#Hi and welcome to my eternal pain and suffering caused by this ship

[evilrevan]

Ties that Bind

Emet-selch/WoL fic featuring a named WoL.

Contains spoilers pertaining towards of the end of 5.0.

Edited this hastily because I needed to get my feelings out from seeing some videos of Emet-Selch on YT. I GOT SOME HEAVY FEELINGS pertaining to this ship. Not everything is from the game as I took some minor liberties.

----

Yerenter watched on as the Scions stood before Emet-Selch, listening to his words lanced heavily with a profound sense of anguish as the ancient finally let his mask fall before them all. His mortal body, Solus, moved as if it was a second skin to a man who lived through all eight rejoinings. Golden eyes seemed to falter. To shift.

For the briefest of moments, Yerenter could see they were blue. As blue as the skies above Eorzea.

“Look at me!” a few scions stumbled as the visceral sensation of the ancient’s pain boomed within the chamber, his voice the anchor, “I have lived a thousand thousand of your lives! I have broken bread with you, fought with you, grown old, sired children and yes, welcomed death's sweet embrace!"

Emet-Selch’s voice rose to a fever’s pitch. His aether, his power leaking as old wounds were aired out and left to fester in the wake of them all. And yet as the other voices of the Scions tried to defend their rights to life Yerenter could do very little to add to them. The Au Ra’s mismatched eyes were fixed on the Ascian struggling to control himself as the tension in the air grew to the point one could call it being in the very center of a storm.

As purple and blue eyes met Emet-Selch’s golden orbs, it was then Yerenter felt it.

A singular pulse of searing pain struck the massive Au Ra. His knees wavered, the weight of his body bringing him to his knees as a blue-grey hand clutched at his chest. Long black claws scraped against the metal as they sought to tear out the source of the sheer agony pulsing within his breast. Thin scratch marks marred the Mythril-colored metal, jagged and frenzied in their patterns as the pain swam under every inch of the Xaela’s body. Nothing escaped the hellish torment.

Emet-Selch looked on as the Warrior dropped to the floor in a heap, his chest laboring to fill his lungs with air all mortals needed to sustain their husk-like shells. Bitter disgust crept in. Crawled around in the Ascian’s skull as pain brought the man low. 

Yet as the urge to comment on the state of their frail bodies the words died upon his tongue.

The vulnerability lasted only a moment. As if reminded of the husk pretending to be a long-lost friend. A lover. The unsundered gazed upon him and all those around the incomplete warrior of light, the look of disgust seeping in behind his golden eyes. Pity followed in small measures.

“You were a mistake.” Emet-Selch allows for a moment of silence after to let the words echo within the chamber. To rattle within their primitive brains. “Husks. Broken beings whose lives left me wanting after my many lifetimes. Worthless. Nothing.”

The Au Ra male despite all his suffering, all his pain, forced his head to rise and look at Emet-Selch in the eyes. “D-Don’t. Do. This.” Each word was said between gasps, between swallowed screams of agony caged within flesh and bones.

Emet-Selch scoffed. A gloved hand waving him off just like in the past. “If you do not wish for it, then fight for what you desire, Warrior of Light. But do not doubt my convictions. If you do,” The ancient in mortal flesh took a single step towards them all. Emet-Selch looked past the scions. His gaze focused on one person and one person alone. Yerenter.

Yerenter’s eyes widened as he once again saw the briefest of blue bleed through Emet-Selch’s piercing golden eyes, “I will not consider it murder being as broken and battered as you are.” And in a whirl of emotions ranging from anguish, regret, rage, and robustness- Yerenter saw the briefest look of pity and regret appear at the cracks of ascian’s carefully maintained mask.

Hades

That singular name pierced deep into Yerenter’s soul. A scream filling the silence as blinding white filled his senses. He could feel nothing save for the tearing shredding feeling of his skull threatening to shatter like glass.

”My reaper. My Thanatos.” 

A soothing balm broke through the suffering. Soft sweet words crept between the spasms of hell threatening to sunder flesh from soul. Tenderness. Softness. Safety.

And for the briefest of moments, Yerenter saw something in the midst of it all. A face framed with short white hair- eyes the color of the sky and the warmth of the very sun itself.

Hades

Something touched him. Fingers or perhaps an arm? It was hard to tell anymore what was real and what wasn’t. “Thanatos.” The disembodied voice kept chanting those two names in rapid succession. Thanatos. Hades.

And for whatever reason Yerenter’s heart ceased to hurt. Air flooded into his lungs as the white receded from his vision, his body renewed with the strength he didn’t think would return so soon.

On instinct Yerenter stood tall, towering above all his friends. A strange sensation compelled him forward. His legs wobbled with each step he took the rattling of his armor clamoring above the noise of the scions calling for him to return to their side. 

Their cries fell on deaf horns as their warrior, their savior, their friend continued ever forward, a single purple and blue eye fixed on the man dressed in red bearing the eyes, not of his creation. 

And yet as the space between the Ascian and the Chosen one of Hydaelyn shrunk, those very same eyes once again flashed blue. The very same eyes Yerenter remembered. But didn’t at the same time. Something else within him remembered. The very same something which screamed at his very core to stop Emet-Selch from sealing both their fates to a fight that would end in suffering.

“Emet-Selch,” Yerenter felt as if his mouth had gone dry, his head now lowered to look upon the shorter Garlean man. A slight spasm caused the Au Ra to flex his right hand, claws digging into the leather of his gauntlet just as something else flickered past his eyes, something no one could see.

A robed figure, taller than anything anyone could imagine stood in place of Emet-Selch. Threads of white hair poked out from the recesses of the hood shrouding what the red mask with circular lines didn’t cover, brilliant blue eyes contrasting between the hue of blood and the darkness of the robe. 

Hades

This time Yerenter let the name fall from his mouth, “Hades.” 

His gift was the sight of Emet-Selch’s eyes widening in disbelief. The fissures in his composure growing malms wide as Yerenter spoke Emet-Selch’s true name. Before he became the Architect. Before he took his seat at the Convocation of the 14th.

At the protest of his allies and friends, Yerenter reached out, his clawed fingers inches from the man who caused so much suffering for a cause he believed was righteous, until a thin red thread of his vestments snagged upon a singular black claw; sprung loose from the ties that bound it. Slowly his hand pulled away, the thread still caught on the edge of his clawed finger as it spread out in the space between their bodies.

It didn’t snap. Didn’t break. It simply connected them.

The very next thing Yerenter would recall was a test of aether spanning out from the man named Hades towards the taller, almost draconian, figure before him. 

Where he felt warmth before, Yerenter felt it again for the briefest of moments before his vision faltered. Cold snaked through his limbs, draining the comfort of the warmth and contentment from his very being. Piercing golden eyes widened in surprise only to be tinged with panic as the large Au Ra man began buckling under his weight. 

“Thanatos!” No one heard Emet-Selch cry out in alarm. But the vibrations were felt. The echoes of the name unspoken were loud enough for Yerenter to feel through his horns.

And it was enough.

[medievalmonk]

The Power of Three

Summary: Loki is off doing his own thing after escaping from a bounty hunter. He left you behind, and neither of you knew that he’d left you with his child. Now you must raise Wyatt on your own.  Also on AO3 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24378466

“Ow, ow.”

You winced while trying to get comfortable in your chair on the bridge of your ship. Loki’s child was running out of real estate and let you know, frequently. A well timed, or lucky, kick would knock the breath from you so that you almost doubled over in reaction.

Your kidneys weren’t off limits either, making it so that you would have to leave the bridge, sometimes at a critical moment, forcing you to let Exxo take over. She kept urging you to rest in your stateroom, because she had no desire to help deliver the baby, especially not on the bridge.

Exxo had found two healers who were willing to stay on the Corsair, and you welcomed them. As the delivery date grew closer, you were grateful to have them there, even though you didn’t take their advice to rest when you could.

When you suffered from swollen ankles and sleeplessness, you ignored the first mate’s baleful stare. You were just getting the hang of this bounty-hunting business and didn’t want to lose any momentum.

You were also determined to ensure that your crew was paid properly, since the previous captain had made a habit of keeping most credits for himself. In the few months that you’d been captain, you had managed to give them back-pay, earning their loyalty.

Now that a steady flow of units was coming in, you didn’t want to leave Exxo with all the work of finding new bounties or tracking down the criminals. You trusted her implicitly, but didn’t want to overburden her.

“Kepptinn,” Exxo started, her face once again showing her frustration with you. “I beg you, please-

You started to brush her off, but the baby kicked again, and after you’d caught your breath, you realized that something was different this time. The small of your back started to hurt, so you stood slowly to take a few steps, hoping to walk it off.

She and the others on the bridge watched anxiously, ready to catch you if your legs buckled.

“Exxo,” you paused to grip the back of the captain’s chair. “I think-“

She started swearing in nine languages, causing you to laugh breathlessly at her, until you got another kick that made you nauseous.

“Back to your stateroom!”

— —

Childbirth in space was somewhat different than that on Earth, or so you thought, since you didn’t have any previous experience with it, just health courses in school or dramatizations on TV or movies. You knew that it could be incredibly painful if one didn’t have the right drugs, and by the time you got back to your stateroom, you were ready for those drugs.

Mareom and Lorry, the healers, had been forewarned and were ready for you. They helped you into a comfortable gown, then steered you away from the bed in order to keep you walking.

“I need to lay down,” you protested. “I’m going to fall.”

“We have you, Kepptinn,” Mareom assured you, her voice soothing. “It won’t be long now.”

It felt like an eternity later when they finally let you lie down. By that time, you felt exhausted even though you had quite a way to go until your part in this task was done.

Lorry brought you a glass with a cool liquid, which you drank without questioning her. After that, while you could still feel some pain, it wasn’t as bad as you expected. You suspected that Lorry had given you something, but also trusted that the baby wouldn’t be harmed.

Finally, hours later, the head count on the Corsair increased by one. You laid back on your pillows, catching your breath while Lorry attended to you and Mareom attended to the baby.

“A boy,” Mareom told you softly while she worked.

You wiped fresh tears while waiting for her to hand your son to you. It was several minutes before you suspected that something was wrong.

“He’s not crying! Why isn’t he-“

Lorry kept you from sitting up so that you could see what was happening. You shoved at her arms, reaching for the bundle that Mareom held.

