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wh6res · 4 years

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dreams come true | yuta

"soulmate or not. i don't shoot blanks." — ny

[ part of the my bloody valentine collection ]

tw. gore, blood, murder, death, killings, mentions of illegal organ trafficking, violence, mentions of stalking, minor character deaths, weapons (a knife and a gun), almost (??) suggestive content but nothing happened

disc. this is rlly fucked up and yuta is unredeemable. i dont condone such acts. this is all a work of fiction and meant to entertain.

wc. 5k

every time you sleep, the void is sickening. it was all you could see, lightyears and lightyears away of pitch black that made your head dizzy and your stomach dry heave. you've always wondered when you'll start dreaming about your soulmate's memories. they were like little secrets, another way for two people to be intimate without even being together. their days were flashing before their soulmate's eyes in the form of a dream. it's as if you spent the day with them!

you loved it, the whole concept of it. it sounded so wholesome and sweet and jesus fucking christ, you've always been such a hopeless romantic.

it was sweet until it turned sour. you loved it until you hated it. it was romantic until it turned downright terrifying.

you wake up covered in cold sweat, panting and gasping as if you've run a whole marathon.

moonlight seeps through your glass window, slightly left ajar for the midnight breeze to pass through – you walk up to it, pull it shut, and draw your thick curtains together. you exhaled, breath shaking as you tried to anchor yourself back to the ground.

with the only source of your light disappearing, darkness envelops you whole. for once, you craved the void. you want that void back if it meant never seeing something like that again – something straight out of your worst nightmare.

"119, what's your emergency?"

"uhm, i think… i think i just witnessed a massacre."

you reiterate everything you saw in the dream – the mahogany door, paint chipping off the drywalls. the doorknob was rusty, so were the hinges, and it made an ominous creak when pushed open. the light switches on, the first you see was a bunch of dirty ice coolers in what should've been the living room, it wasn't even the slightest bit organized. they were everywhere, and the floor looked grimy and disgusting, like there's a stain they can't seem to scrub off. only when your soulmate has stalked closer did you see the labels haphazardly taped on top of the ice coolers.

kidneys. livers. lungs. pancreas. intestines – you nearly vomited on the floor, trying to relay everything you saw to the operator on the other end of the call.

then came the gruesome parts.

their deaths.

they were five people in total. men clad in cheap t-shirts and pants, wearing all these similar leather jackets. some were well-built, ripped in the arms and thighs, but some were skinny, the jackets hanging on their small frames.

they never stood a chance against him.

your soulmate is agile, quick on his feet with outstanding eye-hand coordination. only equipped with a butcher's knife, but it was all he needed to take them down and send them knocking on inferno's gates. he was skilled, knowing when to pounce and where to slash his knife to maim but never to kill. by the time your soulmate was through with them, everything is bloody red. all the victims' eyes widened as they sputtered and choked on their blood – not dead, but dying...

because your soulmate wasn't done yet.

a killer should have a modus operandi, should they not? so he took out a desert eagle, stood before the bleeding bodies, and shot two bullets straight into their eyes. the finishing touch? carving a frown on their faces with his butcher's knife.

the operator only told you one thing after she's made you describe the place for them to track the crime scene down.

"double-check all your windows and doors."

because you couldn't be too sure, not when you have been granted a front seat to the sad face slayer's most recent endeavors.

the detective eyes you with a certain pity. maybe that's why you don't bother meeting his eyes. you sit still on a chair, camera blinking red behind him, the interrogation room is freezing even with the thick jacket you're wearing.

seven billion people in the world and you're soulmate's a ruthless serial killer who took it upon himself to purge the world of evildoers – he was playing god, no wonder the detective is looking at you like that.

"uhh…" he's awkward, fidgeting in his seat. "and you saw this all in a dream?"

"yes."

you've known him only minutes ago. mark lee was his name and he seems to be a subordinate of a higher, more experienced detective named kim doyoung. you don't know whether to feel offended or not for having a doe-eyed newbie taking care of the case, but you pushed it at the back of your mind, knowing his superior is watching on the other side of the two-way mirror.

"did you have, like, other past instances where you dreamt of him? of what he…" mark looked like he was going to throw up. "what he does to his other victims?"

you shook your head. no. "i've mostly just heard of him on the news. i don't think i have the stomach to find out in-depth what the killer does."

mark takes out a folder, features walking the fine white line between looking apologetic or wanting to say me too. "i'm, uhh, really sorry to hear that."

there's a sudden pregnant silence encapsulating the interrogation room. it felt like you were mourning for something, the chains of dread dragging your heart to the ground as it pounded against your ribcage. mark looked like he wanted to say something, but you swore his eyes darted towards the camera in the corner and decided otherwise.

"anyway…" he trails. flipping the folder open in one swift motion. "past sightings have given us the sad face slayer's name."

he slaps down a picture of a man, his hair raven and a permanent scowl etched on his face. the quality was shitty. it looked like it was a screenshot taken from zoomed-in cctv footage.

"nakamoto yuta, twenty-five, japanese, and has slipped one too many times past authorities that at this point, it's practically a talent."

and just like that, it made sense why you're here.

your lips pursed in contemplation, palms quaking as your fingers reach forward to inspect your soulmate's picture. "and… you want to use my soulmate connection –" you glowered. never had a sentence sounded so fucking cursed and utterly wrong. "– to catch him?"

mark can't look you in the eye. "yes. he's very elusive. his killings have been happening cross-country and, as you can see, have garnered national media attention. the police are hanging by a thread here. a month in his case and all we got is his MO, name, and that he has this weird god complex on him. if we can't catch him by the end of next month…" he shrugs. "the feds are going to interfere, sooner or later."

"so…" you trail, urging him to continue.

"so, we need as much information about him as we can get and your dreams about him will be able to provide that."

fucking great.

the much newer revelations of precisely who it was on the other end of the soulmate connection put a significant damper on your mood. you'd like to think your new little cop buddy who follows you around gives you the least bit sense of security, but alas, it doesn't. not when you've seen first hand how yuta took down five men all at once without breaking a fucking sweat – you absolutely refuse to call him your soulmate, you'd never accept a person with his nature as a soulmate.

you try to hide the bracelet mark handed you last two weeks ago, during your time spent in the precinct's interrogation room.

"please have this on you at all times until we catch him, okay? this is for extra measures, just in case something happens to the cop assigned to guard you. just press the little button here and we'll be there before you can even finish shouting 'help!' – hey, i was just kidding! what's with the face?"

considering you're now probably being hunted alive for snitching on a serial killer? mark lee, that was not funny at all.

"do you have to get inside the lecture with me?" you whine, shielding your face with your hair when you notice people shooting glances at the rather handsome cop they assigned to you. "it's not like he'll attack in broad daylight! and in a fucking classroom, for that matter."

jaehyun looks just about ready to hurl you out the window. "lower down your voice," he scolds. "serial killers don't pick a time and place, sweetheart. he kills when necessary and if it's fucking necessary to murder everyone in that classroom to get to you? he'll do it in a fucking heartbeat."

you sigh when the chair next to you screeches against the floor, the aforementioned male taking his seat right next to you. jaehyun felt more like a babysitter than a cop, who seems to have a habit of constantly inputting his not-even-needed opinions on the most superficial things.

are witness protection protocols like this?

it was a good thing that overgrown bat doesn't come hanging around in your apartment, but he does have the police car parked right across the building's entrance. judging by how meticulous and thorough he seems to be, he won't miss any face that comes in and out of the building.

you didn't forget exactly why you're under witness protection. for the cops to waste one good officer to follow you around, you needed to be valuable and being valuable meant sleeping through nightmare-induced dreams of what your soulmate does for a living. the scenes are so gruesome, so graphic and utterly gory, that you dart towards the bathroom first thing after waking up in cold sweat, draining all of dinner down the toilet bowl.

after dreaming of him in action a few times, you've now completely understood what detective lee had said regarding yuta's god complex. it was unsightly, yet there was a twisted sense of heroism to it. if there's one thing, he only gutted the bad guys – but that didn't make nakamoto yuta any less of a bad guy, himself.

i need to ask you a favor [sent 2:05am]

JJH: what? [received 2:10am]

often the nightmares were too much. too much that you thought of escaping its horrors by never getting a wink of sleep ever again – until you realized you're a witness and is probably the only chance for the seoul police department to catch that bastard.

buy me sleeping pills? [read 2:08am]

when you peep out of the window, you find an empty spot across the road where jaehyun usually parks the police car. twenty minutes later, you answer the knocking on your door. he used that little "code" he did for you to know it was him. jaehyun was glowering and muttering about how he wasn't some errand boy when he shoved the plastic bottle in your hand yet, you still thanked him nonetheless.

the pills worked like a charm. you managed to stay asleep throughout the whole night, ceasing those episodes of yours where you jolt awake in the middle of dreaming about the sad face slayer's memories.

life continued for you. it became a little bearable, but that didn't mean the horrific murders you see in your dreams are something you can get used to – you don't think you'll ever get used to the sight of him slashing his victims, the blood trickling like a goddamned waterfall.

today the dreams were different. anticlimactic, per se, if you compare it to the violence so utterly present in his memories.

the first you see were black gates, then it shifted to him ordering coffee in a café (amazing what a simple black mask can hide). it switched to him walking on a sidewalk, then he arrives at his destination, an apartment building – it wasn't too rundown, nor was it extravagant.

the serial killer takes the elevator and walks up to a mahogany door –

your room number is a blaring sight.

you couldn't be wrong, not when the 506 with the missing zero in the middle was a sight you saw every day, going and coming home from university.

that was your front door.

he was at your front door.

you jolt awake, ignoring the icky feel of sweat making your clothes cling onto your skin. ice creeps up your spine and freezes you over when you notice with a sinking realization.

those black gates are from the university you attended. that café is your favorite study nook. and that sidewalk is a route you take every day.

you clamp your hands on your mouth as tears roll down your cheeks in rivulets. you pull the comforters up above your head, fear gripping onto you with a vice-like grip as you sob.

it was in the dead of night, moonlight grazing the confines of your room and hours away from dusk. you finally utter those three words in a frightened whisper.

"he's stalking me."

as if having the overgrown bat jaehyun following and annoying you around wasn't enough, you now have another person keeping watch over you. mark lee, unlike jaehyun, may not be as ripped with muscle, but you heard from your cop buddy that the young detective has a few black belts under him. people at the precinct said that if they have to choose one person who can ever come close to the sad face slayer's agility, mark lee's your guy.

"you gotta be shitting me," you mutter, leaning close to jaehyun to whisper like high school girls talking about gossip. "he doesn't look the type!"

jaehyun, in turn, plays along and copies you. "yeah, true. he gets that a lot, i think,"

"guys, i'm literally in the back seat. i can hear everything."

the change hadn't been too drastic. at least mark was there when jaehyun proved to be difficult, pulling him towards the other way when the older male tried waltzing into your class again. "you don't need to sit next to her in her class! are you serious? there's one exit and entrance and we're on the fifth floor. breaking into that classroom will be the end of nakamoto's serial killer career!"

you shoot mark an appreciative smile, one he quickly returned before hauling jaehyun around the hallway. "we'll just be at the canteen, okay? press the 'lil button on your bracelet and we'll be right there!"

shaking your head with a slight smile on your face, you entered the classroom, sat in your usual spot, and did some of your readings from our other class to kill time. you hardly hear the screech of the chair next to you as it was pulled back. not like you cared much for whoever sat down next to you, but you can't deny there's that feeling of missing jaehyun when he used to force his way into the lecture.

"settle down! settle down, people!"

the professor enters and the class begins.

you were meticulous with your note-taking system. it's thorough, leaving no room for information to slip you. having already printed hard copies of the powerpoint presentation and simply jotting down some extra key points mentioned by your professor.

you were just about to raise your hand for a question when you feel something warm graze past your arm. you absentmindedly look down.

the breath is sucked right out of your lungs.

hi, soulmate

there, scribbled with an ominous red crayon on a small piece of paper. it was almost laughable how innocent it looked but when you follow the ring-clad hand, up the black hoodie he's wearing, and finally to his face—

"hi! i'm yuta."

his cheshire smile spikes up your heartbeat. it makes you want to throw up, makes you want to slam your head against the desk. the fight or flight hormone you have is making you restless, eyes pinned on the serial killer sitting next to you, scared that if you avert your gaze, he's going to take out that desert eagle and shoot you until your skull caves in and the bullets in his magazine empties.

"but judging by your reaction, i don't think introductions are needed, hm?" his tone is easy, conversational even and it shoots a freezing jolt of fear right up your spine. it makes you sweat profusely because you don't fucking know what to do, your thoughts in complete and utter disarray.

"just press the little button here and we'll be there before you can even finish shouting 'help!' – hey, i was just kidding! what's with the face?" you swallow, sneakily pressing the button without breaking eye contact with the serial killer sitting in front of you.

"look upfront. now." yuta orders and you nearly snap your neck as you turn your head with lightning speed.

"i thought i was above the soulmate rules, but here we are. my soul is either too tainted or too great to be tied to such trivial things, but oh well, we learn to work with what we have. surprisingly, i learned to like dreaming about how your day went."

you feel something sharp poking at your thigh and when you look down, he has a silver butterfly knife pointed against you. the precision of the angle he held it with doesn't slip your notice. one slice of that knife, no matter how small, and he'll be spilling your guts in this classroom.

a fat tear rolls down your face.

"can you imagine how much my heart broke when i learned you were spying on me? leaking information to that snobby detective? to those incompetent cops? bad baby, that was very bad of you."

"yuta—"

"you think the cops can save you from me?"

his other hand comes in contact with the nape of your neck, holding your head in place as he leaned down to invade your space. he scoffs, and you can picture that terrifying cheshire grin you've seen one too many times in your dreams.

the knife digs through your coat, the tip hardly poking your skin only because he doesn't want to drive it into you yet. how did he even manage to get inside the university? not to mention the weapons he possessed? shouldn't anyone be suspicious when they see a man dressed in all black, clad in jeans and a hoodie, into a university—

he even dressed the part. with that hood drawn up and carrying that one notebook, he looked fairly normal. someone who can easily blend in with the crowd.

you eye your professor, willing him to look at you but your soulmate is having none of that. you squirm when he drives the knife further, at the base of your stomach. with his other hand, he twirls a lock of hair around his finger. "now, now, soulmate. you don't want half the people here to get hurt, do you? unless... that can easily be arranged—"

"no!" you whisper, head jerking to the side to look at him humming in satisfaction. damn. out of all the faces he's seen contorted with fear, yours is his absolute favorite. with those pleading, glassy eyes and parted lips, yuta is tenting in his sweats.

"thought so," he chuckles. "let's get up. we're leaving. that old crook doesn't care if students just up and went in the middle of his lecture."

you don't want to think about how he even knew that because it implied attending the lectures a good amount of times. it's with sinking realization that jaehyun was right. if it weren't for him insisting to sit next to you, nakamoto yuta would've long gotten you in his claws.

you tried gathering your things until he purred into your ear.

"ah, ah, ah. you wouldn't be needing those with where we're going."

the hallways were empty, not that you had much time to scream for help when he had a knife pointed up your back, shoving you into the fire escape stairs. within the tranquil confines of the staircases, the sad face slayer couldn't fucking care less for your personal space.

he disgusts you greatly, he needn't do anything but stand there in front of you but you can already smell the long blood trail from his path. it reeks of rotting flesh and that infuriating god complex he had left a sour aftertaste.

"you know, i genuinely wanted to get to know you," yuta pouts, shaking the hoodie off his head. his hair raven, it's ends kissing the nape of his neck. he looked like he came right out of a shounen manga but the bloodlust in his eyes is something that can never be masked. "i detested the soulmate connection at first, i thought i should just kill you off because you could be my loose end."

his humorless smile is enough to give you nightmares.

"but seeing how sweetly normal and untainted you are made me hold back," the butterfly knife appears before your line of sight, yuta teasingly dragging the tip right down your cheek to trace your tears. "so, why did you snitch, baby?"

you shiver when he noses the side of your neck, inhaling your scent as his other hand hooks underneath your top, freezing fingers making you jolt. when you don't reply, his patience starts to dwindle. then again, he was never a patient man.

"answer me, you bitch. why did you rat me out?" gone is the playful lilt in his voice. the vibrations surge through you as his deep, demanding voice scares you shitless.

you feel, hear, and smell him everywhere. this wasn't like any nightmare. this is real, and you won't magically wake up on your bed, sighing in relief, knowing he isn't there, that it was all just in your head. no, this was very much real and there's absolutely no escape.

"i didn't," your voice cracks. "i didn't mean to—"

"bullshit!" he yells. you wail in pain when he slams you against the wall, head aching as it came in contact with concrete. "because of you betraying me, i nearly fucking got caught, and i never get caught!"

you were full out sobbing at this point, noisy and unsightly as the snot mixes with your tears. your only hope now is he gives you a quick, painless death and that he doesn't carve and mutilate your face like what he always does to his other poor victims. "i'm sorry! please... i'm so sorry. i was scared—"

he coos mockingly, tilting his head to the side as he inched his face closer. "aw, scared? my sweet little soulmate was scared?" he places the blade flat against your neck. as humiliating and degrading as it was, you almost peed on your clothes. "how about now? i'm sure as hell that you're fucking terrified for your useless life right now."

you cringe when his hand abandons the expanse of your stomach, no longer inching higher, finding its purchase on the hair sitting at the crown of your head. he holds you in place like that, forcing your head parallel against the wall, with his whole body pressing up to you that it's nearly suffocating.

"just one quick little slice," he taunts. you hiccuped when you feel the feathery light scrape of the blade moving against your skin. "you won't even have time to scream… but i'm sure we don't want that, do we?"

you forgot how to speak. forgot how to breathe. whenever your mind wanders, you've always thought about how you'll give this killer a piece of your mind, with the amount of fear and sorrow he inflicts upon other people. but you guess realities were a lot more different than expectations. the yuta you dreamed of meeting is in handcuffs, but fate is a fickle little thing.

"do we?" he repeats, slicing ever so slightly at your skin. enough to draw blood in droplets, never a waterfall.

"n – no."

he smiles. "you can make it up to me. do you want to make it up to me?"

the butterfly knife digs even further. a warning. and if you value your useless life, you should be smart enough to know what to answer. drawing a shaky breath, you tried forcing the ends of your lips up to a smile. "of course, yuta."

your voice breaks as your sobbing grips your body whole. the fear consuming your entire being like a parasite consuming the host. you would've shut down altogether if it weren't for the calloused hands gently gripping your face. "i know, i know. i see how regretful you are, baby. don't worry, i won't hurt you. you'll make it up to me."

anyone would be fucking stupid if you believe those words coming from a serial killer.

in your wrecked state, you barely register that he's pushing you down to your knees. skin coming in contact with the freezing linoleum floor as you refuse to look at what his hands are doing. yuta has pocketed his knife. the sound of a belt unbuckling in itself added insult to injury.

you stare blankly at his shoes as he shoves his bottoms down enough for his cock to show. if you squint hard enough, you'll see tiny splatters of blood in the shoelaces. whether or not he feels you're unresponsive, he doesn't show. maybe he doesn't care entirely. he takes one of your hands and used it to wrap around himself. he gasps, sharp, followed by a hiss.

you feel it throbbing and it strengthens the disgust you feel. no way you're going to give him the satisfaction of eye contact when you're already forced to blow this psycho.

"eyes up."

you sniffled, vulnerability present in the tone you speak. "i don't want to. please, don't make me."

if words alone aren't enough for you to follow orders, maybe you'll feel more motivated if held at gunpoint. it's unmistakable, the infamous desert eagle you've only seen in your nightmares. the last thing you ever expected is to be on the side where the bullet comes out.

the barrel is freezing as he digs it into the crown of your head. "soulmate or not. i don't shoot blanks."

your eyes looked up then. glaring as the tears rolled down your face. "you're a monster," you mutter under your breath. where you got the confidence to fight back is unknown.

"i've heard that before, be more creative next time," he holds your hair tight in one grip, shoving you forward, eye-level to his throbbing dick. "now… suck, baby."

"freeze!"

you knew that voice, you've been hearing it for the last two weeks. "jaehyun–!"

yuta cuts you off, shoving the gun into your mouth. the safety clicking off resonating in the tranquil room. it's deafening, and it makes you immobile.

"hands up. step away from the civilian." whether or not mark is nervous as he points the gun at the serial killer, he's doing a damn good job of hiding it.

yuta sighs, exasperated as he throws his head back. his raised arms came down to tuck himself back in his jeans, and the action made jaehyun's calm exterior crack. "i said, hands up, asshole!"

"chill out, motherfucker. i'm just trying to wear my pants." the serial killer hisses, glaring at jaehyun over his shoulder.

"mark, call back up already. what are you doing?" jaehyun mutters, side-eyeing the young detective whose gun shakes as he holds it up. the taller cop takes a step forward, eyes never leaving the notorious killer as he addresses you curtly. "(name), come here."

just as you plant your palms to the ground to push yourself up, one of yuta's hands shoves you down quick as lightning. "no. she stays here, with me."

jaehyun scowls, takes another step forward. "and what makes you think i'm going to let that happen?"

"i don't think. i know."

there's a constant ring in your ear as the gunshot temporarily renders you deaf. you've shut your eyes in utter fright, hands shooting up to cover your ears but it was too late. you refuse to open your eyes, you didn't want to see a dead body lying before you, even if it belonged to a heartless serial killer.

but when your eyes fluttered open, it's not yuta bleeding out on the ground.

"no, this can't be – jaehyun!"

it was a bullet straight to the head, no one could've survived a shot like that. his eyes are empty as he stares at you, unblinking, stoic. the color is yet to drown away from his milky complexion. but you can't even manipulate yourself into thinking that jaehyun's still alive. not when his eyes are empty, not when he just looks so lifeless.

it couldn't have been yuta who pulled the trigger.

his weapons were on the ground and the shot rang too fast. the sad face slayer couldn't have crouched down for his gun to shoot the cop, it would've taken too much time. and among the three men, there's only another person holding a weapon, and that was –

"great shot, mark."

the detective smiles, but with the blood splattered on his face, it looked cold. "told ya i've been practicing."

yuta hauls you up by the arms, addicted to how frail your body feels as it collapses against him. he's finally got his little soulmate in his arms. and he will never, ever let you go.

the cops lost – you've lost.

yuta, with a sense of victory coursing through his veins, took the liberty of trailing little pecks down your neck as he mutters, "mine, mine, mine!" but you couldn't care less about his display of mocked affection. not when the other person meant to protect you, turned out to be everything you think he wasn't.

mark must've felt the gravity of your stare as he crouches before jaehyun's bleeding body. grabbing the fallen cop's gun, he took it upon himself to empty the magazine. the lopsided grin he sends you broke your resolve more than yuta ever could.

"i'm sorry. it's nothing personal."

645 notes · View notes

wondernimbus · 4 years

Text

no time to die — tom riddle

pairing: tom riddle x female!reader

prompt: "i'd fallen for a lie, you were never on my side."

a/n: this was inspired by the song no time to die by billie eilish so i highly highly recommend listening to that while reading! the prompt/lyric itself isn’t in the actual text but it was based off of it eeee anyways enjoy

It should never have come to this.

She’d warned him, time and time again, that if he didn't stop, she would have to interfere. Whether he liked it or not.

He never listened, of course. He’d said the same thing he always did: that everything he was doing was leading to something much, much bigger than she would ever be able to imagine. Never quite specifying what it was, exactly, but [Y/N] wasn't dumb—she knew Tom wasn't up to any good.

It was during his fifth year that she first tried to confront him about it, only to no avail. Tom had told her not to worry, putting on that same facade of complete composure that he'd used to fool so many others into believing that he was nothing but the picture-perfect student he made himself out to be. [Y/N] saw right through it, as she'd done so many times before.

They’d first met when they were eleven and grew closer ever since. Tom, she supposed, knew right off the bat that he wasn't fooling her; it was clear in the way she looked at him, so full of doubt and suspicion, that she wasn't easily fooled, young as she was. It should have made him want to avoid her, but instead he only grew curious, and before he knew it they'd become something akin to friends, growing more and more intimate with the passing of time even though neither of them ever quite addressed it.

The two of them cared for each other, that much was certain. She wasn't sure how deeply Tom cared for her, but she knew that she would do anything for Tom. Or at least whatever she thought was best for him.

And maybe it was for that reason that [Y/N] found herself outside of Dumbledore’s study, hand hovering in mid-air mere centimetres from the wooden door as she took in a shaky breath, wondering if this was the right thing to do.

She knew Tom better than she knew anyone else, and she knew that he was getting worse, growing more distant with each passing day. She was losing him to.. whatever his plans were. He was beginning to spend more time with his so-called group of admirers (although [Y/N] knew that the term "followers" was more appropriate). What little glimmer of sanity in his eyes that always used to show only whenever he was around her was slowly starting to dim.

She wasn't just losing him; he was losing himself, too, bit by bit. And she knew she had to do something about it.

So she knocked on the door.

