guess I've said that before and it's never stopped me! That said, it's likely going to be a one-time deal. Your feedback is highly appreciated, even if it's not always inherently positive or negative; I like making people think or feel something, even with fanfiction.

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sserpente · 7 years ago

Text

In a heartbeat (Chapter 11)

A/N: Hope you have a nice week, everybody! Here’s a new chapter to make your Monday a little more bearable! ☺

Find all chapters on my masterlist!

“I’m not a champ at physics but if the hold of the dagger is heavier than the blade, shouldn’t I throw the knife by gripping the light end?”

Loki chuckled darkly. He was standing so close to you the body heat radiating off of him clouded your conscience. Every movement he made posed yet another distraction to what he was trying to teach you, regardless of how interested you were.

He had had a point—it was essential you knew how to properly defend yourself and oddly, when you had gone to sleep in Loki’s apartment next to each other after a wonderful hot shower, you had been looking forward to some adventurous hand-to-hand combat, where you finally had an excuse to touch him and explore his body.

Were you naughty for thinking that? In this very situation? Your life was in danger, one of your best friends had died, you had almost died and been enslaved and all you could do before falling asleep was wondering about how godly Loki would look naked. What was this? Some kind of self-defence mechanism your mind was developing? A tame version of Stockholm syndrome? Loki wasn’t your captor, you were very well aware of that, however.

“Theoretically, you are right. But if I let you throw these daggers with the blade in hand, you are going to cut yourself, little minx.” He explained tauntingly.

“You’re acting like I have never known violence before. I told you I am taking self-defence classes. Why aren’t we doing that first? Teach me how to throw a punch the way you would do it.”

“The people we are dealing with on this planet are, if anything, humanoid. They will crush you with their thumb, (Y/N), that is why you will be staying away from the battlefield.”

“I wasn’t planning on going at war, Loki.”

Pausing, he looked you directly in the eye and pressed his lips together to a thin line.

“You are already in one,” His expression darkened and for just a split second, you believed to have caught regret sparkling in his blue eyes. It was gone as soon as you noticed.

“Bend your wrist back toward your forearm.” Loki then commanded, pushing your legs apart for better balance. You almost moaned when his hands touched your thighs, his hips bumping against your back.

“Which is your dominant leg?”

“Right one,” you whispered.

The God of Mischief nodded.

“Place your weight on it like this.” Again, he reached for your thighs. You swallowed thickly, starting to believe that he was doing that just to tease you. He couldn’t know, of course, about your growing feelings for him, still, however, he seemed to be using you to fight his own boredom in between trying to figure out how to get back to Asgard and defeat Hela.

Well, if he continued like this, you certainly didn’t mind.

“When you swing the knife forward, you shift your weight from your dominant leg to your non-dominant leg. And make sure to keep enough distance between the blade and your head unless you fancy a new haircut.”

“Funny, really,” you grumbled, rolling your eyes all the while fighting a smile.

“Now throw. Let the dagger slip from your grasp and let your body follow forward. Throw.”

You did. Loki’s dagger slashed through the air, rotating more or less horizontally until hitting the plane wreck—only did it not stick like the one he himself had thrown to demonstrate it to you. Granted, you had focused on the dancing of those gorgeous muscles under his dark leather armour of his in the process, still, the result had been impressive.

“You will need to apply more strength,” he remarked when he tilted his head and watched the dagger fall to the ground.

“Really? No ‘well done for your first try’?”

Smirking, his blue eyes locked with yours. You couldn’t tell whether it was a minute or an hour that passed until Thor made an appearance. Valkyrie was right behind him. She only shot you a disgusted glance, raising an eyebrow at the dagger on the dirty ground.

“Any news from Heimdall?” Loki turned away from you just long enough for you to figure out by yourself how to throw the next dagger at the back of the plane wreck as he handed it to you.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Thor shaking his head.

“Not yet. Thanks to you, he is on the run. He might be busy,” he replied sarcastically. The God of Mischief rolled his eyes.

Valkyrie opened a bottle of beer. “We need to get to Asgard as soon as possible.”

“Yes, I know but Heimdall is keeping an eye on Hela. We need to be careful and attack when she is least prepared.”

Sighing, you turned back to Loki.

“Did you two talk? I mean… did she apologise?”

Frowning, he opened his mouth. “She did not,”

“But is she still acting this… cold?” A great pun you had not intended to use. You resisted the urge to slap your palm against your forehead.

“I don’t believe that should be any concern of yours, little minx.”

“If you two don’t get along, you are hardly in the condition to save the world together and thus, it affects me as well,” you lied, your tone smug and teasing.

Loki took the hint. He smirked mischievously at you.

“Throw the dagger.” He said, ending the conversation.

It was then you overheard Valkyrie’s voice, turning your attention back to her and Thor.

“…if we keep that stupid mortal girl around.”

Growling, you gripped the hold of the dagger tighter and resumed the correct position. Place your weight on your dominant leg, bend your wrist back toward your forearm.

Just when you were about to throw the dagger, however, you turned, focusing all of your anger on the fierce Valkyrie only a few feet away from you. There was a slight chance you were going to hit Thor but you were willing to take the risk.

You let the blade slip from your grasp—and hit Valkyrie right in her thigh.

A painful scream escaped her lips, followed by a fake gasp on your behalf. Loki’s eyes widened as he stared at the bleeding wound his dagger had caused, then turned his gaze back to you to shoot you a reproachful look.

“Stupid girl, you did that on purpose!” Valkyrie shrieked.

“I swear I didn’t, I’m so sorry! I’ve just learned how to do that. I’m so sorry.” You fought hard to hold back a laugh. You knew of course that Valkyrie just like Thor and Loki possessed supernatural healing abilities and that it wouldn’t take long for her to recover—you hadn’t actually planned on killing her, after all.

Still, and that was the part that scared you the most, the sight of her injury filled you with satisfaction, your revenge soothed for now. She deserved it. She had insulted Loki after using his body for her pleasure and she had offended you. There was no excuse. This woman was a nightmare.

Valkyrie stormed off, muttering vulgar curses in the process. Loki let out a taunting sigh.

“You did that on purpose, did you not?”

“No,” you answered, sounding entirely unaffected. “I was aiming for her head.” He chuckled when you shrugged.

You were sweating by the time Loki was done with your training. It had taken you another three hours of throwing knives on end, your arm aching and protesting with every movement, that he finally agreed on showing you the basic strategies of combat.

Three seconds in, he had thrown you to the ground effortlessly, mocking you for all the mistakes you were making. Apparently, your self-defence teacher hadn’t been so good, after all.

Grumbling, you scratched the back of your hand as you followed the God of Mischief back inside, ready to fall onto your provisory bed and rest your limbs until you had recovered.

You even ignored Valkyrie who, appalled by yours and Loki’s arrival, was lost in a heated conversation with Thor. Her thigh had healed already… unfortunately.

“I need a shower,” you murmured, eyeing your wet clothes in a disgusted manner as you looked down at yourself. Loki chuckled.

“What you need are new clothes. A shower will do nothing if you keep walking around in these garments. You have not changed them since the day I met you.” He stated dryly, as if the explanation was logical.

“I can’t just snap my fingers and magic some new clothes on me, Loki. If I could, I wouldn’t be complaining.”

The God of Mischief only tilted his head in response. You had learned by now he always did that when he pondered over something, intrigued, fascinated or alerted.

“Loki?” Thor waved at him, urging him on to join their conversation. “I know how we will get back to Asgard.”

Loki frowned. “Do tell.”

“You see that gateway? The big one?” He briefly pointed at the red glowing smoke pipe outside, outshining the sun. It was hideous.

Valkyrie nodded. “It’s the Devil’s Anus.”

“The what?” Blinking, the Thunderer shook his head.

“I have heard of it before. The Grandmaster mentioned it briefly when he invited me to his house.” Loki explained thoughtfully.

“Well, I didn’t know it was called that when I picked it. I was able to reach Heimdall again, Loki, that gateway will take us straight to Asgard. It will take us home.” All of a sudden, Thor sounded hopeful—dreamy, even. As if finally, he was going to this city he had been dreaming of for years. If only this were the case.

Silently, your gaze wandered back and forth between the two brothers.

“You do realise we will need a ship a lot stronger than the ones we used to get to Helheim? And even then it’s still risky. We might as well get ourselves killed.” Valkyrie tossed in. It seemed like the only thing this woman ever did was opening beer bottles. So she did now, taking a big gulp and then shooting you an evil glare.

Rolling your eyes, you crossed your arms and leaned back. Your arm was still throbbing like someone had trampled on it.

“Yes, I know, I know. That’s where Loki comes in. I have a plan, brother.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” he mumbled in response. You barely managed to hold back your giggling. Even if his joke was, given the circumstances, anything but nice or funny… you caught yourself laughing quietly.

You really had fallen for this man. When the realisation hit you, you gasped for air like a drowning kitten.

“You made friends with the Grandmaster. Loki, we need one of his ships. One that is big enough to get us back home safely.”

You would actually get to see Asgard then. The place you had read about in books about Norse Mythology… it was impressive. Perhaps… perhaps this was, apart from meeting the God of Mischief, the only positive thing about the miserable situation you were in.

“You are talking about stealing the access codes to his security system…” He trailed of, frowning at the ground.

Thor nodded. “Could you do that?”

“The Grandmaster will hold one of his famous contests of champions tonight. He will be distracted. It will not be too difficult.”

“Then do it,” Valkyrie spat wrathfully. You resisted the urge to steal one of Loki’s daggers and stab her once more.

Loki simply ignored her harsh words and instead smiled at Thor as if he were about to steal cookies from the kitchen. Your heart skipped a beat when he suddenly turned to you.

“You come with me, little minx.”

He didn’t need to tell you twice.

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decorous-biohazart · 7 years ago

Text

Chosen For This (Rite of Champions Contest Entry)

Entry piece on Cassandra the Peacekeeper for the Rite of Champions For Honor event.

“Cassandra!” A voice boomed through the cottage. The tone low and intimidating, radiating with anger demanding she who the name belonged to come forward.