“Give him here!”

Before you could truly panic, you heard the sweetest sound: your son let out a demanding wail while two tiny fists emerged from the warm blanket. Mareom handed him to you, tsking when you pulled the blanket open to inspect him.

“He has all ten fingers and toes, Kepptinn,” she assured you. “And strong lungs to go with them.”

You nodded while you laid him on your chest to allow your warmth and heartbeat to soothe him. He gave little whimpers before finally settling down.

“Have you considered a name yet?” Lorry asked.

“Wyatt.”

“That’s a fine name,” Mareom remarked, nodding.

“Thank you both,” you murmured.

“Rest now,” Mareom told you. “He will be hungry soon.”

— — —

A week passed before the two healers let you get out of bed for longer than a half hour. You recovered well, and adjusted quickly to the demands of your son. He cried only when hungry or needed changing, so you considered yourself lucky.

His hair was dark like his father’s, making you wonder how Loki would react if he knew he’d left you with his son. That thought always made you shrug slightly. Neither of you had ever made a commitment to the other, although you would have been content to stay with Loki for the rest of your life.

You grew to love the unpredictable prince during the year when you both were on the run from Tony Stark, Thor and SHIELD, after you had stolen him from Avengers Tower. Once you were strong enough to actually teleport off-planet with him, the pressure to keep moving was gone, letting you actually enjoy seeing new places and beings.

You also enjoyed each other. Now he was gone, and you would make sure that his son, no, your son, would lack for nothing.

— —

Three weeks later, you were anxious to get back to the bridge of your ship. You even went so far as to bring your infant with you, but Exxo had sternly pointed to the door and ordered you back to your stateroom.

By the time you got back to your bed, you were secretly glad that she’d done so, because you were exhausted. Once the baby was fed, you laid down beside him and slept until he woke and started squirming.  

It took several more weeks until you were able to go to the bridge for status reports and to confer with Exxo. Of course, you brought Wyatt with you, and let the crew take a peek at him while you made sure that the ship was running smoothly.

There wasn’t much that Exxo couldn’t handle, so you would only go to the bridge every few days, while Exxo would stop by the stateroom daily to give her report.

“Exxo, I want you to know that I greatly appreciate you,” you told her, when Wyatt was six months old. “I couldn’t do any of this without you, and the rest of the crew.”

“Thank you, Kepptinn,” she replied, softly. “I wish I could say that any of my former captains treated me, and us, half as well as you do.

You were both at the table, where there was a tray of food and sliced fruit. Wyatt was asleep in the crook of your arm, but you were loath to put him down. You were likely spoiling him, but that was alright with you.

“May I?” Exxo asked. “Then you can eat.”

“Sure.”

The transfer to her arms didn’t rouse him in the slightest, causing you to smile. You poured wine for you both, before beginning to eat.

“Do you think…” her voice trailed off.

“What?”

“I just wondered if he would have your gifts, or even Loki’s,” she commented. “If so, he would be powerful.”

You had thought about that very thing, almost daily. When you’d first met Loki in Alaska, you knew there was something about him that he kept deeply hidden. During the year you were outrunning Tony, he had used his magic, which surprised you somewhat. His magic, or seidr, was nothing like the illusionists you had seen on TV; this was real magic, the kind that fairytales were made of.

However, you sensed something else, seeing as the magic was no big deal to him. He used it sparingly, but otherwise it was not something that he tried to hide. There was something else, something more dangerous, and you knew instinctively that you shouldn’t pry into that or even try to read his mind.

“Yes, he would be,” you replied.

“It’s too bad that his father isn’t here, he could help you train Wyatt.”

“Let’s not talk about Loki, alright?” You asked.

“You do know that he will fall into your lap, whether by accident or design, right?” She continued. “When the time is right.”

“Yes, and I will make him pay for what he did.”

— —

As he grew, Wyatt was a constant presence on the bridge, sitting on your lap and watching the forward screen in fascination. No one minded, really, since he kept everyone entertained with his childish delight.

He was trying to walk, and grew frustrated when his legs wouldn’t cooperate. So he would hold onto furniture in order to make his way around, then would grin widely when you made a big deal of it.

He also had a few teeth, which he used to nip whoever happened to be holding him, especially when he wanted down. When it came to food, he wasn’t picky at all, although he leaned toward liking fruits and vegetables over other items. He took after his father though when it came to sweets: given the choice between food or a cookie, the cookie won out every time.

Before Wyatt reached his first birthday, Exxo found a babysitter for him, someone who could be trusted. You touched Emmi’s mind, somewhat startled that she didn’t fight the intrusion. After you’d given her a nod of approval, Exxo brought her onboard on a trial basis. If things didn’t work out, she would be taken back to her home, or wherever she wanted to go.

At first, Wyatt didn’t want you to leave, and cried after you, but Emmi distracted him, and soon he was happy with her. After a couple of weeks, he barely noticed when you left.

You checked in via the video screen, just to reassure yourself that he wasn’t unduly stressed. Emmi assured you that everything was fine; she had brought teaching games for him to play with, and he really liked them.

While he was small, you wouldn’t leave the ship at all when you had to dock for repairs or to buy foodstuffs. Other than the ones who were loading the ship, no one was allowed onboard, but even they were restricted to the cargo hold. Any doors or corridors leading away from the hold were locked and monitored closely.

There had been an incident once, just after Wyatt was born. One person from a loading crew decided to wander the ship, wanting to get a glimpse of “Kepptinn.” Exxo, who always stayed onboard with you, saw him on a security camera and wasted no time getting him back where he belonged, then lodged a complaint with the dockmaster.

While the trespasser didn’t get near your stateroom, you were concerned enough to appear on the dock, mask in place and visor glowing purple to make the point that the next intruder on your ship would never make it off alive. Your desire to protect Wyatt made you more aggressive than you normally would be.

The dockmaster assured you and Exxo that the issue would be dealt with, and that nothing like that would happen again. You’d left it at that, confident that no one else would risk trying to gain access to the Corsair again. It also didn’t hurt that it was widely known that the Ravagers and Stakar Ogord had a keen interest in you, and had put word out that any transgression toward you would be a transgression toward them. There weren’t many who would fly in the face of such protection.

— —

You were on the bridge when Emmi initiated a vid from your stateroom.

“Emmi? Is something wrong?”

“Wyatt-“

Before she could finish, you teleported to your son, thinking that something had happened. You weren’t expecting what Emmi and Wyatt had to show you.

“Mama!” Wyatt yelled excitedly, before tottering steadily toward you as fast as his little legs would carry him.

“My sweet pea,” you laughed and scooped him up to plant tickling kisses on his neck and ears.

He shrieked with laughter, then grabbed a double handful of your hair. His grip was so strong that it felt like he had yanked it out by the roots, so you carefully disengaged his hands.

Wyatt struggled to get down so that he could test his new mobility. After you put him back on the floor, you had to rub your head to soothe your scalp. This was the first time that he’d exhibited anything unusual, and you speculated that he would likely have Loki’s strength, at least partially.

Two firsts in one day: saying ‘mama’ while taking his first unaided steps. In the back of your mind, you wished that Loki would have been there. With the thought of him, doubt crept in. Would he acknowledge his son? Would he be proud of him?

You watched Wyatt while he continued to practice his walking, then when he turned toward you for reassurance, you clapped your hands, which encouraged him even more.

When you sat on the floor, he decided that he’d done enough and climbed into your lap. You hugged him close while gently kissing the top of his head.

“I love you,” you murmured, while nuzzling gently at his cheek.

“Wuv you,” he responded. “Mama.”

— 

[marlinspirkhall]

Tomorrow Never Comes, Chapter 08: “Tomorrow”

Chapter Word Count:

[Chapter 7] [Chapter 8 (final)]

[Front Cover] [Chapter 1] [AO3 Link]

 There’s a gap in the front of the shuttle where one of the monitors used to be, but Spock doesn’t allow himself to get distracted by it.

 He follows the familiar steps laid out in their previous escape attempts, and, this time, steers clear of the area of space where the Section-31 ships await. Leland’s original orders were to rendezvous with Georgiou’s ship, but the war between Starfleet and the Klingons isn’t his business anymore, and he already knows he won’t be welcomed back to the organisation. He keeps flying towards the former neutral zone- as neutral as you can get in this quadrant anyway- until his eyes begin to droop. It’s as if the accumulated weight of all his nights without meditation were suddenly weighing down on him.

 Plans will need to be made- perhaps he can pass himself off as a Romulan- but, for now, he heads towards the back of the shuttle, and settles on the cold, hard shelf. Now that there’s nothing to distract himself from the fact he’s escaped, he tries not to focus on the how. And yet, it’s hard not to miss the steady chatter of Jim’s heart, or mind. Jim, his heart says. Jim, Jim, Jim.

 He settles on the cold, hard shelf at the back of the shuttle, and, for the first time in an eternity, falls into a deep, meditative rest.

 Alone.

 When Spock wakes on a familiar, soft mattress, he doesn’t immediately question it. But, a second later, his eyes snap open, and he sits bolt upright.

 The familiar, worn walls of the stronghold surround him.

 Jim was wrong, he thinks, despairingly. There’s no way out.

 He runs his hands along the soft duvet, and footsteps scamper downstairs.

 Jim is alive.

 He shoots out of bed, and takes the stairs two steps at a time, each punctuated by a metal clunk. He glances at the sofa expectantly, but Jim isn’t there. He doesn’t appear to be anywhere in the hall; though-

 A thin line of blood leads into the downstairs bathroom.

 He falters.

 “I guess I’ll never really know for sure, because you won’t remember it, and I won’t even see it coming.”

 Jim’s voice is emanating from the bathroom. The door is slightly ajar, and he stops outside it, heart thumping.

 “… But, if you’re listening to this right now, then there’s really only one answer-”

 “Jim?” He pushes his way in, and tenses as he takes in the bloodstains, the frenzied scrawl. Jim’s voice is coming from a pre-recorded message on a monitor, which Spock recognises from the shuttle.

 “- You need to get out there, and…” He looks into the camera. “You know what you have to do.”

 Spock backs out of the room as panic grips his chest. “Jim?” He shouts.

 The air is filled with a faint whistling sound. He whirls around.