"Come in!" came Dumbledore’s voice.

[Y/N] took in another deep breath, furled and unfurled her fingers, swallowed, and then she twisted the knob and pushed open the door.

She’d only been to Dumbledore’s study once before, to ask him a question about homework. Such drastically different circumstances she found herself in now.

"Good evening, professor,” she said, meeting the old man's gaze from where he sat behind his desk. There was an open book in front of him—when was there not?—and what looked like a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans clutched in his hands.

"Ah, Miss [Y/L/N]," beamed Dumbledore as he held out his box of treats. "Would you like to have some?"

Rather used to Dumbledore’s peculiar friendliness, she forced a smile and shook her head. "No, thank you."

"I imagine you don't make it a habit to visit your professors as a means of enjoyment," said Dumbledore, wizened old eyes twinkling as he set down the box on his desk in favor of clasping his hands together and setting them over his book. "So what, might I ask, brings you here? Oh, and please—sit." He gestured to the plush chair across from him.

[Y/N]'s movements were hesitant as she made her way to the chair and took a seat; something that didn't go unnoticed by Dumbledore, judging from the sudden somberness that crossed his face. It was clear that she wasn't here to ask about homework, much less share a box of jellybeans.

"Is everything alright?" Dumbledore frowned.

[Y/N] looked down at her lap. She couldn't stop fidgeting.

Tom was going to suffer for this. She didn't know how, but she knew he would. But she had warned him, hadn't she? She’d told him that if he didn't stop whatever it was that he was up to, she would put a stop to it—and this was better for him, wasn't it?

She knew what Tom was capable of. To anyone else he may have looked like nothing but the perfect model student, but [Y/N] knew him. He had a certain kind of coldness about him. The dangerous kind; the one that suggested he was capable of doing terrible, terrible things.

That, coupled with the nights he spent somehow sneaking out of the castle, only to come back in the early morning with a disturbingly triumphant gleam in his eyes.. the countless reports of dead Muggles in the surrounding villages.. the young followers he'd already amassed, some greedy for glory, others hungry for cruelty, some weak and seeking protection.. his seemingly harmless talks of immortality..

And the constant talk of a plan that would bring about some sort of change in the wizarding world. Somehow [Y/N] knew that whatever this change was, it wasn't going to be a happy one.

"Tom," she breathed out, deciding to cut straight to the point as she looked up to meet Dumbledore’s gaze. "Tom Riddle. I’m sure you know him."

A brief look of realization flashed in the old man’s eyes. Shifting in his seat, he looked down at his book momentarily as though pondering over something, and then back up at [Y/N], gaze now completely serious. “Yes,” said Dumbledore. “Of course.”

”And I know that you have your doubts about him.”

A beat of silence. And then he nodded. “I do, Miss [Y/L/N].”

”He’s planning something,” she said, oddly breathless. “I don’t know what, but he’s.. he’s up to something.”

A ghost of a slight smile appeared on Dumbledore’s face. “That much I have figured out as well.”

[Y/N] swallowed. “I think he’s trying to make a Horcrux.”

A tense silence followed her words.

The weight of what she said hung heavy in the air as though a dark cloud had settled over the room. For a few seconds all Dumbledore did was peer at her through his half-moon spectacles, brows creased just the slightest bit, and then, after what seemed like an awfully long time, he let out a long, low breath and nodded.

"I wish I could be more surprised," sighed Dumbledore. "But I'm afraid I've long since had my suspicions about Mr. Riddle, and I don't doubt your words, even though part of me wishes they were untrue."

"He mentioned the word Horcrux to me once, in passing," began [Y/N], relieved at how easily he trusted her. She'd always known Dumbledore was wiser; while the other professors had fallen for Tom's spell, he had not. "Something about having found an answer to his problems—the answer being Horcruxes. something about a soul in exchange." [Y/N] paused, fists clenching in her lap. "I decided to look into it. It took me a while—none of the books in the library here hold too much information about it, but I looked through my family's library when I came home during the winter break. I found out what the word meant.. how to make it."

"And you believe Tom might be interested in—"

"In making a Horcrux, yes." Her tone of voice held a sense of urgency; she'd leaned forward unconsciously in her seat. "I know it sounds mad, but professor, I know Tom. I know what he's capable of. And I—" she inhaled, as though bracing herself for her next words, "I believe he'd be willing to kill for the sake of immortality. Saying it out loud sounds ridiculous, but Tom is hungry for power. I don't know what kind exactly, but I've known him for a long time and I'm sure I'm not just imagining it. He even has followers of his own—he calls them friends, of course, for the sake of normalcy, but they're more his subjects than anything else. He's up to something."

She was betraying Tom, she knew. She was the only person he truly trusted; it was clear just by the way he looked at her, the way he treated her like she was royalty. And [Y/N] felt just as deeply for him as he did for her.

[Y/N] loved Tom; it was why she was doing this. And if he loved her, he would understand.

There was a beat of silence as she recalled what Tom had told her, not so long ago. "Something big," she echoed, holding Dumbledore’s gaze. "Something much bigger than neither I nor you would ever be able to imagine."

—

The world seemed to be ridiculing her.

Two days after her conversation with Dumbledore, Tom took her to the Astronomy tower and confessed that he did, indeed, care for her. And not like a friend would care for another, nor the way a brother would care for his sister—no, he loved her like a man would love another woman.

Tom loved her.

But that wasn’t all he confessed. Finally, he told her of his plans to seek immortality, and along with it, power; how, in the future, he planned to purge the world of non-magical blood. He told her that his plan was already in motion.

This boy standing in front of her, only sixteen—had he murdered someone already?

The mysterious deaths in the Muggle villages surrounding the castle.. [Y/N] had her suspicions, but she’d hoped that it wasn’t him.

”We will rule the wizarding world together,” Tom told her, hands holding the sides of her face, pulling her close. “Bit by bit, we will gain power together. You will be at my side as I become the most powerful wizard of all time—and I will protect you with that power. I will make sure that no man will ever be able to touch you—“

”Tom.”

”I have never known love like the one you’ve taught me to feel,” he exhaled. “And I intend to keep it. To keep you.”

She closed her eyes, ignoring the tears burning behind them as she reached up, gently prying his hands away from her neck. “Tom, listen to me.”

He tried to hold her gaze even as she looked away; her hands gripped his own weakly. “What you’re talking about,” she began softly, “It’s.. I’m sorry, Tom, but it’s madness.”

He stared at her. “Madness.”

This time her grip on his hands did falter. Her arms dropped down to her sides as she turned to instead hold onto the railing, needing something to hang onto. “Tearing your soul apart? For immortality?” she shook her head, pained. “You can’t possibly expect me to stand by your side while you do.. Merlin knows what.”

Tom was silent, but the loving look in his eyes had died out. They were cold again. A little stunned.

“I love you,” she whispered, looking down at her hands, which clutched the metal railing as though it were a lifeline. “Just as much as you love me, Tom, I can assure you of that. But I can’t be with someone who—“

”Someone evil,” Tom cut her off. His tone was bitter. “Is that what you think I am?”

Isn’t that what you are? she wanted to say. Asking me to help you tear your own soul apart and stand by as you murder innocent people?

She swallowed, hung her head, eyes squeezed shut. “Please leave,” she said quietly. “I need some time to think.”

A few seconds passed by in complete silence. She could still feel his presence behind her—could feel the frustration radiating off of him.

“Please leave, Tom,” she repeated, ignoring the shakiness in her own voice. And then, louder: “Leave.”

She listened to his footsteps as he left the tower. And once they faded away, it was only then that she sank to her knees and started crying.

—

[Y/N] loved Tom, and it was for that reason that she found herself inside Dumbledore’s office that very same night, retelling each and every detail of Tom’s plans to the wizened old man, her voice oddly numb and devoid of any emotion.

No fear. No anxiety. Not even pain, as she stood before Dumbledore, betraying the boy she loved and yet could never have. Not with what he wanted to do.

”Thank you,” Dumbledore said once she was finished. Her jaw was clenched as she nodded, swallowed, and then—

What now?

She would go back to the Slytherin common room and face Tom again. What would she do? Take him into her arms and pretend as though all he’d confessed to her hours earlier was that he loved her, and not his horrible plans? Or would she ignore the ache in her chest and pretend as though all their six years of friendship were nonexistent?

Could she? Was her heart capable of that?

As though Dumbledore had read her mind, he said, “Miss [Y/L/N], I’m going to have to ask you to look for another sliver of bravery within you. You must continue to gain information from Tom.”

At this, [Y/N] looked up, the first few traces of real emotion flickering in her eyes for the first time since she arrived.

“Learn his secrets. His plans. Find out what horrid things he has already done and what he will do.”

[Y/N] opened her mouth. No words came out.

“I understand that it would be difficult,” said Dumbledore, tone gentle and yet at the same time authoritative; it wasn’t a request. “But as far as I am aware, you are the closest thing Tom has to a friend. It seems he trusts you.”

”And you want me to keep betraying him.”

There was an almost amused lilt to Dumbledore’s tone. “Were you planning on stopping after this, Miss [Y/L/N]?” he asked, brows furrowed in curiosity. “Did you honestly plan on walking out of this room and turning a blind eye to your friend’s dangerous schemes? I believe you and I reached an understanding the moment you asked for my help a mere few days ago: we will stop Tom Riddle, no matter what the cost. No matter if it risks your friendship with him.”

It risked everything she ever had with him. Everything she would ever have.

And yet.

And yet she loved him, and it was for that reason that she nodded and muttered, “I'll.. I’ll do what’s necessary.”

Meaning, she would betray him.

The first time she’d gone into Dumbledore’s office, she was determined. Nervous, yes, but she’d known what she had to do. But now, knowing that Tom loved her, that he trusted her enough to tell her of every single one of his plans—it changed a lot of things. Made her feel ten times more guilty than she already did.

But she had no choice. She had to stop him. She knew he wouldn’t even if she asked him to—the mere idea of it was unrealistic—so she had to find another way.

She had to trick him. To betray him.

If Tom truly loved her, he would understand.

[Y/N] hoped he would.

—

It took days before they spoke again.

[Y/N] had wanted to put off her task for as long as she could, but before she knew it, Tom was approaching her again.

It seemed he couldn’t last very long without her.

It was nighttime. She was alone—the rest of the students were at the Great Hall, eating dinner—so she had the Hogwarts courtyard all to herself.

Until someone yanked her by the shoulder, pulled her into them, and kissed her.

There was a brief moment of surprise in which she tried to push him away roughly, but then, wide-eyed and bewildered, she got a good look at him.

“Tom,” she gasped, but he kept his lips on hers, one hand on her waist and the other clutching the side of her face. The way he kissed her was almost feverish—desperate—as though he'd been longing to have this for a long time and wanted as much of it as possible now that he had it.

She thought of protesting, of pushing him away roughly and storming away, but instead she found herself relaxing into him; there was a part of her, she realized, that wanted—no, needed this as much as Tom did. So she kissed back, fingers pressing into his upper arm as she kissed him with just as much passion as he was offering her.

Warning signs flashed inside her head. Could she really do this? Pretend like nothing was wrong?

And then a thought came to her. A disturbing one, really—one that had what felt like guilt pricking at her chest as she molded her lips against Tom's own: this could work.

This was exactly what she needed to do. Pretend as though nothing was wrong, stay at Tom's side like this, grow closer to him, find out his secrets and his plans, like Dumbledore said—and then.

And then she would bring him down, in the end.

So she kissed him. Kissed him until she lost track of time; until the passion in her died out and was only replaced by a feeling of numbness, knowing fully well that the reason she was kissing him was no longer because of how much she wanted to, but because she had to gain his trust. When Tom pulled away, finally, lips swollen and eyes like dark pools of water, he leaned his forehead on hers and whispered, "I love you."

A chill ran down her spine. She swallowed and closed her eyes. It was easier not to look at him.

[Y/N] tightened her hold on Tom's arm and choked out four words that she meant fully well, and yet felt so horribly guilty for saying.

"I love you too," she told him, and hoped that he didn’t hear the trembling in her voice.

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crystalbahamut · 3 years

Text

victory in stages

FFXIV Write Day 10: heady

Summary: You’re used to being liked because you’re useful, but it’s harder to believe someone likes you for…well…you, and you’re not brave enough to ask. Luckily, you have a plan to get around that. A stupid plan, perhaps, but a plan.

Warnings: Shadowbringers spoilers, unspecified/ambiguous WoL, they/them used for WoL, WoL has low self-esteem, such low self-esteem they have to get knocked about the head, literally, mild violence, 2nd person, G’raha Tia/WoL

Words: 3,363

---

Purging the remnants of the Lightwardens from you would have been enough to make you feel weightless but combined with the defeat of Emet-Selch, the fact that you had gone into a fight and come out with no causalities, the fact that G’raha Tia had stood in front of you, hurt but so gloriously awake and alive…

You were so overwhelmed by gratitude, by things going so right for once and so drunk on the heady feeling of absolute victory you had surged forward and grabbed G’raha in your arms and squeezed. He had gasped and hugged back, stammering your name…

…But now, a couple of days removed from it, you’re wondering if you hadn't just…startled him.

“Did you travel back to the Source without telling us?”

You jolt up, taking your chin from your hand and sitting back to face Alisaie and Y’shtola, who look unamused and amused, respectively. “Sorry,” you say. “What were you saying?”

Alisaie rolls her eyes and looks askance at Y’shtola. “It’s probably a good thing we made them sit with their back to the Crystal Tower or we’d never catch their attention again.”

You frown. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing.” But Y’shtola smiles into her cup as she merely holds it to her lips. “You seem to be very deep in thought, is all. One has to wonder what has caught your mind so thoroughly.” Her smile widens. “Or who.”

You duck your head between your shoulders at the insinuation. “Oh, it’s not…”

“Please, you’ve been asking after the Exarch ever since we got back from the Tempest,” Alisaie says. “Haven’t you gotten tired of his company even a little?”

“I haven’t seen him since we came back.”

Both Y’shtola and Alisaie lose the teasing edge and sit forward. “What?” Alisaie asks in disbelief.

You shrug, very uncomfortable with where this conversation is going. There must still be some sin eaters around somewhere that need killing, right? That seems like more fun than being subjected to Y’shtola’s and Alisaie’s very special brands of tough love. “He’s still the Exarch helping run an entire city, and I’m just…what he needed me for is done. There’s no reason for him to want to see me.”

“Did he say that?!” Alisaie asks and starts to rise.

“Oh I severely doubt it.” Y’shtola grabs Alisaie’s sleeve and pulls her back down into her seat. “You know our friend and their insecurities.”

“Hmf.” Alisaie crosses her arms but looks less murderous, at least. “Honestly, I thought that would all be assuaged by that show of affection in the Tempest. I didn’t know a hug could be so fraught and romantic.”

“I think I just surprised him.” You stare down at your cup. The tea is likely lukewarm but you don’t pour more; you doubt you’ll drink it. “I’ve been meaning to talk to him, to ask him if–…Back when we first explored the Crystal Tower, I thought maybe he might…but then he locked himself away, and that answered that. But before we went to fight Vauthry he said some things that implied maybe he…might feel something for me, but I haven’t asked him about it since, and…”

You look up and jerk back. Alisaie and Y’shtola are both just staring at you. You feel like crawling under a rock for the rest of your miserable life. “It’s stupid, isn’t it?” you say and hide your face in your hands. “Gods; please forget I brought it up.”

“The Exarch spent a hundred years trying to prevent your death,” Alisaie says, speaking slowly. “Nearly sacrificed his own life to do so, calls you things like his ‘inspiration’ with sickening amounts of adoration, looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky, and you don’t think he’s madly in love with you?”

“I don’t know if he likes me romantically.” You duck down into your shoulders again. “Just because other people think I’m a hero that needs to go on living doesn’t mean there’s any deeper attachment to it. Stories can inspire, but at the end of the day they’re just that– stories.” You take a sip of your drink and grimace. It’s not even lukewarm anymore. “Also, the stars thing…technically I did bring back the night.” You put the cup down. “But I was supposed to do that. Now that I’m not useful anymore–”

“Warrior!” one of Lyna’s soldiers says, nearly breathless as she rushes up. “The captain bid me give a message to you.”

“What is it?” you say and stand.

“There’s been sightings of sin eaters accumulating over by Sullen; they seem to be disorganized and frenzied– likely starving and desperate– but there’s a similar issue by the Ostall Imperative that has most of the soldiers occupied; they won’t get to the settlement in time. Please, will you–”

“Understood.” You grab your weapon and relief surges through you– it’s terrible, probably, considering the danger people are in, but at least you can still be considered useful. “I’ll head out to Sullen right away.”

“Wait for me!” Alisaie says, leaping after you and you hear Y’shtola and the soldier talk about grabbing Thancred and the rest of them just before the two of you run off.

---

There is nothing quite like a successful battle, you think as you trudge back into the Crystarium with Alisaie emanating the same sense of relief behind you. Your blood is raging and your mind is clear; you feel like you can fight a primal. Maybe two primals. You feel like–

“Thank goodness you’ve returned safely.”

You stop so suddenly Alisaie bumps into you. She curses but you don’t really listen to what she’s saying. How can you, when G’raha is standing right there, looking so radiantly healthy and smiling at you like he truly is grateful to see you.

“Coming to see us back? I hope you weren’t worried,” you tease, and are rewarded by a slight flush of his cheeks.

Thancred mutters something too low for you to hear and that’s probably for the best, as Alphinaud chokes.

“Yes, well.” G’raha clears his throat and smiles. “‘Tis always a pleasure to see you all return safely.”

“And here I thought I might be special,” you say, with absolutely no acrimony.

Alas, G’raha doesn’t blush, but there is a rather fetching mischievous sheen to his expression when he says, “There was never any doubt of that.”

You swallow hard. Is he flirting? Does he mean it like you want him to? You almost mean to continue– to see how far he’ll let you go– but apparently the healers have been warned of your coming because a few of them come to escort you to Spagyrics, and as you sit for healing and bandaging and whatever else, the adrenaline settles and you start to second-guess everything again.

“You see?” Alisaie says pointedly. “He was waiting for you.”

“He was waiting for all of us,” you say and sigh. “And I was…was I inappropriate? I don’t think so, but…”

“By the Twelve, you can’t be serious,” Thancred groans. “You were so brave not half a bell earlier, I thought you were making real headway.”

“I always feel braver after a battle. It’s…” You try to think about it. “I guess after fighting for my life everything else just seems easier.”

“Would that we could bottle that bravery for you,” Thancred huffs and stands, shifting his shoulder and thanking the healer.

You sigh. “If I had a gil for every time I thought–” Wait a moment. You can’t bottle it…but you can try to manipulate it. All you have to do is talk to G’raha immediately following a fight. And that isn’t a difficult thing to do– leatherworkers need Smilodon skins, Hoptraps breed like crazy…

Alphinaud says your name as if cautious. “What are you thinking?”

“If I’m not brave enough to talk to G’raha normally, I can make myself brave enough to talk to G’raha,” you say and punch your fist.

“Excellent work, Thancred,” Alisaie says sharply.

“Y’shtola is going to kill me,” he groans in reply.

“No; this is a great idea,” you insist, because it is. “I fight things all the time and I’m still alive! This is perfect; it’s just a little adrenaline rush, nothing big.”

“Y’shtola is going to kill you,” Alphinaud sighs and Thancred nearly whimpers.

You are going to prove them all wrong and find out once and for all what G’raha truly thinks of you.

Win-win.

---

So your first fight does…not quite go according to plan. You found a strange looking horse while traveling through Lakeland and tried to get a better look at it, only to be immediately kicked back by hooves and knocked out. At least the sun is still out when you wake up again, but when you try to get up your ribs are definitely badly bruised, if not mildly broken. You use what healing magics you have to patch yourself back up and carry on your way. You try not to be grateful that you can’t find the horse again.

You find a botanist in a spot of trouble and help him by gathering lumber amongst a gaggle of angry triffids. It’s perfect– you get knocked around a little bit but dodging branches and putting down angry trees is surprisingly challenging and gets your blood flowing. And you help someone. A win-win indeed.

You try to clean yourself up just a little bit and head straight for the Ocular, only to be stopped by the guard.

“So sorry, but he’s in a meeting right now; no interruptions,” the man says regretfully.

“Oh, of course!” It makes sense; G’raha is still The Crystal Exarch, leading a city, doing so many important things…

The rush fades quickly and you head back to your room in defeat. G’raha comes by later, looking so sorry when he apologizes for missing you earlier, but you do your best to wave him off.

“It wasn’t that important,” you say and thankfully a yawn overtakes you.

“I’ll not trouble you any longer, then,” he says and steps back, bids you goodnight.

You watch him leave, thinking about calling him back with every step, and yet he turns a corner without a word from you.

You sigh, but it’s only day one. Tomorrow will be better.

---

Tomorrow is not better.

Neither is the day after that.

You are a capable fighter, truly– sometimes you think it’s all you’re truly good for, being thrown at violence like a martially adept doll– but you just keep having problems. Most of them are scheduling conflicts, as G’raha is still an important man and you still have responsibilities of your own, but the healers are proving far too troublesome as they seem to intercept you ninety-percent of the time. You sourly wonder if they have a magic mirror they can watch the world in as you trundle back to your room late one night.

Or perhaps they have informants.

The next day you take a little break. Or so you tell everyone. Y’shtola seems quizzical (you wonder if no one told her about this plan of yours) and your other friends seem relieved. Especially Thancred.

“I’m just doing a little delivery job this morning,” you tell them. “No fighting; since I’m carrying goods I’ll be avoiding confrontation. I’ll be back tonight.”

Sure enough, when you get back from your delivery you spy a healer watching as you come through the main plaza, and when she sees that you’re well she goes back to Spagyrics.

Snitches. Well you’re not so easily foiled– you go back to your room and then use the aetheryte at Fort Jobb to get back to Lakeland proper. The strange horse has been spotted and a few other hunters with Clan Nutsy are keen to take the job. With help, it shouldn’t take you long at all, and G’raha is almost never busy at this time of night. It’s perfect.

---

Up until you get knocked headfirst into a tree. That and the fact that it takes much longer than expected means you all but storm into the Crystarium later than expected, and feeling too foul to see G’raha. Sure, you can fight a primal, but with your mood you’d chew up and spit out a Lightwarden too, which is hardly conducive for a love confession.

But then there’s G’raha, calling your name before you get too far. “I was looking for you earlier; Urianger said you’d gone to your room but–” He jerks back when he sees you and his eyes widen in surprise, and concern, and so much care that your anger fizzles like an overloaded lamp. “What happened?”

“Bad luck,” you say and sigh. “And if I see a healer I might…do something I’ll regret. I’m sorry, G’raha, but maybe we can talk later.”

“Oh no; the blood on your face is worrisome enough, but the way you look makes me think you may have a concussion,” he says. “Pray, if you will not see a healer, would you allow me to care for you?”

There is a right answer, a wrong answer, and an inappropriately desperate answer, and your tongue twists on the latter. G’raha doesn’t wait for you to speak– he grabs your hand and pulls you along behind him, and you become so focused on that (he’s holding your hand) you barely realize what’s going on before you’re in a room in the tower you’ve never seen before, where there’s a bed and a nightstand and…

Maybe you do have a concussion.

“Here,” he says and sits you on the bed. It’s a really nice bed.

“With as much as you do I’m surprised you ever sleep,” you say and feel over the soft top blanket while he prepares something or other for…something or other. Why are you here again? You try to shake your head and gasp in pain. Right. Concussion.

“Easy; no need to cause yourself more pain,” G’raha murmurs and sits next to you. He cleans your face as gently as he can and you try to hide how much you ache regardless. You feel a little clearer, a little more focused, and you try to remain that way. “And I don’t sleep much, but it looks like you’re picking up my bad habits, friend. You’ve been keeping so busy lately,” he says as he bandages the cut on your forehead. “I feel like every time I try to see you you’re out doing something or another.”

“I’m not…doing that much.” You swallow. “I’m just trying to be useful, and, well, fighting is all I’m good for.”

“It’s not all you’re good for.”

“It’s helpful,” you insist. “For me too. I needed to–…to…”

“To?” G’raha repeats and you wonder if maybe the concussion can take you now, because G’raha has always been the same when he gets one little piece of information– he hounds about it. Relentlessly.

You sigh. Heavily. If it gets too hard you’ll clam up, and he’ll be disappointed, and then where will you be. But G’raha says your name, and so you steel yourself to try. “I needed…to be brave,” you say and wince as he dabs at a cut on your hand. “I wanted…I wanted to talk to you.”

He slows his motions and then stops. “My friend,” he says gently; he’s always so gentle and sweet it makes you nearly sick with want. “What would make you so afraid to talk to me? After all we have been through together, surely you can tell me most anything?”

“It might be stupid. Presumptive,” you admit. “And I…I don’t want you to think less of me.”

Gentle fingers touch the bottom of your chin and tilt it up. You stare into crimson that somehow looks so adoring, but does he adore you as a savior…or a person? “My dear friend,” he says. “There is nothing in this world that can make me think less of you.”