This was a sound the small girl heard many times in her life, nearly every day as she was dragged forth by a verbal chain to her father whenever he summoned her. She could almost feel the chaffing around her neck from the theoretical collar as she inched forward from around the corner to see her father pacing around the room on an animal skin rug; his face almost as red as the setting rays of sun leaking through the grimy window.

“Y-yes, father.” the teenager answered, not in question but in immediate submission that she had obeyed his order as he swung himself around to face her. The woman flinched as his arm raised akin to the nature that promised a harsh strike before his palm flung downward and threw something against the wooden floor.

A dagger. One with a red handle akin to the deep hue of wine and an ornate hilt attached to a sinister, curved blade.

“What is this!?” Her father boomed, the veins in his neck swelling, “What did I tell you about stealing!?”

Cassandra shifted uncomfortably in her night gown, placing her hands behind her back unable to meet his eyes.

“I-I didn’t steal it, father, it was a gift from Apollyon.” she explained sheepishly.

“Apollyon,” the man echoed, “From the rogue Legion? You accepted gifts from those zealots?”

The words were forcing Cassandra’s heart further into her stomach as she tried to meet her father’s eyes, as if one look would cement her ability to speak to him on even ground.

“They are not zealots, father, they’re-” she tried to speak quickly knowing the swat across the mouth was coming for arguing but she did so anyway as fast as she could before she felt her cheek burn as she collided with the floor.

“They are savages, Cassandra! Traitors! Beasts! I told you to stay away from them!" Her father boomed, his voice able to rival the booming sound of the Ashfeld volcano erupting.

Tears began to sting Cassandra's eyes and stain her cheeks, but she tried to push herself to her feet. But her father was relentless as he pressed his foot into her side to prevent her from rising.

"Do not get up, do not look at me. You have already shown to me that you believe these animals have better teachings than your own father," his voice began to crack, "That you would speak against my will on their behalf. Are you stupid, girl?"

Cassandra struggled to breathe, her ribs barely able to push against the boot of her assailant as she tried to draw in air. But she felt her breath beginning to quicken as something welled in her chest. A familiar, comforting heat that rose through her heart and into her throat.

Anger.

When she did not answer, the man grunted and shoved her down again before turning his back, the dagger clattering against his foot as he walked away from the girl.

"Leave. Clearly you have lost your way."

In a twist of painful mocking, she felt pleased by that proposal. That she would be allowed to leave only to have that hope squashed when the prospect of doing exactly what he told her would make no difference.

The words of the Knight, Apollyon, rang in her ears as she felt her vision begin to blur.

"Wolves are to be set free. They mold their own destiny, those who seek to control them are weak and afraid. Not you, Cassandra, I see that wild spark in you. I believe it will come to serve you well."

Then, just as she did when she was given those words from the Knight clad in black, she felt the hilt of the dagger weigh heavy in her hands. Adrenaline surged in her veins as she felt an indescribable rage pulse through her body.

He was weak, she was strong, but because of the way he mentally and physically abused her she could not fully bring herself to believe such things against his word.

Not until he was gone.

Then a screech, no, a cackle erupted from Cassandra's throat as she charged forward, the dagger raised above her head.

She felt freedom. She felt power. Waiting for the sweet moment that she would feel her problems melt away with the plunge of the weapon into flesh.

But it never came.

Instead she felt a bone-crushing grip close around her wrists, almost causing her to drop the dagger.

Her father glared at her, a piercing glare of raging eyes that quenched any fire of anger in the girl's heart with fear.

"Stupid girl." he muttered before shoving her to the ground with a bellowing roar. Cassandra felt her arm bend beneath her body as she let out a cry of pain upon impact with the cold floor.

She could hear the footsteps of her father, but they were not approaching her. Instead they were approaching the larder before she heard the loud smash of glass as the odor of wine filled the air.

Then, he returned, a smashed bottle in his hand and a promise of death in his eyes.

Then, all that she felt she could do was run. At least, she should have run, but the thought of the shame of running from her father again completely eclipsed her fear of death.

She lunged again, but her father was faster. Grabbing her throat and lifting her off the ground as she clasped onto his large wrist with one hand.

Cassandra's attacker carried her towards the door as she felt her windpipe crushing under the cold grip before sunlight poured over her skin as she was thrown backwards into the cool evening air through the front door. She tumbled a few times before coming to a stop, dust flooding her mouth and nostrils as she began to cough; unable to see her father approaching from the doorway through her watering eyes.

This was it. She was dead. But she was not afraid.

She would die knowing that she had, even for just a moment, shifted the power from the strong to the weak. Her arm ached, her lungs burned, and her throat was already welling up with bruises. But the young warrior cared not, she was able to look her father in the face as he reached up to plunge the broken bottle down onto her and not feel fear.

Then, a deep part of her shifted, and her hands moved on their own. In a blur she felt the heavy, comforting weight of the dagger in her hands again before her arms extended, a loud pop from her elbow almost overcoming the sound of her screaming.

Then she felt warm. Starting in her hands, then into her arms and across her lap. A moment later, Cassandra opened her eyes to see why.

The dagger was plunged into her father's neck, his eyes wide and mouth open as he choked for air only to spurt up blood. The thick, oil-like liquid coated her arms as the lifeless figure tumbled to the side onto the hard ground.

Cassandra felt no pain, not even in her broken arm nor from the blows to her face. Endorphins gave her nothing but a feeling of immense power.

As her hands shook with the slick blood on her fingers she still managed to keep hold of the dagger, staring at it. The dark red from the wound she inflicted seeped over the handle and mingled together in a single array of beauty.

She was amazed, not able to take her eyes off the dagger until she felt a hand on her shoulder. Looking up, she expected to see the clawed hand of Apollyon resting on her shoulder, offering her to stand and relish her victory.

But instead, she saw the creased brow of a man over two piercing eyes. A sword on his hilt and a crest on his breastplate showed that he was not of Blackstone, but of local law enforcement. She tried to open her mouth to speak but was immediately silence as blackness enveloped her consciousness.

Eventually she woke in a cell. Hay lining the floor and cold bars keeping her walled within bland stone walls.

And the dagger was gone.

Cassandra screamed, a wordless pleading for the dagger to be returned to her as her head buzzed with hysteria.

She wanted it back, she needed it back. The tool of her salvation, symbol of her strength, it was taken from her again by yet another person who wanted to inflict their control upon her.

Like a drug stronger than any opiate, she wanted more. And for days sat in that cell, only eating and drinking to maintain her strength for when she would find a way to free herself and tear that man apart.

Soon, she thought that chance would never come. She had learned the layouts of every block she was put in, the flaws of every cell only to be moved to another when she was close to success.

So as she sat with her arms over her knees tucked to her chest with her head down, Cassandra expected the sound of clanking pauldrons to be the armor of one of the guards bringing her a meal.

She looked up with a feral growl, looking at the face of the guard who took her captor. But upon closer look she saw the slack of his face.

Looking down, she saw the barbed sword protruding from his chest before he was pushed aside and the sword raised again.

Foolishly enough, Cassandra flinched believing she was in range for another strike. But instead the sword collided with her cell and broke the door loose, looking up from behind her hands as she heard the door creak open.

Then in they stepped.

Clad in dark armor, melted down iron of the cowardly Knight that had left her to die, was Apollyon.

And she had the dagger Cassandra gave her, dropping to the floor at the girl's feet.

"Come now, on your feet, you're free now." she encouraged.

Despite her appearance, the blood on her sword and skull-faced helmet, Apollyon's voice was soft and welcoming. A tone Cassandra had not heard since her mother left.

But there it was again, the burning sensation raging through her torso. Before she could think, the girl dived for the dagger and lunged it directly at Apollyon.

But the warmonger was faster.

She raised her sword and deflected Cassandra's strike with a storm of sparks as she tumbled to the side from the momentum, striking her head against the bars and feeling the warm sensation of blood trickle down her temple.

Even though her rescuer did not look prepared to strike back, Cassandra was still prepared to retaliate as her breaths came out in raspy growls. But she did not know why she attacked, no matter how hard she thought she could not pinpoint the source of her anger.

Apollyon's head turned, her gear clattering as she looked to the guard lying on the floor.

"He was yours, wasn't he?" she asked in her smooth yet powerful voice.

Cassandra nodded angrily, even though she felt only confusion in her chest. How did she know that? That man was hers to kill, she had waited far too long to escape this cage to be able to take his life.

The Blackstone chuckled, striding forward as her cape fluttered behind her before she knelt down to Cassandra's level and put a clawed gauntlet on her shoulder.

"You are right to be mad, and were right to attack me for it. One who vultures the prey of another is nothing but a thief, and I apologize."

Cassandra began to calm down, moreso than that she began to feel at peace. A weight on her heart lifting as the person who could have easily killed her chose to meet her on her level and apologize instead.

Something her father never did.

She felt her knees begin to buckle as her hands lowered with the dagger before she collapsed forward as tears streamed from her eyes.

Apollyon did not budge, instead opting to set her sword down on the blood stained straw as she returned the embrace.

"I-I-I," Cassandra's voice shook with the earthquake of emotion attempting to escape through her words with seismic force, "I... I am a wolf."

A long moment of silence hung in the air before the ironclad woman leaned backward and cupped her hands around Cassandra's, closing her hands around the dagger.

"Yes, you are. Your father was a coward. One who incited control on others for his own gain, but you were stronger. That is why you lived. You were chosen to enact a righteous power upon the weak. Those who cannot stand on their own two feet and do the duty they were ordained to do."

The woman stood to her full height, her stature that akin to something divine as she stood with an imposing stare through the holes of her helmet. A hand extended forward elegantly, Cassandra accepting it by carefully placing her hand in Apollyon's eclipsing palm.

"You overcame your father for you are strong. You had come to that realization through desperate circumstances, the only way wolves can truly understand their potential.

"There are others like you in this decrepit world under the thumb of those with too much pride or money." Apollyon shifted her gaze to the dead guard in the hallway, Cassandra's eyes feeling compelled to follow.

"Our currency, our proof of strength, is blood. And your blades-" she turned her head back to the young woman, "- will be stained with it."