 The realisation, and the crossbow arrow, hit him at the same time.

 “Ah!” He raises his hand, and another arrow to lodges itself in his palm. The world spins, and he grunts with pain.

 He has just enough sense to dodge the next arrow, and slams himself into the wall. “Immensely… Logical, Jim,” he hisses, and struggles to pull the arrow out with a grunt. “You didn’t kill Leland yesterday, did you? You only… knocked him out.” He grits his teeth and attempts to snap the end of the arrow off.

 A creak. Spock throws himself to the floor as another arrow flies past.

 “Stop shooting at me!”

 He grips his injured hand limply, and breathes heavily. “Do you know the first thing I felt, when I woke up?”

 Another arrow. Spock crawls around the corner for refuge. “I was-” an arrow flies past, and he tucks his legs in. “- Relieved, that you weren’t dead,” he wheezes.

 A loud thud, followed by silence. Perhaps he has run out of arrows.

 “Jim?”

 Footsteps. He catches his breath and waits, listening to every slow, deliberate step.

 The footfalls are too heavy to be Jim’s. Which means-

 He shuffles backwards, and a tall figure steps around the corner; wielding the half-filled phaser Spock had discarded yesterday.

 “Leland,” Spock breathes.

 He stuns him.

 “… Don’t want to lie to him.”

 Jim’s voice.

 “Which is why I’m going to offer him a solution...”

 Spock peeks out from under his eyelashes. Leland is standing a few metres away, holding the bloodstained monitor.

 “… You know what you have to do.”

 The message ends, and Leland turns. Spock opens his eyes. He’s by the far wall, a short distance from the fireplace. Jim is slumped in front of it with his arms tied behind his back.

 His hand has been wrapped in a familiar, plaid fabric, and the arrow has been removed from his hand. It still throbs, painfully. His hands are bound loosely in front of him, but his legs are free. Unlike Jim, he is gagged; perhaps with the rest of the fabric. He stares up at Leland, groggily.

 “I bandaged it.” Leland says. His lip curves upwards. “You’re not getting out of this that easily.”

 Spock stirs, sluggish from the phaser blast, and Leland steps closer.

 “According to this-” he holds up the blood-stained monitor, and leers at him. “- You’re the only one of us who hasn’t been killed yet. Is that true?” He crouches beside him, and Spock turns his head away, averting his gaze. Leland grabs his jaw roughly, forcing him to face him as he examines his face for the slightest flicker of emotion. He stares ahead. He tries to keep his face impassive, but Leland always could read him better than most.

 He blinks, and Leland laughs. “Isn’t that interesting,” he murmurs. He leans in a little closer, so his lips graze his ear. “I bet you’re so tired,” he says, breath hot. “That eidetic memory… You can remember it all, can’t you? Every miserable day-”

 Spock flinches away, but Leland tuts, and places the dagger under his chin. “Come on, Spock. That’s a lot of blood on your hands. Don’t you just want it to end? No?”

 Spock keeps his gaze trained on him.

 He leers. “I guess Vulcans don’t have a guilty conscience. You’ve killed both of us more times than you can count. Well,” he amends, “Perhaps you can count them. You’ve always been good at that-”

 “Leave him alone,” Jim croaks.

 Leland rises again. “You’re sure that’s what you want? I mean, he did kill you, multiple times.”

 “So did you.”

 “True,” Leland shrugs. “But he killed you, right after you’d promised to love each other forever and ever, right?” His voice is high and mocking, and Jim struggles against his bonds.

 “You weren’t there,” he grunts.

 Leland grins. “Technically, neither were you. And we already know how that pact turned out.” He grasps Spock’s injured hand, and lifts it up.

 “Leland-”

 “- What’s the objection? You had the right idea earlier. Do you just want to kill him yourself? That’s very selfish of you, James.” He tuts. “After all, I should get dibs.” He squeezes his hand suddenly, and Spock cries out, the sound muffled.

 Leland stares at him, eyes wide, and turns to Jim. “You’ve ruined my Vulcan!” He laughs to himself. “Still, there’s time to correct that.” He strokes Spock’s hand, almost gentle, though each movement is still enough to cause pain.

 Spock narrows his eyes at him, and flinches away, but Leland holds him steady.

 “Now, Spock,” he murmurs. “I can keep you both here for as long as I like, and make you pay for every single time you killed me. Still, I could always reset you.” He retrieves a dagger from his belt. “There were some very interesting things in the basement this morning- well-hidden, James, but not enough.”

 He barely glances over his shoulder, and Spock exhales. Leland has eyes only for him, and he knows with a terrible certainty that he intends to make him suffer. As if reading his thoughts, Leland places the dagger under Spock’s chin. “How about we give him a turn first? It’s up to you, James. I mean… You- well, he-” He taps the monitor screen. “- Seemed fairly adamant that you wanted him dead.”

 “Screw you,” Jim hisses.

 “Shame,” Leland discards the monitor, and it shatters on the floor. “That version of you actually had some balls. If you hadn’t tried to kill me so much, we might have got along.”

 “Maybe that’s why we would have got along,” Jim hisses. Spock breathes shallowly, his chest suddenly constricted, and wills Jim to stop antagonising him; but, of course, they are not bonded. With a sudden pang, he wonders if they will ever be able to bond again.

 “Maybe,” Leland acknowledges. “Still, I intend to get out of here. Once I attend to our… Unfinished business.”

 “Leland-”

 “Shush. I’ll get round to you later. But, for now-”

 He cuts the gag away, though there’s no chance of him speaking. He remembers what it was like before. Anything he says will make it worse. He calls, desperately, on all the skills he hasn’t employed in a while. He makes his face slack, and lets his mind go blank. But, yesterday was the closest he had come to a successful meditation session in a while, and Leland is studying him with nothing short of glee.

 “You know, it’s a shame you killed that other version of James,” Leland murmurs. “Once you betrayed him, I bet he would have wanted to stay, and watch me kill you over, and over and over.”

 Jim sits deadly still, his eyes wide, but Spock can see his arms twitching behind his back, as if reaching for something. Hope flares in his chest, but he clamps down on the feeling, attempting to martial his emotions.

“But, seeing as I only need to kill you once, let’s make it count, hmm?” He runs his fingers across Spock’s meld points, and sends fleeting visions of everything he plans to do to them. Spock closes his eyes, trying to block out the thoughts. When that fails, he recalls an image of Leland’s own, broken body, lying at the bottom of the ravine. Leland snatches his hand away.

“Congratulations,” He growls. “Now you’ve made me angry.” He raises the dagger.

Spock kicks out at him with a grunt, but Leland side-steps him easily.

 “Surely you remember your training?” He hisses, gripping Spock’s chin. “That’s no way to behave towards a superior officer-”

Spock snaps at his hand, and Leland slams his head against the wall. Jim yells something

“I think James wants to watch the show,” Leland sings. He grips Spock’s hair this time, near the scalp. Grinning, he tilts his head back to expose his neck, and Spock’s breathing quickens. Leland presses the dagger to his throat.

“I said, let him go, asshole,” Jim growls. His voice sounds closer than before, but Spock doesn’t dare tear his gaze away from Leland’s.

“You disappoint me, James,” Leland sighs. “You’d want revenge, if you weren’t weak.”

“Maybe I am,” Jim says. “But there’s one thing I didn’t mention in that recording.”

The knife breaks the skin, and Spock can feel blood beading around the cut.

“And what’s that?” Leland hisses, never breaking eye contact.

 Behind him, Jim gets to his feet silently.

“There’s a knife in my pocket.”

 The pressure vanishes from Spock’s throat.

Leland turns too late. Jim stabs him in the side, but it’s not deep enough; it can’t be. Spock has seen this before; at the very start of the time-loop: without his memories, Jim’s skill in hand-to-hand combat is no match for Leland’s. He strains against the ropes which are holding him- he’d be able to break them, if his hand wasn’t injured. As it stands, all he can do is stare. A thin trickle of blood runs down his neck.

“Jim, be careful!” He pleads.

Jim dodges Leland’s first strike, and pulls the knife out. They struggle. Leland grasps Jim’s wrist, and attempts to force his hand back, but Jim knees him in the stomach.

Leland lands a glancing blow to his shoulder, and Jim sucks in his breath. He knocks Leland’s arm out of the way, driving the knife into his arm, and Leland bellows angrily as he drops the dagger. Jim loses his grip on his own weapon, and Leland tears at it. Blood gushes from his forearm as he rips it free, painting his arm red. With a yell, he swipes at Jim with his left-hand, as a dark stain spreads on the side of his torso. Jim dives for the dagger, and Leland pins him to the ground, swiping at him. Jim grasps the dagger, and kicks Leland off momentarily, the two of them moving faster than Spock can keep track of.

They struggle together until Leland falls to the ground, and doesn’t get up.

“Fuck.” Jim sits up, trembling, and disentangles himself from the body. Leland’s blood is smeared across his face in places, so the damage isn’t immediately apparent.

 But Jim’s breathing is laboured.

 “Jim?” Spock whispers.

“Spock…” Jim’s voice wavers. He clutches a hand across his stomach, and looks down at it, dazed. “Oh…”

 He falls sideways.

Spock rushes over. Both blades lie on the floor beside them, covered in blood. It isn’t clear which one caused the fateful blow. He reaches for the knife, and cuts the ropes from his arms clumsily, and reaches for Jim.

 When he touches him, Jim grits his teeth, and gestures to the wound.

 “It’s- bad,” he twitches.

 “No,” Spock pulls his head onto his lap, gently, and places a hand over his forehead. “I can help.”

 “No-”

 “Let me help.”

“Spock.” He shakes his head. “You can’t prolong it ‘til sundown. It’s okay. It was…” He grunts. “My fault.”

“Jim-”

 He places a kiss against his injured wrist, and blinks up at him. “I’m sorry for… shooting you,” he wheezes. “That was a… Stupid thing to do.” He smiles shakily, and tears well in his eyes as he clutches his side.

 “You were just following your own advice” Spock replies, as Jim gives a soft chuckle, and winces.

 “It was- bad advice,” he hisses. “Too- open to interpretation.” He places a hand to Spock’s face gently. “I’m glad I got to love you. I only wish that I could remember any of it.”