Staring at him, you feel your heart pound like it’s going to burst out of your chest and you think– you can’t do this anymore. If you don’t find out you’ll go crazy; you have to know, whether it hurts or not. “G’raha, in Kholusia, before Vauthry– were you talking about me?” you say, trying to speak as fast as you can, before you lose your nerve. “Do you like me? Romantically?”

He stares at you. Dumbfounded.

Like he couldn’t possibly have predicted this.

You swallow a lump of tears and feel shame settle upon you heavier than the world itself. You look down to try and maintain some dignity. “F-forget I said anything; I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I swear–”

“I thought I was obvious.”

You blink. You lift your head and some of the nausea quells. G’raha is smiling softly at you and wringing the cloth in his hands, even though it’s nearly gone fully dry. “I didn’t want to pressure you,” he says. “You seemed to shy away from me so I thought I would give you some time to figure out your feelings, for mine– mine have always been thus, ever since the first time I saw you again after you cleared the labyrinth and my heart swelled to see you safe.”

“Really? Even then?” you ask.

“Oh, most certainly.” It is adoration in his eyes as he slides his hand over your cheek and you lean into his touch. “How could you sound so disbelieving?”

“I’m just…me. I go where I’m needed and do as I’m told. If anybody else had the blessing they’d be twice the hero,” you say but you can’t help but slide your hand over his. “But you, G’raha, you’re strong and smart and kind and clever and you’ve always been so much more; are you sure you–”

He kisses you so suddenly he has to hold your shoulder to keep you from falling back. But it’s so good, you forget all about trying to talk some sense into him. He pulls back to pant for air and you try to stop the swimming of your head. You are not letting a concussion get in the way of this. “My friend– my love,” he corrects and it’s your heart that swells. “Anyone could have had the blessing and not been a tenth of what you are. If only you could see what I see.”

“I-I can try.” You know it gets tiring for people to have to listen to what you think about yourself sometimes– even your friends have gotten fed up on occasion– and you don’t want to drive him away. If he thinks you’re good enough for him, you can but try to be good enough for him– without getting knocked in the head again, you hope.

“Good,” he says simply and brings your hand to his lips to press a kiss to the back of it. “However we will have to continue this when you no longer have a head injury.”

“It’s not that bad,” you say and try to lean in for at least one more kiss, but you wobble, and the next thing you know G’raha is laying you on the bed.

“I’ll be checking in on you often to make sure that concussion isn’t severe.” He squeezes your hand and smiles. “By morning you’ll take back everything you said, for how much you’ll want to murder me.”

You squeeze his hand and return his smile. “If I didn’t drown you in a puddle in the Shroud, I’m not going to be that cross with you now.”

You fall asleep to his laughter.

---

When morning comes it’s even brighter (in a good way) than it has ever been. You and G’raha have breakfast together, and hold hands, and when G’raha kisses you goodbye as you leave him to get some work done you practically float across the Crystarium to share the good news.

Your friends, touchingly, are very happy for you.

Y’shtola doesn’t even kill Thancred when she finds out what incited the whole thing.

(It’s a near thing though.)

#ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2021 #ffxivwrite prompt 10: heady #ffxiv fanfic #warrior of light #g'raha tia #wol x g’raha tia #wolexarch #wolgraha #romance #fluff

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bondsmagii · 3 years

Note

Hey read (some of) this blog post (long as hell), tries to pick it up where your old scp cult post left off: lackoflepers medium com/scp-is-not-a-cult-196e87ce6b11

(link)

this is insane. I've never written anything that's ever received a full response before, so that's exciting. what's even more exciting is that this piece does raise some really interesting questions, and is very well-written and thoughtful.

the strange thing is, I think we're both in agreement -- but I'm calling it a cult, and the author of this piece is calling it a "fledgling religion". I agree with this outlook, if I'm honest -- but at the same time I can't help but think that this has filled a hole in my cult theory, rather than poked a hole in it.

when I wrote the original cult post, the one thing I couldn't quite equate was the religion aspect. there was a lot of things to consider from that aspect, in terms of cults requiring a certain doctrine, rituals, etc, and while I was able to draw comparisons to the site culture and these things, it didn't quite fit. this article explains and illustrates exactly what all of these things are, and the sheer amount of similarities between the SCP wiki culture and religious fundamentalists. it's absolutely incredible, how it all still adds up.

however, some things are way off. I understand the author has a history with site and with staff, and they obviously understand that there's a complicated relationship between the two. the piece certainly tackles the question from an educated site-critical standpoint, but I can't help but notice some glaring omissions and in some places, assumptions which I feel are quite simply incorrect. under the cut we go, because this is long.

the author seems to be very ignorant of the site's cyclical patterns. one of their main arguments for the wiki's not being a cult is how people like Dr Gears and thedeadlymoose don't have more power over the masses, being such important figures. the problem with the wiki is that it is very cyclical, and big names of one era do not translate over to new eras. big names replace old ones, and the old ones either become fond grandparent figures (like Gears, who had the sense to take a step back before the tides changed against him) or they become irrelevant or reviled (like thedeadlymoose, or pixelatedharmony (Roget).) this means that if the former appeals to the group, they will get essentially a pat on the head and a gentle dismissal, or if the latter speak out they will be silenced, harassed, banned, etc. this is very cultlike behaviour -- if somebody goes against the grain, they become an immediate enemy of the people. the only way to survive fame on the wiki is to retire quietly, at your peak, and keep yourself to yourself.

going on from this, there are also different levels to how a staff member is seen. there have been eras of the site where the site admin might not be as impressive as one of the prolific writers, for example. who these days knows about The Administrator? it's all Dr Gears to them. different authors have different levels of unofficial authority, and the author of the piece doesn't seem to realise that it's a cult of personality as much as anything else. there are constant divisions among staff, even if they present a united front; frequently those not toeing the party line have been ostracised or purged, and this filters down to the average user. just because a person is on staff does not mean they immediately skyrocket to godhood, if we're using the religious metaphor. this is why it seems as though "staff" as a whole isn't uniformly worshipped -- they're not. there are complex currents of power at work here, and it's frustrating because at first glance it seems to invalidate the very real fact that a few site members have all the authority. the staff worship extends to staff members. those in lower tiers will act similarly to those in higher tiers as a new member would act towards all staff.

the author draws attention to thedeadlymoose's impressive efforts to bring the site forward from its 4chan beginnings and make it more inclusive to LGBT members -- something that has undoubtedly had an effect. however, the author does not mention that to date, the site's only successful splinter site (as in, a site that lasted more than a few weeks) is RPC, and while this website came about for multiple reasons, it's undeniable that one of these reasons was because of the fact that the wiki was openly supportive of LGBT people during Pride Month. it's also interesting to note that the author is also a member of the RPC site, so it's odd that this piece of the site's origins is not mentioned.

the acceptance of these pro-LGBT policies also seems to be less wide-spread than the author believes -- most people don't care, there does exist users who are homophobic or transphobic, and -- something I'm surprised wasn't mentioned at all in the piece -- when LGBT members of the site spoke up and said the new logo made them feel pandered to, and the resulting blowout made them feel targeted and unsafe, they were mass banned from the subreddit by a rogue moderator who, incensed by the fact his authority was so challenged, then ragequit and abused people on the threads for several hours. this is a typical staff response to discontent in the masses. so yes, thedeadlymoose did have some significant sway in the attitude changing somewhat, but it was not as widespread (nor as cared about) as the article's author seems to think.

now, I shall move on to specific quotations.

Furthermore, as a gaggle of creators, SCP should never feature the mass conformity of thought that defines a cult; theirs is an ecosystem that predicates itself upon creation, and obsessively on the new and original — that is to say, the different (but tempered).

while the author does elaborate on this idea of creativity and conformity, this is just wrong. again, I blame the author's ignorance in regards to the cyclical nature of the site -- which isn't the fault of the author, in my opinion. such cycles are slow, measuring out in years rather than months, which is insanely long for an internet community. in order to notice them, you would have to have been observing for some time -- which I have been. since I have been observing the site (which has been since its very creation -- I was on the 4chan thread in 2007 when 173 was created and I have seen the wiki from its infancy on EditThis over to wikidot) I have seen this happen countless times. a type of writing, be it style or genre, takes off. it could be LOLFoundation, grimdark, whatever -- it takes off, it runs the site for a year or so, and then it crashes and burns. when it takes off, there are rules for writing it that must be obeyed lest you be downvoted to oblivion. as the attitude turns against it, those who still write it are vilified and ostracised, and the new one takes over. there have been mass purges in the past, and there has always been, since the wiki's inception, conformity of thought. one of my oldest complaints about the wiki is that, for a site full of writers, they have no imagination and absolutely no desire to step out of the approved style.

To put it very broadly, things get accustomed to the status quo in a highly regulated environment, and get better at simply remaining and surviving in that.

this could be a decent rebuff to my previous point, but the fact is that while the SCP wiki harbours cultish behaviour, a vast majority of the users are casual readers who maybe write one or two articles. the stagnation is, at least partially, because of the fact that most users sign up, read some articles, think "cool, I have an idea for one!", write it -- and have it emulate the articles they've read, thus sounding similar in tone and content to the rest of the recent articles -- get a semi-decent response if lucky, and then move on after a few months or years.

the people who power the wiki, however -- who are prolific, who churn out insane amount of articles -- are suffering from what I outlined in my above point. a small percentage of the wiki dictates the direction it goes. it has always been like this -- and people who go against the grain that staff have employed, be it old user or new, will pay for it. this payment is often in downvotes, but occasionally comes in harassment, bans, or deletions, too.

Lastly a cult is really the most extreme version of a religion, it is a religion on steroids.

this is straight-up incorrect. cults began as religions gone hayware, yes, but the idea of a cult as a Jonestown-style compound in the middle of nowhere is outdated. cults are the most extreme version of an ideology -- be it religious, political, or otherwise. they are ideologies on steroids. thanks to the internet, they also no longer have to be in real life spaces. you can be in a social cult on Twitter or on Discord; you can be in a cult of ideology on an incel forum or in a social circle of TERF blogs. all of these things are cults. they have cult-like behaviour and thinking.

this is where the author proves my point beyond all doubt. the author says the following about the wiki's increasingly left-wing inclusive policies:

What was intended to be an executive extension in peace has, due to the force required to counteract the sheer hostility and persecution once leveled at this group at its peak, instead overshot its mark and has become a brutal bureaucratic sanctioning of political identity. (I can hear someone saying that the road to hell is paved with good intentions.)

the biggest shift in this cult-think, for me, was observed when the shift towards Terminally Online Woke Left attitudes began to be increasingly observed. I'm not talking about getting people to tone down the homophobia and whatnot. I'm talking about this culture of purity and suffering that the author outlines very well in the article; if you have read the article, I needn't go over it again. the wiki now holds a monopoly on suffering using the same kind of Oppression Olympics as other spaces devoted to purity culture -- and purity culture is a cult. this is straight-up fact at this point. it is my belief that staff identified the power available to them in a) targeting people from oppressed and vulnerable groups and giving them a so-called safe space and b) using their various oppressions to their advantage.

something that is prolific in purity culture circles is that somebody who is oppressed in any way cannot be held to blame for their actions. they cannot be a bad person. this is ideological armour, and staff wields it. they also use purity culture and apparently progressive ideology to shut down anyone who dissents, and to smear their name and have then ostracised as an enemy. why do they do this? liking the power and fame of their position is a big part of it, as the author outlined, but something major is missing.

throughout the entire article, the author does not once mention the detailed and extensive history of staff sexually abusing minors on the site.

this is well-documented by this point. staff has seen many predators in its ranks, including one of the most prolific site members of all time -- AdminBright, or The Duckman. staff has known about these staff members and has covered it up over years. I myself have heard testimony from countless victims, but whenever we raise enough of a stink, a staff member does an "internal investigation" and nothing comes of it. the fact that the cult-like behaviour of this website can be discussed without one of the cornerstones of cult activity -- using its members for financial or sexual gain -- is astounding to me.

to go on from this, there is also no mention of the SCP lawyer fund, which raised over $30,000 and then faced staff actively resisting transparency as to the case and the funds. financial manipulation is another major example of cult behaviour.

without acknowledging these two things, I do not think that a full argument against the idea of the SCP wiki as a cult can be possible.

the author raises a good point that illustrates both why staff acts the way it does, and why the users are so eager to imitate:

The answer is something that can turn someone into their nemesis; something that would make someone sell their soul for 1000 upvotes; that tragic commonality that binds all individuals who feel the need to write; the need to be received, but more, to be loved for it.

this is a big reason why staff clings to its power, and why people sell out their creativity, and why people emulate this behaviour, and why prolific authors burn out so fast. however, running through all of this at its core -- through the need to be received and loved -- is the power that comes with it. this is all about power.

to mention the specific example of LordStonefish, and his reaction when he found out that his interviewer was enemy of the people pixelatedharmony, now of "burning out, ragequitting the site, and going to talk shit on KiwiFarms" infamy:

[...] it was as if LSF was speaking to a leper, and that the ongoing participation in the salvation of public approval (not to mention site participation as well) was directly dependent upon LSF’s rebuke of pH as a demon who is only worthy of a terrible fate and, as we see in the screencaps, even death.

leaving my personal opinions on Harmony out of this, going from a perfectly civil interview to finding out that the interviewer was an enemy and not only dumping all of his private information to offset doxing, but also going into detail about some highly personal stuff for shock value... I don't think Harmony quite required that treatment. the fact is that, as the quote outlines above, the only way to ensure that he wouldn't be completely ostracised for fraternising with the enemy (KiwiFarms -- of which Harmony is apparently the ambassador) was to behave like a man shunning a sinner. Harmony has sinned -- she rejected the status quo, she defied the group and its authority, and LordStonefish, in order to remain safe from being tarred with the same brush -- has to react with suitable horror to her presence.

it should be noted here that while KiwiFarms has a reputation for being a hive of scum and villainy, its main reputation regarding the SCP Wiki has been for being the one place where complaints against the site are openly discussed, often by defected staff members such as pixelatedharmony and Cyantreuse, and perhaps most telling of all -- the place where a lot of accounts of sexual harassment and abuse have been filed. staff rails against it on the grounds of it being filled with people who use slurs and have questionable ideological beginnings (ironic, coming from a website which began on 4chan) -- but as a leftist myself with extensive knowledge of the wiki, I can confirm that no criticisms I've seen on there have been unfair or inaccurate, and in fact a lot of the evidence and testimony posted there is damning. it would be fair to not wish to associate with the site because of its content in other places, or even its past reputation, but the fact staff rail against it so hard when it's currently one of the only places (and certainly the only public place) where their deeds are on display? it's interesting.

of LordStonefish's reaction, the author says:

This is the behavior of a deeply religious figure.

it is. this is the reaction of a Mormon meeting an old friend who has left the church. this is the reaction of a Jehovah's Witness crossing the street to avoid a shunned neighbour. it is the behaviour, you could say, of a cult member.

in the conclusion, the author states:

And if anyone is to shoulder blame for the creation of this pathology and its complex, it are those true bigots of history and today, who don’t have the spiritual maturity to understand that someone’s sexual preference or identity shouldn’t be enough to categorically separate them from a definition of humanity; to beat, maim, and wish death upon them.

perhaps this might have been true, perhaps this might have drawn a thoughtful and damning line under the whole affair, if not for the fact that this behaviour has been occurring since long before the internet became known for its progressive and now increasingly often, ridiculous takes on inclusion and sensitivity. this kind of cultish groupthink has been ongoing since the wiki's very first inception. the cyclical worship of a group of staff members and other prolific writers (though the group are often one and the same) and their chosen theme or genre has occurred like clockwork since the late 00s. it has occurred when the website was still entrenched in its 4chan days and saying slurs was barely blinked at. it was still there back when staff was predominantly (or at least presumably) cis, white, and male. it was there when being gay was the butt of a joke and being trans was all but unthought of. it has always been there, and while the latest progressive policies and attitudes have had an effect on how the power is wielded, it has not changed the power itself. if the tides ever turn on the Terminally Online Woke ideology, staff will change with it and adapt their policies and ideologies to keep their power.

if anyone is to shoulder the blame for the creation of this pathology, it is the elitist attitude that has allowed a select few to be worshipped unquestionably. it is the power-hungry individuals who seek out fame and respect on a writing website and then use this fame and respect to treat others badly and their fear of a fall from grace to shelter others treating people worse. it is on the shoulders of the staff members who use their position to groom and sexually assault minors. it is on the shoulders of the staff members who keep it silent. as the severity of staff's secrets has increased, so has their attempts to silence dissent and reform at all costs.

the author agrees that this kind of religious think might lead to a cult in the future. the author says the cult will be a cult of vulnerability, but I disagree. I believe the cult is already there, and it is -- and always has been -- a cult of power.

#scp shenanigans #anon #asks

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whirlybirbs · 5 years

Photo

; NIGHTFALL & DAYBREAK — 2 OF 2.

summary: you’re reunited with the jedi knight you’d loved all those years ago. pairing: handmaiden!reader x padawan!obi-wan, first part here. wordcount: 4.4k warnings: smoochin’ and love. a/n: this is just a set-up for more drabbles in the future, who am i kidding. but, probably the longest chapter of anything i’ve written in a long while. keep your eye out for an extra chapter ft. dinner & dessert. ;)

Much has changed in two years.

Obi-Wan Kenobi is now less of a boy and more of a man -- he’s grown into his kindness and charm, hair having finally settled down after all those years in a wild buzzcut. His padawan braid was forgone years ago, on the eve of him leaving you, and traded in for short, sandy locks that occasionally hung in his face during sparring.

His face is less round -- cheekbones sitting high on his face from the rather strenuous task of keeping a vivacious padawan in check. He has more wrinkles now, no doubt thanks to young Anakin Skywalker who -- as Obi considers how much he’s changed in the mirror of his quarter’s refresher -- is wrestling with his boots atop his Jedi Master’s bed.

Over young Skywalker’s shoulder, the sun has began to set over Coruscant.

“Do you think Padmé will be there?” he babbles on, a bit gap-toothed now that he’s finally lost his last baby tooth at the age of eleven; he’s as wide-eyed as ever, scrutinizing the fact his Master is paying particular attention to his hair right now, “I hope she is -- I haven’t seen her in ages. I miss her.”

Obi-Wan holds his tongue.

If only the young padawan knew his Master was also eager to see a certain member of the royal party -- he’s sure he’d never hear the end of it. Obi-Wan, carding a hand through his hair and rubbing his jaw, ignores the slight shake in his hand. Nerves.

(He hadn’t heard from you in weeks -- though he hadn’t stopped his usual correspondence. There was a frightful part of him heavy with worry that perhaps he’d overstepped. If... If maybe he’d been to eager on keeping up correspondence leading up to your arrive on Coruscant. Not that he knew with complete certainty that’d you’d be within the arriving party...)

Breathe. In, hold. Out.

You will be happy to see him, despite the changes in him.

He knows that.

“Be mindful, young Anakin,” Obi-Wan breathes, leaning on the edge of the sink and smiling whist-fully at his young apprentice, “This visit is a --”

“Diplomatic trial, I know, but --”

“But, we must keep in mind why we’ve been asked to mind the Queen and her royal consorts, Anakin,” he speaks slowly, flicking off the light to the refresher and propping his hands on his hips, “There’s been grave threats made upon the Queen. It is our duty to ensure their safety while they visit the Senate for the trial of these men.”

Anakin exhales slowly, nodding as he does. He gives Obi-Wan one of his understanding, trying-to-be-wise-beyond-his-years smiles and stands in his boots, now zipped up and on.

It brings a dimpled smile to his Master’s face. It always does.

Anakin, though rambunctious and powerful and outgoing and trouble-making, is rather cute.

Obi-Wan kneels, moving to adjust the young padawan’s robes, belted at a bit of an odd-angle, and smooth’s the dark fabric into a neat pleat down the child’s shoulder. Anakin still had much to learn as far as dressing went. He had a bad habit of napping in his robes -- and Obi-Wan had a bad habit of letting him.

“Ready, then?” Obi asks, noting Anakin’s slight sheepishness that he hadn’t fixed the skewed collar himself. Obi-Wan’s face is soft, though, and any worry Anakin had about a scolding melted as his Master stood and patted his shoulder.

“Yep!” Anakin chirps, “Born ready.”

“Then let’s go greet our Royal friends, shall we?”

✶ ✶ ✶

Much has changed in two years.

You’ve grown sharper in beauty and wit, becoming one of Padmé’s closest confidants alongside Dormé and Cordé -- and with the geo-political climate becoming more and more heated on Naboo, the number of threats upon the Queen’s life had boomed.

You, in turn, had become better with a blaster and even more dangerous than before.

You needed to be. Just last week, Moteé had been stabbed in an unsuccessful assassination attempt at a state dinner by a would-be reporter. It was Ellé who’d stopped the attack, pinning the Zygerrian to the banquet table with her vibroblade to his throat.

The fringe-political group seemed to blame young Padmé for the loses they faced in the Occupation of Naboo by the Trade Federation. They blamed the young Queen’s actions, condemning them as a part of the greater move towards Galactic War. Seeing the newly re-elected Queen continue to hold her seat upon the throne was the last thing these terrorists wanted.

The Royal Naboo Security Forces were keen on finding out who was responsible. And so was Padmé.

Piles of evidence eventually led Captain Panaka straight to a group of far-right Centrists who were operating out of Naboo’s eastern city, Solleu. With furhter plans to bomb the Royal Palace found in their possession, the group of four had been extradited to the Senate for trial on Coruscant -- and now, here you find yourself, accompanying the Queen alongside Dormé, Cordé, Ellé, and the Royal Guard to said trial.

“You’re fussing.”

It’s Dormé who says it, the decoy’s headdress tinkering as she turns to eye you in the transport. Padmé, beside her, spares you a bright look. She’s out of royal garb -- she plays the part of handmaiden, now, until within the Senate building.

“Are you nervous?”

You balk. You turn your attention back to the cape wrapped around your shoulders -- it’s a deep emerald and velvet, matching that of your fellow handmaiden’s and pinned neatly across your shoulders with a broach bearing the Naboo Royal crest. Beneath your cape lays a belt outfitted with your blaster, vibroblade, and medical kit -- the high collar of your ink-black compression suit peeking above the cape’s neckline. It’s battle dress, though the occasion calls for it. The transition between the landing strip to the Senate will be dangerous.

You fuss with the hem and cross your legs.

“I’m not -- I... Why would I be nervous?”

Padmé serves you a look, the corner of her lips turning upwards. “Lying is unbecoming, you know.”

That stirs a laugh out of Cordé, who has her eyes turned out the transport’s window.

“There’s nothing to be nervous about --” you try to wave their prying words away, swatting at them as if they were flies in the air.

It earns you four rather unimpressed looks.

“Surely if I was seeing the man I’d been pining over for the last two years,” Ellé pipes up from the back corner, attention pulled from sharpening her blade, “I’d be nervous.”

“I --”

Padmé grins. “Has he written you recently?”

(Of course he’d written. He writes nearly twice a week. He’s consistent and frequent and you try to be as good as him about replying, but it’s hard to find the right words to express how much you love someone when it’s been two years since you’ve seen their face and there’s lightyears of distance between you. Because of that, you have a handful of unanswered holo-messages upon your person communicator that, in the last handful of weeks due to some rather pesky security purges done in attempt to secure the Royal communications, you have been unable to reply to.)

You try to hide the way your face splits in two. You try so hard; but it’s not easy, not when the girls light up with excitement -- reading parts of his messages had become a rather guilty pleasure of theirs.

Not that they were to blame.

Obi-Wan Kenobi is a romantic.

Padmé had been the first to find out about your correspondences, the young Queen nosy enough to read over your shoulder one afternoon when she’d caught you seeking peace in the gardens. It had been a tight-lipped secret that the young Queen had sworn to keep, but the others were wickedly smart -- and upon catching you reading a rather lovely poem, penned to you earlier that day, to Padmé one evening in the gardens (your usual rendezvous when sharing such things) Dormé had been the next to become obsessed with the winding love-story of you and young Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Years later, the others within this very small group of women know, too, but no one else. It was a secret kept safe amongst the Queen’s closest friends -- your closest friends. You’d trust these women with your life; and so, your most protected secret.

“... Perhaps.”

A soft gasp. “Does he know you’re coming?”

“All I know,” you explain softly, “is that he’s been asked by the Chancellor to greet the Naboo Royal party upon landing as additional security, and that he’d hoped I’d be amongst the party to accompany you --”

The ship begins to slow its descent.

You visible stiffen. If you hadn’t been nervous before, you’re certainly nervous now.

The others notice -- their faces splitting with eager, bright smiles. You can’t help but match it, fingers wound tightly into your cape as you shift in your seat; Captain Panaka announces they’ll be landing shortly once they get clearance from air-traffic command.

“If we don’t see a kiss, I’ll be rather peeved --”

You shoot Ellé a sharp look, one that spurs her to grin wolfishly -- a sharp contrast to her polished core-world accent.