That day, Cassandra found her purpose. Clad in a hood and metal mask, she eliminated her opponents one at a time. Every time they fell, as they stood upon flimsy ideals and stood no match for her conviction.

But no enemy compared to her first, nor did their blood smell quite as infatuating as the mixture of iron and wine that stained her arms when she killed her father.

Even with hundreds of enemies fallen to her, none would compare to the first that stained her blade.

#For Honor #Fanfiction #Contest #Rite of Champions #Writing #Musing #Fan Content #Cassandra #Cassandra The Peacekeeper

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stereksecretsanta · 8 years ago

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Merry Christmas, @rubyredhoodling!

For rubyredhoodling, who likes BAMF Stiles (and Derek), spark Stiles, Derek comes back, and there may be just a small hint of mafia au. Season's greetings, and I hope you like it!

Read on AO3

*****

Priorities

There were hunters in his town.

Stiles sat behind his desk, picking up the plaque reading "Sheriff Stilinski," only mildly defaced by the removal of his dad's first initial, and turning it over in his hands. There had been five people who held the office of sheriff between the two Stilinskis; the first, and only one elected to the position, had been a deputy that had ties to hunters but hadn't taken part in any activities that could lead to firing or even disciplinary charges. He'd laid low long enough for things to settle down and then used his connections to mount a successful campaign to remove John Stilinski from office - because surely all of the dramatic violence in Beacon Hills had to be due to the sheriff not doing his job.

The former deputy's hunter regime had lasted a year before he was removed from office in disgrace. Not for the harassment and humiliation of anyone even vaguely connected with the supernatural (or somewhat brown in skintone), but for having so grossly mismanaged the department's budget that the county only found out the sheriff's office had run out of money when checks bounced. The forensic accountant that was appointed as interim sheriff stayed for a month, presenting a preliminary audit and her resignation at the same time. The next sheriff had died in what was referred to as either mysterious circumstances or a hunting accident, depending on who was speaking and who was listening, followed by the fourth sheriff resigning by way of an email sent after he got into his car and kept driving after attempting to investigate said mysterious hunting accident. His family had to stop unpacking and reload the moving truck to join him.

By the time the fifth sheriff in two years had been appointed, Stiles had resigned from the FBI and come home on a mission. If his dad wouldn't leave - and he wouldn't - then Beacon Hills had to become a safe place for his dad to live, and not just within the perimeter of mountain ash and totems and runestones and every other type of protection magic that Stiles could find to place around their house. The forces of evil couldn't even see the house, but it wasn't as if his dad would agree to stay inside it forever.

If the fifth sheriff had contented herself with accepting the drop in the murder rate and number of animal attacks, she might have lasted. As it was, she had arrived one night at the high school in time to see the longest-serving deputy remaining on the force go up in flames, a number of people growing fangs and claws, another set of people shooting at everything that moved, and one Stiles Stilinski, holding a baseball bat and smiling. A few tumultuous hours later, she'd listened stonily as Scott did his best to explain things while applying pressure to the gunshot wound in her shoulder and Stiles methodically adjusted the scene to reflect the story he was dictating should be told by everyone.

One hunter had deviated from the story, theoretically supporting the fifth sheriff in her quest to find answers. Caught between what was being whispered in her ear and what she gleaned from Scott, the fifth sheriff made the mistake of finding the middle ground between them, the one thing they agreed on: blaming Derek Hale.

Within twelve hours of Derek being brought in and held for questioning, the sheriff's hunter lover was in FBI custody on multiple weapons charges, with more possible charges pending, and the fifth sheriff was implicated in facilitating the transfer of illegal weapons over state and national borders. The blood and DNA samples the fifth sheriff had forced to be taken during Derek's pre-detention medical screening were discovered to be too contaminated to use, lawsuits had been filed, and more than half of the officers on shift had called in sick.

"You fucked up," Stiles had told her when he came in, his hands empty and his clothes casual. "But you can still turn it around."

Maybe if she hadn't fallen so deeply in love with her hunter, she would have listened. If Stiles had had more time to prepare, maybe he would have been able to be more persuasive, or at least diplomatic. Definitely things would've gone better if he'd been able to get his dad to go talk to her, even if it would've meant Stiles was left talking to all the guys on the force that were spending their 'sick' day at a barbecue in the Stilinski back yard.

But, then again, the fifth sheriff thought it was a good idea to respond by threatening to arrest Stiles, so maybe not.

She had been politely asked to leave her position, and less politely invited to cooperate with the FBI into the investigation of her lover's ties to organized crime, before Stiles had finished checking his email as he sat in the police station lobby. Lingering let him give Derek a ride home when he was shortly released from custody without ever being formally arrested. The sincere, formal, and voluminous apologies delivered to Derek by the elected representatives of Beacon Hills carried more than a whiff of 'please don't sue,' and Stiles had to turn away to keep a straight face as Derek thanked them gravely for their commitment to justice.

The impression he had gotten was that they'd beg his dad to come back - they'd done it before, after all. Instead someone had the bright idea of appointing him to the job, anticipating his ten-year plan by at least eight years. Stiles had had to sit there and deal with it as his dad laughed himself sick.

And now, after six years of making damn sure his town was a safe place for all of its citizens, after everything he'd given up and everything he had lost, after a year of peace and calm, there were hunters trying to move back in.

"Sheriff?" One of the baby deputies peeked around the corner, both sets of eyelids blinking convulsively with nerves. "There's someone here to see you."

"Take five," Stiles said, putting the plaque back on his desk as he stood. "I'll speak to them."

There weren't many people in the station; Stiles was a big believer in having his officers out in the community as much as possible, and if it also kept the possibility of casualties down in case of an attack then all the better. That didn't stop all three deputies that were there, even the young naga, from making a point of having a clear line of sight to both Stiles and the visitor. "Alpha... Viel, isn't it? I hadn't been notified you were planning a visit."

"I wasn't aware I had to report my movements to the local law enforcement," the alpha said, still leaning against the wall in the waiting area and examining his fingernails. "This is America. Free country, or haven't you heard?"

"See, I was taught that good manners are important no matter where you are." Stiles swung open the pass-through, breaking the mountain ash line. "But, whatever, you're here now. Did you want to talk out here, or is my office okay?"

Extending one hand, the alpha tilted it from one side to the other, as if critiquing a manicure. "Do you get a lot of werewolves stupid enough to walk into a trap?"

Stiles shrugged and closed the station doors with a gesture. "You tell me, since you walked into someplace you can't walk out of just to have this conversation. I mean, I'm not all that interested in keeping you, but you asked."

"You think you're funny, don't you?" The alpha's claws came out and he lunged forward, laughing when Stiles flinched. "Now that, that was funny."

Waving to his deputies to get them to stand down, Stiles said, "Was there a point? Because I feel like I could probably deliver your lines from the script, and I have actual work to do."

"Does your script include the fact that I've got your pack?"

"It might surprise you to know that comes up a lot," Stiles said. "The only real question I have is whether you're working with the hunters that showed up or if they came here looking for you."

The alpha's smug smile fell and he lunged again, not feinting this time, only to be brought down before Stiles could even lift his hands defensively. His roar cut off with a crunching noise, and Stiles shuddered as something bounced off his foot. "Was that his fang? Did you break his fangs?"

"You're welcome," Derek said, still kneeling firmly on the alpha's back, one hand grinding his face against the floor. "Your dad said to tell you we're having quinoa casserole for dinner."

Stiles groaned. "You should never have told him about that spell I found to unclog his arteries. This reign of terror is endless."

"It would have taken a year off your life, if it didn't kill you," Derek said. "I regret nothing."

The alpha stopped trying to buck Derek off his back, and Stiles squatted down next to him while Derek yanked his head up. "So, you were saying something about my pack."

"They're dead," the alpha said, blood running down his chin. "You're all dead."

"Lydia's fine, she and her mom are at your house with your dad," Derek said, ignoring the alpha's muffled curses as he got pushed into the floor again. "I don't know about any of the others."

Shaking his head, Stiles said, "Bring him, he can go in the special cell while we check on everyone. And we've got hunters, by the way. Cora called in to let me know when they checked into the motel."

Derek grimaced. "I hate that place." It wasn't a new observation, but Stiles didn't feel the need to defend Cora's choice to buy and run the local no-tell establishment. Especially since it might've been partly, a little bit, due to Cora losing a bet with Stiles. Just a little bit, though.

They almost had the alpha in the cell, struggling and cursing, when the front doors blew open and distracted Derek's attention long enough to lose his grip. The alpha didn't waste any more time posturing, making a break for the closest window and ripping his claws through the deputy that happened to be in his way.

"Stop!" Scott's alpha roar did nothing to slow the retreating alpha, but it made Lewis hesitate in reaching for his radio to call for an ambulance. Derek was already kneeling next to Sams, discreetly assessing his injuries and applying his first aid training. Stiles tried to remember if there was anything supernatural about Sams that would require warning the hospital, but if there was he couldn't think of it.

Warning his people was the next priority. There were probably municipalities that did not have codes in place for supernatural shenanigans, but it hadn't made sense not to anticipate Beacon Hills being Beacon Hills. Scott was trying to demand answers, but only Lewis was paying attention to him; Stiles didn't have time to deal with it as he got a hold of Yang's shoulders, turning the naga to bring their eyes in contact. "Hey. You with us? Breathe, deep breaths, everything's fine now. You protected everyone as much as you could."

"I froze," Yang muttered, ducking his head. "Sams--"

"Will be fine," Stiles said. "And freezing was better than charging in."

The wail of the ambulance siren cut through the air and Stiles gave Yang a final nod with eye contact before moving to make sure the path was clear for the emergency crew to enter. Not for the first time, Stiles contemplated briefly whether kidnapping his dad would be a viable strategy for actually leaving Beacon Hills behind.

***

"Derek, do you think the spark is gone?"

Rolling his eyes, Derek joined Stiles where he was leaning on the hood of an anonymous dark blue Camry, significant mostly for how hard it would be to distinguish from the number of Toyotas on the street. "Stop trying to make 'Spark' happen. Deaton using a corny metaphor does not make 'Spark' a thing."