Spock shakes his head. “In your condition, an influx of memories of that volume would kill you.”

Jim places Spock’s hand against his face, and laughs weakly. “Spock,” he coughs, “I’m dying anyway.”

Spock hesitates, but Jim nuzzles into his palm. ‘Didn’t want to hurt you,’ he thinks, as he brushes his fingers against Spock’s cheek.

 “It’s okay, if you won’t show me. I know I loved you,” he hacks up blood. “But- who you love... That’s your own business.” Perhaps it’s intended to be vitriolic, but, he almost sounds sincere. Serene. He smiles, and nudges his forehead to Spock’s palm. “Go ahead,” he whispers. “It’s OK.”

 “Jim.” Spock surveys his injuries, and knows, from all the other times he’s watched him die, that he won’t survive.

 ‘I shouldn’t have killed Leland,’ Jim thinks. ‘That was- clumsy. I should have kept him alive so we could regenerate, but… Now… You leave.’

 Spock strokes his hair. He concentrates, broadcasting an outpouring of love and affection into his mind, as Jim’s eyes flutter closed.

 Ashayam, stay with me.

 He despairs. He was a fool. He should have spent a little longer cherishing the chance to cradle Jim like this. They could have had eternity. Now, they have only moments. He understands now, far too late, the full depths of what Jim had offered. It is a rare thing, to have a t’hy’la. He should have know, every time they dispatched Leland, that they were only strengthening it: a warrior’s bond. And, although he knows it’s useless, he delves deeper into Jim’s dying mind, triggering that familiar spark, as a bond forms between them for the final time. Spock lets go, pouring his memories into him. Jim relaxes, his breathing levelling out, and Spock strokes his hair.

 You are… incandescent.

 Jim stirs.

 As are you.

 He remains close to him for many hours, sustaining his life-force for as long as he can, as the buzz of Jim’s mind shrinks, and dims.

 Spock closes his eyes, and collapses back against the wall, cradling him. Yesterday’s euphoria is long gone.

 He drifts to sleep, no longer interested in escaping- not now. He’d be content to rot here forever, with a thousand identical corpses.

 He dreams of Vulcan. He walks across the dark sands, warmer than he’s been in a while, but oh so weighed down by guilt.

 Red light floods through the windows, and Spock’s eyes flutter open. For a moment, he can almost believe he’s back on Vulcan, the glare from the red sands unbearable in first-light, but the moment passes. He frowns, so used to waking to clear skies and mid-morning light that he almost doesn’t recognise the phenomenon.

 Dawn.

 Spock’s hand aches. He raises it. It hasn’t healed, of course. The bandages are soaked through, but the bleeding has stopped. It has been so long since his injuries lasted that he is almost grateful for it.

 “We made it,” he says, with a cracked voice. He glances down at Jim; so peaceful he could almost be sleeping. He looks over to Leland, half-expecting him to move, but neither of them do. His gaze drifts.

 Leland is lying in a puddle of blood, but most of Jim’s has seeped into Spock’s clothing, half-dried against his skin. Slowly, he eases Jim to the ground, and places him gently on his side.

 You should move, a distant part of his mind whispers, but it’s a small part, and he is too numb to process it. Whatever it is, it doesn’t speak again. He desperately needs water; thirsty like he hasn’t been in a long time- but, still, he sits. He welcomes the discomfort: as proof that he’s made it through, and, as punishment.

 I have killed my t’hy’la and my friend.

 His gaze drifts.

 The ground outside is waterlogged and muddy: for the first time, it’s covered in rainfall from the storm. As the sun rises, a slightly larger spacecraft sets down beside the shuttle, and he closes his eyes. For a moment, there is silence. The perfect conditions to meditate; though it’s been so long, he’s almost forgotten how.

 Voices, getting nearer.

 He reaches a hand out to Jim, and, trembling a little, pulls back.

 Footsteps on the balcony. The door opens with a rattle.

 He looks up.

 Two figures are silhouetted against the light; a section-31 agent he doesn’t recognise, and-

 “Why is the Klingon defence grid still active?”

 Phillipa Georgiou. Her hair is dishevelled, and she steps into the hall. “The attack is in five hours, Leland. This is sloppy, even for you-”

 She stops.

 Spock leans his head against the wall, and says nothing.

 “What… Happened?” Says the unknown agent; as they take in the carnage.

 Georgiou crosses the room in two, quick steps, and nudges Leland’s body with her foot. “Shame,” she laments. “I always wanted to be the one to kill him.” Her gaze turns to Spock. “Still,” she cocks her head, and her phaser, “I should probably thank you for sparing me the trouble.”

 Spock allows himself a small, thin smile. “Trouble?” He murmurs. “You have no idea.”

 Georgiou stares at him, then fiddles with the settings on the phaser. “Then again; you could have waited until after your mission was complete to do it.”

 “It was never going to be done,” Spock says, as he watches the phaser. He’s almost relieved. It’ll be quick.

 “Well, Spock-” She nods to the agent, who backs out of the room. “- Thank you for nothing. I’ll see you in hell.”

 “Perhaps.” He chuckles. “Or, maybe…”

 He presses his forehead to the cool metal, still laughing, and she frowns at him.

 “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

[Chapter 7] [Chapter 8]

[aevus-blogging]

animorph lads and controller gents

Oh. Anon no. Anon, you have given me a nugget for angst by god. Okay okay. So. Sorta yes, sorta no. You ready for a rambly oneshot? Be ready for a rambly one shot

According to the yeerks, James Ryan Haywood and Epslin 413 were dead and devoured by the creatures of the cruel and blistering arizona desert. This was only true for one of them though.

Ryan, he had been an involuntary host, picked up from his dreadful foster home by the Sharing with the promise of free food and a safe zone. He had been too trusting of the altruistic organization, up until the point he was being escorted down into the underground bunker area and having his head forced down into that cursed murky water, a slug alien entering his ear and taking control over his actions.

Years he had suffered in silence, fighting tooth and nail when he could. He watched as the Yeerk piloted his body around, forcing him into an arizonan college (closer to the yeerks home base) and into an IT program, minoring in theatre to keep the facade of Ryan’s love of theatre intact, despite the fact the yeerk despised it. Of course he passed with flying colors and soon found himself in an IT job. Still, eight years later Ryan still fought against the yeerk in his head. It was only by luck that Ryan would find his freedom again.

It had been a call, of him having to hop in a car and drive a few hours away to assist a job. It had been utter luck for him that his car broke down mid way through the drive, even more so that he was on the day his yeerk needed to head into the pit to recharge. Ryan could feel himself laughing at the Yeerk’s misfortune. 24 hours and he was a free man once more. While he was excited, the Yeerk was terrified. He had no cell phone, no Yeerk communication device either. He was alone.

Eventually night fell, and so did Ryan’s body in fatigue. As the night drawled on the Fugue started to hit, racking the yeerk and host both in pain. Slowly Epslin 413 died, memories of former hosts invading Ryan’s mind and leaving themselves there. Four other hosts before Ryan. One Gedd, two Hork-Bajir, and one other human, a teen that had been an involuntary host as well, one that managed to free himself the only way he could in the cage, by death. After what felt like an eternity the Yeerk receded out of Ryan’s mind, shriveled up on the cold desert ground. For the first time in forever Ryan laughed, he was free.

It wasn’t until morning that a trucker would pull off and pick Ryan up, that was the true birth of Ryan the free man, and the final nail in James the Controller’s coffin. That was the start of his hitchhiking to Los Santos, ignoring the news of the search for James Ryan Haywood. He stayed low in the city. Always wearing something to obscure his face, no use in someone actually recognizing him, even worse if it would be a controller.

It was no surprise he was mistaken as a hitman, with the whole paranoia and face hiding thing. It was a surprise that Ryan actually went along with it. Maybe it was the fact he had seen too many deaths in his time as a controller that he was numb to it all, maybe a lingering malicious will of the yeerk that controlled him, or, most terrifyingly, maybe he had always had the capability and willingness. But becoming a hitman was a blessing as much as it cursed him. It gave him more freedom, It made it so when he killed a high level controller the Yeerks didn’t think it was a Yeerk thing but a human thing. So he passed the years like that, picking off the controllers he could, making money off his kills.

Then the Fake AH Crew formed. He was sent an invite, a nice little postcard in his mail from one Geoff Ramsey. At first he panicked. Then he decided if this was somehow Yeerk related it would be best to play along right? Thankfully for him it wasn’t yeerk related. It was a bonafide crew, a gang of criminals. Yet as time drawled on in the crew became more and more of a dysfunctional family. Then the day came when they all died, but at the same time they didn’t. They all came back. Some, like Gavin, were up almost instantly, but others, Ryan, took hours to repair the damage. When Ryan did come back it was full of panic and wondering if Hell was home, which of course causes Geoff to laugh. Ryan gets a welcome to Immortality speech (distantly Ryan is glad that he’s yeerk free, the things the yeerks would have done to him if they knew he was immortal). After that the crew gets closer, due to their immortal status and that the more elder ones finally having people who wouldn’t die in fifty years for the first time in centuries, if not millennia.

Ryan went soft, he had relaxed. Most days he only lounged around the penthouse in simple face paint. It had been a mistake. A grave mistake. Geoff started going off on more and more ‘meetings’ spending little to no time in the penthouse for a month. Then one night the lads didn’t come home. There were reports of a meteor hitting Mount Chilliad (Ryan doubted it was a meteor, it was probably a bug ship that malfunctioned). Ryan just hoped the lads hadn’t gone to it, but knowing them and the fact they weren’t home made Ryan anxious. Jack tried to calm Ryan down, telling him that the lads probably were just drunk and that’s why they weren’t answering their phones.

Then they came home, looking ragged as hell, scorch marks on their clothes. They were full of anxious nerves, distrust showing in their eyes as they looked at the gents, like they were expecting them to attack. Then they asked a damning question.

“So, what do you think of the existence of Aliens?” Gavin asked, the calmest of the lads. Then again Gavin was a grifter, more than a century poured into his craft. But the reactions were imminent in the crew. Ryan froze, flashbacks to Epslin 413 and his time as a controller rearing his ugly head. Ryan wasn’t the only one to react though. Geoff had frozen as well, staring the lads down, expression unreadable.