“It’s against the code --” you begin to explain.

“Well, certainly you’ve kissed before,” Padmé nearly cries, hands braced on either side of the waxy seats as she leans forward in protest, “He’s written about it --”

“Of course we’ve kissed,” you mutter, pinching your brow, “Just not on a tarmac for the entire Senate to see, is all.”

“... Did you two ever --”

“No!” you nearly shriek, waving your hands at a now grinning Dormé, who has to try and keep her face still as to not disrupt the carefully painted makeup on her lips, “I know what you’re about to ask and no, we never --”

The ship rumbles as the landing pad comes into view.

Panaka, over the transport’s loudspeaker, calls out: “Look alive, ladies. Seems we’ve got a greeting party.”

Your eyes connect with all of theirs before you all rush to the windows, keen on catching a glimpse of a certain Jedi Knight --

And that’s when you see Obi-Wan Kenobi for the first time in two years.

✶ ✶ ✶

He swears his heart is going to give out.

Even Anakin can sense his Master’s restlessness. It earns Obi-Wan a squint from down below, coming in the form of Anakin’s trademarked curious look. Obi can feel it boring into his skull, but opts to ignore it. Right now, the sandy blonde is busy trying to ground himself as the Naboo Royal Shuttle lands.

It’s gears hiss, weight settling on the Senate’s landing platform 55-B.

When the landing ramp folds out, presenting a set of stairs out the side of the tan transport, him and Anakin move closer -- only for Obi-Wan’s breath to catch in his throat so quick he nearly chokes.

Oh.

The first time he sees you in two years, he’s robbed of all the air in his lungs.

He’d remembered your beauty -- soft and kind and warm. It was something that he thought of often. Years prior, you’d worn soft shades of rose colored lipstick and ribbons in your hair. This sort of soft, girlish beauty had apparently been ephemeral, over-taken by a daring sense of beauty that held a knife to his throat the moment he laid his eyes upon you.

You step off that transport, swathed in an emerald green cape that kisses the ground as you walk, looking like something out his wildest dreams. The sunset behind you pales in comparison. You haven’t changed... yet, you have -- looking older now, and more capable than ever.

You could say the same about him.

He’s just like you remember, except broader -- he’s filled out, with hair that isn’t so spikey and the ghost of stubble threatening to overtake his jaw completely, reminding you suddenly of the way Qui-Gon had once styled his facial hair. His chin bears it’s same dimple, and his little beauty mark stands out against tanned skin. He’s... a man -- not that he wasn’t all those years ago on Naboo, you remind yourself.

Obi-wan’s eyes, wide and warm, connect with yours and it’s like getting punched square in the chest. You can hardly breathe.

For a moment, and only a moment, the universe slows down. It’s only the two of you on that tarmac, two weary hearts reunited after years of loneliness. It feels good to finally feel whole again, and the both of you thank the stars above in an utterance of prayer. You’re here, and he’s here. You’re together again.

But, there’s a job to be done.

Quickly, you move beside Ellé -- the four handmaidens fall in line around the Queen, a squad of Royal Guard filing out behind her; you tear your eyes from Obi-Wan reluctantly, quickly scanning the rooftop canopy for any threats. Your hand is on the blaster on your hip, battle regalia on display underneath.

Obi-Wan swallows thickly.

He bows. Anakin follows suite.

If he sees Padmé, he doesn’t say a word -- only stares openly as the Royal Party files out onto the tarmac and two men in pilot’s uniforms wrestle with two trunks in the back of the pack.

“It’s with great pleasure that my padawan and I welcome you to the Senate, your highness,” Obi-Wan speaks slowly, eyes shining as he spies Dormé’s face between the crowd; he gives her a familiar smile -- he’d made her acquaintance all those years ago aboard the Nubian. He recognizes Padmé, too, smiling up at him sweetly on the right-flank with her blaster in her hand, “We will be your escorts during this time -- though, it seems Royal Security certainly has a handle on things.”

He winks. Right at you.

He hasn’t changed at all.

You can feel Dormé’s smirk boring an amusement shaped into the back of your head.

Gods, you could kiss him. If he’s not careful, Ellé is going to get that show she mentioned aboard the transport.

“Thank you, Jedi Knight,” you speak curtly, leading the formation with long strides across the tarmac, following his cue off the well-lit platform, “The extra hand is much appreciated.”

Oh, to hear your voice again. He’s sure he’s never been happier.

Anakin is looking back, face suddenly splitting into a smile of recognization. You catch it being sent Padmé’s way as you move to make way for the Queen into the Senate building. Padmé catches the boy’s eye, too, both of them glowing with fondness for each other.

Obi-Wan is quick, head on a swivel as he leads you and the Naboo Royal party into the Senate building’s elevator, pressing the button for the 80th floor. Upon that floor is the Naboo Senatorial Suite, where Padmé and the party of royal staff will be staying during trial’s proceedings set to begin tomorrow at noon.

The group shuffles into the elevator, crammed a bit, but leaving you to brush shoulders with the very Jedi Knight you’d been so nervous to see. You filed in, once again at the front of the formation around the Queen, before idling shifting in your boots as Obi-Wan crosses his hands in-front of himself and clears his throat.

The elevator begins to move as you catch Obi-Wan barely hiding his affections, face turned to openly admire you.

“I hadn’t thought it possible for you to grow more beautiful,” he says quietly, but loud enough for the entire elevator to eavesdrop, “It is good to see you again, my friend.”

Goodness, if Cordé could swoon she would. Right now, though, she’s jammed between Panaka and the elevator wall. Instead, she shares a knowing, amused look with Ellé across the lift.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re quite the charmer, Obi-Wan Kenobi?” you muster, turning to blink up at him beneath thick lashes; you can take in more of him now -- the slope of his nose, the crinkles in the corners of his eyes, “Seems as though some things never change.”

“Hardly the first,” he smiles, hand moving to hold the doors to the lift open as the chime, signaling their stop, “And I suppose not... You are still short.”

Padmé laughs at that, trying to hide it as a cough.

It doesn’t pass.

Even Panaka is smirking now, especially as you turn and smile up at Obi-Wan with an awed expression. The Jedi Knight is looking particularly smug, hiding his evident amusement in his sleeve as he rubs his jaw. His eyes bounce to you, then the floor number displayed overhead.

His hands are still shaking, only slightly now. You notice.

Anakin is blinking between the two of you in the meanwhile, leaning around Obi-Wan to get a better look at the smile on your face -- that smile is definitely not one of a friend. Anakin’s had plenty of friends before and not one of his friend’s have looked at him like that. And his Master is making the same gross, mushy face.

Anakin blinks back at Padmé, who smiles back.

He serves the same kind of gross, mushy smile his master is, all without even knowing it.

The doors open to the 80th floor, twinkling skyline of the Federal Distract glimmering through the large windows lining the hallway. The sight greets you kindly, a bit of the tension in your shoulders melting, as Obi-Wan chirps a charming:

“Shall we?”

You both lead the group down the carpeted hall, hanging a right out of the elevator. Your cape brushes the ground as you walk -- his robes doing the very same. Dormé can’t help but think of what a smart couple the two of you make, the smile playing upon her neatly painted lips settling as she catches sight of the Senatorial suite.

The guards outside stand at attention as you offer a respectful bow of your head and move to press open the heavy dura-steel doors -- Obi-Wan manages the other, and the party moves into the suite like a flowing river of bodies. Anakin muddles in the fray, watching with bright eyes as the party relaxes visibly and Dormé rolls her neck.

You step into the apartment, closing the doors as the Jedi Knight to your left does the same. His smile is playing loudly upon his lips, eyes roaming happily across you as you button the holster on your hip and begin to undo your cape.

“All things considered,” Ellé says, moving to do the same with her cape, “That went well.”

You’re pulled away from the smile on Obi-Wan’s lips by the task at hand.

Settling in meant sweeping the room, unpacking, and prepping for tomorrow’s hearing. As the Royal Guard leave the rest of the suitcases in the bedroom, the flurry of activity leaves you suddenly a bit panicked -- what now? Will he leave? You have hardly had the time to say hello... and -- you have so much to say. Now, he’s idling by the door beside you, looking as if he’s also wondering the same thing.

“We’ve still got tomorrow to survive,” mutters Dormé, sighing as Cordé pulls her headdress off, letting dark hair spill across her shoulders, “Don’t speak too soon.”

“All due respect,” Obi-Wan pipes up, “But, you need not to worry; Anakin and I will do all we can to ensure these next few weeks go by smoothly.”

Anakin, upon hearing his name, perks up in the corner. “That’s right.”

Padmé has to laugh.

“You two have certainly come far from what I remember,” she says sweetly, smile wide and genuinely, “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“It certainly has.”

His eyes fall to the carpet, drifting in your direction as if caught in your orbit. His voice is soft; Padmé can see the forlorn look in his eyes from her spot across the room, gathering dresses from her trunks to hang in the closet.

You’ve folded your cape over your arm.

You’re worrying the hem again.

Padmé lingers in the doorway, eyes bounding between the both of you -- it seems Ellé and Cordé are doing the same; suddenly, the young Queen of Naboo lights up, her eyes falling to her Senatorial garbs as she swallows.

“Perhaps... errands would be in order --”

“Your highness,” Panaka states plainly, hands behind his back, “We have no need for --”

“Captain, I believe... Ellé, you had a list, yes?”

Ellé is like a deer in headlights. “Oh! Uh, yes! Of course, it’s... tucked away --”

She’s begun to move towards the bedroom, laughing sheepishly -- lying has never been her gift -- as she moves to hurry past Padmé and find a scrap of paper tucked into the first drawer of the desk there; she’s cursing slightly, fumbling with the drawers as you and Obi-Wan stand there awkwardly, listening to the fray as Cordé and Dormé move to assist the brazen handmaiden in her attempts to doctor up a to-do list. There’s whispers of your friends adding items to the list, and after a moment that seems to pass far too slowly, they emerge from the bedroom brandishing a crinkled, folded up list.

Panaka coughs, hiding an amused smirk.

“Here,” Padmé says, crossing the room and offering the folded list to you, “Perhaps, Jedi Knight, you could accompany her? To ensure the list is gathered safely, of course. And Anakin can keep up company for now, can’t you, Ani?”

A bright chirp. “I will make sure they’re safe, Master!”

Obi-Wan balks, mouth moving but no words coming out.

The gesture is... kind, and suddenly he’s wondering if Padmé and the other girls are in on your little secret... He nods, though, accepting the assignment without a word of protest which causes the youthful Queen to bloom at the sight of you both before her.

“Good. Thank you,” she says, gesturing to the door with her free hand, “And please, no rush.”

You can hardly believe her.

You grip the list tightly, pulling your cape over your shoulders and pinning it once more as you step through the door Obi-Wan has moved to hold open -- his hand ghosts your lower back, prompting you to duck your head sheepishly at the first contact in years.

The door closes behind you heavily and someone locks it from the other side.

Now, alone with Obi-Wan in the hallway, you feel just as you did on the tarmac.

Breathless.

He swallows thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing as he grips the sleeves of his robe tightly. You’ve long forgotten the list, attention turned towards the handsome Jedi Knight before you -- finally, you reach out.

Your hands find his face and he’s pulled in, sweeping your hands into his own as he closes the distance between you both.

As easy as breathing, his mouth finds yours. The kiss is gentle, sweet and slow; you can feel his smile digging in against your lips as he kisses you, hands cradling your jaw as you hold on tightly to his wrists. You feel like your entire heart is on fire as your heartstrings snap happily at the comfort his touch brings.

You’d missed this. You’d missed him.

“I missed you,” he pulls away, his nose brushing yours as he holds you close, “I missed you so much -- I was so nervous --”

“I know,” you whisper, fingers carding through the sandy locks on his temples, “And I missed you.”

You could cry.

You’re so happy -- he sees it on your face and it makes his eyes swim with years worth of adoration. “I meant what I said... You’ve... You’ve gotten even more beautiful. I didn’t think it possible.”

You roll your eyes, lashes blinking quickly to try and hide the misty-eyed reaction that worms out of you. “Stop it.”

“I’m serious --”

“I haven’t been able to write you back, and -- and I feel awful... I... The palace has been purging the servers and tightening security measure, and,” you stammer, pausing to take a breath and swallow down your guilt, “I felt so terrible -- I... You wrote me so often and...”

“And you were busy,” he urges, smile growing on his face as he thumbs your cheek, “I know that.”

You can’t help the happy tear that rolls down your cheek.

“I thought of you -- everyday. From the moment I woke, to the moment I went to bed...”

His heart lurches at your words. Obi-Wan laughs, soft and safe, as he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“I’m here now,” he soothes, minding the delicately wound plaits on wither side of your head, mimicking Padmé’s stapled Senatorial style -- you’re beautiful, truly, and he can’t help but steal another kiss, “I must admit I... I was nervous you wouldn’t come.”

“I had to,” you shake your head, holding his hand tightly as you separate, “To see you again...”

His eyes are soft. “I nearly requested you --”

“Padmé would have obliged if you had,” you drop your gaze, “She... She knows.”

“I figured as much,” Obi-Wan nods, wetting his lips, “And the others?”

“I tried to keep it from them, but --”

“But, it’s no matter,” he reassures, smile melting away any worries you’d had about his reaction, “They’re people that you trust. I trust you judgement above all else.”

Gods, you love him. Truly, you do.

“Come then, let’s get this list out of the way so I can have you all to myself,” he mutters, an arm sneaking around your shoulders as he plants yet another kiss to your temple, “A little shopping can’t hurt. I’ve waited years, anyways.”

Your stomach swims delightfully at the idea.

You brandish the list, beginning to follow him towards the lift as you unfold the paper.

You stop in your tracks and laugh.

Obi-Wan blinks.

“What?”

“... They... goodness -- read it for yourself.”

You hand it to him, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Obi-Wan takes it in calloused fingers, clearing his throat before eyeing the note.

“Take yourselves to dinner,” he snorts, “And just kiss already.”

You’re shaking your head, laughing quietly, when he looks up. And Obi-Wan figures this is the most wonderful moment he’s had in a long time. He tries to memorize the sight of you before him, then speaks quickly:

“Well, I take that stands as Royal order, doesn’t it?”

You don’t object when he pulls you into the elevator and kisses you dizzy.

#nightfall & daybreak #obi-wan kenobi imagine #obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan x you #obi-wan imagine #obi-wan x reader

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mostfacinorous · 4 years

Text

Stoki Whumptober Day 22: Do These Tacos Taste Funny To You? [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9][10][11][12][13][14][15][16][17][18][19][20][21]

As the day dawned and they considered their options, Loki sent tentative tendrils of power towards the stone.

It was recovering-- that much was clear, but it wasn’t anywhere close to being usable.

“This will take several days.” He announced shortly.

Rogers looked up from the fire, frowning. He seemed to have recovered some of his lost body heat, and nearly all of his wandering wits.

“Not much choice, is there? So what should we do?”

Loki pondered.

“We have a few priorities. The first should be sustenance, I think. Food-- preferably meat, if we can manage to trap anything. Then, shelter. What we made in a few hours yesterday was a start, but it is nowhere near enough to keep you alive, and my powers are low from keeping the heat around you.

Rogers looked startled.

“Wait-- what did you do?”

Loki cocked his head, then huffed a little laugh, feeling sheepish. He’d thought it would be obvious, but apparently Rogers had been too out of his mind to realize.

“It’s no matter. I kept the heat close, that’s all. Without food and rest, I will not be able to do it again, and so we should make an effort to secure both food and a place that will support us for the next few days.”

Rogers nodded. “What’s the best way to do that?”

Loki thought back to hunts and adventures, and adjusted for his current state-- tired, magically weak, and Rogers, human, though extraordinary for one.

“A den.” He decided. “We dig down before we build up, and that will be easier if we can find an area with good snow drift.” He glanced at Rogers’s hands, remembering how stiff and red they’d been the night prior.

“Perhaps I should take the lead on that. Do you know anything about tracking or trapping?”

Rogers shook his head apologetically. “The woods isn’t really my forte-- even back in the war, we just carried rations with us.”

Loki sighed.

“Alright. Shelter first, then. It will, I think, be the most pressing of our needs. And maybe we can build upon what we already have, rather than starting anew.”

This was less than ideal, of course, but they’d make it through. As long as they could keep Rogers warm enough, even if they found no food, they would last three days. This would all be fine.

Loki’s first act was to find two trees near enough to one another that they could lay the trees they felled between them, stacking them almost like weaving, to form a wall, and wedging more trees in at an angle, to form a triangular shape. It was, again, not wind proof, but he hoped to get it closer to that before night fall.

Once the walls were tall enough to allow them to walk inside while bent over, they switched to installing something of a roof-- simply more trees laid across.

“All these trees we’re tearing down-- it’s not going to affect the timeline, will it?” Rogers asked, when they’d nearly finished with their labour, as it grew to early afternoon.

Loki shrugged.

“It may have some effect, though who knows what… and it probably doesn’t do to dwell on it. We have little enough choice.”

Loki showed the Captain how to scrape off the snow and find the wet leaves and pine needles beneath. “This is to fill the gaps between the logs. Can you work on this, while I search for food? Take breaks and warm your hands by the fire when they grow uncomfortable.”

“Okay. Stay close though-- within hearing range.”

“Of course.” Loki wasn’t sure whether the Captain was more concerned for himself or for Loki, but given what he knew of them man, he thought it was likely the latter.

Sweet fool.

Loki wished he’d taken the time earlier to fashion and set traps, but he’d chosen to prioritize otherwise, and so that left him likely needing to use what was left of his power for the day on food.

He managed to use his Jotun eyes to find a rabbit’s burrow, and uncovered three fat rabbits for dinner. Satisfied they would have something, he began next to forage, finding a few mushrooms he was familiar with on tree trunks, low to the ground.

He wished he had a pot; a stew would be immensely satisfying given the temperatures, and being able to melt snow and drink it warm would warm them very effectively, but he was making do with what they had, and so spits over the fire would have to do.

He was careful not to cook the meat too long, unwilling to lose the animal’s fat to the flames, and passed two of them to Rogers to sup on.

“Is that gonna be enough for you?” The Captain asked, nodding towards Loki’s own meal.

“I found a few mushrooms, I’ll round it out with that and it will be plenty.” Loki assured him, opening the small satchel he’d made out of the hem of his cape, tied up and around itself.

The mushrooms, he had to admit, didn’t sound as appealing as the meat, but they would help him to feel more full. And it seemed to satisfy Rogers, who began tucking into his food with a voracity that Loki hadn’t expected. He wondered if his body, superior to the rest of his species, made superior demands of him as well. He was glad, suddenly, that he’d chosen to divide up the food that way. And with any luck the meat would help him feel warmer overnight.

They finished their supper and settled into their new lodgings, watching as the sun dropped behind the trees and slowly all light faded but that of the fire. Loki kept that built high enough to warm the space, and was gratified to find the set up holding heat much better than last night’s had.

He was just beginning to settle in when the first of the cramps hit him.

At first he thought little of the discomfort, but as it grew, he found himself clutching at his middle and wiping sweat from his brow.

“Are you… Loki? What’s wrong?” The Captain moved closer, clearly alarmed, and Loki waved him off.

“Perhaps the meat was undercooked.” He said, feeling slightly miserable about it.

“If that was the case, I should be feeling it too. What about the mushrooms? You know which ones are safe, right?”

Loki groaned. “I thought I did-- there must be some differences to Asgardian ones.”

Well, that would explain his current state.

“I should-- ah, go purge them.” Loki began to crawl towards the exit, and Rogers moved to follow. Loki stopped him.

“I will not freeze to death in my efforts-- you might. And, if you don’t mind… I’d rather you not see me like this.”

Rogers did not appear impressed.

“What happens if you pass out, or get lost, or if it gets worse and you can’t make it back?”

“Then you come look for me in the morning. I mean it, Rogers-- stay with the fire.”

The Captain glanced away, his lips going thin.

“I told you to call me Steve.” he said, and Loki sighed, glad that he was giving ground to Loki’s argument in favor of complaining about what he was called.

“Steve, then. Let me handle this myself. I’ll return as soon as I feel up to it.”

Rogers pushed a hand through his hair distractedly.

“Alright, but I’m not waiting til morning. If you’re not back by the time this log burns down, I’m coming looking for you.”

Loki glanced at the fire. That didn’t give him long, and if he had any hope of retaining his dignity-- his stomach cramped again, and made a sound like a restless beast.

“Fine.” he said quickly. “I will walk in a straight line from the door into the woods. But if it comes to it, I imagine at some point you should be able to smell me.”

He wrinkled his nose and climbed out into the cold, fully prepared to use the dregs of his magic to speed the process of emptying his stomach, if he must.

He could not say he was looking forward to it.

---

Some hours later, Loki returned to the shelter, shaking with exhaustion, and sore from the day’s exertions, and ready to simply curl up and rest, at long last. Rogers was still awake, waiting for him and staring into the flames, and though he’d wrapped himself in Loki’s cape, he was glad to see he didn’t appear to be as poorly off as he had been the night before.

“Hey,” he greeted. “You doing okay?”

Loki huffed.

“Well, I feel a good deal less like dying.” Though he did not mention that it had smelled for a bit like he had done, out there.

Rogers laughed a little, sounding surprised. “Glad to hear it, I guess. Here.” He lifted his arm, creating an opening in the cape that Loki supposed he was meant to crawl into.

“What?” Loki asked.

“I figure-- it’s cold. We should share body heat. Especially if you’re feeling sick-- we can’t afford for you to get worse.”

It was Loki’s turn to laugh, though there was panic hidden under it. The Captain was sweet, but a fool.

“Do you suppose I withstand the cold better because I run warmer than you?” Loki asked archly. “I am cold-blooded, Captain. I would only steal your heat. I have none to share.”

“Steve.” He corrected quickly, then shook his head. “I don’t care. As long as… if being warmer would help you, you should share my heat. You’re shivering.”

And Loki realized it was true; he was exhausted, drained both physically and magically, and his sleep had been cut short the night prior with watching over Steve.

He didn’t have the energy left to argue, and so worked his way around the fire to sit beside Steve, ducking under his own cape for warmth.

“If I make you cold, though-- you must tell me.” Loki cautioned.

“Alright. And if there’s anything I can do to help, you hafta tell me. Deal?”

“I suppose it must be.” Loki found himself leaning into the heat, and did not flinch when Steve’s arm curled around his shoulder to pull him closer, though it was a close thing.

#Stoki Whumptober2020 #Stoki #Frostshield #Capfrost #Steve x loki #Loki x Steve #Whumptober #That writing thing I do

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gaystardust · 4 years

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through darkness of mind [Kanera Week: trust/vulnerability]

Synopsis: Kanan has nightmares. Hera helps. @kaneraweek Rating: T Warnings: discussion of Kanan’s past, discussion of parental death. Graphic description of panic attacks and anxiety. Trauma-related nightmares, trauma-related alcoholism, possible emetophobia AO3 Link: [link] A/N: Title from Godspeed by Frank Ocean. I’m on a new medication that gives me constant anxiety and regular panic attacks - so this happened. Also, I’m serious. Editing was hard because the panic felt too real - I tried to make it a little less so, but it’s still pretty detailed. Be careful, look after yourself. I am not responsible for your decision to read these.

The world blurred as he sat up too quickly, barely aware he’d fallen asleep. His heartbeat was loud in his eyes, and his stomach twisted. The air still smelt like burning flesh, both from fire and his lightsaber blade.

The rolling acid of his stomach made him swallow hard. There was nothing in his stomach to bring up, but his body was still trying.

Nightmare. It was a nightmare.

Again.

Kanan made himself breathe hard through his nose, counting in and out. Really, he should have been exhaling through his mouth, creating a perfect circle of breath but the nausea wasn’t going to let him.

He was awake. Sweaty, shaking, and on the edge of hyperventilating, but awake. He was awake, and safe, and alive.

Even if it didn’t feel like it.

Mygeeto was almost a decade behind him. The constant feeling of darkness and despair still sat heavy on his soul, but it was over. Only its shadow remained, an outline only seen behind closed eyes.

He was safe.

Kanan forced his fingers to relax where they were digging into the hard duraplast of the table.

The table. The kitchen table.

He’d fallen asleep in the shared space again. That thing Hera had specifically told him not to do, especially when he could just go to bed - except he had no idea what time it was. They’d been aimlessly floating around space for the last week, and the standard planetary day-night cycle was already gone from his brain.

The world around him moved sluggishly as he looked around, still blurred around the edges. Was it a side effect of waking up mid-sleep cycle, or was he on the edge of a panic attack?

The vibrating under his skin suggested the latter, but maybe it was both. His toes were numb, and his fingers were sluggish and stiff as they tapped on the duraplast of the table. Something close to pins and needles ran up and down his legs.

He ran through a quick battlefield assessment to make sure it was nothing worse - and then immediately slammed down on the reminder than he knew how to do that.

Whatever it had been before, it was easing closer and closer to a panic attack.