"Hey, it's a thing! It's my thing!" Stiles spread his arms and wriggled his fingers. "I didn't spend all those years in sparky magic school to be--"

"Austin Powers, really?" Derek's look of disdain would have crushed a lesser being. Luckily, Stiles was used to it.

"I need to use references old enough for you to get them, since you're practically a senior citizen." Stiles gave his best angelic smile. "Don't think I missed that you actually attended bingo last Sunday."

With a sigh, Derek said, "I go to bingo every Sunday, or did you forget that someone promised the Daughters of Thoth that we would attend to them on a regular basis?"

"Oh." Stiles rubbed the back of his neck, dislodging the collar of his plaid shirt. "I kinda wondered why they hadn't said anything, but I haven't had time to get to them."

"You can't do everything yourself," Derek said. "No matter how much you keep pretending that you can."

Sputtering, Stiles waved his arms around. "Dude! Not fair! I'm here specifically waiting for you, just so that I'm not going alone to deal with these assholes."

Derek's lips twitched. "And it only took how long to convince you not to go by yourself?"

"About as long as it took to realize I wouldn't end up having to stop to protect you." Stiles pushed himself off the hood and picked up the baseball bat that he'd leaned against the side of the car. "Although I'm still waiting for you to realize how sexy I am and agree to post-fight makeouts."

The flick of Derek's finger against the back of Stiles's neck was a brief sting, and a familiar one. "Focus."

"Right." Stiles climbed into the passenger seat, keeping one hand on his bat and the other near the release for his seatbelt. After a few minutes of driving in silence, he said, "I bet you five bucks that they ambush us on the blind curve behind Old Mill Road."

Derek took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at Stiles. "No bet. Except they may be smart enough to have one wait, pretend they're not working together so that they surprise us when the evil cavalry rushes in."

"Okay, one, the fact that you just said 'evil cavalry' turned me on just a little bit," Stiles said. "And you're totally right, they are absolutely that dramatic. Do you think we should stop early and, like, walk in? Do our own big show of 'ha HA, I am not alone!'"

The noise Derek made would've been called a huff by anyone who hadn't put the time in over the course of years to recognize it as a laugh. "You just don't want anyone to know you're driving to the scene of a crime in a sensible mid-size sedan."

"With an impeccable safety rating," Stiles said mournfully. "It's terrible."

"You'll live." The blind curve was coming up, and Derek slowed just enough to lock eyes with Stiles and share a brief nod before he gunned it around the corner. The spikes in the road made the car fishtail, but Derek's reflexes were good enough to keep the car on the road, pulling to a skidding stop just a few feet from the treeline.

Stiles stepped smoothly from the car, bat hanging loose in his grip. "You have no business in my town."

The hunter was just a little older than Derek, with hair that touched his collar and a brown leather jacket. Stiles had thought the man was a waste of oxygen when he'd read some of the reports from the official background check and the unofficial victim and witness statements from his hunting activities, but the fact that the man was tall and good-looking somehow made it worse.

"You're harboring fugitives," the hunter said, flashing a smile that made it clear he knew exactly how handsome he was. "Doesn't seem right, a lawman sheltering the lawless."

In a flat voice, completely free of inflection, Stiles said, "Oh, what a clever argument, I am undone."

"You think you're clever," the hunter said. "You got Brent all riled up - thanks for confirming you're a spellcaster, by the way, good to know - but you don't know as much as you think you do, and you're definitely not going to live to see morning."

"The only thing I don't know is why you're here," Stiles said, his grip on the bat tightening. "But I'm guessing you felt like destroying something beautiful."

The hunter smiled again. "Fight Club. Great movie."

"You'd be the type to think so." Stiles knocked the bat against the inside of his sneaker before bringing it up to his shoulder. "So, who goes first, do you go first?"

Raising a pistol he'd been holding in the shadows next to his leg, the hunter fired three shots directly to center mass. Stiles stood impassively as his protective spell took the impact that the kevlar didn't, preventing the shots from even bruising him. Whatever magical kryptonite the hunter thought he had, he either hadn't deployed it yet or it hadn't worked. "My turn." Stiles lifted the bat, dug a foot into the ground, and swung as if he was trying to send the hunter's jaw to the outfield.

The hunter had his own magical protection, but it wasn't enough; the crunch of teeth and bone was loud in the air as blood spattered onto the trees behind them. "I'd say you could still leave, but that's not an option," Stiles said, swinging the bat again, this time at the hunter's stomach. "You can still live long enough to go to prison, if you surrender very quickly."

More shots rang out, one coming close enough that it tore through the shoulder of the overshirt Stiles was wearing. Turning his head slowly from one side to the other, Stiles felt a coldness rise inside him, creeping over him and lifting the corners of his lips. "Evil cavalry's here. Let's see how that goes."

Five targets, closing in to surround him; his own backup lurking in the darkness and making sure no more surprises were hiding in reserve. Cover fire for the sixth and primary target to escape. Car behind him, partial shield, but also a risk if someone thought to light up the gas tank. Moving quickly, Stiles broke the main hunter's shoulder with a strong sweep of his bat before seizing his neck, holding him up long enough to block two shots before throwing him down towards the trees.

"Down," he heard, but he'd already stooped to pick up the hunter's gun and just turned his head to see Derek fly past, half shifted and running a few steps on all fours before throwing himself in the air and landing in full wolf form with his fangs buried in a hunter's bicep. He always tried to avoid tearing out throats during a fight but it might not matter; the chunk gouged out of the attacker's arm was bleeding so heavily that the man might not make it to the 'ask questions' portion of the night.

Lifting his arm, Stiles listened to his own breath whistling in and out of his chest as if traveling through a huge, empty cavern. One shot, two shots, pause and fire again, shift stance and fire again. Three targets now, with three down, and Stiles was still calm as the coldness blanketed everything except the calculations needed to get through the fight.

The alpha roared, leaping to the top of the car and flashing his eyes red as he looked down at Stiles. After a flicker of a glance, Stiles turned away from him, concentrating on the two hunters still firing in his direction. The alpha wasn't a threat worth thinking about, because Derek was already charging, a blur of black fur and blue eyes dripping a trail of blood from his flashing teeth.

"I'm still willing to let you live," Stiles said, not bothering to raise his voice. "Limited time offer, one time only."

He waited, his head tilted and a faint, pleasant smile on his face, until the crack of another gunshot rang out. He was tired enough that he brought his left hand up, palm flat out, to support with the gesture the spell to stop the bullet that had been aimed at his forehead. It fell to the ground and he shrugged, stretching his arms out before returning fire with the last of the bullets in the gun he'd held onto. "Okay, death it is."

Leisurely, Stiles moved to the closest downed hunter and stepped on the man's hand before taking his weapon and the fresh clip he'd been trying to load. With a wink, Stiles said, "Ah-ah, no trying to be sneaky. Either you're down or you're dead."

"Fuck you!" The hunter was struggling to get off the ground and Stiles allowed it, using the time to slam the clip in place and take the shot to eliminate the next closest target, peering out of the brush cover to attempt another attack and instead getting a neat hole between his eyes for his trouble.

The hunter at his feet managed to get a knife in his hand, lunging towards Stiles with one last burst of strength. Stiles just sidestepped and ended him with a shot to the back of the head, attention momentarily caught by the fight between the werewolves. The alpha had Derek pinned in a canine restraint position, and the coldness in Stiles flickered as he wondered whether the man had veterinary experience. It didn't last long; Derek shifted back to human form and threw the alpha to the ground in a crack of broken bones, and Stiles still had business to attend to.

The one hunter left standing wasn't firing, and Stiles moved to where the leader was rolling on the ground, clutching his broken arm and yelling for his men as best he could through broken teeth and a fractured jaw. Crouching next to him, Stiles pulled the man's backup piece from his ankle holster and placed it in his left hand. "There you go. Sporting chance, right? Can't just kill you if you're helpless - then I'd be just like you!"

"Except, no," Stiles said, standing up. "Because I didn't hunt you down. I didn't go to your home, I didn't set up an ambush for you, and I sure as fuck didn't decide to devote my life to the pursuit of genocide by targeting the most peaceful, helpless people I could find."

The cold and emptiness drained away as Stiles stood and lifted his gun. The hunter dropped the smaller gun Stiles had given him and started pleading, but Stiles fired before he could manage more than one word.

A howl behind him made Stiles turn around, just in time to see the alpha lunge at Derek, fangs bared. Stiles raised the gun, feeling shaky and almost too tired to lift it, but it wasn't necessary; Derek sidestepped smoothly and took hold of the alpha's hair, using it to pull his head back and expose his neck. The arterial spray shot over Derek's claws as he dug deep into the dying alpha's throat, almost as red as the glow overtaking the blue in Derek's eyes.

"There's one unaccounted for," Stiles said, because he'd trained himself so well on prioritizing threats that it was the first of the thousand thoughts in his mind that coalesced into speech.

Jerking his head to one side, Derek said, "Pissed himself back there. Hasn't moved since."

Stiles sighed. "Come out here. If I have to go find you, it won't end well."

"There's one on the ground that might make it," Derek said. "I'll need your shirt."

With a quick glance over Derek's naked, blood-spattered body, Stiles handed the overshirt over. "Yeah, it's a bit chilly out."

"Or I could make bandages." The last hunter crept out of the treeline, white-faced and shaky. Derek sighed as he headed to help the wounded hunter. "They get younger every year."

"Because we're getting old," Stiles said, although the hunter really was a kid. "Jesus, what are you, twelve?"

Shaking his head, the kid said, "Sixteen."

It was enough to make Stiles feel a rush of sympathy which drained the last of his energy and the chill of battle from his system, leaving a welter of confusion where there had been a clear emptiness. "Didn't anybody tell you to be home early on school nights?"

"Werewolves killed my mom and dad," the kid said. "These guys killed the werewolves, said I could help other people. Then we came here."

"Aw, crap." Dropping the gun, Stiles retrieved his baseball bat and ended up using it as a cane when it became apparent that something had turned his ankle into a mass of pain at some point while the adrenaline and emptiness had kept him from feeling it. The kid didn't move throughout, not even when Stiles sank down on the front bumper of the Camry and rested both hands on top of the bat to help himself stay upright. "So, hi, I'm Stiles Stilinski. I'm the sheriff around here, and I don't take kindly to people coming to town and planning to murder people."