“Why do you ask Gavin?” Jack asked, genuinely confused. Ryan glanced at Jack, of course she doesn’t know. Ryan was willing to bet Jack had never knowingly interacted with a controller before. Ryan went to drop a retort when he saw Geoff reaching for something out of the corner of his eye, his heart turned to ice as he saw what it was. A Dracon Ray. Ryan didn’t think, he just acted. He leapt for Geoff, wrestling the blaster away, dimly he was aware of the Lads yelling, but adrenaline was high in Ryan’s veins. Geoff was a controller. God knows for how long. In the end Ryan won and was holding the alien gun, pointing it at Geoff’s head, snarl on his lips. The room was silent, the lads recognizing the blaster as alien, and immediately were on edge, reaching for their own weapons.

“Yeerk Fucker.” Michael growled, eyes darting from Ryan to Geoff, trying to figure out who the Yeerk was. Ryan could feel himself shake, but stayed focused on Geoff, the one confirmed Yeerk in the room.

“Bet you can’t even work that.” The Yeerk growled out. Ryan barked out a laugh, deftly armed the blaster from years of practice ingrained in his muscle memory.

“Oh don’t I? These haven’t changed since I was a controller.” Ryan said darkly. The Yeerk inhabiting Geoff twisted his friend’s face into a sneer.

“There are no cases of Hosts getting free.”

“My enslaver was Epslin-413. I was used with the intention of working IT and working my way up in a promising company. ‘I’ had to drive through the Arizona desert from one town to the next for a job. The Yeerk was supposed to go to the Yeerk Pool in the small city after the job was done to recharge there. Fortunately for me my car broke down. No one came along that road, not till the fugue set in and Epslin 413 was long dead. I am James Ryan Haywood. I faked my death to escape you parasites, today you will get a small taste of the helplessness you put my friend in.” Ryan growled out, glancing to the Lads.

“Lockdown, three days. No one leaves or enters the penthouse.” Ryan said, voice hard.

“Yes, yeah. Lockdown. Force the Yeerk in Geoff into a fugue. But uh. I have to get one person and we need to explain ourselves.” Gavin said, dashing to the elevator. Ryan bit his lip, wanting to go after him, but the possibility of Geoff Yeerk getting Free was too much to risk. So Ryan tied Geoff down, and Jeremy tied Jack down. Jack was confused, but was willing enough while Geoff thrashed about, causing Michael to have to hold the older gent down.

By the time Geoff was tied down Gavin was back, with someone who looked very very similar to Trevor, if Trevor wasn’t white. The clothes he was wearing were ill fitting, obviously not his own, and he didn’t even have shoes. The new Guy was looking around before zeroing in on the thrashing controller and then looking at Ryan and the Dracon Ray.

“So that’s the former Controller! Hi I’m Alfredo, not my real name but I like that name much better than my birth name. I’m an andalite and I’m here to help!” He said, then to prove his point he started morphing, ripping and shredding the clothes on his body as he went from ethnic Trevor to alien centaur with stalk eyes. Ryan was immediately at attention, memories of Visser Three flooding his mind.

“Andalite.” Ryan said, nodding to the alien.

“Okay. Story Time on what we did last night.” Gavin said, clearing his voice.

“So last night we were fucking around on Mount Chilliad. We met Trevor up there, he was doing some space stuff. We started fucking around, planning shenanigans. Then the ship fell. We of course checked it out, thinking we could snag some cool military grade shit and then gtfo. It was an Andalite ship. Inside was Alfredo and Elfangor. Elfangor was badly wounded, he was dying. Alfredo was in much better shape. Elfangor told us about the Yeerks, gave us some psychic images of them and imprinted some data of the yeerks in our minds. Then he gave us this.” Gavin nodded to Jeremy, who produced a glowing blue box that had Yeerk Geoff’s eyes bugging out.

“The Escafil Device. Or as we’ve been calling it, the Blue Cube. He. He gave us the morphing ability and told us to take Alfredo and run. We did. Visser Three, he was arriving as we were sneaking away. We heard him kill Elfangor. We ran, once we reached our car we realized we were fucked. Couldn’t take them down. And we couldn’t walk about with a blue horse thing. Alfredo, he did some fancy shenanigans and acquired us all and made his own human morph. So began our two hour at a time trek back home after putting Alfredo in a spare set of Michael’s work out clothes. We eventually got home, told Alfredo to wait in the garage, and well you know the rest.” Gavin said.

“Where’s Trevor then?” Jack asked, frown on her face.

<Glad you asked that oh friend of mine.> A voice buzzed in their heads, sounding like Trevor. In a few seconds a fly began enlarging and becoming more and more human like, grotesquely morphing into one Trevor Collins.

“Put your clothes on.” Michael huffed, tossing some clothes to the stark naked man.

“We’ll have to figure out clothes that go with our morphs.” Gavin muttered as Trevor pulled on his clothes.

<Later. Right now is making sure your gent friends are free of any and all Yeerk infestations.> The andalite Thought spoke.

“Are we tying up Ryan too or?” Jeremy trailed off, not looking like he particularly wanted to. Probably didn't help that he was still holding the blaster. Ryan disarmed it and gently set it far away from Geoff.

“If you want, it’s fine. I understand.” Being a previous host he really could understand.

<I think he’ll be fine. Besides what are the odds he overpowers all five of us?> Alfredo responded, causing Jeremy to snort.

“Pretty damn high. Ryan’s our resident murder hobo.” Jeremy said, causing Ryan to huff and mutter am not.

<What’s a Murder Hobo?>

The three days followed a semi strict schedule, Alfredo took the night shift guard with Ryan. Then Michael or Jeremy would relieve them when the sun rose and tell them to sleep. They wouldn't and would linger about till Gavin and Trevor took over at noon as well as feeding. Jack was always cooperative while Yeerk Geoff was as much of a bastard as possible. Then six hours would go by and whichever of Gavin or Jeremy didn’t take morning took night till twelve am in which another feeding would happen with difficulty. Then at Midnight Alfredo and Ryan took over. Over and Over again.

Till the fugue started for Yeerk Geoff. Then it was all hands on deck. While Alfredo hung back, the crew was there to help Geoff through it. Ryan repeatedly apologising to Geoff. He knew what it was like to go through the fugue, the hell of pain that came with it. Not once did Ryan leave Geoff’s side. When Geoff went limp and the Yeerk slug slid out of Geoff’s ear and shrivelled up, only then did Ryan let himself relax.

“You made it Geoff.” He said gently.

“Just barely. God, you went through that too?” Geoff asked, voice hoarse after the Yeerk used it to yell and rage for so long before giving up.

“Yeah. Fun times.” Ryan huffed out, causing Geoff to bark out a laugh as Gavin undid his bindings.

“Super fun.” He drawled out.

“So what next?” He asked

“We wait one more day for Jack, sorry Jack. And as long as she’s clear, we pass off the ability to morph to you three and we start planning a guerilla war?” Jeremy said, the last part coming out more as a question than statement. Ryan nodded at that. Made sense to do it all at once, and to make sure Jack wasn’t harboring a well fed Yeerk.

“Immortality and shapeshifting? We’re going to be set for eternity boys. Good thing Thelon 1111 was a greedy bitch and didn’t want to give up an immortal hist to a sub visser or visser.” Geoff said, causing Trevor to gasp and Alfredo to be taken aback.

<Immortals, that is impossible> “What, y'all are immortal too?” Alfredo’s denial and Trevor’s excitement overlapped as they were both said at the same time.

“Respawn of Six minutes.” Gavin said proudly.

“Damn son. I only have a respawn of two hours.” Trevor huffed out. Ryan stayed back as the others began arguing with Alfredo over this, the andalite refusing to believe such a thing. Until Gavin shrugged and shot Michael in the head. Thankfully Michael was a fast healer and the wound was already stitching itself up, shocking Alfredo to silence as Geoff ranted about killing in the house. This was his home, his family. For the first time since he regained his Freedom Ryan felt strong, felt powerful, like he was more than just a pawn in some galactic game of chess. He would be able to fight these bastards once and for all. The Yeerks thought James Ryan Haywod was dead. They were dead wrong.

[sserpente]

A/N: I’m back! Did you miss me? *Loki voice* I’ve had this prompt in mind for a while now… and given that “Avengers: Endgame” is coming out this bloody year… but don’t worry, Loki is alive in this one. Enjoy!

Words: 1408 Warnings: violence, blackmailing, blood

You gulped as you looked up, tearing your gaze away from the deadly weapon in your hand. It was a dagger, small and beautifully crafted—murderous and intimidating—and it represented everything you were not.

But you were not the only one Thanos had taken and compromised, had been not the only one to face cruel threats, be inflicted pain on in case of disobedience and promised death upon failure. The Black Order had taken a dozen other humans who he now had in his grasp, free to do with as he pleased. There were civilians, policemen who had been involved in the alien invasion in the first place, brave volunteers and even a child, no older than fifteen.

The fear that clung to their bodies was tangible, numbing even—knowing that resistance would bring them certain death. Only few of them realised their fate was sealed either way when Thanos revealed to you all his strategy. You were brainless lackeys, a mere distraction; and while the Avengers and their “brutes” were busy killing you all, the Black Order would retrieve the one Infinity Stone which had been stolen from them.

Here you were now, meeting your tormentor’s cold eyes. He moved on quickly. Defiance and the mad urge to challenge him had long ceased, you were of no interest to him. Thanos had broken you, as he had all of you. If the Grim Reaper was to greet you soon, you would welcome him with your arms open, bathing in the anxiety that came with the inevitable menace of pain.

You had expected Earth to be different when you returned at long last, breathing in fresh oxygen and swallowing thickly when you spotted the massive trees around you, stretching out their branches like claws, ready to disembowel you. Nothing had changed. Nothing but the debris, the dust, the blood… the destruction and the corpses drowning your home planet into a miserable pile of what was once considered the centre of the universe—how wrong you had all been.

Clutching your weapon tightly, you breathed in audibly to chase away your nausea from travelling by Tesseract, anything but ready to follow the Black Order’s commands and plunge yourself into a battle you knew you would lose.

If staying with Thanos against your will had taught you one thing, however, … it was that it was not your decision to make, not your choice to elect what would end your life. You only knew this—today, you were going to die either way.