Kanan closed his eyes, watching the patterns swirl behind his eyes. He counted his breaths, just like he’d been taught dozens of times in his life. Inhale the recycled air, still cleaner than some planets, and exhale all of the bad feelings.

The door at the other side of the room slid open. Kanan jumped. His muscles seized as he tried to size up the threat, forcing down the panic that rose in his throat.

Even seeing Hera there didn’t stop the rising pain in his chest. His breathing was mostly under control now, but his heart was beating too fast.

“Kanan?” Hera said quietly, hovering in the doorway. She overly still, her lekku held close to her back in a way that must have been uncomfortable. “Are you okay?”

He could feel the thu-thump thu-thump thu-thump behind his eyes, pushing everything out of focus.

He nodded and was caught in a loop of motion. It made him rock back and forth, until he forced himself to slump forward against the table. His fingers started tapping, but that was a good enough reroute. “Sorry.”

“Hey, no, it’s alright.” She moved a little closer, hands held up as if placating a wild animal.

He felt like one. A herd animal trapped between a cliff and a predator, about to make a terrible choice.

“Talk to me, love. What’s the matter?”

The pet name burned in a way he didn’t want to think about. He could hear it mirrored, in another accent, on another set of lips, in another time. The word was different, but the feeling was the same.

He couldn’t shake his head, not without risking another loop. He had to speak. “Just… just a nightmare.”

Hera nodded. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” his voice cracked, “thanks.”

Her approach took too long, but when she sat down on the corner of the bench Kanan realised it was actually too quick. She was nowhere near him, but it was still too close. He could hear her boots tapping on the floor, rhythmic and irritating.

Or maybe those were his boots.

“Is there anything else I can do?”

Kanan took the risk of shaking his head, just catching himself before the repetition kicked in. “It’s fine, I’m used to it.”

The look Hera gave him was full of pity - or maybe his brain was lying. “Do you get nightmares a lot?”

“I used to. They stopped when I started going to sleep too exhausted to dream.” He watched Hera settle herself back into the seat. “Or too drunk to.”

She hummed. “So that’s why you drank so much?”

It felt too obvious, and some awful part of him felt like she should have realised already. Why else would he have been drinking so much, if not to stop his nightmares? Did she think he’d just been doing that for fun?

Or maybe it had been a fact of Kanan’s life for so long, it felt that obvious. That didn’t mean someone who’d known him only a few months would understand, not even someone who knew his darker secrets.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he repeated, which seemed to answer enough for Hera. She nodded, not pushing him any further but not letting the room around them fall quiet. She didn’t seem comfortable with the quiet.

Or maybe he was just projecting.

He couldn’t tell anymore.

“After my mother died, I had nightmares all the time,” she admitted quietly, looking down at the table instead of towards him. It made his skin fizzle less. “I kept thinking that what happened to her would happen to me, or my father. The one day he’d go out, and never come back.” She traced an invisible pattern on the table, all straight lines and slight curves. “I only grew out of it when I realised it didn’t matter whether it happened to us - it had already happened to her. Worrying it would happen to my father wouldn’t do anything.” When Hera looked up again, she looked as anxious as Kanan felt. “It wouldn’t have stopped him, either.”

Maybe (when he was able to sort through his thoughts without uncovering more panic) he would work his way through everything he’d just been told. So much of it was new, but it wouldn’t settle in his thoughts. It would have to wait.

It would have made sense, if Hera thought he was afraid of dying. He hid himself almost completely, unwilling to do anything that would risk identifying him as a Jedi. But she’d seen through him instantly.

Kanan dropped his head into his hands, half in disbelief that he was going to admit. “I keep seeing people I care about die. And not just the battles I was in. Some of them, I only heard about in stories, but I still see everyone die right in front of me,” he gestured to the centre of the room, but didn’t look up.

There was a pause after he stopped talking, as if Hera wanted him to continue. He just shook his head - or shuffled it as much as he could without lifting his head - trying to make it obvious he wasn’t going to.

She seemed to take the hint, at least a little. “Kanan, you were a child. There was nothing you could have done.”

“I know,” he managed quietly, voice crackling. “But I still dream it.”

Even leaning into his arms, his head felt heavy. Shuffling his legs felt like moving dead weight. The adrenaline had left his system as quickly as it entered, leaving nothing but exhausting in its wake. Kanan sighed.

“I felt them, Hera. I felt the Force shrivel up and die, just like the rest of the Jedi Order.”

She reached out a hand, leaving it at the edge of his line of sight but not any further.

It took a moment for Kanan to realise she was asking for permission.

Lifting his head, he dropped his arms to the table. The back of one hand landed in her open palm.

Even with her lekku twitching in discomfort, Hera smiled softly, but not out of pity. More like mutual understanding.

“The Force didn’t die, love. It’s everywhere, all around us.” She laughed softly, barely louder than breathing. “That’s how you explained it, right?”

That had been months ago, just after they’d left Gorse. The fact she still remembered made Kanan’s chest flutter, but not with anxiety.

“Well, it’s all around us, but it’s also in every living thing,” he corrected, practically hearing the repeated lesson in the back of his mind. “That’s the difference between the Unifying Force and the Living Force… I think.” He never really understood the difference, even after so many lessons. It was blurry and difficult to identify, and there was no one to correct him now.

He could feel the spiral before he fell into it. Kanan huffed through his nose, forcing himself to focus on the feeling of air moving through his body.

Hera didn’t notice. “If the Force is in all things, then it definitely can’t be dead. I’m not saying you didn’t feel something awful, but the Force didn’t die.”

“The Order did.”

“Not all of it.” Her eyes were sharp, focused on him. She looked like she had a plan. “You’re still here. And if you are, there has to be others. Even you can’t be self-centred enough to think you’re the only Jedi with the skills to survive the Purge.”

But it wasn’t just the Purge. It was Knightfall. It was the person vendettas some of the Clones still held against their Generals. It was Kardoa, Mygeeto, Kaller.

He had no energy to argue about it, nor to think about the different types of trauma he had, and how that affected his nightmares. He doubted he would ever have the energy for it.

“It’s far more than that,” he just about managed, using all of his strength not to lie on the table again. “But I really don’t want to talk about it, Hera. Can I just go and sleep, please? I’m exhausted.”

Hera squeezed his hand. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.” He had no idea what she’d assumed, but he wasn’t going to ask. Then she stood up, gently pulling him from the bench. “Come on. I want to make sure you’re in bed before you fall asleep sat up again.”

He didn’t argue as Hera lead him to the cabin he was staying in. It was starting to gather the clutter of somewhere well lived in, but the blankets stacked on the bed were the thing he looked forward to most.

As soon as she deposited him on the bed, Kanan slumped sideways, pressing his back close to the wall. He didn’t bother stripping down, too aware of Hera in the room and too exhausted to work out clothes fastenings.

Hera didn’t move, just watching him from the doorway again. “Shout of me if you need anything, okay? I know the intercom is by the door, but you don’t have to say anything. Just press it and I’ll come and check on you.”

It Kanan far longer than it should have to understand, his adrenaline sapped brain not even sure what was words and what was just sounds. “You’re not staying?”

She hesitated, before shaking her head. “No, of course not. Why, did you think I would?”

He tossed the idea of her leaving around in his head before coming to his conclusion.

“Please stay.”

It sounded like a beg, and perhaps it was. He knew all too well the risks of sleeping alone. At least with someone else there, a heartbeat near him, he’d know everything was okay. That they were somewhere safe.

Hera hesitated before moving into the room. She hesitated again after a few steps, moving to push the flight suit trousers from the body. Underneath were the dark leggings she wore while they were to make up for the lack of heat while they were in space.

As soon as she sat on the edge of the bed, she pulled upright Kanan to remove his jumper, chucking it onto the floor. She moved to pull off his boots and put his own hands on his belt to make him remove it himself. He just about managed it in the time it took Hera to undo two sets of laces.

Then she curled up beside him, back pressed to his chest. One of his arms looped across her waist automatically, holding her close.

She was cool, surprisingly so. Did Twi’leks run cooler than Humans?

“Try and get some sleep,” she said quietly.

He hummed his understanding, the world around him warm and soft. “I’ll try. Don’t leave while I’m asleep, okay?”

If he’d been more awake, perhaps he would have noticed Hera stiffen, and then relax back into his body. “Of course not.”

His “goodnight” was muffled in her shoulder, making Hera laugh quietly.

“Sweet dreams, Kanan.”

#kaneraweek2020 #star wars #kanera #star wars rebels #kanan jarrus #hera syndulla #my fic #zi writes

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rogue-hammer · 4 years

Text

ENTRY #1 SPACE MARINES And why you ask? Simple. Its easy to hate Space Marines. You know what though, its also easy to forget some of the best things about them that get lost in the current mainstreaming of the lore and GW's pathetic attempts to turn them into noble sci fi heroes. And so I present to you my; 10 THINGS YOU CAN DO TO MAKE A MORE MEANINGFUL SPACE MARINE ARMY. Good for both Established, AND custom Chapters.

#1: Recruitment: All Space Marines starts life as humble regular human boys. Aww, arn't they cute? HOWEVER, as we all know, the imperium is vast and has hundreds of millions of worlds. And Space Marine Chapters, being the primidone's they are get first class choice of recruiting worlds. So ask yourself. What world do my boys come from? Feudal? Feral? Hi-tech Deathworld? The list goes on. And believe it or not, this has a huge effect on how your marines, even in a established chapter may act. Are they recruited from primitive headhunting cannibal tribes (Azriel)? Or maybe highly learned but well structured societies? Once you know, start thinking about how you can add personal detail to your models and story via the background of where your young soon to be giant super human murder machines came from.

#2 Rituals: Every Chapter has special "Join our club" rituals. How do you become a Space Marine in this chapter? What effort do you go through, and more importantly, what do you have to show for it? Tokens, totems, perhaps trophies are self forged weapons, armor or tech constructs? Again, the sky is the limit, and can be both modeled on your army and written in the lore.

#3 Traditions: What does your chapter like to do to make everyone feel like part of a fraternity of crazed indoctrinated killing machines? Perhaps they drink each other's blood. Maybe blood sport. Perhaps hunting trips. Maybe just drinking till the suns come up What do your boys do as celebration and tradition or observance that sets them apart.

#4 Weapons: Ah yes, you know you like this one. Weapons. What do your boys prefer killing with? Swords? Axes? BARE FUCKING FISTS? Who knows, only you. But there’s more to it than this. Whats the history? After all the Dark angles have their Edgy Black blades. The Space Wolves have Russ' spear and random relics, and the UltraMarines like their Gladius, but ask yourself, what weapon do your boys prefer and what does it symbolize to them?

#5 Visual Aesthetic: Knights? Been there done that. Monks, Been there too. Hmm maybe vikings...nah. But hey whatever floats your boat. Ask yourself, what Aesthetic is your marine chapter known for? Dig into it, Go to your history book and look up famous armies and military. Maybe perhaps, even something current gen rather than history? Who knows what you might find. Perhaps you got a thing for Mongols, or perhaps less known Stepp people Like Sythians or such. Maybe you have a thing for an obscure African tribe. Think outside the box and get an idea of what your boys embody

#6 Heraldry: Yeah this one is easy, Very easy. Or is it? Can you think of a coat of arms that fits your design, And more important, one that can then be simplified down to a model scale and easily free-handed or sculpted? Every coat of arms and heraldic device in the world means something. What does yours mean? Skulls, yeah cool, whatever, but what about a Skull and a crown, or perhaps a tower with a skull gate? What do those mean to you and your marines and where did it come from?

#7 Doctrine: No, not the killing kind, more of the belief kind> What do your brothers believe? Is the big E a god to them? Or do they know better? Do they like the high lords and obey them? Or do they think they are a bunch of Bureaucratic assholes that they really are? Do they like the Inqus? Maybe the sisters? Maybe they actually get along with humans. Do they have Spiritualism or Objectivism? Tribalism or maybe something more obscure? What do they believe in that keeps them killing and purging?

#8 Combat Doctrine Ah yes, the good part. Whats the Combat tactics of your boys? Close Up and Personal? Or maybe lots and lots of guns. ALL THE DAKKA! Who knows, maybe your Marines actually prefer to fight from Orbit. Being only ever deployed during mass Fleet engagements (See 3rd war for Armageddon.) The sky is the limit when it comes to how your boys in Power Armor like to fight and believe it or not, it doesn’t always hav to be....CC or Ranged. #9 Colors Take pride in your colors. Or don't and make your marines have cheesy camo schemes like Rogue Trader era shit. Who cares? You wanna know whats boring as fucking? painting all your marines like your trying to replicate the box art photos on the model box. Take it somewhere fun. Study or create squad markings both from 40k and history. Find things that make them apart from all other chapters even if they do fall in line with Girlly-man's Codex. Do they use patterns or straight color schemes, do they mark themselves by squad, or as individuals? Do they have coherency in their scheme or do certain colors designate ones from others? Always remember, Your color pattern is what people will first see. #10 History Ah now the most important and last point. History, Yeah remember when 40k was told as a historical game and not like a "We gonna move the story forward but not really" point? Remember when your inner history buff got a hard on reading the Sabbat worlds, or the 12th Black Crusade? remember when you wanted to have a history that meant something? Well you should make one! Study the maps and old codexes, Go through all those short stories you forgot about in various books. Study old classic warfare in our own history and make reasons why your boys are such a big deal, or maybe even a small deal, or perhaps a darker deal in the 41st Millennium. A story is only as good as its base, and your boys need a solid one if your going to keep yourself and others interested in it. That’s all for today Heretics! Happy Hobbying!

#warhammer #warhammer 40k #40k #space marine #hobbying #advice #lore #custom #a word in your ear #my journal

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banditchika · 5 years

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lost and found

fandom: star wars: the clone wars (loosely assorted canon)

words: 17,421

ship: ahsoka/barriss

author’s note: what if we used to be best friends until you betrayed me, and ten years down the line you save my life and give us the chance to start over... aha... just kidding... unless?

anyway @mirrormystic and i are proud to present our barrisoka post-clone wars collab! barriss has a gun. ahsoka, being ahsoka, is perfect. what more could you want from a piece of transformative fiction??

They had chased her across two planets now. A combination of luck, skill, and an insistent go run flee pulsing through the Force has kept Ahsoka’s head firmly attached to her shoulders so far, but the Inquisitorius is relentless. Having a hot meal in a cantina? Bam, Inquisitor kicking down the doors-- Inquisitor sprawled on the floor, Purge Troopers tripping over him, fumbling for their blasters, and Ahsoka, forced to eat and run for the third time in a month. And if it’s not them, it’s bounty hunters, or pirates, or worst of all, slavers. She’d been careful not to let them catch her going anywhere important, but there was nowhere she could go where they wouldn’t eventually sniff her out, so she’d thought, kriff it, and flew straight to Coruscant. If she was going to be dogged no matter where she went, she might as well send a message: “I’m better than the very best you can throw at me.” It had been a plan Anakin would have been proud of. It almost worked, too. Then the Force-- the very same Force that saved her from droids, bounty hunters, pirates, old friends and enemies and the order that killed everyone Ahsoka ever cared about-- saw fit to send her careening into a dead end alley, with no way out besides the way she came... …Right into the arms of the hooded figures flooding the alley, neon lights glinting off their eyeless masks. Thanks, Ahsoka thinks venomously at the Force, sacred lifeblood of the universe. Thanks a lot, really. Ahsoka stops counting bodies after five. The Inquisitors don't deign to speak as they ignite their sabers--or whatever that dual-bladed spinny thing is supposed to be. If they're not bothering with banter, Ahsoka won't either. It’s almost gratifying to know that she’s annoyed them as much as they’ve annoyed her. For a moment, no one moves. Ahsoka catches her reflection on the blank, gleaming plate of the lead Inquisitor's helm and bares her fangs. The alley erupts into chaos. Motion. Heat. Ahsoka becomes the pure white eye of a blazing red hurricane. Ahsoka ducks and weaves around flashes of red lightning, some figurative, some literal. The air fills with the whirring chop of lightsabers spinning like buzzsaws, but Ahsoka isn’t intimidated. She darts through the chaotic melee with grace and poise, a far cry from the clumsy brutes arrayed against her, shoving past one another to land the prestigious killing blow, unable to press their advantage of numbers. And what numbers! There must have been a dozen Inquisitors packed into the gritty side street. Ahsoka wonders-- in the midst of darting aside sloppy slashes and swatting overly-telegraphed blows aside-- if they had simply joined forces as more and more of them picked up her trail, or if the Empire had sent so many after her from the very beginning. This many Inquisitors on the same planet, much less the same city, is astounding overkill. Ahsoka’s almost flattered. Filthy red light flashes through the air and cracks against Ahsoka’s blades. She shoves them back with a thought, feeling the Inquisitors’ frustration rippling through the air. The Inquisitorius seemed to think a red lightsaber and a nice hat were all it took to scare any fledgling Force-sensitives into submission. They must not be used to fighting a Jedi worthy of the name. But even if they were amateurs by comparison, there were a lot of them. And all it took was one slip, one break in Ahsoka’s guard… She sees the feint. Two low, one high-- two to sweep her legs, the third to catch her when she jumps. She curls her legs beneath her, lets the Force flow down from her core into the soles of her boots, and leaps over all three… ...only to see the waiting line of a half dozen hands, stretched, palm-out, towards her. The coordinated Push hits her like a freighter lighting its drives. It snatches her out of mid-air and hurls her down the length of the alley. Ahsoka wheezes as she’s smashed against the far wall, the breath forced from her lungs, her lightsabers clattering to the pavement. She crumples to her knees, hugging herself, a spiderweb of cracks spreading across the duraplast wall above. Ahsoka gasps, teary-eyed, willing some air back into her lungs. Her insides feel like jelly. Her vision blurs and shifts. She sees the shadows of the Inquisitors looming above her, closing in like wolves. One of them barks an order into his helmet mic, and the others stand aside. He strides forward to the head of the pack. He’s been hunting her the longest. This is his kill. Ahsoka swears she hears him lick his lips behind the mask. He ignites his lightsaber. It begins to spin-- A blaster clicks. The Inquisitor whirls and brings his saber up too late to deflect the shot that cracks against his arm. His lightsaber falls from numb fingers, still spinning, cutting glowing gouges in the pavement. Ahsoka twists the Force in her fist and dashes him against the wall. A hail of acid yellow bolts cascades down the alley, forcing the Inquisitors on the defensive. Their opponent stands at the entrance of the alleyway, casting a shadow that stretches narrow from their feet to titanic against the filthy alley wall. Ahsoka sees the shape of a hood and cloak, and when their blaster barks in their hands she catches the briefest glimpse of pale skin and a narrow, snarling mouth. A shiver runs through her. She feels it from the tips of her montrals all the way down to the pit of her gut. Ahsoka knows this stranger, but who-- She almost pays with her nose for her distraction. The Inquisitor whose helm she shattered against the alley wall leaps to his feet and lashes out with his spinning sabers, blood drooling from the cracks in his helm. Ahsoka catches a blade with her main saber and lets the motion of it drag the Inquisitor within thrusting range of her shoto. Another Inquisitor lunges, but a shot cracks against their helmet. A glancing blow, but it still distracts them long enough for Ahsoka to whirl and turn her thrust into a slash, searing through their saber arm. The Inquisitor falls. The other, with his spinning blades, lets out a ragged cry and pounces. Blaster fire harmonizes with the hum and crash of colliding sabers, a frantic, dissonant symphony. Something strange is at work here-- even if it weren’t for the horrible, lurching knot of familiarity sitting in her gut, the stranger’s shooting would have tipped Ahsoka off eventually. Blasters are great for crowd control. Blasters are great against people who couldn’t deflect them as easily as one might shoo an annoying insect. Blasters should not be anywhere near effective in a fight consisting entirely of Force-users. But this stranger’s shots are landing. Not lethally and not often, but the stranger is proving to be capable of more than just cover fire, and that-- that alone would be worth noticing. Unfortunately, it seems the Inquisitors have finally picked up on it. In frustration at being distracted from their quarry, the rear ranks of Inquisitors adjust their grip on their lightsabers and tighten their deflections. When the hooded gunner looses their next volley, the bright yellow bolts are angled right back where they came from. The stranger shifts their weight, darting away from their deflected fire with a speed and efficiency of movement that gives Ahsoka pause. If Ahsoka had had any doubt this was no ordinary concerned bystander, it’s long gone. An Inquisitor barks a garbled order over their helmet radio. Down the street, a squad of Purge Troopers rounds the corner, bringing their rifles up to aim. A second blaster appears in the stranger’s off-hand, as if conjured out of nothing. They gun down the troopers barreling down the street with clinical efficiency and absurd precision, single shots, quick, clean. They don’t even bother turning to look. And when the last trooper falls, the stranger turns their attention back on the alley, toggling from single-shot to full-auto with a click. A storm of searing yellow bolts stitches its way up the side of the neighboring complex. A creaking old fire escape is sheared from the wall. The Inquisitors cry out in alarm as the aging structure crashes down on their heads in a heap of sparking metal. Ahsoka channels the Force down into her feet and propels herself over the wreckage and the rising dust cloud, joining the stranger on the street. Already, she can hear the buzzing of spinning lightsabers scything through metal, the first Inquisitors emerging from the debris. In an instant, the stranger has their twin blasters up and firing. The stranger’s pushed their luck too far. The Inquisitor spins their ring blade, and this time, the storm of deflected bolts makes contact. An arm. A hand. The stranger cries out as a bolt clips their hood and the impact throws them to the ground. That voice. Ahsoka knows that voice-- A flash of red streaks past her face and stops just shy of carving into her chest. Ahsoka catches the blade on her own, grits her teeth, and slices her opponent open with a tight, scissoring slash. As the Inquisitor crumples, she sees two of his compatriots already rushing forward to take his place, the others already picking themselves off the ground. Ahsoka snarls, hunkering down against the renewed assault. The Inquisitors are finally getting serious-- or maybe she’s the one getting sloppy. Distracted. She’s distracted-- but she can’t get that voice out of her head. She senses the Inquisitor trying to sneak up on her from behind. She senses him, but she can’t stop him-- her lightsabers are locked against the two in front of her. Ahsoka grits her teeth. She cries out, takes a pair of glancing cuts along her bracers as she punches her blades across two throats. She feels something. A tug at her waist. Behind her. She whirls around, bringing her lightsabers up to defend. Too slow, too slow-- And she sees the Inquisitor go stiff as a board, a blade of acid yellow plasma punching through his spine and coming out through his chest. The stranger swipes the blade aside, and the man crumples. The woman-- and with her cloak pulled aside and her tunic hugging her curves, her womanhood is impossible for Ahsoka to ignore-- raises the yellow shoto in her uninjured hand, pulling her hood back up onto her head. Ahsoka blinks, her thoughts spinning. The shoto Anakin had given her years ago. Her empty belt pouch. The sensation of the Force pulling something from her belt. And those eyes. Though the woman tries to hide them under her hood, the yellow glow of her borrowed shoto catches her ocean-blue eyes, illuminating the faded arch of diamond tattoos across her nose. Ahsoka gasps. “Barriss?” Ahsoka’s senses flare in warning and she whirls around, catching an Inquisitor’s blade on her twin lightsabers. The Inquisitors descend upon them, snapping and snarling like wolves. Ahsoka stands her ground like a cliff against the sea, blocking strikes from every angle, swatting aside incoming attacks, letting her foes overreach, pull themselves off balance. And in her shadow, Barriss prowls, Ahsoka’s yellow shoto like a dagger of light in her hands. Barriss circles around like a jungle cat, hunting for weaknesses, plunging her shoto into every broken guard. The next few minutes feel like hours. Finally, the last member of the hunting party lies broken on the pavement, his helmet radio crackling. Barriss stabs him in the throat without batting an eye. Barriss deactivates the shoto and shifts it into her injured hand with a wince. One of her blasters, she scoops up from the sidewalk where she’d dropped it. The other, sparking from a ruptured power cell, she leaves where it fell. She turns to find Ahsoka staring, so intently she squirms and looks away. It takes Ahsoka a long moment to deactivate her lightsabers and put them away. Ahsoka exhales. It’s been years. What is she supposed to say? That’s when Ahsoka hears it-- the crackling of radio chatter. Armored boots hustling their way. “Where’s your ship?” Barriss asks-- the first words she’s said to Ahsoka in over a decade. “Why, you don’t think we can take ‘em?” Ahsoka asks dryly, with a daredevil grin. Barriss’ lips curl into something almost like a smile. Ahsoka feels a flicker of… something in her chest. Something old, and bittersweet. It doesn’t last. The blurts of helmet comms and tromping boots get ever closer. “Your ship,” Barriss echoes, rather more urgently. “...Right,” Ahsoka mutters. “Follow me.”

continue on ao3

#barrissoka #barriss offee #ahsoka tano #star wars #star wars: the clone wars #peents writes #product of two beautiful weeks of collaboration!!