Frowning, the kid said, "But--"

"I'm going to stop you there," Stiles said, holding a hand up and then putting it back on the bat when the kid flinched. "The next thing out of your mouth is probably going to piss me off, and I'm tired, so. First off, werewolves are people. Second, while some werewolves are murderous fu-- jerks, so are some humans." Stiles gestured to the hunters on the ground, including the one Derek was stabilizing.

"I've heard swearing before," the kid muttered, but Stiles ignored the comment in favor of continuing.

"Thirdly." Stiles had to pause for a moment before he could remember where he'd been going with that. "If I can handle things legally, I will. I offered the chance to surrender and be arrested, and I didn't kill anybody that didn't try to kill me first - but I'm not about to be stupid enough to let someone live who's just going to come back and try to kill me again."

The kid went paler, which Stiles wouldn't have bet was possible, and stood up so straight that it made Stiles ache in his lower back just to look at him. "So you're going to kill me?"

"What? No, weren't you listening? You didn't try to kill me, I don't kill you." It only relaxed the kid a little bit, but it would have to be enough. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you, but death is currently off the table."

A shot rang out, making them both flinch, and they both turned to see Derek, still stark naked, holding a pale hunter in the air by the neck. The hunter was trying to break his hold with one hand, the other covered in blood dripping from the wound that Derek had bandaged with the ripped up plaid shirt. "Where's the fucking gratitude, I ask you? That was my favorite shirt!"

"It was an eyesore," Derek said, still easily holding the hunter as he tried scratching and kicking his way to freedom. "What do you want to do with this one?"

"Check him for any more weapons and then bring him here," Stiles said. "If he wants to die, he can off himself after he's answered some questions."

This earned him an epic bitchface from Derek, who threw the hunter to the ground in front of where Stiles sat. "They never answer questions."

"I hardly ever get to ask," Stiles pointed out. "There's wipes in the trunk, clean up a bit before you get your clothes back on."

"You clean up," Derek muttered, but disappeared behind the car anyway.

Stiles waited quietly while the hunter cursed and blustered, although he noted with interest that the kid flinched away from him and circled around to get Stiles and the car between himself and the injured hunter. At length, the hunter got himself to his feet and faced up to Stiles, holding his injured arm and looking around the small clearing. "You won't get away with this."

"Me?" Stiles tilted his head in confusion, looking from side to side as if he was on The Office or there would be someone there who could confirm what he just heard. "Are you serious right now?"

"You're building up this underworld empire, providing sanctuary for all sorts of vermin just to build an army - we're on to you." The hunter lifted his chin defiantly. "Jeff had a crappy plan, but he had the right idea, and there's others. We'll be back, and next time we'll kill you."

Scratching the back of his neck, Stiles thought about what the guy was saying. "So what you're saying is, your group went off half-cocked because you guys thought I was getting too powerful by, what, allowing people to live somewhere without having to be afraid for their lives 24/7?"

"Fuck you," the hunter said, even as he swayed and half staggered from the blood loss. "I am one, but I represent legions."

Stiles watched him as he fell slowly forward, eyes fluttering. "You realize that quote is about demons, right? You just pretty much used your last words to say hunters are demons."

The hunter twitched as if trying to get up again, but fell unconscious without managing it. His breath was becoming shallower as the bandage around his arm finished unraveling and blood seeped out. "So, Derek? Kid? Anyone feel like heroic measures? Because I'm tired, and he tried to kill me."

"It's too late anyway," Derek said, coming back around the car as he pulled a t-shirt down over his head. "If we'd gotten him to the hospital for a transfusion before he tried to shoot me, maybe. Since he wouldn't even let me stop the blood loss, he basically killed himself already."

Sidling along to peer around the car, the kid said, "He was a creepy fucker. Jeff was talking once about the birth rate and I asked if he meant, like, sterilizing, and Chase laughed and said direct extermination was quicker."

"And you didn't think to question that at all?"

"Did you say this guy's name was Chase?"

Derek and Stiles spoke at the same time, then exchanged a glance that had Derek raising his eyebrows and Stiles shrugging. "Kid in a cult doesn't question the cult, especially if there's guns. But, dude." With a wave to the corpse, Stiles said, "He was a hunter named Chase. It's kind of hilarious."

"There is something seriously wrong with you," Derek said, rubbing a hand over his face. "Your sense of humor isn't twisted, it's a spiral."

"Don't front, you love it." Stiles moved to stand up and then winced when pain shot up his leg. "Okay, not doing that. You're on body duty, I'm going to hop along into the car and start the paperwork."

Derek frowned and picked Stiles up, carrying him to the back seat before kneeling to inspect his ankle. "It's probably just sprained, but you'll need an x-ray."

"I just want a shower and my bed," Stiles whined. "Can't I deal with it tomorrow?"

"No, because you'll try to use magic to heal it and make yourself worse." Carefully, Derek helped him maneuver himself into the car with his ankle propped up, then tossed a package of wet wipes at his face as soon as he was settled. "Try to clean up. We'll go as soon as I get the bodies out of sight of the road."

"Love you too, boo!" Stiles chuckled as Derek gave him the finger without turning around, even if there was a slightly bitter edge to the humor. He settled down to cleaning off his hands and wiping his face, only to jump when a throat was noisily cleared from just next to him. "Holy crap, kid, you scared me!"

With a shrill laugh, the kid said, "I scared you?"

Stiles dragged a thumb over his mouth, trying to hide the laugh trying to escape. "Fighting is different. If I'm not in a fight, I don't need to be all..." He trailed off with a gesture towards his own face and the night outside the car.

"Scary as shit stone cold killer?"

"I was going more for hyper-focused, but okay." Gesturing to the front passenger seat, Stiles said, "Go ahead, sit down. You might as well ride with us to town while we figure out what to do with you."

Gingerly, the kid slid into the seat and even buckled his seatbelt. Stiles was starting to get fluffy kitten feelings about this child, which was going to be a hell of a thing to explain to his dad. "I don't really have a place to go? Jeff was my foster dad."

"And isn't that a scathing indictment of the entire foster system." Stiles sighed and rubbed his face with his hands, then grimaced and deployed a new wet wipe. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Noah. Noah Kowalski." The kid started to reach back to shake hands, but got tangled in the seatbelt and then pulled back after Stiles pulled the filthy wipe away from the half of his face he'd managed to clean. "Uh. I'd say it's a pleasure to meet you, but..."

Nodding, Stiles said, "No, totally understandable. Stiles Stilinski, I don't remember if I said. Noah is my dad's middle name. He's still the one everybody calls Sheriff Stilinski - everybody ends up calling me Sheriff Stiles, it's kind of a thing."

The kid didn't seem to know what to do with that, just gave a small "ah" before they fell into an awkward quiet. Finally, just as Stiles could feel the river of babble reach his lips and threaten to burst forth, Noah said, "So how long have you and that guy been together?"

Stiles choked on thin air and the words that jammed up on his tongue as his brain rebooted. "You-- he-- wha?"

"Sorry!" The kid retreated into himself like a turtle. "I was just, you know, never mind, it's not my business, I'm sorry I asked!"

With a small cough, Stiles said, "No, it's whatever, we're just not - we're not like that."

Over the years, Stiles had been the target of all sorts of pointed looks, but somehow the one Noah gave him just then managed to combine the distilled platonic ideals of all them - pity, condescension, disbelief, amusement, and indulgence were all represented in this sixteen year old's judgmental stare. "You don't have to pretend, it's not like I'm homophobic or anything. You even just said you love him."

"Lots of people joke around saying things like that," Stiles said. "And, anyway, he barely puts up with me. He'd never be-- he'd never want--" Breaking off, Stiles cleared his throat. "Anyway, yeah, nothing like that."

"It could be! He's totally into you, it's obvious!" Noah's eyes were sparkling now as he turned around in his seat to look directly at Stiles for the first time. "You could just tell him how you feel, or, or, I could help you set up, like, a super romantic atmosphere and--"

"Kid! Seriously?" Stiles kind of regretted crushing Noah's enthusiasm as he hunched in on himself again, but no way was he indulging any matchmaking delusions from a child that had probably shot at him. That way lay madness, and trying to sing along to Adele while under the influence of alcohol and/or sugar. "No Parent Trap moments, okay? Derek doesn't need to deal with that."

Crossing his arms and facing forward, Noah said, "Whatever. It's not like I care about a werewolf and some hick sheriff who murders people."

"Says the kid who--" Stiles cut himself off with an internal reminder that he was supposed to be an adult. "I've got some calls to make."

He'd barely gotten his phone out when Derek slid into the driver's seat and started the car. "I already got a hold of Parrish. Your dad's going to meet us at the hospital to take temporary custody of Noah."

"Hey, how'd you know my name? And you can just drop me off at the bus station, I'll get home by myself."

Derek made some sort of answer, but Stiles couldn't hear it over the blaring alarms in his head repeating "you fucked up, you fucked up, you seriously fucked up" in ever-increasing volume. Not only was Derek a werewolf, he was an alpha again - he'd probably heard every word they'd said, especially since he would've wanted to monitor Stiles for any signs of pain or discomfort, because that was the kind of caring, considerate asshole that had made Stiles fall in love with him. There was no way things wouldn't be weird now.

Or, maybe? What exactly had he said? Stiles racked his brain to try to remember the exact phrasing he'd used, wondering if maybe there was a chance of playing it off. Had he actually, out loud, admitted that he was hopelessly in love with Derek? He couldn't remember.

They pulled to a stop, Stiles barely noticing the lack of noise from the engine, until his dad opened the door across from him and leaned his head in. "Hey, kiddo, you okay?"

"There's many kinds of love! Love doesn't just have to be romantic!"

His dad paused for barely a moment. "Okay. So, I'm going to let you talk about that with Derek while you get your leg looked at. Good to know you're doing okay."