Before your capture, you had admired the Avengers for their strength, their bravery and fierceness to fight evil beings but now you were terrified, knowing they would bring about your own demise. Neither Thanos nor the Black Order had properly trained you, the expendable distraction. Your heart was in your mouth when you spotted them drawing their weapons, ready for a bloody fight—and it was then something inside you snapped. Panic overwhelmed your mind and body as you turned on your heel and fled, following your instincts. Cruel enough, you did not realise until something sliced your calf open that escaping was futile.

Crying out in pain, you fell to the dirty ground to your feet. There was hardly enough time for you to turn around to face your attacker, helplessly raising the dagger in your hand. Your attacker, crude, vicious and merciless, knocked the weapon from your grasp and straddled you so effortlessly you gasped for air, suppressing a heart-breaking sob. He hadn’t even tried. When you glanced up in fear… you looked straight into a pair of stunning blue eyes. Loki’s.

You had believed him dead. Now, with his nostrils flaring, the ice cold expression on his face and the determination to kill glistening in his gaze, you squeezed your own eyes shut the moment he raised his dagger—the very weapon he must have used to stop you from fleeing—and aimed directly at your heart, having you turn your head to the side in the process desperately.

You did not want to witness this. Perhaps Loki would be kind enough to grant you a quick end without making you suffer, perhaps he would be merciful and let you perish without forcing you to watch yourself bleed to death…

But then, when several heartbeats later, you had still not felt the painful blow of a sharp blade invading your skin and stabbing your heart, your eyes flattered open again, terror washing over you. Almost confused, you peeked up at him only to be met with a thoughtful frown.

He was hesitating.

“Do it. Do it, please. Just do it. If y-you won’t, then he will.” You pleaded out of breath, not daring to look the God of Mischief in the eye. And yet, Loki narrowed his eyes at you and eventually… lowered his dagger again. When you finally brought yourself to look at him, he appeared like he was dwelling in the past—and at the very same time, sparing your life.

Your injured calf was throbbing, the adrenaline cursing through your body doing little to soothe your pain. You had no idea how much time had passed—not until the faint battle cries and the sounds of metal and bones crushing against one another stopped gradually, replaced by Proxima Midnight’s cold and relentless voice.

Your eyes widened in pure horror, hips bucking in a desperate attempt to escape yet again but Loki would not move an inch. Alarmed, he grabbed your wrists and pinned them to the ground, leaving you wailing defencelessly.

“L-Loki… let me go, please. Please let me go, let me go, please!” Hysterically, you suddenly began thrashing around in his iron grip, trying anything to escape as hot tears streamed down your cheeks. You were trembling like leaves in the wind, unable to grasp a single rational thought.

You had missed your chance of a quick death… and you now dreaded just how many body parts of yours Proxima was going to shatter and pierce before she would finally grant you eternal sleep. You knew that if you had not died already to distract the Avengers long enough for them to strike, you would be maimed now.

The God of Mischief understood immediately. Tilting his head mutely, he suddenly wrapped his arms around your weak body, mere moments later you could feel the numbing sensation of his magic flowing through your veins, causing you to close your eyes, devastated. Was he killing you? Were you dying already?

But the quiet bleeping in the background did not at all sound like heaven, nor did the roaring and vibrating of strong engines underneath your feet. Still shaking uncontrollably, you swallowed courageously and looked around you.

You were on a ship, no… a massive quinjet. Had Loki… teleported you?

There was only one other person aboard. You recognised her as Black Widow, the master assassin with the gorgeous black suit complimenting every single curve of her body.

“Who is she?” Natasha Romanoff exclaimed suspiciously, leaning forward in the co-pilot’s seat to take a proper look at your dishevelled form. You were still bleeding, not realising you were holding onto Loki for dear life so you would not drop to the ground pathetically.

“Call the others back at once. She was a captive of Thanos’, forced to attack us just like the rest my brother and your companions have already slaughtered so we would be occupied for a while. We have to go after the Black Order right now.”

Glancing up at him with your lips parted, you admired your saviour. You had not uttered a single word and still, Loki had figured out part of their ruthless strategy within a mere matter of seconds. Natasha nodded absentmindedly, quickly mumbling something into her earpiece. In the meantime, Loki sat you down carefully on one of the cushioned seats. You shivered when his fingers glided over your bare arms.

“You will have to hold on for me, dear. As soon as I return, I shall heal your calf.”

Loki had saved your life. It hit you like a painful blow in the face, eternal gratefulness spreading in your guts. You nodded mutely in response, unable to speak yourself despite the newfound energy charging your entire being from head to toe with a start. It was the God of Mischief who had, smirking down at you promisingly and unknowingly, now breathed new life into you.

A/N: Guys, if you liked this story, I would appreciate so much if you could support me on KoFi! YOU can help me publish my first novel! It’s easy, it’s anonymous, you can do it from all over the world and it’s just 3€! Your help counts too, I’d appreciate it so much if you helped me fulfil my dream! ♥ ko-fi.com/sserpente