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quentinblack · 4 years

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Smoke and Mirrors

Word Count: 2.5K words

Chapter 13 - Andromeda III: Pride and Prejudice (link to full story on FF.net)

Featuring: Andromeda Black & Druella Black

Gaius Lestrange had not been a regular fixture at the Black family’s opulent manor-house in the Bedfordshire countryside for very long, but Andromeda had already grown quite tired of his presence. His persistent brown-nosing of her father over the summer months had been nauseating at best – at worst, even somewhat concerning considering her eldest sister would, at some point in the next 12 months, wed his eldest son and officially join their families together in the process.

Bellatrix had been looking forward to her 17th birthday with baited breath for months, as she would finally be considered a fully-grown adult-witch, thus, not just capable, but also legally able to make her own life choices.

Or at least that was what she had thought.

In hindsight this train of thought had been nothing short of abject naivety on her part, as the mere idea that she would not still be behest to her Father’s will whilst she still lived in his house was nothing more than a pipe dream.

The subject of finding a suitable wizard to marry her off to was not something that had been readily discussed by their Mother and Father in recent times, in-fact - more or less any subject involving Bellatrix had been off limits following the abortion incident.

Andromeda guessed that Bellatrix had thought after that scandal that she would’ve avoided the long-held tradition of pure-blood arranged marriage. It was something that Andromeda and Cissy had pondered themselves, after all, whilst the Black family name was practically royalty, what self-respecting, rich, pure-blood wizard would wish to marry one of their sons off to Bellatrix after all of that?

That had probably been something that her Father had also been rather concerned about. He had always been bitterly disappointed that he had never been birthed a male heir, but he always had the consolation prize of being able to marry off his darling daughters to the cream of the crop in pure-blood bachelors.

He was very good friends with the obscenely wealthy Abraxas Malfoy and if the rumours were to be believed - they had once discussed the possibility of marrying off their first born children together, with that philanderer Lucius even briefly courting Bellatrix at one point in time.

Of course that was undoubtedly off of the cards completely now, with Abraxas loathe to marry off his prized asset to such a disgraced young witch. Lucius would no doubt end up marrying one of the other less discredited pure-blood girls he liked to pursue at school. It could be Danielle Avery, Amara Greengrass or maybe even that bitch Olivia Burke – but definitely not Bellatrix.

Bellatrix was damaged goods and not even the prospect of their family name, reputation and wealth could paper over the cracks she had created. As her father had discovered - there was not a single self-respecting, rich, pureblood wizard who would considering marrying off their son to such a witch.

However, luckily for him, whilst there were no self-respecting, rich, pureblood wizards who would consider it – there was at least one rich, pureblood wizard that would consider it.

This was where Gaius Lestrange had come into the picture.

He was not self-respecting in the slightest, instead, he was utterly shameless in his lust for power, respect and social climbing. Whilst many other noble men with names like Malfoy, Crouch, Yaxley and Nott had pride and reputation to lose by entering their sons into such a bargain with Bellatrix – Gaius Lestrange was from a family that had not yet managed to carve out such pride or reputation into their name.

From what Andromeda had gathered from her Mother the vast majority of the Lestrange family had still been based in France at the turn of the 20th century, but following Grindelwald’s rise to power in Europe, a lot of the men had moved their wives and children to the comparative safety of Britain.

The patriarchs of the family did not do this to avoid Grindelwald’s war, on the contrary, the vast majority were actively following him into battle - and thus, they feared possible reprisals from a French Ministry that was keen to crack down on the dark wizard’s most loyal supporters by any means necessary.

Gaius Lestrange was still a teenager bogged down in his studies at Hogwarts when Grindelwald fell, with his Father subsequently locked up for life in the same prison that housed the man he had followed until the bitter end.

The Lestrange family had quite a few prosperous business ventures scattered across France, but they were soon purged following their owner’s demise and Gaius and his Mother were left with nothing but the cramped little cottage that housed them in Nottingham. Andromeda’s Mother had not expanded on how exactly Gaius Lestrange had managed to acquire the comparative riches that he held today, but she did not have any reason to believe it had come about entirely from legitimate business practices. All that she knew was that at some point Gaius, after befriending many other like-minded pure-blood wizards at Hogwarts, had eventually married the misshapen looking Edith Bulstrode and popped out two sons – one of which was now lucky enough to have Bellatrix as his prospective bride.

Rodolphus Lestrange could indeed consider himself lucky to have Bellatrix as his bride, as the lanky, dark-haired boy was not someone that Bellatrix, or indeed any of the other Slytherin girls seemed to show any romantic interest in.

Bellatrix liked to flirt and fornicate with the most powerful, ambitious and talented boys, not quiet, timid lackeys like her prospective fiancé. Rodolphus was not particularly gifted in any of his classes, nor did he possess enough talent on a broom to warrant a place on the dominant Slytherin quidditch side. He was a follower, not a leader, with the only person he seemed to have any influence over being his younger brother, Rabastan, who was even shyer and stranger than his sibling.

Andromeda doubted that Rodolphus would be able to tame her sister, in-fact, she figured Bellatrix would probably chew him up and spit him straight back out. In many ways she thought that made Gaius Lestrange’s eldest son the ideal man for Bellatrix, but if her repeated tantrums were anything to go by, it did not seem likely that she saw it that way herself.

“Andromeda, my dear, you have not eaten much of your steak,” her Mother said suddenly, interrupting her day-dreaming at the dining room table.

“Did Rudy not cook it how you like it? I will summon him at once, he can cook you another one.”

“No, Mother, this one is fine,” she quickly replied before her Mother could have a go at their house elf.

She was not lying – the food that Rudy had prepared her was no less nice than it always was, but she just had too much on her mind to be hungry enough to eat it.

Even if he had over-cooked it she would not have complained about it. She hated to see him chastised by her Mother, or worse, when he would punish himself for the slightest of errors or mistakes in his cooking or cleaning.

Bellatrix had for many years taken a great sadistic pleasure in fabricating problems with the meals he prepared for her, not because she had any particular hatred of him, but purely because she enjoyed watching her Mother berate and punish him. There were even a few occasions that he had broken down in tears, which had brought great amusement to her triumphant sister, who seemed to enjoy watching others getting publicly humiliated, especially if they were people or creatures that she considered beneath her.

“This is not the first time you have not finished your dinner this week, Andromeda. I do hope you are not taking part in that silly dieting trend that seems to have become popular with young witches. The Prophet said it originates from the Mud-

“I am not dieting!” she snapped before her Mother could say the word.

Druella Black did not take too kindly to any of her children raising their voices at her, but ever since Bellatrix’s fall from grace she had been a lot more lenient with her two younger girls.

“Andromeda Black!” her mother muttered in a stern voice.

“I am sorry Mother,” Andromeda lied, which caused the angry expression on Druella’s face to fade away slightly. “I should not have raised my voice at you… it is just lately I… I am feeling so…

“Yes?” her Mother replied eagerly. “What is it, dear? I have sensed something has not been quite right with you lately, please, do tell me what it is and we can resolve it.”

Andromeda had to think of something fast.

She could not tell her Mother what it was that was really stressing her out. That her Father selling off her sister to the highest bidder like an antique ornament had hit her with the stark realisation that this could one day soon be her fate too.

It wasn’t so bad for Cissy.

Fabian Prewett might be a flamboyant, rebellious Gryffindor, but he was still a pure-blood from a wealthy wizarding family. Her little sister still liked to keep their budding romance a secret, but there was no reason to believe that their Father wouldn’t greenlight a marriage between them if it one day got that serious.

Andromeda would not be so lucky.

Ted was a muggle-born and she would probably be disowned by her Father if he even knew she was dating him, let alone if she asked for his blessing to one day marry him.

“I am absolutely dreading going back to school, Mother,” she mustered up. “We start studying for our N.E.W.T.S and I just… I do not think I can hack it!” Andromeda blurted out, as she unexpectedly burst into tears.

Her Mother did not reach out to comfort her instantly, as she had spent many years training herself and her daughters to avoid showing such extreme emotion, but after a few moments she came closer and began to run her fingers through Andromeda’s dark brown hair.

“Oh, my dearest daughter, you are such a silly girl sometimes,” she whispered softly in a slightly patronising tone.

The reason that Andromeda had burst into tears was indeed due to her dreading the return to Hogwarts, yet it was not her N.E.W.T.S that kept her up at night, but her relationship with Ted.

Her courtship of him had initially began as an exciting act of defiance and rebellion.

Their first date in Hogsmeade had been somewhat, if not entirely, influenced by her desire to rebound from Lucius Malfoy. She had thought that if the Slytherin seeker had found out she had been on a date with another boy, a muggle-born no less, that he would first get extremely jealous- and then come to his senses and realise what a mistake he had made by casting her aside for Olivia.

As luck would have it that Hogsmeade trip had seen an incredible torrent of rain, which had put off most students from even bothering to venture out of the castle. Andromeda had headed there primarily to get the books that she wanted, not imagining that the muggle-boy with the silly haircut and the nice cheek-bones would bother braving the rain to meet her – but to her surprise when she had entered Tomes and Scrolls there he had been, browsing a book-shelf on the other side of the room.

They had gone on that date to Madam Pudifoot’s and save for the waitress had not seen a single soul from school the entire afternoon. In hindsight it was damn good fortune that they hadn’t. If anyone from Slytherin had spotted them together then their fledging relationship would have been over before it had even begun.

For the next three months they had primarily communicated by owl-post, with Andromeda frantically studying for her O.W.L.S she at least had a feasible excuse not to want to be too distracted by becoming Ted’s girlfriend. Then in July when most of her exams were over, they had met up again by the Great Lake in “their” spot, when the very last of the year’s Quidditch matches were taking place.

Much like their first meeting they could talk by the trees with very little chance of anyone stumbling upon them. That was when Ted had first raised his suspicions of the real reason why Andromeda had been somewhat pushing him away – that she did not want to be seen in public with him, that she could not be with him because he was a muggle-born.

She had tried to explain to him that it wasn’t that simple – and that he didn’t understand how her parents would react if they learned she was dating a muggle-born. He had at first been crestfallen, then he had furiously issued her an ultimatum, stating that if she was never willing to openly be his girlfriend then they were both just wasting their time.

He had begun to walk away from her when she desperately called out for him to stop, then as he had turned back to look at her she had ran towards him and flung herself into his un-expecting arms, before surprising him even further by passionately pressing her lips against his. It had been their first kiss – and before the sun had set that evening, she was pretty sure they had also had their one hundred and first kiss too.

Over the summer they had met up at least twice a week – and Ted being a muggle-born meant he would always take her places that no witch or wizard would ever see them. It was perfect. It was lovely – and now it was going to be ruined by them going back to Hogwarts.

There were no secret rooms in the castle they could meet up away from the prying eyes of the pure-blood contingency.

Andromeda knew that Ted would not be willing to settle for months of letters and the occasional secret meet-up when there was a Quidditch match on – and he should not have to settle for that, he deserved to be with someone that loved him enough to publicly be his girlfriend.

But how could Andromeda do that?

She couldn’t.

And she knew sooner or later that Ted would break up with her and find someone else who would.

He would probably get with a pretty muggle-born or half-blood girl that didn’t act like a fish out of water whenever meeting up with his non-wizard friends and family. Andromeda would then have to watch Ted and this girl holding hands as they strolled around the castle grounds, or maybe when a Quidditch match was on she would stumble upon them kissing in “their” spot by the Great Lake.

Andromeda felt the hot tears continue to run down her face as her Mother carried on stroking her hair.

“Now, now, Andromeda… you are being so silly. There is nothing for you to worry about. Whatever happens your Father and I will be so very proud of you. Do you hear me?” she said, as Andromeda wiped her wet eye-lids and saw her Mother’s best attempt at a reassuring smile.

“But what if I… what if I-

She briefly considered confiding in her Mother.

It was only for a split-second.

She thought that maybe she would understand.

Maybe she would let her fall in love with whoever she wanted after all.

“Even if you do fail your exams… and Andromeda, dear, you will not, but even if you do… you are a beautiful young pure-blood woman. You will be sixteen in a few weeks. It will not be long before your Father begins to search for a suitable husband for you… and I mean a truly suitable husband, not the… not the riff-raff that your sister has had to make do with… and then Andromeda it will not truly matter how good or bad your grades are. After all, as your Father quite rightfully points out… the only real reason a pure-blood girl needs to go to school is to advertise.”

“To advertise… to advertise what?” Andromeda mumbled amid her post-cry sniffles.

“To advertise themselves to the best young pure-blood men of course. It seems your sister was a bit over-eager in that department – I blame myself partially, although I did do my utmost to prevent her from doing anything too stupid. Oh but I did fail her… I did… oh Andromeda it is all my fault!”

It was not long before her Mother too had begun to cry – and in what was a very un-Black like event, they held each other for a good long while whilst they both bawled their eyes out.

Her mother, crying because she thought that she had not done right by Bellatrix – and Andromeda, crying because she knew now that when the time came, she would not do right by her either.

#HP #hp fanfic #HPF #hpff #hpfanfiction #fanfiction #fandom #fanfic #harry potter fandom #harry potter fanfiction #slytherin #andromeda tonks #Andromeda Black #ted x andromeda #andromeda x ted #Harry Potter #HarryPotter #harry potter fanfic rec

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scribomaniac · 4 years

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What about an Elide/Lorcan zombie!AU fic?? I'm thinking like Lorcan + the court are set up in an abandoned prison or something and Lorcan is off on a long mission where he encounters Elide who's survived due to her wits. He tracks her, saves her, and eventually brings her back to the rest of the group. I love a good fear to love story, if you're open to it :)

Thank you for your patience! I got halfway through writing this when COVID-19 hit the fan and my job went berserk. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Lorcan crashed through the trees of the forest without hesitation or caution. In one hand he held a double barrel shotgun, and in the other a bone knife. His long dark hair was greasy and knotted from days of hard work and pursuit. If he had only come back sooner, if he hadn’t left her alone, maybe she’d be washing his hair for him right now. Her nimble fingers would be running through the strands, gently working her own brand of magic on his horrible excuse for a head of hair.

“Seven days?” She had asked, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.

He’d nodded, dipping down to kiss her forehead, then her cheek, “Seven days.” Then he kissed her lips.

Seven days--seven goddamned days. That’s all it was supposed to be, all it was supposed to take for him and his Cadre to make it from their fortress to the supply train and back again. Dammit, he swore to himself. How did this happen?

The snapping of a twig was the only warning he got--thrusting his bone knife up and to his right with preternatural accuracy, Lorcan stabbed the crazed zombie through it’s open mouth, the blade cutting through decomposed flesh and straight to the brain stem. Quick as lightning, he snatched his hand back and continued on.

How did this happen? He wondered again. Aelin suspected a traitor. The burning behind her eyes was so fierce Lorcan had felt their heat as she cursed whoever was responsible.

He, Aelin, Rowan, and a few others had ventured out from their haven in an abandoned jail house to replenish their supplies. The train sent by the government only came by four times a year and they needed the medicine it brought. The Cadre always knew the risk they took when venturing out into the forest. Zombies ran rampant in these parts. The government kept claiming they’d fix the mess they’d started, and every few years the army would come out to purge the forest, but the problem never really went away.

“Who are you?” He asked, his dark eyes warily watching the limping girl before him. His heart beat rapidly in his chest and his leg throbbed with pain. He’d escaped the last zombie horde without a bite, but not without injury. Still, he turned his body side face, not wanting this girl--this enemy--to see his weakness. She may look as innocent as a deer, but if he learned anything from Lysandra, it was that appearances could be deceiving.

“Put that thing down,” the girl hissed, glaring at his gun. “Do you want to draw them closer?”

Lorcan sneered, “How do I know you’re not one of them?” Zombies, freshly minted ones, at least, kept their wits about them for days--weeks, even--before the hunger consumed them.

Eyebrow twitching, the girl said, “You’re either an idiot,” she paused to take a deep breath, “or a dick.”

Lorcan blinked, “What?”

The girl’s eyes widened, “Duck!” She screamed, and Lorcan acted on instinct. Ducking, just barely, he saw the glint of a knife fly over where his head had just been and straight into the eye of a zombie.

The knife plunged deep into the eye socket, and the zombie crashed down next to Lorcan’s kneeling form in a dead heap. Mouth agape, he looked back to the woman before him. Nostrils flared and lips pursued, she said, “I’m Elide, and I’d like my knife back, thanks very much.”

Lorcan had fallen for her instantly. He’d brought her back to the haven with him, introduced her to the cadre. Elide was sharper than any blade, kinder than a saint, and although that one throw to the eye had been a bit of a lucky shot--”I’d been aiming for it’s mouth,” she’d confessed as she helped him walk home--she was a fighter through and through.

So when he arrived back from their supply run to find the jail house empty of human life and overrun with stumbling zombies, he hadn’t wasted time searching the place. Elide was too smart to stay and try to defend it, especially without the might of the cadre. No, no, Elide would have taken the survivors and gotten out. She had to be out here still. If he could just find her--

Another zombie. This time he’s not able to get his knife up quickly enough. It pins him to the ground, it’s yellow teeth snapping at his throat like a damned piranha.

It was quiet. Most people had gone to bed long ago, but not them. Elide sat by the window, looking up at the night sky. Lorcan sat nearby at the table, a book opened in his lap, it’s pages left unturned.

Dark eyes flickering over to him, she asked, “Is there something on my face?” Her nose scrunched up, and Lorcan’s heart stuttered.

“No--no,” he coughed to cover up his stumbled words. “I just had a question,” he said it slowly, because he didn’t really have a question. He just liked looking at her, for some reason. But he couldn’t just tell her that.

Cocking her head to the side, Elide’s brows furrowed as she waited for him to continue. Ears burning red beneath his dark hair, he asked, “How did you survive? On your own?”

It had been a mystery to him. Not a burning one, but a mystery nevertheless. Most people wouldn’t last a day out in the forest alone. Not when the zombies were drawn to the smell of blood like a shark.

“Zombies, they’re not,” she paused, her lips thinning in thought. “I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think they can smell. I don’t think that’s how they hunt. I mean,” she worried her bottom lip with her teeth, “I’d have died a long time ago, if they could,” she laughed. “I think though,” her dark eyes flitted around the room and then landed back on him, “I think they hunt by sound.”

The crack of a gunshot echoed through the forest. Disrupted birds took their leave of the branches, and the air was knocked from Lorcan’s lungs as he stared up into the eyes of Vaughan. “They’ll have heard that,” Lorcan grimaced, pushing the completely dead corpse off him. Vaughan nodded, then extended a hand to help his friend up.

The two quickly vacated the area, keeping their eyes and ears peeled for any movement or sound that indicated a possible threat.

“The slower you move,” Elide was telling the Cadre her theory as she sat atop a broken and decrepit dryer, “the less sound you make.” Locking eyes with Lorcan first, she then gestured to her ankle, “I’m pretty slow by nature,” she tried to laugh it off, but Lorcan could hear the frustration behind it. “And quiet, which is how I was able to survive outside my uncle’s fortress and make it all the way here.”

“What happened to your uncle’s?” Rowan asked. It was a good question, Lorcan had thought while nodding his head. Perhaps the man had died, or perhaps he’d fallen prey to one of the creatures, or--

“I ran away,” Elide confessed, her chin raised high and her nostrils flared, almost daring anyone to tell her how stupid she’d been. “I’d rather be eaten by a zombie than live one more day under his roof.”

Aelin purred, “Well someone’s got the fighting spirit.”

Elide locked eyes once more with Lorcan, and he knew instantly: he was in love.

They couldn’t take Elide’s advice now, though. The slower they went, the more careful they stepped, meant the longer she was in danger. And that was something Lorcan could not tolerate, not while there was still breath in his lungs and a beat in his heart.

“Here,” Vaughan hissed, coming to an abrupt stop.

Lorcan bared his teeth, preparing for another wave of zombies, but there was nothing. “Vaughan, we don’t have time--” but his friend merely raised a brow and pointed towards a tree. It was small and glinted in the sunlight, and at once Lorcan knew what it was. Lunging forward, he snatched the small ring from the tree’s skinny twig. “Aelin’s ring.” It had been a gift, a small token of friendship and loyalty between Aelin and Elide. Elide never took it off.

“And more,” Vaughan gestured with his chin. Looking off to the distance, there was another item of jewelry, carefully hanging from a tall branch.

Lorcan followed the trail, picking up items along the way. First Lysandra’s locket, then one of Dorian’s handkerchiefs, even one of Darrow’s cufflinks; each item led him deeper and deeper into the forest until he and Vaughan finally came to an overgrown and shabby barn.

Breathing hard, Lorcan and Vaughan shared a glance. Behind the barn’s giant door could be their people--could be Elide--but it could also be a massacre. Pulling out his bone knife and taking a deep, settling breath, Lorcan took the final few steps and opened the door.

Warm, strong arms quickly wrapped themselves around his neck. Lorcan raised his knife, preparing to launch a counter attack, when he heard a whispered, “Thank god!”

Dropping his weapon, Lorcan tightly wound his arms around Elide’s waist, bringing her even closer than before. “Elide,” he sighed, burying his face into her neck.

There were some hushed murmurs, a small creak as the door opened further, and Lorcan peeked out from Elide’s dark hair just enough to see the rest of the community coming out from hiding.

Placing Elide down, Lorcan took her face into his hands and brought their foreheads together. “What happened?” He asked quietly, needing to know. If Aelin was right, if they had been betrayed, there’d be blood to pay.

Covering his hands with her own, Elide shook her head and placed a kiss on the base of his palm, “I’ll explain later.”

Kissing her forehead, he brought her closer, tucking her head against his collar bone. Now he could see properly, how many people were in the barn, how many people Elide had saved with her quick wit and ingenuity.

“You’re okay,” he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m so--I can’t--” he started then abruptly stopped himself several times until again he said, “You’re okay.”

Elide’s nails dug into his back and even though he could feel the small tremors coursing through her frame, her voice was steady and wry as she asked, “Did you ever doubt me?”

Choking on a laugh, Lorcan stepped back and lifted her chin. Bending down, his lips tenderly kissed hers. There was a great deal of love in the small kiss, as well as a great deal of restraint and promise. Elide smiled, knowing that the kiss was only a precursor to what was to come once they were somewhere safe.

Pulling away, he swore, “Never again.”

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echoes-of-the-clockwork · 5 years

Text

Deacon St. John || Someone Worth Living For

A/n: I can thank my sissy for this idea! Love you, sis! Gonna drop a warning for a couple of sensitive topics.

⚠️MENTIONS OF DEPRESSION AND SUICIDE. DO NOT READ ANY FURTHER IF THESE TOPICS ARE SENSITIVE OR TRIGGERING⚠️

Besides that, I hope you all enjoy! Love you all!!! ••••••••••••••••••••

***HAS NOT BEEN PROOFREAD! PLEASE NOTIFY ME OF ANY ERRORS!!!***

***** Prompt: Deacon and Boozer come across a massacre of people in the middle of the highway. While searching for who could've committed such an act, they discover you—the lone survivor of the massacre. *****

~3rd Person POV~

Deacon and Boozer drove their bikes through the Cascade region, taking in the fresh air that was tainted every now and then with the foul smell of Freaks and rotting corpses. The trees rustled in the breeze, creating a peaceful ambiance until the sound of infected ravaged the tranquil atmosphere.

On the highway near Horse Creek, the drifters braked harshly when a gruesome sight laid before them. Bodies scattered across the road and blood seeping into the cracks of the asphalt created a small blockade. The heavy stench of iron filled the air from the immense amount of blood painting the highway and abandoned cars alongside the shoulder.

"Jesus..." Boozer sighed in disbelief, eyes wide in horror. "Who the hell could've done this?"

Deacon dismounted his bike and slowly approached the bloody massacre. He kneeled beside one of the victims, examining the deep gashes and three letters carved into his forehead. "Fucking Rippers. That's who did this."

"Murdered all these people in cold blood... I've never seen them kill this many people at once, though," Boozer commented as he cautiously stepped over the bodies of the deceased.

"Yeah, well..." Deacon stood up with a scrunched up nose from the smell of blood. "Rippers always know how to hit an all-time low. The bodies are a few hours old."

"Which means they couldn't have gotten far," Boozer adds.

"You up for some Ripper hunting?" Deacon inquired.

"Always am, brother," he responded with a smug grin.

When the drifters turned on their heels to return to their motorcycles, a hand lunged out and gripped onto Deacon's ankle. Frightened by the unexpected touch, he whipped out his handgun and aimed it by his foot with a fierce glare. Seeing who the hand belonged to, his eyes widened and he swiftly withdrew his pistol. "Holy shit..."

"Please..." The woman begged, voice hoarse and weak. "Kill me..."

Deacon was flabbergasted at her request. "What—no. No, no, no, no. We're gonna get you help." He examined her tattered, bloodied body. By the way she was crawling, he knew she couldn't walk. "Boozeman!"

William heard Deacon's shout and ran over. He spotted the woman on the ground, who was struggling to keep her eyes open. "Jesus... She's still alive."

"We need to get her to Cope's. It's the closest encampment with medical supplies," Deacon said as he hoisted the injured woman to her feet. He grabbed one of her arms and tossed it across his shoulders while his other arm went around her waist to keep her from tripping.