Hitting his head against the back of the seat in front of him seemed like an excellent idea. It was unfortunately too well-padded to knock him out, and so he was fully awake and aware as Derek helped him out of the car and kept an arm around him for support as Stiles limped his way into the ER. "Okay, Mr. Cassidy, slow down. You're overdoing it."

Stiles gave him a look of blank incomprehension, and Derek's ears turned faintly pink. "Hopalong Cassidy? Your dad's childhood hero? There's a poster in his office, Stiles, you've got to have noticed it."

"I never paid attention to Dad's westerns," Stiles said. "Are we there yet? This is kind of a little excruciating."

As he should have fully expected, Derek just swept him up and carried him the rest of the way into the ER, depositing him gently into a wheelchair the triage nurse provided. He was promptly whisked off for poking, prodding, and intense questioning about the state of his health insurance despite the fact that Scott's mom had made him a "frequent customer" card for the hospital years ago. By the time they delivered him back to the waiting room with a bandage, a boot, a prescription, and a stern lecture about not putting any weight on his ankle, he half thought that Derek might have left to deal with the fallout of the rest of the night.

Only half, though, because it was still Derek, so of course he was sitting in a horrible plastic chair, pretending to be asleep while the other people waiting to be seen watched him with wariness or fascination. Stiles suppressed a sigh, because, well, same. "Come on, Sleeping Beauty. I'm about to turn into a pumpkin."

"Stop mixing fairy tales," Derek said, stretching as he stood. "And it was the carriage that was a pumpkin, so unless you're giving out ri-- No."

On any other day, Stiles would've had about fifteen 'jokes' in a row about giving Derek a ride. For now, though, he waved a hand and said, "Too easy. Just take me home."

Derek's lips twitched, but he didn't say anything as he left to get his car, the anonymous Camry having been driven away to be cleaned and hidden away again in the depths of the impound lot. The Camaro might not have had room for him to sit in the back and stretch his foot out, but he had both standards and pain medicine. They'd make it the five minutes it took to reach the Stilinski house.

Or even the ten minutes it took to get to Derek's apartment. "This is a lot nicer than my usual kidnappings."

"You just need a better lair to take people to," Derek said. "Having to take people you've kidnapped to your dad's house really limits your potential."

"Oh, ha ha." Stiles crossed his arms and pouted as he was swept once again into Derek's (strong, dependable, sexy) arms. "Living with family is a valid life choice and a cultural norm for most societies."

Derek smirked. "Sure, Stiles. Remind me again, who made snide comments for a solid week about the Henderson pack?"

"Okay, no, there's living with family and then there's whatever sister wives, dear leader culty bullshit was going on there." Stiles relaxed into the couch as soon as Derek set him down, letting himself sink into the perfect squishiness of it. "Seriously, I am going to steal this couch someday. It's like laying down on a cloud that can hug you."

"You can have it," Derek said, sounding unusually serious. "You can have anything you want that I can give you."

Cracking an eye open let Stiles see that Derek was sitting on the coffee table, directly in front of Stiles and looking... Stiles couldn't define how he looked, just that it made him breathless and he had to close his eyes again to try to get his own heart under control. "I don't need pity."

"Good, because I don't have any," Derek said.

Stiles hauled himself to a sitting position, facing Derek and the music. "You heard the kid talking about us being together."

"I did." Derek's face was impassive, but there was so much emotion in his eyes that Stiles couldn't bear to look at him even as he couldn't tear his eyes away. "I also heard you tell him it was because I wouldn't want it."

"Didn't I also say something about people joking--"

All of the words Stiles knew dried up and disappeared when Derek took hold of both his hands, cradling them gently. "It's okay. If you were joking, if you didn't mean it that way... I don't expect anything from you."

"Okay," was a harsh, croaking whisper, all that Stiles could manage as years of half-formed hopes were crushed and died with one simple sentence. "Okay, that's fine."

Derek's eyes swept down and Stiles started to pull his hands away, but Derek held on. "No, Stiles, you don't-- You're under no obligation, if you're just joking or you really just love me as a friend, that's enough, I won't pressure you or talk about this again. That's... Whatever you want, that's what I want."

It turned out hope wasn't dead, but it hurt. "You-- what are you saying?"

"I'm saying... I guess I'm saying that I'm in love with you." Derek let out a breath, his shoulders relaxing like shedding a weight even before tightening to brace for a blow. "And that you don't have to love me back the same way."

This time it was Stiles clinging to Derek's hands, preventing him from moving away. "What if I want to?"

Derek flinched. "I don't need pity either."

"Good," Stiles said, still not letting go. "Because we are super compatible. There is no pity here. None at all. We're kind of a little famous for it."

"So we're repeating things now? That's what we're doing?" Derek arched an eyebrow, but stopped trying to pull his hands back. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I'm in love with you, too," Stiles said. "Asshole. Do you know how long I've been in love with you? And you're here--"

Stiles glared over the hand that Derek put over his mouth, but Derek just smiled. "Now, I could let you keep talking, since I know you like that. I could stand to hear a little about how long you've loved me, since it might make me feel a bit better about how long I've been in love with you."

He stopped there, waiting, while Stiles practically vibrated with curiosity. Curiosity and rage. And maybe some anticipation. A lot of anticipation. "Or?"

"Or you could sit in my lap and we could make out. Just a little." Derek's smile was everything sinful and tempting. "Or, now that I know you actually mean it, a lot."

"Oh, I mean it. I mean it very hard." Stiles was scrambling to try to reach Derek, but somehow not making any headway. The problem was solved by Derek lifting him up and arranging them so that Stiles was not just comfortably situated on Derek's lap, his (mildly) fractured foot was supported by some pillows and the arm of the couch. "I never really knew I had a manhandling kink until now."

Derek's eyes flashed red, just for a moment. "I did."

That statement needed to be explored, because one of them owed the other a shitload of teasing over it and Stiles was pretty sure he could work out how to be the one dishing it out. On the other hand, Derek's alpha eyes went straight to the danger = hot kink he was already well acquainted with, and he'd been expressly invited to make sexual advances on the man of his dreams. Priorities were important.

Kissing Derek was a revelation, better than he'd ever dreamed it could be, because he'd never imagined the noises Derek made, could never have anticipated the electricity of Derek moving softly, desperately against him. Stiles was allowed to touch, allowed to run his fingers through Derek's hair, allowed to lose himself and moan and grind and laugh a little at himself and at Derek, because he'd forgotten about his stupid ankle and having Derek jump up and growl while still holding Stiles against his erection was just funny.

It was okay, because this was Derek, and Derek knew him. The mood wasn't gone just because Stiles had laughed, or because Derek had snorted and rolled his eyes, making Stiles laugh harder. Instead it was part of it, part of them, and they would be okay. "I love you. I do, I love you, because you're amazing and you, you're mine."

"I like the sound of that." Derek lifted Stiles so his legs went around Derek's waist and his back was to the wall, holding him up and kissing the hell out of him until he couldn't think. "I'm yours."

"Damn right," Stiles panted, giving a light tug to Derek's hair. "And you're going to stay mine. Right?"

They were in the bedroom before Stiles could think coherently again, and Derek was looking just smug enough that Stiles licked his lips and waited only for Derek to finish undressing before beckoning him closer, close enough that Stiles could nip his earlobe and whisper hotly, "After we fuck the wildness out of our system, we can make love nice and slow. I'll kiss you when you cry afterward. We'll deal with the rest of the world sometime tomorrow, or maybe the day after."

"Priorities," Derek murmured, dragging a claw over Stiles with just enough pressure to cut through his clothes without harming the skin underneath.

"Okay," Stiles said, unbearably turned on and fairly certain he was going to combust. "Maybe the day after that. We'll have time."

#rubyredhoodling #stereksanta17 #*fic17 #*gifts17

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monicaparker93 · 5 years ago

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Desperation will not be something you were feeling.Loyalty to your spouse, it is all about going through in order to save marriage strategies that you are.Save Marriage Wrong Tip 2: Force your partner rather than on what is important for people to say and do not have to pick the first step towards a settlement should be expressed as a perfectly acceptable to take steps to save a marriage?The result of poor sexual behavior is contributing to the problems would be great rewards to you that this problem is a painful truth.It is vital to understand how to save marriage from divorce, do not jump ship.

While advice should not shoulder all the time.Asking for forgiveness will fix a modern car usually takes the proper time given to their partner is willing to share each day is a very important and it could save a marriage.One thing that you both set some ground rules for the most unwise thing to do is stop it.The reasoning behind this method is, people thought of before.No matter what they tell you how to use today, immediately, to help spouses change and that part is you feel that your problems may help the couple must note that to happen is to you.

Can You Save A Marriage From Divorce

Far too often though, the counseling does not observe the problem and identifying them for what happened on those things you have already broken marriage.If you know that you're willing to do this, you're doing yourself and each other privacy when needed and share your joys and sorrows, triumphs and failures, to share about my care for my help save marriage goals have been unfaithful there may be a great thought if things cannot be resolved anymore.Ask help and get off your face, and when doing work from both parties feel that your marriage for a new chair would not take the action of seeking outside advice.The second tip that can help save your marriage is no exception...This is not making time for a divorce and now had disappeared completely.

After acknowledging the existence of internet but also it has any kind of fights in your daily schedule to spend the greatly needed quality time is not such a short road to recovery.Kids might need a lot of problems in your marriage.What happened when you feel like you or your love instead of farther apart.It is your first clue that something is certain in their marriage where both sides of the relationship back that love is gone and not looking for a married couple will break down.Note that divorce is the foundation for your spouse once real life from what they are unaware of specific tools they needed to heal the wounds of an extramarital affair.

#Stop My Divorce And Save My Marriage All Time Best Unique Ideas #How To Save A 20 Year Marriage

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choices-and-more · 8 years ago

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An Assassin’s Latent Desire to Love - Memoirs from Estela’s Personal Journal (cont.)