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

CSUAVS prt 13. It can suck my nonexistant knob

Lance soon added "technician" to his growing skills. Having attempted to push his engines too hard a fuse had blown, causing issues in the sensors that led to a chronic beeping. If Hunk or Pidge were there they'd probably have solved the problem in doboshes. He was running slightly slower thanks to a dose of space flu, but he was getting there. Hell. Keith probably would have known what to do given Keith was pretty much perfection incarnate, but wonder boy wasn't there. He'd had such a crush on him, before the Allura incident, and afterwards. Keith had made the time for him. Sought him out and done everything he could to be the friend Lance really needed. He hated him for it. He hated how he missed Keith even more than he missed Hunk. He hated how he missed the stupid mulleted emo would was always up for causing trouble. He'd genuinely disliked him to begin with. Keith was everything Lance ever wanted to be, and what was worse was that he didn't even realise he was. Most of all he hated the fact he wished Keith was there to keep him company as he tinkered under the dash of the ship. They probably would have dissolved into a fight by now... but that would be preferable to the crushing silence of being in space alone. Keith had become his best friend before he'd known what was happening. He'd also been the cause of his first bi-panic even before they'd... ended up in bed together which totally absolutely never happened because he'd rather deny it until the end of time than lose his friendship with Keith despite the fact they hadn't talked in movements and each call they exchanged messed with his memories of what had happened with Klearo and now he was spiralling. Even now that he accepted that he was bisexual, he know a lot of people didn't get it. He loved people, but sometimes they really sucked. With what had happened with Klearo, he'd realised that he could never be with Keith. He was tainted. He was a monster. He was wrong and he was dirty. No matter how many times he scrubbed his raw, it didn't change the fact the man had made him cum. That point hanging in the corner of his mind like a neon trophy of disgust. So even if he wanted to confess to Keith, his love had twisted and warped. He'd never be free to love him, so why even entertain the thoughts anymore? He didn't know why his mind tormented him with thoughts of Keith instead of allowing him to forget his feelings for the man, but he was beyond tired of it all. He just wanted to focus on killing Klearo and anyone else with that obnoxious "y" shaped tattoo. Lusting after the lions was old news. He was over it... and soon Klearo would be shuffling off the mortal coil, so if his mind could please shut up he'd be eternally grateful. Receiving a zap for all his trouble under the dash of the ship, the beeping noise finally came to stop. Lance laughing loudly before slapping a hand to his mouth to silence himself. He couldn't laugh like that for no reason. People would think him insane. He probably already was. He definitely wasn't who'd used to be, and more than once he'd let himself be swept away by fanciful daydreams where he was covered in Klearo's blood. It was weird how when he'd been a Paladin, he'd hated killing. He'd secretly been praying for a way to end Zarkon without having to actually kill, but now the desire to kill was the only thing that got him out of bed in the morning. That and the momentary high that shooting more the yellow painkiller into his blood would bring. If only his friends could see him now. Hopelessly damaged and addicted beyond belief to god only knew what. The pills shouldered his burdens, eased his mind and let him function without the emotional pain of what he'd been through. The knife wounds across his upper inner thighs and hip bones were the only way he knew to ease the physical phantom pains that came with such emotions as he dipped between doses. Instead of the cocky-Red Paladin everyone only ever tolerated, he'd become the poster boy of disfunction. Those who knew him would surely lament his decent into darkness if they knew the real him lurking beneath the mask of Leandro. They'd blame themselves. They'd be revolted and everything would fall apart. So, until his dying breath, he'd be Leandro. * Landing his ship on a rather bright planet, Lance dressed simply. A black body suit he'd had made was covered by a black and silver suit that may or may not have been made remembering how hot Keith had looked in his Blade uniform. Kre'el had begrudgingly contacted him to inform him they'd had a report of a disappearance come in from sector 16 of the area patrolled by Erathian police. There were other jurisdictions out in the area, yet being the "Earth" planet, her bosses always seemed to think them better and more competent than those. Shoving themselves firmly into the fray of things despite what other officers had planned, in order to take all the credit for Erathian. It was all one giant pissing match that he wanted nothing to do with. He was there for Klearo. "The hunter becomes the hunted" had always been a novel phrase. He wasn't sure why it'd wormed its way into his mind as it had, but it seemed apt to adopt it officially as "Leandro's motto". Informing him there'd been talk of Klearo taking the daughter of a ruling family in promise of status elevation after the seizure of the Red Lion, Lance's messed up heart had felt all kind of raw emotions that he shouldn't feel as Leandro. Another princess was missing. Allura who'd died for everyone merged with the image of a small scared girl. He hadn't been able to save his princess, but he sure as hell wasn't about to let another one down. Arming himself with his blaster, he also slipped two small knives into the sides of his boots. Klearo would expect him to have a blaster, not so much the knives. He'd foolishly admitted to the man he wasn't that great at hand-to-hand combat... which he wasn't, but in a bar fight he'd more than definitely come out the winner. Sliding his mask down to cover his face, the look was complete and it was time to move out. Bathed in blues and greens, the planet was unusually bright for the sector. The other planets either a rusty red or dull grey, orbiting so slowly it was like they'd given up the will to exist and were just waiting for a weblum to come finish them off. With no appeal on ground, he had no idea why Klearo would choose to stop over here, yet wasn't prepared to look the gift horse in the mouth. Leaving his ship behind he plunged through the thick growth, forced to land a little over two kilometres away from where Klearo's forces were gathered. It wasn't a walk he was looking forward too. Still... when he thought of Klearo choking to death on his own blood, the ache in his legs passed as he picked up the pace with renewed vigour. He was finally going to put an end to the suffering of those the Klearo used and tossed away. Reaching the clearing where Klearo's gaudy ship was parked, Lance darted through the shadows as he edged his way around the space, slowly counting the guards as he did. Security had definitely risen since the incident on Klearo's original ship. All of them were ridiculously big, and all of them were armed with blasters. He didn't particularly feel like dying before he killed Klearo, yet that seemed to be what was about to happen. More than likely his ship had been picked up on their radar, leaving the droves of guards to play welcome party. Hearing a rustle in the bushes, Lance wasn't proud of the high pitched squeal he released as two people barrelled into him. His mask stifled some of the scream, yet it was still mortifying for that very long moment before his brain kicked in and he releasing he was striking a pose highly reminiscent of when he'd first met Coran. Raising his blaster, the two aliens in front of him clearly weren't part of Klearo's group. They looked... lost? And glorious under armed "Who the Quiznak are you?!" Hissing at him, the male stepped back as he asked the question. The female alien taking the male by his arm, whispering something in their own language "Me?! Who are you?!" "I asked you first" The slim alien had a point "I'm... Leandro. What are you doing here? Are you with them?" "Us!? With them? They have our sister" Great. He'd been right. They weren't with Klearo... instead they were idiots who thought to take him on. Just... great "You two need to go" "Us?! Who are you? What is a "Leandro", and why do you hurt so?" The woman's voice was soft. Once she passed the initial shrill of "us" "I'm here to take... you know what, this is stupid. You two are going to get yourself killed. Go home" Stepping in front of the woman, the male growled. English was definitely not their first language, leaving him to wonder if he was getting his point across "Who are you say that?" Facepalming, Lance shook his head "I'm here on official business. Not to babysit" "You're here to stop Klearo?" Thank god the woman had some measure of intelligence "Yes. Now your compromising my mission" "Then we shall come with you" With armour that looked to be fashioned out of something vaguely kitchenwarey, and a tiny gun each, that wasn't happening "No" "We help" "You'll get in the way!" "What makes you so sure? How do we know you don't get in our ways?" "Because I know what I'm doing" He was running out of patience, that's what he was doing "How do we know that? We haven't heard of you" "I haven't heard of you either. Look. Your sister is the princess that was taken right?" "How do you know?" "Because I'm here to help" Puffing his chest up, the male strode forward to push Lance in the chest "What proof do you have we can trust you? How do we know you are with him?" Shoving the stranger back, Lance had had enough. These two were grating on his nerves, and they were making far too much noise to remain hidden for long "Because I'm the Red Paladin of Voltron" Lance didn't expect the swing at his face. Knocked backwards, he tasted blood as he bit his tongue "You work for him!" Pulling his mask up to uncover his lips, Lance spat next to him "I do not work for that man" "We say you!" He obviously meant "saw" "I'm undercover" "You were with him!" Grabbing her friends arm, the woman pulled him away. The pair dissolving back into conversation in their own language. After a few doboshes, the woman stepped forward "We agree to trust you Paladin. Our sister was taken by Klearo. He wanted her and took her. Please, her name is Annla. Tell her Daehra and Lucteal are here for her. She'll trust you if you do" Names were good... but did the princess have to start with "A"? His nerves were already playing up from his having his plans interrupted "You two go home. I'll get her out" "You will? He wishes for her..." "He won't do anything to her. I'll take her place. It's... not unusual where I come from. But you two need to go" Shaking her head, Daehra's curls bounced. Her thin lips turned down "No. Not without our sister" "I can't concentrate knowing you two are out here, in danger. I'll bring her back. She'll be safe" Staring into his eyes, the woman took a breath then nodded "We will hide. Not leave. They will not find us" He wasn't getting better than that. Her gaze said as much "Fine. Stay hidden. Here, take my blaster. Those guns of yours won't do you any good" "What of you?" Handing the weapon over, Lance was sure he'd signed his own death warrant "I'll be fine. Wait, you should take this too" Taking off his black communicator, he passed it Daehra "If things go bad, call Kre'el. She's a police officer. One of the good ones. You can trust her" Kre'el would probably kick his arse when they met again, but he needed to do this. He needed to do this before Annla could be harmed. Plans were never his strong point if one was to ask his friends. Despite the fact his mind was often so busy he couldn't help but breakdown every step of every plan. This plan would have seemed like he was proving them all right. Walking down the slope towards the ship, he pulled his mask up as he stepped. His hands moving up to the standard "surrender" position as his heart hammered away. It was nerve wracking as he moved towards the small army of armed soldiers, each with their weapons trained on him "Klearo! I know you're in there!" With each step he took, he was sure he'd be shot. Reaching the shadow line of the ship, he stood waiting. As greedy as expected, Klearo descended down the loading ramp, three of his previous four personal guards had been replaced with even larger Galra. Starting to clap, Klearo threw his head back and laughed "I knew you'd be back. I waited. Then I heard you. My scanners picked up your ship... so I simply had to land and wait. I knew you'd come back to me" Talk about rude. Who went around scanning random ships and listened in on people's private breakdowns "Take him. Put him in the back. We have much to talk about" * Cells. He freaking loved cells. There was nothing like the cold metal of the smelly space to make you regret your life choices. Shoved in without being patted down, someone was sleeping on the job. Brawn didn't guarantee brains, yet Lance was definitely not complaining. Pulling out one of the small blades from his boot, he went to work on the vent in the centre of the roof of his cell. He wanted nothing more than to breakdown. The space far more taxing on his fragile mental health than he'd thought it would be, so much so that his hands wouldn't stop shaking as he forced the blade tip into the screw hole. Ventilation wasn't his favourite way to travel. Keith would probably laugh at him to hear that, given how often the blades infiltrated through the ventilation systems. One day ship builders were going to put fan systems in, and fuck them all over. Knowing his luck he'd find the one ship that did have them installed, leading to his life ending as ant sized particles splattered all over the place. At least someone would have to clean him up then, inconveniencing them one last time... despite the fact he wouldn't actually be there to enjoy the moment. He was only halfway through loosening the screws when they came for him. Hearing the steps approaching, he slid the knife up into the vent. Even if they took the one in his other boot, that one would safely be tucked away for his return. Keith would have been proud... Moving to stand near the door, he forced his body not to tense as the key scraped the lock "About time guys. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten me" If Lance had to guess, he'd say he'd only been in the cell for around half a quintant. But his sense of time had been thoroughly fucked with so he couldn't say for sure "You try anything and I'll shoot you" "Aw guys! You know how to make a man feel special" Not only did these Galra lack brains, they lacked a sense of humour. Leaning in to sniff at him, Lance ground his teeth to keep from punching the Galra right in his sniffing nose "A knocked up bitch. Never mind, we'll take care of that" As they walked the hall, those words echoed about his head. Knocked up. He knew what the Earth meaning of that was... his body was different now... but knocked up... no. They had to mean the fact he'd been bloodied and broken when he'd broken out last time. Yeah. Nothing to fear... Plus, the hospital would have pointed out something like that. He and Allura had talked about his family, how he wanted kids... was... did she... Oh god. He was freaking out now. Though that mental freak out was over shadowed when he shoved into Klearo's quarters. How the fuck was he getting himself out of this one?! "Lance. Wonderful to see you again!" "Klearo" Reclining in a throne like chair, Klearo nursed a glass of something in one hand as the fingers of the other drummed against the turned wood beneath them "I must say, I was impressed by your work. I never thought you'd have it in you" False bravado was the best he could hope for. He didn't see Annla, and as much as he wanted to launch himself across the room and tear Klearo's throat out, he had to be careful not to endanger the princess "We both know exactly what's "been in me", and we both know why I'm here" "Always such a... what is it you humans say? "Stick in the mud"?" "That's what happens when the host is so dull" Throwing his glass down, Lance flinched reflexively at the sound of it smashing "There he is. My timid Paladin. Now. Tell me why I shouldn't kill you right now?" "Because I'm the keeper of the Red Lion. If you kill me, the Red lion will know" "So you are saying I should have killed you at the start? Summoned the Red lion that way?" "I'm saying I'm prepared to make a deal" "Lance. That means nothing. You are bluffing with an empty hand" "The Red lion for the princess" Rising from his chair, Klearo stalked over to him. Circling around him, Klearo leaned in to sniff at him. He was really sick of being sniffed at "Your scent's changed. I can smell your fear. I can smell your lies. Why did you really come back?" "To kill you" Grabbing him by the hair, Klearo kicked his feet out from under him. His knees hitting the floor painfully, reminding him he really should have invested in knee pads "Finally. A truthful answer. Bring the girl in" Annla was smaller than Lance had expected. The girls soft blue curls spilling across her bruised face as she clutched at her dirty dress. The little princess timidly looking in his direction before her eyes went wide. She knew who he was, even if he'd never met her in his life. Smiling at her, she offered a tiny one back. She would hardly be any bigger than Nadia... God. This was all so messed up "Kiss my feet. Kiss my feet and swear your loyalty..." Turning his head back to Klearo, Lance gagged at the mental image the order provided "...or we I'll take you on this bed. Right here in front of everyone" There were at least a dozen steps between him and Annla. The closest solid target being Klearo's throne. The bed was low enough that he wouldn't be able to get beneath it... Annla could... but the little girl was already a bruised mess. He didn't know how fast she could move "Not in front of her" "You're not in a position to make demands" "I doubt the king would wish to hear how you've treated his daughter. Even with the promise of the power of the Red lion" "No one cares about her. She's one of many" "You wouldn't have taken her if you really thought that" "You're thoroughly unpleasant" Klearo was sending him all kinds of mixed signals "I'll take the compliment. Have you guys thought of installing rugs? Or at least buying a guy dinner first?" Backhanding his face, Klearo took him by the chin before striking him again. Crying out, Annla struggled as a thick arm looped around her waist and hefted her off her feet "Take her away. I thought he might be more accomodating if he saw the little princess, but it hasn't seemed to dent his resolve" Of course it hadn't. He couldn't give into his fears when Annla was trying her hardest to be strong. She thought him a brave Paladin. He had to be for her. Even though his stomach was rolling as he threw up into his mouth. Klearo's touch felt... revolt or disgust didn't come close. There was probably a million words out there, in all the languages of space something had to exist to describe this feeling. All he could come up with was "wrong". It scared the Quiznak out of him. Reminded him he was still weak. Yet he wouldn't show that Annla. He'd told Daehra and Lucteal he'd save her. So how he was supposed to be "accomodating?". He didn't know what Klearo wanted for him... only he wasn't doing "that" again. Even if it meant upping his plans to get the hell out of here in two quintants after being taken. Pulled up by his hair, Lance dug his heels in as Klearo pulled him towards the bed. Raising his hand to strike him again, his cowardly streak sprang to life again, sending his body limp enough for Klearo sit him on the edge of the bed. Still holding his hair with one hand, Klearo's other went to his fly "Those blue eyes of yours... how I want to pluck them out and eat them. We could create a new empire if only you gave in. I know how much you like it" Lance gagged as Klearo undid his fly. The alien stroking himself before pushing the tip against his teeth. No. This wasn't happening. He wasn't going to do that. He couldn't do that. Even if he got himself killed in the process "Suck. Or the girl dies" Pulling him forward, Lance let the tip slide past his lips. His hunched position bringing his hands closer to his boots without seeming too suspicious. Slipping his fingers into the top, his eyes filled with tears as Klearo rammed forward "Ahhh. That's it. My little Paladin pet" Catching the top of the knife with his fingers, he drew the blade up. Klearo didn't see it coming. Biting as hard as he could, Lance brought the knife up to sever the invading appendage. Howling with pain, his guards didn't know what was happening as Lance surged up, lodging the blade as deeply into Klearo's neck as he could get. As chaos dissolved around him, he sat the disgusting hunk of flesh from his mouth as Klearo began to choke on his own blood. It was worth the hair ripped free. Klearo releasing his hair to grab at Lance's wrists as he pushed the knife deeper. As the alien's guards began to fire, Lance kept his hold on Klearo in order to use him as a shield. Gurgling out his name, Lance finally released him once his legs stopped shaking, taking off running across the space as shots were fired in his direction. This was a great fucking plan. He didn't have the slightest idea where Annla was. Logically she couldn't be too far. It'd only been a few doboshes between her leaving and his great fucking of his plan. Feeling a blast hit his side, he pitched forward, sprawling across his stomach and sliding from the impact. Yep. They were definitely shooting to kill... pushing himself up, he ran hunched as his side protested. Rounding the corner at the end of the hall, a leg came out of nowhere. The kick sending him flying backwards into a ship wall. His head smacking against the metal hard enough to see stars. Not content with kicking him once, the soldier grabbed his leg and yanked him down the wall so he was flat on his back. With his body screaming, the soldier booted into his side, Lance curling around the site where the blow had hit, only for a second booting to hit his wrists. The bodysuit took the brunt of it, and without its thick fabric he'd be in a hell of a worse situation. As the soldier went for the third kick, Lance kicked out as the man's anchoring foot... with no affect other than pausing. He didn't have time for this. Blasts were still ringing out, and he had a princess to save. Scrambling up, he drove his shoulder into the soldier's stomach as he went for the blaster. Struggling for the weapon, it misfired, taking out half the soldiers chest as it fired and spraying Lance with blood. Spinning the soldier was easier than holding Klearo, Lance able to shove the man's body forward at the closest soldier, before bringing up the blaster "Annla! Annla, can you hear me?!" The ship was too big. He didn't know where she could be. Taking off run-slash-limping, Lance continued to call the princess's name as he did. He wasn't able to land killing shots as he hobbled, but he was able to slow them down. Even if he'd taken another two shots. One to the back of his leg and the second to his left shoulder. His suit didn't prevent the blast from going right through, the pain starting to get too much "Annla!" There was a knock, before by another small knock "Mhgh!" "Annla?!" Two soft thuds answered his cry. By now he'd lost himself in the corridors of the ship. The soldiers had fallen back, taking up positions behind shields and around corners as they waited for his stupid arse to collapse. The door was nothing special, but as he shot the lock away it opened to reveal Annla. Her mouth covered with white gag, and her hands tied firmly to the white cloth around her neck. Using his back to protect the tiny girl, Lance cursed losing his knife as he struggled to get the gag undone "Hi, Annla. That was a bit scary, wasn't it. Your big sister and brother are waiting for you. Daehra and Lucteal? They asked me to come find you" Annla's black eyes were filled with tears, Lance swearing softly as he got the gag finally undone "Red Paladin?" Nodding at her, Lance held a finger to his lips "I'm going to get you out of here, but you need to be super duper quiet for me. Can you do that?" Nodding, the girl whimpered as she pulled at what was essentially a noose. He really didn't feel too smart about leaving his blade in the ventilation shaft "You've got blood..." "I'm ok. This is all the bad guys blood. I don't have anything to cut this cloth with, so you're going to have to be brave for me a little longer. Ok, your royal highness?" "Yes" "Good. Up we go" Carrying Annla slowed him right down. The tiny girl hiding her face against his neck as she jumped with each sound of the blasters. By the time he unlost himself enough to find the loading ramp button, he was reaching his end "Annla, when this ramp goes down, I need you to run. Run super fast and straight. Your brother and sister are going to be waiting for you, right at the tree line. Can you do that for me?" "No! Not without you!" "I have to stop the bad men" Her lip was trembling. Her nose a snotty mess. Stripping off the top half of his outer suit, he wiped at her tiny face "Annla, do you know about Allura? The brace Altean princess? She taught me how brave princess can be, even young princesses like you..." "I can't... they hurt me..." He hadn't factored in her not being able to run... shit. If she fell, she'd be dead "Ok... ok. I didn't know, here, hold on tight for me and keep your eyes closed" The guards started firing as the door lowered. Running for his life, Lance zigzagged like there was no tomorrow as he raced for the tree line. Hit again, the blast tore through his body suit, burning up his left side as Lance cried out in pain. He nearly didn't made it to the tree lines, until Lucteal and Daehra began supplying cover for the pair of them. They were worse than Pidge with a blaster, but with one about 50 metres away from the other, the soldiers attentions were split, allowing him to finally stumble up over the rise to where Daehra was waiting. Pushing Annla into her arms, Lance snatched the blaster from Daehra, far more comfortable with that one than the one he'd stolen "Leandro!?" Shaking his head, his mouth was filled with the taste of blood. Who would have thought biting would work so well? "Take her and go" "You're injured" "And this isn't over. Take her..." Setting Annla down, Daehra drew a knife out to slice through her little sister's bindings "Leandro..." Gritting his teeth, his head was throbbing. He was coming down hard from missing his daily injection... and colourful cocktail pill chaser "Get out of here..." "I..." "Go!" Backing away, Daehra nodded. The woman gathering up Annla into her arms as she started away from him. Given he was pretty much going to die anyway, Lance stumbled back towards the ship. He'd accomplished he goal. Hell yeah, he'd accomplished his goal. A smile wide on his lips as he thought of the shock it all would have been to Klearo. The man was even stupider than Sendak was. Now all he had to do was take care of the remaining forces. If Lance had listened to Daehra, he would have known she'd called Kre'el when he'd failed to reappear with Annla the previous day. Hitting the ship with a long yellow blast, seven of the Erathian police's best cruisers came into battle as Lance dragged himself out from behind the broken tree he'd squatted down behind to catch his breath. With blood loss, and shock, his mind wasn't processing. His body a bloodied mess as he forced himself on. When a explosion blew out right in front of his feet, Lance came to some of his senses as he shot in the direction of the blast. His ears were shot, ringing from proximity to the boom. He couldn't quite remember how he'd got to where he was. Had he hit his head? Did that happen? "Leandro!" Turning around, he cocked his head sideways as Daehra came running down the slope from the forest. The woman making it down in a quarter of the time it'd taken him "Come. You must come" Grabbing his wrist, Daehra recoiled, shaking her hand before grabbing it again "Leandro, come!" "You... not here?" Who was with Annla? "Annla refused to leave without you. Please, we must go"