"They don't have a proper doctor," Boozer brought to light. "Her best bet of surviving is Lost Lake. Addy's the only person who can help her."

"She can't possibly make the trip in her current state." Deacon slowly helped the woman over to his bike with Boozer a few feet behind in case he needed help. "We'll take her to Cope first and see what someone can do. Once she can handle the ride, we'll take her to Addy. Hopefully it won't be too late."

Deacon and Boozer helped the woman mount the motorcycle, desperately trying not to aggravate the numerous of wounds littered across her body. She was able to maintain a grip on the sides of the bike to steady herself as Deacon swiftly claimed the seat in front of her. With impuissant arms, she wound them around his waist and slumped her body against his back. Her blood smeared on the back of the cut and Deacon could feel the warm, crimson liquid seeping through. He didn't care if the blood would stain his clothes. He was more worried about her bleeding out before they reached Copeland's Camp.

On the drive to the encampment, Deacon kept the woman awake by asking her questions. "What's your name?"

"(Y/n)," she replied feebly. "Who're you two?"

"Name's Deacon. That's Boozer," the drifter nodded towards his fellow Mongrel. "What happened out there?"

"We are... were just a group looking for a safer place to stay. Rippers attacked us on the highway, and they tortured us for hours. When no one would join them, they went straight to killing us."

"How did you survive?" He inquired curiously with a hint of amazement in his voice.

"Playing dead is easy when you feel like you're dying," she solemnly answered. "The pain... it's unbearable—mentally and physically. All those people... they were my family. And now, they're all dead."

"I'm... I'm sorry you had to go through that," Deacon responded melancholically.

(Y/n) lowered her gaze, (e/c) eyes locking onto the firearm tethered to his thigh. Her fingers twitched as her mind raced to how she would grab it without alarming Deacon. "You've nothing to apologize for. It's not like you're one of the Rippers who killed them." Slowly, she unlatched one of her hands from the front of his cut and slithered it towards the handgun. The metal glinted in the sun, tempting and taunting her further.

By the time she curled her fingers around the grip of the pistol, the bike suddenly came to a halt in front of Copeland's Camp. (Y/n) mentally cursed herself for prolonging the inevitable and moved her hand back to the drifter's cut as the gate slid open. Deep down, she believed she'd either take her own life or bleed out before the day ends.

Even though (Y/n) took her time to dismount the bike, the second her feet touched the ground, her entire world spun and the edges of her vision were splotched with darkness. Her body tilted forward, but Deacon caught her before she could collapse to the ground. "Shit... This is bad," he muttered with a small growl.

"I'll find someone. You just try to keep her awake." Boozer stormed off in search of anyone with medical knowledge.

Deacon watched (Y/n)'s head lull to the side helplessly. Scooping her up in his arms, he carried her over to Manny's workshop. "Clear a table!"

Manny was perplexed as to the drifter's demand, but he didn't argue due to his slight fear of the man. "Over here!" He pushes everything off one of the many tables scattered around his work area and helped Deacon rest (Y/n)'s body on the metal surface. "What happened to her?" The mechanic questioned, eyes dancing across the numerous of cuts and large amount of blood covering her body.

"A damn massacre. Rippers took out a group of maybe twenty to twenty-five people. She's the only survivor," Deacon replied, eyes glued to (Y/n). He saw her eyelids drooping and his heart raced with concern at the sight. He smacked the side of her cheek to rouse her from falling victim to the darkness. "Hey, hey, (Y/n). You've gotta stay awake, alright? Boozer'll be back with help any second now."

Two pairs of rushing footsteps splashed through the mud over to the workshop. One man was Boozer while the other was a man who seemed to be in his late forties. In his arms was a cardboard box of medical supplies. He placed it on the table by (Y/n)'s feet and immediately took out what all he needed. He eyed the three other men around him. "I'm going to need all three of you to help. Grab a cloth and wet it with hydrogen peroxide. We need to clean all the wounds to keep them from getting infected, but it's all we'll be able to do for her."

"She's still losing blood. You don't have any stitches?" Deacon questioned.

"I do, but it's not enough to close all her wounds," the man explained.

"Use them. Lost Lake has a real doctor who can help. We just need her to be in a condition where she'll make it there alive," Deacon responded, beginning to clean the shallow cuts along her left arm and neck.

Boozer handled the wounds along her left leg while the man and Manny handled the right side of (Y/n)'s body. As they purged the numerous cuts of germs, the woman's lips twitched as she weakly tried to keep herself from crying out. She bit the inside of her cheek while gripping the side of her shorts to fight against the urge to scream.

"You three are gonna have to hold her down while I stitch up the deeper wounds," the unnamed man said as he threaded the surgical needle. He glanced at (Y/n), who was looking at him with half-lidded eyes. "I'm not gonna lie—this is gonna hurt. We don't have anything to numb the cuts."

"J-Just get it over with," she whimpered.

As the man stitched up her wounds, (Y/n) lost consciousness.

<———————————<<<<<<<<<<

A few hours passed before (Y/n) stirred from her unconscious state. She could hear voices and spot a couple of blurry figures as she slowly opened her eyes, her vision beginning to clear up. The only person she recognized was Deacon. He was standing beside a woman, their voices melding together as they argued.

"She needs to go to Lost Lake as soon as possible, Deek," the woman in the green jacket said.

"She can't handle the ride, Rikki," Deacon replies vehemently.

"The longer you keep her here, the less time Addy has to prevent her from kicking the bucket!" The woman, Rikki, retorts.

(Y/n) couldn't stand their arguing and pushed her body up into a sitting position. The tinges of pain from the stitches, cuts, and bruises caused her to wince as she swung her legs over the side of the table. She still was knocking on Death's door and wanted him to answer before she picked the lock and invited herself in. Staggering as she walked away from the argument, (Y/n) searches for a way out of the camp before Deacon notices. In her head, she kept apologizing to the drifter and his friend for help, but she felt her life was over. With the only family she had now dead, she felt nothing but emptiness.

(Y/n) managed to exit the camp with some persuasion and lying. The woman guarding the gate opened it and allowed her to leave. Gradually, she walked down the dirt road and didn't look back. Reaching the highway after what felt like a long walk, her entire body was screaming in pain. Her mind was blank as she pushed through the agony and trudged down the Santiam Highway. She prayed a Freaker would come along and end her suffering, but not even a Newt was in sight.

The sound of a motorcycle speeding down the road grabbed (Y/n)'s attention. The noise crescendoed, signaling the bike was getting closer. She knew exactly who it was, but she ignored the ruckus and pushed forward.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" Deacon shouted as he pulled his bike in front of (Y/n), blocking her path. The woman didn't answer and walked around the motorcycle. He briskly dismounted his bike and stalked after her. "You've got a death wish?"

(Y/n) abruptly stopped. She spun around, facing the drifter with a few tears streaming down her cheeks. "As a matter of fact, I do!" Deacon was utterly shocked and froze as he listened to her sudden outburst. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat and exhaled shakily. "Those people weren't just another group to me! They were my family! I lost everything when the outbreak happened. My husband, my daughter, my sister... Everything! They were... They were the first thing I had that was actually real in this fucked up world. What's the point in living if the one thing worth living for is dead?"

Unbeknownst to (Y/n), her words struck a chord deep inside Deacon. He knew exactly how she felt, but unlike her, he still had Boozer. All she's ever known since the world crumbled into pieces was gone. Anyone who knew of such pain would be desperate to find a way out of the hellish world they lived in.

"Wandering off in hopes something or someone will kill you is never the answer, (Y/n)," Deacon retaliates.

"It may not be the answer, but it's the only way the suffering will end," she retorts with a bland chuckle. "Why should I give a shit about a world where everyone I've ever loved is dead? By the look on your face, I can tell you've lost someone, too."

"I'm not gonna let you kill yourself and that's final. Get on the damn bike," he commanded. "We're going to Lost Lake. Addy will be able to take a better look at you."

(Y/n) bit her tongue knowing she wouldn't win against the hardheaded drifter. "Fine."

Deacon's body visibly relaxed as he heard her response. He took a deep breath, calming his racing heart. He watched closely as the woman passed him and mounted the motorcycle before joining her. He started up the bike, revving the engine. Mentally, he prayed Addy would be able to heal (Y/n) and rid her of these venomous thoughts that plagued her mind.

<———————————<<<<<<<<<<<

It's been almost nine months since then. Addy was able to heal all of (Y/n)'s injuries with the medical supplies she had access to at Lost Lake. Scars were scattered across the (h/c)-haired woman's body from where the Rippers had sliced her flesh during the attack.

Deacon visited (Y/n) every chance he was given to see how she was doing. The two grew closer as she traveled down the long road of healing. On the outside she was happy, sweet, and kind. But underneath, she was still a complete mess. Addy had warned the drifter of (Y/n)'s deepening depression and how she was no longer allowed in the infirmary due to the myriads of sharp objects. The doctor discovered her inside the building trying to stab herself with a knife, resulting in her ban.

One day, Addy has been searching for (Y/n) when Deacon rode into the camp. He saw the frightened and frantic expression on the doctor's face as she rushed around. "What's going on?"

"I can't find (Y/n). She was supposed to see me this morning so I could give her another checkup, but she hasn't shown up."

Rikki wandered over when she heard Addy's flustered voice. "If you're looking for (Y/n), Buzz said he saw her riding out of camp about an hour ago. Is there a problem?"

"(Y/n)'s completely unstable. These past few days, I've had to keep her locked in one of the cabins to keep her away from anything and everything she could possibly use to hurt herself. God only knows what she'll do to herself out there." Addy eyed Deacon with a frown. "Deek, I need you to find her and bring her back safely."

"Already ahead of you, Doc." The drifter returned to his bike with Rikki and Addy close behind.

"Listen to me, Deek," Addy begged. "You're the only one who can snap her out of it."

"I'm not a doctor," he counters.

"I've seen the way you look at her. Tell her before you lose someone else you care about. Be careful when approaching her. Who knows what she'll do."

Deacon fell silent before replying with a small nod. "I'll bring her back."

"Radio us when you find her," Rikki added.

"Will do."

Deacon left Lost Lake Camp and followed (Y/n)'s trail all the way back to the Cascade region. He discovered one of Lost Lake's bike exactly where he and Boozer discovered the massacre. The blood had been washed away from the constant rainfall in the past few months. What baffled him the most was all the bodies were missing. He ignored his curiosity and kept his sights set on (Y/n).

Trekking down the small incline, Deacon searches the woods for the woman. He weaves through the thick foliage, following the boot imprints in the saturated ground. Upon entering a small clearing, the drifter spotted a familiar silhouette looming over fresh piles of dirt. He cautiously approached (Y/n), remembering what Addy told him before he left. When he was only a few feet away, she turned around when she heard him shuffle through a pile of leaves. "Hey, Deek."

The casual greeting caught Deacon off guard. He discarded his caution when he saw the calm expression on her face. He stood beside (Y/n) and peered at the sight before him. "Are these...?"

"Graves—yes. I came out here today to finish the markings."

Deacon stared at the numerous of graves, noting the markers were made from carved stone. He pointed to the dirt piles with slightly widened eyes. "You did all this?"

"It took a few months, but I finally finished a few days ago. I've been sneaking out of the camp at night to come here. Buzz has been covering for me," (Y/n) replied. "And before you ask, I'm fine. Addy's kinda blowing my condition out of the water. Did she tell you about the knife incident?"

"No, she didn't."

"I went into the infirmary one day to find a knife to carve the stones, but she completely misinterpreted it completely. And that's how I was banned from the infirmary." She kneeled down and placed a stone on the grave in front of her. "I... I appreciate all of what you've done for me, Deacon. It took nine months for me to finally say it. Better late than never, I guess."

"Yeah, well, I'm not good at expressing myself, either," he comments.

(Y/n) grinned with a chuckle and nudged her elbow into his side playfully. "Oh, I know. You suck at it. Although, I've gotta admit—you're very blunt and to the point."

Deacon smirked at her response. "Not like you've got room to talk."

The woman shrugged her shoulders. "Too true. Guess we've got something in common."

Their conversation ended, sparking an awkward silence. (Y/n) inhaled deeply before exhaling. She circled around the graves, leaves and branches crunching under her boots. She rearranged a few of the markers before brushing her hands together to rid her hands of dirt. "Guess we better head back to Lost Lake to keep Addy from sending an army after us." She swiveled on her heels and headed towards the highway.

Deacon outstretched his arm and grabbed ahold of her arm before she could walk away. "Before that..."

"Oh, no..." (Y/n) sighed worriedly. "Did Addy say something else?"

"Uh..."

She raised her eyebrows, the corners of her mouth quirking upward. "She did! What was it?"

The drifter glanced down at the ground, rubbing the back of his neck. He pondered whether if now was truly the perfect time to tell (Y/n) his feelings for her or if he should wait a little longer.

The woman's eyes narrowed then suddenly shot wide open when she recognized the expression. "Wait, I know that look." She smirked like a child who just was told a little secret. "It's the same look my husband gave me when he was trying to ask me out for the first time. Do you... like me?"

Deacon scoffed, trying to play it off. "Of course not."

"Aw, that's a shame," (Y/n) falsified a pout. It was quickly rewritten with a smug grin. She grasped onto the front of his cut with both hands and yanked him down to her height, pressing her lips against his in a chaste kiss. It was a short kiss, but it was enough to satisfy both individuals.

(Y/n) released her grip on Deacon, the familiar smirk returning to her face as she admired the speechless and petrified drifter in front of her. "Because I like you way more than a friend. It's thanks to you that I've been able to work past the depression. It's still there, but you always know how to make me feel better." She took a few steps past him before turning to glance at him over her shoulder, smiling beautifully. "I've found someone worth living for again."

#days gone #days gone x reader #deacon st john x reader #deacon x reader #female reader

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hey-hamlet · 6 years

Text

BNHA AU Ideas : Twin Star Runaways

Also on AO3!

TL;DR: On the run from houses they never called home, Bakugo and Izuku make some unlikely friends and make the worlds least conventional steps towards being heroes.

They'll be amazing.

Bakugo and izuku were a little closer than in canon

when izuku's quirk didnt come in bakugo didnt jump straight to being mean and izuku didnt develop like, most of his issues because his best friend didnt abandon him

but everyone turned against the "quirkless weirdo" and when bakugo didnt leave him? they turned on him too

bakugo was a "villain in the making" or was crazy, scary, or "the weirdo's rabid dog" and he tries to play it off, like it doesnt bother him, but izuku gets angry, not that people are talking shit about him, but that they are coming after bakugo just for being a good person

not getting into canon, but in this au mitsuki is really abusive. inko is absent/neglectful because shes upset her husband divorced her and works nights as a nurse

so, the start of junior high, aged 11 and 12, izuku and katsuki run away because honestly anything is better than what they've been living though

as pretty cute kids they get pity food but they look so young no one will employ them

then they meet Touya, who for the sake of this AU is 17 at the time

so dabi runs into these 2 kids that look the same age as his little brother, one of which tried to blow him up within 20 secs of meeting him and the other was hiding behind a dumpster

and hes just like,,, "shit i cant believe i have 2 little brothers now"

that is cemented when he finds out izuku, hiding behind the dumpster? ya boy had a knife and was katsuki's backup

so dabi shows up where he knows these kids hide, he brings them food bc they are getting really thin, brings a new coat for katsuki bc he didnt have anything, teaches izuku how to use his knife better and sharpens it for him

he tells them about stain about corrupt heroes, and about his dad and katsuki and izuku latch onto this

katsuki's mum wished his quirk was "less violent" and that hed never be a hero because he was too scary and izuku's dad threw him away the second he realized his kid was Quirkless

and so izuku and katsuki decide they want to meet stain

dabi gives them some change and his email so they can contact him if they ever need to, and they set out for hosu (why is stain in hosu even tho it doesnt follow canon timelines? because i like hosu and i like tensei)

so in this au, stain skipped forward a bit, attacking hosu in some of his first rounds of hero purging

izuku and katsuki catch wind of a "cover up" by iidaten but izuku quickly realizes it was faked by another hero agency to try and get iidaten’s funding cut

and then they get a terrible feeling because thats the kinda thing that would cause stain to go after a hero so they end up running across hosu every night, taking turns to try and cover tensei as they look for stain

izuku and katsuki find stain over tensei, about to deliver the final blow and katsuki freezes because, stain is really scary and he has a bad vibe around him that almost made endeavour puke

but izuku throws himself inbetween tensei and stain

and stain is a little annoyed, but mostly impressed this scrawny kid is trying to stand up to him but then izuku tells him the scandal was faked and lays out every detail while hes pouring with tears because "ingenium is a good hero chizome"

and stain is like

wAIT WHY DOES A 10 YEAR OLD KNOW MY NAMe

(the answer? Dot connecting, the UA sports festival, and Steinhal. our boy is a smart cookie!)

at this point katsuki snaps out of his fear and tells stain he'll set off the loudest explosion he can manage if he doesnt step away from "one of the real heroes" and stain is honestly? pretty shook

so he does

and he just kinda, vanishes into the night

and izuku and katsuki swear because thats the guy they have been looking for for 2 weeks and they are out of food money and they just wanna get back to mutsutafu already so they start running after him

by the end they are freezing, 1AM and izuku is honestly worried about katsuki bc he gets cold easier because his quirk makes him sweaty even when he isnt hot and stain just takes pity on these kids and just kinda asks them is they have anywhere to go

izuku starts sobbing again because thats the kinda person he is, and katsuki tries to tell stain to go fuck himself but his teeth are chattering so hard he almost bites his tongue

stain just kinda sighs because god these kids remind him of Touya

and he laughs as izuku deadlifts a complaining katsuki and asks stain where hes gonna take them

also please: a subplot in this is tensei trying to work out who the kids that saved his life were

and he finds hospital records of katsuki and izuku for various brusies and broken bones

and sees that they havent been at school for 3 months, but also sees that no missing reports have been filed

and hes really upset because these kids are his little brothers age

anyway, after stain saves them from freezing they tell him ab how they cant be heroes but they wanted to be like him

and stain tells them they would make great heroes anyway and they cry

(at this point the AU changed from what was going to be a villain duo au into a vigilante au because its Soft AU Hours)

so, when they get back to mustutafu they meet up w dabi who says he has a present for izuku

(dabi said he join the leauge if afo gave izuku a quirk, and afo is interested to see how this goes so he said yes)

he would have joined the league anyway but he wanted to do his honorary little bro a solid if he could

afo was read to give izuku a kinda meh quirk honestly because the kid was going to want to be a hero and thats just bad business sense

then he finds out stain is fond of them and he pauses bc, thats pretty odd

then izuku walks in, is greeted by kurogiri and he bows to him bc hes a polite kid and afo is starting to like this child

izuku then tells shigiraki that he likes his shoes and shigiraki looks pleased with himself

so afo turns on the monitor and says hello and izuku pauses for a second and says

"sensei right? are you hurt? Why else would the video be off… oh sorry! I ramble when im nervous"

and afo just kinda,, "oh lord this child is sharp" so he chats with izuku a while and hears about how kids hurt him for being qurikless and afo kinda relates because people tried to murder him for having a quirk in the first place (i then ran through like 30 quirk ideas trying to work out the one I wanted to give him oops)

all for one gifts him the quirk guardian: can create hard light barriers. the more ambient light at the time of creation, the stronger the construct

he has the quirks perfect counter anyway, blackout: remove all light in a area, so hes not worried.

“where’d u get that quirk izuku”

“….enstranged uncle”

he works with katsuki to create barriers at the moment katsuki lets out explosions to maximise the strength

they start working as vigilanties

these lil baby 12 year olds and dabi is a big concered bro so he gets them some platform boots to make them look taller and masks to hide their voices

they wear big baggy hoodies bc they take them impacts and hide how thin they are

because they work at night they see aizawa a lot and aizawa is kinda confused because they have some pretty legit looking gear (big bro touya) so hes not sure if they are new heroes or not

izuku like, maybe stalked aizawa a little and found out hes a teacher at UA and izuku is so impressed and starstuck over this underground hero

katsuki is just grumbling because hes really impressed too but emotions are lame

izuku gets really hurt and katsuki knows this bitch is in trouble but he doesnt know what to do

katsuki asks eraserhead for help n aizawa is like "what going on??? are you a villain?" and katsuki rips off his mask, and is visible a super underweight 13 year old and aizawa just kinda feels his heart sink

and katsuki is trying not to cry and hes begging aizawa for help and aizawa is like "ahhhh fuuck I have 2 sons now"

vigilantes izuku and katsuki becoming wards of UA bc aizawa found them and has a deep seated hatred of the foster system

and the teachers just kinda accidentally adopt them

they take the ua entrance exam and manage to tie for first place, bakugo is all villain points and izuku got 50/50 rescue/villain points

and they have their letters playing at the same time as they hide in an alley way and the both start crying

because they really can be heroes

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green-eyeddragonfanfiction · 5 years

Text

Without You

Pairing: Thor x Reader Summary: A mysterious stranger runs into you in the middle of a storm and you can’t help but be smitten with him the moment you lay eyes on him. Even after the initial sparks between you, it seems like the feelings weren’t returned. Little did you know, the man was head over heels for you, too. Warnings: Language Word Count: ~4,600 A/N: This has been reposted after my original was deleted in the Great Tumblr Purge 2k18.

You stepped out of the bakery with a small paper bag clutched in your hand and squinted up at the sky. Had it been this cloudy when you’d walked in ten minutes ago? You didn’t think so.

As if aware of your thoughts and trying to prove a point, the sky lit up with a crack of lightning, searing your retinas and leaving the image of the outline of the buildings ingrained behind your eyelids. The roll of thunder shook your bones and you grimaced as the sky opened up and the rain began to fall in fat droplets that promised to soak you through your clothes the moment you stepped out from under the bakery’s awning. It’d been so nice out when you’d left the house you hadn’t brought a jacket, much less an umbrella.

You took a deep breath, steeled yourself, ducked, and began running down the sidewalk for home, bag of pastries stuffed safely under your shirt.

You made it maybe half a block before you ran face-first into someone you hadn’t been able to see in the downpour. You yelped as you were sent stumbling backwards. Your heel caught on the uneven sidewalk and, with a shriek of surprise, you fell backwards, straight onto your ass.

You swore loudly. That had really fucking hurt.

And now you were definitely soaked to the bone.

“My apologies, that was horribly clumsy of me,” came a deep voice from in front of you.

You had half a mind to cuss this person out, but the words died in your throat when you finally looked up at him.

“Holy shit, did I die?” you breathed, staring wide-eyed up at the man. His hand was held out for you to take, but you didn’t even see it. You were too focused on his face. He had to be an angel.

He frowned slightly, confused. “I don’t believe so,” he said with a tentative smile. You couldn’t place the accent, but you knew one thing for sure. It was nice. His voice was nice. His mouth was nice. No, his face. No… his entire him was nice. Were you drooling? You were probably drooling.

“Oh, that’s… that’s good,” you said distractedly.

He smiled at you and you felt your heart skip a beat. “As comfortable as I’m sure the pedestrian pathway is, surely you don’t plan on staying there all evening?” he asked, putting his hand out a few more inches towards you.

“Oh, uh, right,” you said, feeling heat rush to your cheeks as you grabbed his hand. It was huge, like the rest of him. He helped you to your feet as though you weighed nothing. “Thank you,” you mumbled, embarrassed.

“You have nothing to thank me for. It was I who knocked you down, after all,” he said, ducking down slightly so he could catch your eye.

You looked up, which happened to be a mistake, because one look at him sent your brain into overdrive and your heart threatened to beat out of your chest.

“I should, uh- I’m going to-” you took a step backwards (thankfully not catching your foot on the lip of the sidewalk again)-

And directly onto your bag of pastries.

You looked down at your foot, eyes widening in horror.

“My danishes!” you yelped, horrified. You removed your foot quickly and picked it up but it was clear from a single peek inside they were dead. Gone. Squished. Unsalvageable.

The man leaned forward slightly so he could take a peek into the bag. “Baked goods?” he asked, brows slightly furrowed.

You nodded glumly and tossed the bag into the nearby trash bin. “I had really been looking forward to those, too…”

He frowned and looked over your shoulder. “You procured them from that shop there, yes?” he asked, pointing to the bakery.

You nodded. “Yeah, they make the best danishes and gourmet bagels in the area. I can only treat myself once a week, so-”

“Allow me to replace the baked goods I had a hand in destroying,” he said, smiling radiantly at you. His big eyes (one brown, one blue, which was stunning) were practically pleading with you and you found yourself nodding without realizing it. “Wonderful. Lead the way,” he said, sweeping one of those huge arms out to gesture down the street. With a start you suddenly realized what you’d agreed to. You nodded again dumbly and began walking back towards the bakery. You supposed if it was an excuse to be around this man for even a moment longer it was worth it.