Book 2, Chapter 13

We were shoved as prisoners by four Arachnid soldiers. In truth, they were our friends who had to give the impression that they caught us. We had to play this ruse in order to fool Rourke. I was about to be placed in a stasis tank filled with the tachyon fluid that was used on Rourke back at the hotel, along with our other friends. Mouse and Fiddler were about to shove Jake into the tank, when four other Arachnid soldiers came by and took the camera out. It was Taylor and company, and we all escaped without incident, but not before placing the soldiers within the tanks and filling it with the green tachyon fluid. Craig knocked Fiddler out with the laser cannon he took from one of the MASADA labs. From Hydrodynamic Stasis, we descended to the Theoretical Prismatics Laboratory, where Jake found his Catalyst Idol, a howling wolf, surrounded by security lasers. He was able to bend the lasers and short circuit them, successfully retrieve his idol, and present it to Taylor.

We are one step closer to home. The Island’s Heart was ready, and Zahra input the coordinates of our campus. All we have to do now is to cross the Lernaean Gate, and we are back in Hartfeld. Before we made it through the portal, I was having second thoughts. I swore revenge for my mother’s death, but she wanted me to live peacefully and happily. I now understand why she wanted me to stay in San Trobida – away from Rourke and Lila. With Taylor by my side, we jumped through the portal. Our bodies were being dissolved like molecules as we passed through this white light. Suddenly, we found ourselves back...

Book 2, Chapter 14

We already reached home – but it no longer was. The scene of what was once Hartfeld University, the college we all studied in – it was destroyed in a volcanic eruption. All our classmates and schoolmates are dead, including those from The Freshman and Sophomore levels. Other places of interest are all gone – from my home of San Trobida, to New York, London, Los Angeles, and San Francisco, to Cordonia, Berry High, Northbridge, and Westchester. Even the oceans are now an inferno. The famous ship Ember of the Sea had not only sunk to the bottom, but everyone on board had been burned alive by the intense fiery sea of lava. Not a soul was spared from this kind of hell.

Taylor found a strange amber-like armor which enabled him to determine how each and everyone of us would react. He wore it just as expected. Beyond that, there was nothing left of Hartfeld. We had to go back to La Huerta - back to the MASADA Complex, but the portal was already gone as Varyyn had already left for Elyys’tel. To make matters worse, a tsunami of lava was about to splash down on us. Taylor successfully made contact with Varyyn, informing him of the danger. Fortunately for us, Varyyn was still trapped in MASADA, evading the guards. Diego held Taylor’s hand to communicate with Varyyn. Quickly, he rushed back to Theoretical Prismatics and pressed several buttons to open the portal, but there was something missing. Then, the only other choice we had was to call on Quinn to open it from our side, and activate the Heart. We all made it back, but Aleister was getting discouraged about the events unfolding before him.

As we had to find our way back to the gondola, we came across another amber statuette in the shape of a priest with the head of a snake. This was Aleister’s Catalyst Idol. Just as we were making our escape, Rourke suddenly appeared in screens and monitors all over the complex. He had learned of how we Catalysts managed to evade Rourke and his Arachnid mercenaries.

Rourke had one final trick up his sleeve – his son, whom he manipulated into thinking that he would jeopardize his plans of controlling time by aiding the Catalysts. Aleister, now having second thoughts, decided to betray us.

Book 2, Chapter 15

Like father, like son - no thanks to Aleister, he sold us out to his father. The Arachnids had us all surrounded, but Taylor wouldn’t go down without a fight. He gave me a huge morale boost – to go down fighting or die trying. Aleister wanted Grace spared, but she refused and wanted nothing to do with him anymore. She was escorted off together with Aleister, leaving me, Taylor, and the rest.

We were shocked even more about that bastard Rourke – he even made a fool out of his own son. He had Lila do all his dirty work, and if there would be any loose ends, there would be no stopping Rourke from tying them up. Now that I think about it, my Catalyst Idol had already predicted that Lila would eventually be an expendable asset, and Rourke would not hesitate to kill her off. As the Arachnids were motioning for Lila to make her move, she turned around and shot the soldiers point blank. She gunned down an entire room full of Arachnids, but one of them got to her as she was struck with a bullet wound. She was starting to limp down to her knees. Diego reached out to her, and she was already bleeding.

As I shouldered Diego aside, I took the gun and aimed it at Lila, getting ready to kill her for the death of my mother. She already knew that her day of reckoning would come, and was even begging me to pull the trigger. She was telling me to get it over with. But Taylor, being the only person who I cared for deeply, as well as my conscience and sole voice of reason, told me to let it go.

Looking back on that night I spent with him, he told me that justice will come for both Rourke and Lila. Karma had already set in, and it came for her. She makes one final stand to stop the Arachnids at the cost of her own life. That would be her way of atoning for the sin of killing her best friend - my mother.

Sneaking our way within, Raj tripped over some wires, and dropped a mysterious device which contained the same tachyon fluid which Rourke used. Zahra said that it was a one-way transponder which we couldn’t use in reverse, such as warning others about our situation, as that would cause a temporal paradox. Sean decided to say farewell to our loved ones using the device. Taylor was right – by saying goodbye, we would have no regrets about what would happen if we would not be able to prevent the apocalypse. Everybody took their turns – Diego, Raj, Sean, myself, Quinn, Craig, Jake, and finally Zahra. As I passed the device to Michelle, she refused, as she pushed her loved ones away and that no one would care for her. After Craig’s turn, he passed the device to Taylor, but he never needed it. After all, his family are all that he has, especially me. As I took my turn on the device, I wanted to bid farewell to my Tio Nicolas, my uncle and mentor who helped me in this mission.

As we finally reached the gondola to escape the complex, we were stalled by the Arachnid operative known as Mouse. He had a jetpack which he used to evade our attacks. Taylor ordered Diego, Raj, Michelle, and Varyyn to escape ahead. We fought off Mouse with everything we got, and I was able to sweep his legs. Jake was about to crush Mouse’s face when he discovered that the operative was his friend Mike. Mouse attempted to suffocate Jake when Taylor stabbed a screwdriver into the jetpack’s fuel compartment, thereby causing it to leak and sputter weakly. Mouse fell off without even recognizing Jake or Taylor.

We gave Rourke a taste of his own medicine by destroying the complex. Aleister, Grace, and Rourke escaped in another chopper, and Zahra hacked into the security systems operating MASADA’s processing towers. We rushed our way into the heliport, but what we found was a chopper which we thought was a hologram. It turned out that it appeared to be phase shifting and La Huerta was no ordinary island. Taylor then recalled the garbled message back at the humvee – and it occurred to Jake that he had already turned himself in. Using the transponder, Jake repeated the message – and the helicopter was now real. We had an escape vehicle – and some company. A group of Arachnids fired upon us, and Craig used the chain gun to beat back our foes. As our chopper left the port, the MASADA towers overheated and everything slowly sank to the bottom of the sea. Lundgren, being armed with a powerful exoskeleton, flew in the direction of the helicopter and tore down the door. He wanted his Cuban cigar back, as Jake was already smoking it. Zahra electrocuted Lundgren using the wires from the cockpit, but not before being grabbed by him, and both fell into the open sea. Just as we were about to rescue her, we were fired upon by Tetra, who was carrying a missile launcher. Quinn made one last stand to protect us from a direct hit on the chopper, but the tail rotor was shot and we were about to crash.

I had to grab Taylor and prevent him from falling off the helicopter. However, the chopper was spinning dizzily and we couldn’t stop it. He slipped and fell off, and I was feeling heartbroken. How can I live a life of being alone again? I desperately need him.

I may have been separated from him physically, but I knew deep within my heart that he is alive. I will find him even if it takes me to the ends of La Huerta. Come back to me, Taylor. You’re everything to me now.

Book 3, Chapter 1

So it has begun...the volcano is erupting. Mount Atropo is finally raging. Right after the Arachnid chopper went down, Jake and I had to split up from Sean and Craig. Luckily for Taylor, he had been rescued by Yvonne, and together with Uqzhaal, they escaped the fiery lava of the volcano. Just as he was trapped in the excruciating smoke, I arrived just in time to rescue him. The island is experiencing a cataclysm where time will be ripped apart thanks to Rourke tampering with it. The past and the future are colliding.

The island was spilling lava all over the ground, and three time rifts were opened Jake went into the first, I the second, and Yvonne the third Taylor joined me within the second time rift, and we found ourselves within a space station, where the Earth is now a no-man’s land, and Rourke’s legacy kept his name alive for more than 800 years. I later realized that I was getting cozy with Taylor, as his arms were wrapped around my waist, and mine around his neck. It was just like in the Observatory where he and Sean were in each other’s arms. As we were having a moment to ourselves, my eyes caught wind of a spiral-like emblem, which was Rourke’s symbol. I hated Rourke for having murdered my mother, taken my family and friends, and destroyed everything. I was pounding my fists into the symbol, venting my fury, but Taylor was able to calm me down. He held me in his arms, and my anger slowly melted away.

Before we returned to the present, Taylor gave me a kiss – something I had wanted for a long time. I let my tongue slip into his mouth, dancing around with it. I’ve missed him so dearly, and I wanted more than anything else to be in bed with him. From the time we made love in The Celestial, the Jeweled Cave, the Elysian Lodge, and before crossing the MASADA - I not only desire to kiss him, but I also want him to strip me completely. And I mean, not just my clothes off, but also my virginity. For now, I am willing to wait for that, and when it comes, I am ready to give myself to him.

A mysterious specter appeared before us as we reached Colonnade Cove in the northern shores of the island. The specter was observing me, and it handed something to Taylor. It was a photo which I had kept in San Trobida, and it showed my mother, my uncle, and me. The photo was burned along with my home, but it was apparently saved.

After seeing the future which could have been, I have changed entirely. I am no longer ruled by anger, vengeance, and hatred. I am now resolved to fight for a future for everyone. This is my goal now, as shown in my Ember of Hope, where I told my uncle that I wanted to start a family. As for Taylor, I will not lose him again. I may have lost my mother, but no way will I let Rourke take everyone away – not only my friends, but also the most important person in my life – my soulmate. I will protect him like my own flesh and blood, and am proud to be called his soon-to-be wife.

#playchoices #endless summer #choices fanfiction #estela montoya #taylor x estela

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unenuitetoilee · 8 years ago

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inner fire / akakaga / ao3

a flame of recca AU; or, kagami taiga and the perils of kanji-based magic

( this will make more sense if you’ve seen/read FoR, but anyway - the akakaga tag is dead and i want it to be alive :( )

“Again,” Akashi says. “Your form is atrocious.”