You didn’t see the way he was looking at you when your back was turned, eyes soft and curious, smile tugging up the corners of his mouth. You were so frazzled by the sudden turn of events that it didn’t occur to you that the rain had stopped the moment he looked at you until much, much later.

The bell tinkled above the door and the girl at the counter, Angela, looked up from behind the counter.

“I told you you shouldn’t have gone out in that mess! Just look at-” she froze as the man walked in behind you. Her jaw practically hit the floor. “-You,” she breathed, giving the man a not-so-subtle once over before nodding in approval.

You frowned, then quickly coached your face back into something resembling neutrality. Angela could look at him if she wanted to. You didn’t even know this guy’s name, much less have a reason to be jealous.

“I, uh, actually dropped the danishes and-”

“We’d like to procure some replacements,” the man said with a winning smile.

Angela almost swooned.

“Comin’ right up!” she said, moving to hastily grab the two nicest-looking danishes from the glass display case in front of her.

You followed the man to the counter in a daze, wondering if you were, perhaps, dreaming. It made more sense than a random [very, very hot] stranger buying pastries for you.

Angela rang them up and told him the total, her eyes glued to his face (though they occasionally wandered down to his arms). He frowned and suddenly began patting down every available pocket on his person, ruffling up his short sleeved shirt and jeans.

“Ah!” he said victoriously as he pulled out a credit card. Your eyes nearly bugged out of your head. It was a JP Morgan Chase Palladium Visa. “My friend told me you use that for currency here, yes? He told me to use it whenever I wanted to buy something.”

Angela’s eyes fell to the card he was handing her and she made a tiny squeak and looked like she was about to pass out for a second. The man looked confused, but Angela was nodding. “Yeah, that’ll work,” she said faintly.

You stared open-mouthed at the man in front of you. His accent and words were definitely odd. He was dressed kind of like a homeless man, if you were being honest (but a very hot homeless man). He was kind and offered to pay for the things you dropped after you ran into him. And he had a credit card only millionaires and billionaires had.

To top it all off he nearly walked away without getting the card back from Angela, who dashed around the counter and handed it off to him like she would have handed someone a baby.

You followed him out of the bakery, nearly sighing in relief when the sun began warming up your rain-soaked clothes. You turned to look at the mystery man, smile tugging at your lips. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do this. I didn’t even catch your name,” you said, dreading the fact that your time with the man was coming to an end.

“Thor,” he said, smiling down at you. “And what may I call you?” he asked quietly.

“(Y/N),” you said, trying your darndest to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks.

“A beautiful name. It truly fits you,” he said, smiling so sincerely at you that you had to look away. It was too radiant.

He hadn’t made any moves to leave, however, so you somehow plucked up the courage to ask, “would you like to walk me home, Thor?”

He nodded immediately. “Yes, I think I’d like that very much.”

You smiled at him, but quickly looked away, too embarrassed at how excited you were. Thor didn’t seem to mind and quickly fell in step beside you as you walked towards your home. You may have taken the longer way, but you wouldn’t ever admit it.

While you walked you offered him one of the danishes as a thank you. He only took it after you assured him it was alright with you. You chatted happily away between mouthfuls of danish. Apparently he wasn’t from around here, which you’d guessed pretty quickly. The odd thing was that he seemed to be enjoying your time together as much as you were.

Soon, much too soon, you were in front of your apartment building. It took all of your paper-thin self control to turn to say goodbye, smile plastered on your face.

You opened your mouth to say thank you, but froze when he lifted his hand up and slowly brushed his thumb across a spot just below your bottom lip. His other fingers kept your chin tilted up just enough that you were forced to stare right into his eyes… which were darting between your lips and your eyes.

The moment dragged on for what felt like a small eternity, neither of you moving, before he pulled his hand away. A small dollop of cherry filling dyed the tip of his thumb red and you watched, attention focused completely on it, as his tongue darted out and licked off the sweet, sticky treat.

Were you having a heart attack? You were sure you were having a heart attack. No, wait, it was just beating really fast.

“Is something the matter?” he asked, looking down at you with concern.

You snapped out of your daze and shook your head quickly. “No, no! Nothing. I just- it was really nice spending time with you, Thor,” you admitted quietly, unable to meet his gaze.

“Nice enough that you would be willing to do it again?” he asked, a hint of hope slipping into his voice.

Your head snapped up so quickly you nearly gave yourself whiplash. You looked for any signs of deceit or trickery but, finding none, you nodded quickly, a hopeful smile creeping onto your face. “Yeah, I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”

Thor’s answering smile was brighter than the sun. He took your hand gently in his and brought it to your lips, ghosting a kiss over your knuckles.

You were flying so high over that little brief contact that it wasn’t until you were back in your room, stripping off your wet clothes, that you realized he hadn’t asked for your number.

The rest of the night passed by in a stupor.

You’d been played. Thor didn’t want to see you again. He just wanted to be rid of a clingy hanger-on after he’d had his fun.

Originally posted by inluvwithloki

Thor stepped onto the Observatory. Heimdall twisted Hofund and the Bifost turned off.

“Did you have a pleasant visit to earth, my king?” Heimdall asked, giving Thor a knowing smile.

Thor smiled at the other man. “Keep an eye on her, would you please? I’d like to visit her again soon.”

“Of course, my king,” Heimdall said with a kind smile and nod of his head. “You should know, Hela and Loki redesigned the throne room again.”

Thor sighed but smile fondly. “Of course they did. Did Hela’s defense of the realms from the remnants of Thanos’ forces go well?”

Heimdall nodded solemnly. “It’s good that that man attacked when he did. He did the one thing he shouldn’t have: united you and your siblings against a common enemy.”

Thor laughed gently at that. “Well I suppose we should be grateful and not dwell on what could have been.”

Heimdall inclined his head, grin sparkling in the light of the Bifrost. “Agreed. Go well, my king.”

“And you, Heimdall.”

You found yourself wishing for thunder and lightning and rain. Even though it seemed fairly obvious that Thor wanted nothing to do with you you kept wishing you could run into him by chance again, just like that first time in the pouring rain.

Days passed too slowly and too quickly at the same time. Your mind kept going back to what you could have done differently. What you could have possibly done to make him not like you. How you could have changed what happened. In a word, you were miserable.

“Leaving again so soon, little brother?” Hela asked, appearing out of the shadows. He was so used to Loki doing it that it didn’t phase him in the least.

“I have some business to take care of on Midgard,” Thor said as he continued to change into his Midgardian clothes. Hela pointedly looked away, but Loki had no such issues.

“You’ve barely been back a month!” he complained, appearing out of thin air in a greenish light. His grey eyes were glaring furious holes into his brother. “We just secured a lasting peace with the Frost Giants!” Hela rolled her eyes at that, but her brothers ignored it.

“Yes, and I trust the two of you to keep the realms from falling to chaos for the few days I’ll be gone. I think you are more than up to the task.”

Hela and Loki stared flatly at each other. Looking at them like that Thor sometimes wondered if he wasn’t the adopted one.

“Who was in charge last time?” Thor asked, looking between the two of them.

Loki crossed his arms and glared at Thor. “It was I,” he said begrudgingly the same time Hela said, “Loki.”

Thor nodded. “It’s your turn then, sister. Send for me if the need arises, but otherwise I’ll be returning in a few days.”

Hela waved him away and sauntered out of the room. “Don’t hurry back,” she snarked.

Loki glared at her back as she went, but turned his attention back to Thor after a moment. “It’s another human girl, isn’t it?” he asked shrewdly.

“Yes,” Thor admitted, not seeing the point in hiding the truth from Loki.

Loki’s frown deepened. “You really think that wise? After Jane?”

Thor smiled a little sadly at his brother, but it cleared up a bit as he thought about you. “You didn’t see her, brother.”

Loki took one look at Thor’s face and threw his hands up in exasperation. “Fine. Do whatever you want. Just don’t expect me to pick up the pieces when it doesn’t work out!” he said testily. It was clear to both of them, though, that he’d definitely be there if you broke his heart.

It was raining again. The outside looked like what your apartment’s atmosphere felt like on the inside.

A knock on your door snapped you out of your absent Netflix-bingeing stupor. You groaned and peeled yourself off the couch, slipping on the nearest pair of only slightly dirty, worn-out sweats.

“Comin’,” you grumbled half-heartedly. If you were lucky it was just the UPS guy or something and not your neighbor coming to bother you again.

You yawned loudly as you opened the door and that’s how Thor found you, mouth opened comically wide and single arm reaching towards the ceiling.

You froze, eyes widening and mouth slamming closed with an audible click of your teeth. You wanted to sink into the floor. You looked a total mess and here Thor was, standing just outside your door, looking like he stepped straight out of a modeling magazine.

“Hello,” Thor said with a smile, as though he didn’t see how completely hideous you looked. “I hope I’m not intruding…” he said, the statement tilting up to a question at the end.

You shook your head wildly for a moment then froze, panic clear on your face. “You’re not, but- uh- please just wait here a moment,” you said before you slammed the door unceremoniously in his face. You winced as the sound reverberated against the halls of your apartment, but if you turned around and opened the door to apologize you knew you’d just shove your foot in your mouth and make it worse. You practically ran to your room and dug through your drawers and closet until you found much more sensible clothes that didn’t make you look like you went dumpster diving for fun.

You scampered back to the door and prayed Thor was still there.

He was, brows furrowed slightly as he looked at you. “Is something the matter?” he asked, eyeing you with concern.

You couldn’t help but smile up at him, even as your stomach did a flip from the nerves. “No, no! I just, uh- I didn’t want you to have to look at me in my lazy clothes,” you admitted with a slightly strained smile, hoping he’d just laugh along.

Of course, he didn’t laugh. “I don’t understand. Was your previous outfit not satisfactory?” he asked, confusion lining his features.

You chuckled nervously. “No, sweats are fine, but I don’t exactly look good in them,” and I want to look good in front of you because you’re the single most attractive person I’ve ever met and for some strange reason you’re talking to me again.

“But you looked attractive in them, just as you do now,” Thor said quietly, his odd-colored eyes sparkling as he smiled fondly down at you.

His smile must have fried your brain. “I missed you,” you blurted out. You fought the urge to slap your hand over your mouth as you felt the blood drain from your face.

Thor only smiled wider and his shoulders relaxed a margin. “I missed you, too. I brought baked goods from my home in the hopes that you might wish to share them with me,” he said, holding up the small basket you hadn’t noticed until that moment.

You knew you looked like you’d been hit by a brick wall so you quickly gathered your face back into something a little more restrained. “Oh! Thank you. Would you like to come in?” you asked, thanking your lucky stars that you’d cleaned your apartment recently.

Thor stepped inside and you wondered at how he managed to fit his broad shoulders through the doorway, but then he was right in front of you, inside your home, and all higher thinking ceased.

You closed the door and walked quickly to your tiny open plan kitchen-dining room-living room area with Thor following dutifully behind. While you busied yourself grabbing plates and napkins you found your mouth wandering of its own accord as it often did when you were flustered.

“I honestly didn’t think I’d see you again. I didn’t get your number before you left so I figured you weren’t actually that interested, but here you are-”

You turned around with the plates only to freeze when you found Thor standing directly in front of you, his brows knit together in concern.

“I do not own a cellular phone. It had not occurred to me that not asking for a way to contact you using one would be seen as a sign of disinterest. I’m sorry. I can assure you that’s not the case,” he said quietly. Your breath hitched when he slowly brought his hand up and brushed a strand of hair from your face and tucked it behind your ear.

He leaned in slowly, arms purposefully not caging you in so you could move if you wanted to. His gaze dropped to your lips for a moment before they returned to your eyes. “Tell me to stop and I will,” he murmured, so close that you could see the individual flecks of color in his eyes.

“Please don’t stop,” you choked out, leaning forward to get yourself that much closer to his lips.

It was all Thor needed to bridge the last few inches between you. His lips were on yours and you couldn’t help the tiny noise in the back of your throat. You’d been thinking about this nonstop since you met him a month ago. Deep down you’d hoped this would happen even when your mind told your heart to stop dwelling on him. Your fingers buried themselves in his hair and his huge arms wrapped themselves securely but gently around your waist, pulling you flush to his chest. His beard rasped deliciously against your soft skin, a heavenly contrast to his soft, warm lips. It was entirely too much and not enough all at the same time.

All too soon you had to break away for air, heart pounding fast in your throat, your every nerve alight.

For his part, Thor looked just as awestruck as you. “That was…” he breathed, smiling down at you.

“Amazing,” you whispered, grin lighting up your face.

“And not the last, I hope?” he asked coyly, smile turning playful.

You smiled and shook your head. “I hope not. Now… about those pastries,” you said, reaching down to twine your fingers with his.

“Oh, I’d almost forgotten,” Thor said, moving over to the basket. “These were my mother’s favorite. I confess I was never any good at making them but my brother makes them better than anyone I know.”

He handed you the confection that you absolutely didn’t have a name for. You gave him a single look of playful uncertainty before taking a careful bite. You groaned low, eyes fluttering shut. It blew your danishes right out of the water, light and fluffy and sweet, its fruit filling a flavor you couldn’t quite place, though it was citrus-y.

“This is amazing!” you said excitedly once you’d swallowed. “I’ve never had anything like it!”

Thor smiled almost shyly. “Well, I’d hope not. Asgardian fruit trees would be an invasive species on your planet.”

You nodded along happily and took another bite, though you froze with the pastry in your mouth. You pulled it out slowly, staring wide-eyed at Thor.

“Asgardian? Like the old Norse mythology, Asgard?” you asked, smiling nervously at what you hoped was a joke.

Wait, his name was Thor. Was this all some clever prank? Were you on TV? Was this the punch line??

Thor nodded, seemingly undisturbed by your reaction. “Aye, Asgard. Tis where I hail from,” he said, as though he’d said he was from the next town over.

Oh my god, you’d kissed a crazy person. Was this pastry drugged? Was he going to cut your liver out and leave you in a bathtub of ice? Leave you dead in a ditch somewhere after he carved you up with a kitchen knife?

A sudden light outside the window drew your attention. It was bright and shimmering and flickered with every color of the rainbow. Thor looked at it, too, frown creasing his brow.

“Forgive me, I do believe that’s for me,” he said, walking over to the doors of your tiny balcony.

He opened the doors and, before you could say anything, stepped up onto and over the edge.

You squeaked in surprise and ran to the balcony. Surely you’d be charged for murder when they found his body smashed to goop on the street below your apartment.

Except Thor wasn’t a pile of goop. He was floating down to the ground gracefully, shirt rustling gently with the slight breeze. You gaped open-mouthed as he touched gently to the ground and began talking with a tall, lithe, black haired woman you didn’t recognize. You couldn’t discern any of their words from this high up, but the woman’s eyes flicked up to you once or twice and the sound of Thor’s disgruntled tones drifted up to you.

Eventually their conversation ended and they took a few steps away from each other. The woman’s icy blue eyes stared up at you the entire time and you could sense the deadly aura even from this far away. You had half a mind to run back inside and lock the doors, but your legs wouldn’t move.

You nearly screamed in surprise when the light came back again, almost blinding you and sending your hair flying every which way. A second later it was gone and, where the woman had been standing a moment before, was a large geometric design burned into the cement. A similar one that you hadn’t noticed before was only a few yards away. You were so engrossed in what had just happened that you didn’t realize Thor was back until he was practically hovering in front of you.

Hovering as in floating as in flying. Not touching the ground or the railings.

“I apologize. My sister and brother were quarreling and needed my input to settle their disagreement. I’ve made them promise not to bother me while I remain here with you from this point onward.”

You could have said anything. Anything intelligent, collected, or witty. Instead, you managed to eek out, “You’re flying.”

Thor’s smile was coy. “Yes, I suppose I am. Would you like to join me?”

You shook your head quickly, the thought of flying simply terrifying you at the moment. “You’re the Thor. From the Avengers,” you whispered, pieces finally falling into place in your mind.

Thor frowned, his brows knitting together in confusion. “I thought you knew,” he said quietly.

You shook your head side to side almost violently.

Thor looked nervous now, caught between wanting to give you space and not wanting to scare you by continuing to float in front of your balcony. Giving you space won out and he stayed where he was. “Had I known you were unaware I would have said something… It explains why you didn’t fall over yourself trying to get my autograph, though,” he said, an attempt to lighten the mood. “I hope… that this will not be a problem for you. My interest in you is genuine and it wasn’t my intention to blindside you in such a manner.”

You finally got your breathing under control and attempted to get your mind settled in a similar way. “No, I- I’m an idiot for not realizing it sooner,” you said, hand wiping a path down the side of your face.

Thor drifted down a few inches so he could catch your eyes, a small smile playing on his lips. “Then you care not about this new development?”

You bit your lip for a moment before a grin worked its way onto your lips. “If this is your way of asking me if I still like you, the answer is yes,” you said, grin widening as Thor’s face lit up light a Christmas tree. “Are you going to float there all day or are you going to come back inside with me so we can finish the food you so thoughtfully brought me?” you asked, facing him as you slowly backed into your apartment, hand outstretched invitingly.

Thor looked absolutely lost on you as he landed on the balcony and took your hand gently in his, following after you as though he was incapable of doing anything else. “Whatever the lady desires,” he said quietly, looking at you so adoringly at you that you felt heat creep up into your cheeks.

“And if I desire you?” you asked, unable to look him in the eye.

Thor reached down and tilted your chin gently upwards so you were forced to look at him. “Then you’ll have me.”

#thor x reader #thor odinson x reader #thor #thor odinson #loki #hela #au where everyone lives #super siblings #hela is a good guy #thor x female reader

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reyloforcebalance · 6 years

Text

Bonded Chapter 33: Monsters

The newest chapter to my Reylo fanfic (rated T). If you want to check out the previous chapters, here’s the link to AO3!

A BB-9 unit rolls swiftly down the hall of the dreadnaught, its squared dome of a head tilted back, its photoreceptor stuck high in the air.

One might say it almost looks smug.

It moves in a straight line, not bothering to dodge the oncoming traffic.

A couple of officers nearly trip over the droid, sidestepping it just in time. One halts, glaring down with a scowl.

But the droid doesn’t seem to notice. It simply moves forward, only cursorily noting the inferiority of human observation.

It picks up its pace as it nears the end of the hall, preparing for a sharp turn to the right.

But just as it turns, it’s met by a swift kick directly to its round body.

It flies across the hall, barely regaining balance before crashing into the wall.

It sputters in beeps and whirs, searching for the offending boot, ready to meet it with angry burst of curses.

But it shrinks the moment it identifies the guilty party.

A masked Kylo Ren continues down the hall without so much as a backward glance.

He doesn’t notice the droid. He doesn’t notice the people passing by, bowing as they do. He doesn’t even notice the commotion in the medical bay, equipment crashing to the floor as one of the patients raves and thrashes about.

His mind is too preoccupied, fixed on his destination, on the meeting he’s been dreading all damn day.

He tries to remain even, adopt an inward calm.

But he can’t smother that simmering in his gut, fear mixed with uncertainty and deep reluctance.

He squares his shoulders, charging on with his signature stride.

He tries to direct his thoughts elsewhere, anywhere.

He thinks back to the meeting of generals, pictures the them gathered around the table. He smirks as he remembers Hux twitching, that low burning resentment as Petrov raved about Kaddak and the usefulness of the slaves. He swells as he recalls Ailen’s report, the First Order’s reputation continuing its upward climb, the rippling effects on their recruitment and negotiations.

Then he remembers the gaping faces, the wave of shock when he ordered Voigt to submit a list of potentials to lead a raid on slave markets in the Core Worlds.

And he tenses, turning the corner sharply.

He searches his mind for something else to focus on— the ongoing problems with the Corellian government, Sylas and the pirates on Borosk.

But he runs into the same damn wall every time.

He sucks in a breath, clenching his fists.

It’s maddening, this slow, miserable slog.

Every attempt at reform, at evolution, at trying to remold the First Order into what it must become gets met with the same push back, the same outdated way of thinking.

It’s not just Hux.

It’s all the people who think like him, wanting to solve every problem like they’re still at war, dragging him backwards even as he forges ahead. They can’t see, can’t understand why they need to deal with the Corellians through diplomacy rather than firepower, why they need to work with the pirates on Borosk rather blasting them to pieces and starting a damn rebellion.

To them, the idea of devoting resources to stopping slavery is unfathomable.

Why would they?

It doesn’t strengthen their armies. It doesn’t advance their weapons technology. It doesn’t strike fear into the hearts of those who would defy the First Order.

So why would they do it?

To them, there’s no reason, no reason at all…

He barrels down a short staircase, his mind drifting to the unpleasant task that lies ahead.

He twitches, that dread returning like bile.

He tries to redirect his focus to the surroundings but there isn’t much to see. He’s in a narrow hall now, a sparsely populated area of the dreadnought. There isn’t a soul in sight except for a single figure ambling his way, pushing along a hoverlift stacked high with supplies.

Kylo slows as the figure gets closer.

He vaguely recognizes the man. Maybe from one of his rounds to the lower ranks…?

Kylo studies him as he approaches, the man glancing up when he’s just a few feet away.

And that’s when the memory hits, where he’s seen him before.

Kylo slows to a stop, lifting his hands to unlick his mask and bring it overhead.

The man instantly halts, dropping his hands from the hoverlift and snapping to attention.

Kylo tucks the mask in the crook of his arm, eying him coolly.

“You…” He points at him. “Tried out to be one of my cadets.”

The man nods.

That’s right. He remembers now, the skinny one with a knack for evasion and nasty with a vibro-axe.

He didn’t make the final cut. But he certainly left an impression…

Kylo tilts his head.

“General Petrov’s putting together his own unit now, just like mine, did you know that?”

The man just stares, not sure what to say.

“Tryouts are at the end of the week.” He dips his chin. “You’re going, aren’t you?”

“I-I…” the man sputters.

“You should.” Kylo nods at him. “He’ll need someone like you, someone who can dodge as well as he attacks.”

The man gapes.

“Go.” Kylo leans in. “Show him what you can do with an axe.” He squints with a glimmer.

Then he moves on, quickly resuming his signature stride.

He doesn’t look back.

But he can feel the man’s eyes on him, sense his emotions, a mixture of pride and shock.

A smile teases Kylo’s lips.

He doesn’t regret it, taking on the training unit as his own, transforming them into his cadets.

How could he? Not after they put half of Hux’s cadets to shame.

Kylo smirks.

No, they’re much too good just to be a training unit. And they’ve demonstrated something important, something the people in this organization needed to see.

They’ve always been so intent that their martial forces be programmed from birth, raised and trained under the auspices of the First Order.

But does that really produce the best soldiers? Or just the best automatons, men who never question, never innovate, only follow orders?

It’s something to consider. He can’t do much now without Hux pitching a fit. But with Petrov following suit, creating his own unit of untrained brawlers from the lower ranks, the seed has been planted. And in time, it will grow…

For now, he’ll just focus on training his own men, a case study of sorts. It’s felt good to build something new, something different. There’s no way they can know it, but his approach to training them is highly irregular. It’s an experimental instruction style, less of a firm grip, more of a guiding hand. He encourages individuality, gives them a lot of freedom— allows them to make mistakes, learn hard lessons, grow.

It’s like nothing he’s ever done before. Yet he’s taken to it so easily, enjoys it even. He tends to sleep better on the nights he trains with them. It’s not just the physical exertion. It’s something else, something he can’t quite put his finger on.

But he can feel it.

It feels like…

He furrows his eyebrows, searching for the right word. One lurks at the corners, trying to push its way through.

But he grows cold before he can fully articulate it.

Kylo slows, sensing the familiar presence ahead.

His throat tightens.

He takes a deep breath, trying to purge his body of its disquiet. He needs to become even, detached, siphon off part of his mind and bury it.

It’s been so long since he’s been in a meeting like this, one where he needs to be just as careful about what he thinks and feels as what he says and does.

He halts in front of a large blast door at the end of the hall. He focuses on his breath, letting each one bring him closer to where he needs to be— a void, drained of all warmth, all emotion.

He glances down, turning the face of his mask upward. He stares at it for a moment.

Then he tucks it in the crook of his arm.

He’s wearing a different mask now. An inward one.

Kylo lifts a hand, pressing a panel by the door.

He steps forward the moment it opens, entering a narrow room, sparsely furnished, a long, rectangular table in the center and a console lining the back wall. It’s dim, just a low light emanating from the edges of the ceiling.

There’s a thin layer of dust on the table, an unusual sight in a First Order dreadnaught.

But this is a remote part of the ship.

By intention. This meeting isn’t even on his schedule…

Aeneas stands facing the console, his hands clasped loosely behind him. He turns when hears the door.

It’s been over a year since Kylo’s seen him, yet he doesn’t look much different. His hair’s grown out some, but his face is the same— long and angled, stubble along the chin, black eyes with a hint of fire, dark skin reflecting the glow of the room.

He studies Kylo evenly.

Then he lowers, taking a knee.

“Master.” He bows his head.

Read the rest on Ao3!

#reylo #reylo fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #starwars #star wars #kylo ren #rey star wars #kylo x rey #reylofanfiction #ben x rey #knights of ren

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