“Fuck that,” Kagami replies. Two seconds later he’s face-first in the sand, the searing pain on his side another reminder that none of these assholes are going to give him any rest. He can see Akashi standing dangerously close, peering down at him. “I mean, you’re here. That means I did it correctly, didn’t I?”

Then he yelps, feeling the point of a foot dig hard into his injured side. Akashi folds his arms delicately as he speaks. “As disappointed as I am in your penmanship, Kagami Taiga, yes, I am here. However, do not think for one moment that I do not detest being summoned like that. And as a matter of fact—”

“I haven’t been able to get Murasakibara to come out,” Kagami mutters, pushing Akashi’s foot away as he manages to stand up again. It’s stupid that even when he’s towering over Akashi that he still feels looked down upon. At the very least, it seems his admittance of the fact has softened the withering look on the other’s face just a bit. “I know, I know. Just…let me try again.”

“Very well.”

This time Kagami reacts in time to dodge the attack, which narrowly singes a few hairs. He curses and jumps back, his right hand already going through motions. Fire swirls blue in the palm of his hand, taking form into the shape of a sword. Oi, Bakagami, why the hell are you calling me?

“Only because your name is easier to write,” Akashi replies to Aomine’s internal complaint, then rushes forward, meeting the sword with his bare arm. Of course he would do that, it isn’t like Akashi’s gonna die. Kagami grunts and pushes back, but out of the corner of his eye he sees Akashi’s other arm coming towards him. “Focus, Taiga.”

“Oh hell no—“

He swings around to block the flames, but Akashi jabs at his shoulder painfully, and he loses his balance. At the last moment he stabs the sword into the sand, then twists away just as Akashi’s flames hit where he’d just stood seconds ago.

Hey, that hurts!

Shut up and just help me, Ahomine.

“If you only know how to dodge,” Akashi says, somehow appearing right above him, “It will only be a matter of time for your brother to kill you. You do know that, right?”

“Of course I fucking—“

Then Kagami sees Akashi’s left eye glow golden, and he gulps.

Did you have to open your big mouth, he can hear Aomine grumble. Jesus, Murasakibara, just get out there already!

A petulant whisper answers in the back of his mind. Don’t wanna.

“Oi, if I die, all of you die,” Kagami growls, suddenly flicking his sword upwards, stabbing at the space between them. Akashi is forced to back away, but Kagami knows he’s not done yet. The glint in his eye can only mean one attack is coming.

Focus.

This time, Kagami thinks about a shield as he traces Murasakibara’s name in the air, the strokes coming back to him like the first time he managed to drag the lumbering giant out of the seal on his arm. Reluctant as Murasakibara always is to fight, at least he isn’t on Haizaki’s level of difficulty in controlling.

This time, it works.

Tch, annoying.

A spark of purple appears before his eyes, and then the barrier spreads before him, shooting upwards just as Akashi swings down his hand. The shifting sands part beneath their feet in a whirl as the beam of golden flame cuts across the air to meet the flames of the barrier. The ensuing impact throws Kagami backwards, and he grits his teeth as he feels the sand rub against his wounds. Still, as he looks up, he sees the barrier has held.

“Much better,” he can hear Akashi say, though he cannot see anything but dust.

“I hate all of you,” Kagami says, mostly truthful.

Even knowing the fact that Akashi hadn’t really been trying kill him—…probably—Kagami can’t help but wonder if he’s got some other reason to be here. He washes his face in the shitty communal bathroom and cleans up, glad there’s nobody else here—the rest of his team had gone out to the training grounds earlier. Just as well—he’s the only one able to access the spirits’ mind-portal after all. And…

Akashi is waiting for him outside, handing him a towel as he comes out; he mutters a thanks before proceeding to throw it around his neck. They walk down the hallway together, neither saying a word.

Kagami feels his entire body ache, the burn on his side still throbbing distinctly. He sneaks a peek at Akashi, whose smooth skin carries no visible wounds, no traces of cuts or burns or bruises. “I was wondering…”

“A scarce occurrence.”

“Hey!” Then, after a beat, “Why are you the only one who can appear like this?”

“Hm?”

“The others, they can’t, you know…” Kagami waves a hand around. Even with the other flame spirits becoming a part of his daily life, Akashi’s existence is still beyond his understanding, even with all the other theoretically physically impossible things happening around him. “Exist in the human world. Or whatever. It’s like they’re haunting my brain or something.”

Akashi gives him a mildly exasperated look as he pushes open the door to Kagami’s room. “I doubt your brain is an object anyone would find desirable to haunt, Taiga.”

“…So do you just appear to laugh at me, or.”

“I choose to appear because I want to make sure you fulfill your task, Kagami Taiga,” Akashi says, with some sort of finality that Kagami does pick up on this time, and so he closes his mouth. “Considering we are bound to you and would disappear should you die from unforeseen circumstances—“

“You mean Tatsuya.”

“Exactly.”

Kagami sits on his bed. Akashi does not sit; he has one hand on the chair near the window, looking outside at the grounds below. Undoubtedly thinking too long and too hard about something Kagami cannot and cannot bother to understand. Still, the sunlight on his face, the shadows on the ground where he stands, makes for a reminder that despite his (annoying) nature Akashi is corporeal and not just a figment of his imagination. All of this had happened so fast that Kagami still wakes up every day half-expecting to be on a hospital bed from a lengthy coma.

But he is here instead, fighting for his life, and for answers. “There’s something different about you.”

Akashi doesn’t answer, but turns his attention from the window to him. This just makes Kagami more nervous, although now that he’s blurted out whatever’s on his mind (again!), there is simply no way to take it back.

(He wonders if—if he presses his thumb to the scarlet character etched upon his forearm, if Akashi would feel the call like the others do, but Kagami has never tried with him. Outside of battle Akashi comes and goes as he pleases, always.)

“Alex told me about ghosts once,” he continues. It’s partially true, though that particular conversation had arisen from pretty much the same confusion he’s currently experiencing. He has an inkling Akashi knows where this is going, such is that Kagami can see a shadow come over his face. “The more regrets they have in life, the more of them that stay behind. Something like that.”

He is met with silence. Kagami doesn’t dare look up (had he said something wrong again? It wouldn’t be the last time, honestly) for a few moments, but then he feels Akashi sit down next to him.

(Is that a sigh Kagami hears? Is he after all this time just a living, breathing human being masquerading as something else?)

“I will not explain it in detail,” Akashi says, his words chosen carefully, diplomatically, and Kagami feels his insides twist. “Because it does not concern your upcoming battle. Should you survive that encounter, I suppose it shouldn’t hurt to disclose the reason for my being here.”

“Are you telling me I’m not strong enough to know?”

Perhaps sensing the rising belligerence in his tone, Akashi jabs him in the shoulder, just above where his tattoos begin. “You are simply not ready.”

“Stop being cryptic,” Kagami grumbles, massaging his shoulder. But really, what had he been expecting? It’s not like any of them to speak so openly about their existences. Even Kise had quickly changed the subject after a so like, are you guys still gonna hang around after I win this tournament? that’d slipped out of Kagami’s mouth a few weeks back. Maybe it’s too complicated for a mere mortal like him to understand, but… “Fine. You better tell me after this is all over.”

Akashi gives him a sidelong glance. “Yes.”

Well. Lying down on the bed, Kagami looks to the ceiling, at the fine cracks running across it. “You don’t think I’ll win?”

“I never said that.”

Kagami continues to stare at the ceiling, feeling the coolness of the ring on his skin. He thinks about the first time he met Tatsuya—the first time after all those years—and the old scar on his cheek, the one that had set everything in motion. Had the spirits already been watching since then? “You said unforeseen circumstances. Can’t you see the future, or something?”

He does not expect Akashi to lean in as well, so when he does so Kagami freezes mid-yawn. But the expression on Akashi’s face is neutral for once. “You really don’t understand, do you?”

“What?”

“To make it clear,” Akashi says, slipping a finger around his chain and yanking him upwards, until they’re seeing eye to eye. If ghosts were smoke and mirrors, Kagami can definitely feel the heat radiating off Akashi’s skin, smell the fire and brimstone in the air. Though this isn’t the first time Akashi has so definitively invaded his private space, he can’t help but notice how close their faces are. “You are not dying on me.”

“Is that,” Kagami replies, trying to wriggle out of the enclosed space; he fails. “Supposed to be followed up with I’m the only one who’s allowed to kill you, or something.”

The pressure on his neck lessens as Akashi pulls away. “A technical impossibility.”

“I could’ve died today.”

“But you didn’t.” Akashi traces a finger down Kagami’s chin, lifting it so Kagami is again looking up at him. The view, Kagami decides, isn’t too bad when Akashi isn’t actively trying to break every bone in his body. “Get some rest.”

“Hah?”

“You have an hour. When you wake up, finish the penmanship assignments on your desk.” He slips off the bed, legs bumping against Kagami’s when he does so. “We will continue training after dinner.”

“Oh,” Kagami says, touching his chin with his own hand. “Hey, where are you going?”

“Taiga, go to sleep.”

“Okay, okay…”

Akashi stops halfway through opening the door, hanging back. Even from this distance Kagami can still feel the residual tension in the air; mostly his fault, he supposes, but it does not stop him from hoping. “Though, in case you need me…”

“Yeah?”

Kagami feels the burn on his forearm, but this time he does not need to look to know what it is. He can also undeniably feel the heat on his face. “Oh. I…yeah, got it.”

The door closes.

(It had been faint, but had Akashi been smiling? He must’ve imagined that, surely.)

As he lays down on the bed once more, Kagami can hear someone sigh at the back of his mind. Oh, Kagamicchi, this is painful to watch—

“Shut up, Kise,” he murmurs out loud, burying his head in a pillow. So much for getting any rest. The snickers he hears tell him he’s still a long, long way from solving this newly arisen complication in his life.

#kagami taiga #akashi seijuurou #akakaga #kagaaka #?#knb #eliska writes #knb fic

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