[lokikingofasgardslover713]

Judas Kiss {Oneshot}

Masterlist

Loki Laufeyson x Jotunn Plus Size Reader

Warnings: Cursing, Angst

Summary: This is my entry for @marvelandotherfandomimagines writing challenge! The reader and Loki have an established relationship. Loki stumbled across the reader when she was traversing between Jotunheim and Asgard, the god having taken to her when he realized she was nothing but a Jotun slave. The intrigue of finding her had Loki deciding she was to be brought to Asgard so that he could assure she was safe from her own people.

A/N: (Before the events of Thor) We pick up after Ragnarok and before the invasion of the Statesman from Sakaar to Midgard. This is my first time writing first person, a thing that I usually do not do. I hope this is coherent and not a complete and utter train wreck!

Thank you to @starscreamloki for the help!

Prompt: 76.) “So, this is what betrayal feels like.” in bold

Words: +2,600

I always have seen through his disguises, his lies, but… he was telling the truth this time. This must be what betrayal feels like. My chest kept growing tighter and tighter. Vision going red the longer I kept focus on Loki and the story he was spouting about Thanos, the attack on New York, the Tesseract. His words still droning on about what this meant for not just the entire ship and what was left of the people of Asgard, but of the relationship between us or in this case, what we once had.

My fist were balled so tight my short nails cut into my palms. All of the sudden I felt as if I was in too close of a proximity to the son of a bitch. Teeth clenched so tight they were about to shatter, deciding it was a good idea to nip at my lip with fangs that threatened to rip his throat out if he looked at me one more time.

Oh gods, this was real, he had… how had he kept this hidden for so long? Had he gotten better at it? Or was I just that naive, that desperate to believe we were all right? That we were going to make it out of the recent Hel intact and have a fucking life? What was happening?

Nervously my mind paced as my body remained stock still beside of the one known as Hulk, the giant beast shifting nervously next to me - I didn’t realize it at the time it was my mood that was affecting him. The shuffling must have gotten Loki’s attention because it wasn’t long before his gaze fell on me. It made my skin crawl. Those emerald orbs I had once loved to feel dancing over my thick curves even when bare before him made me lock his gaze, my own boring into his soul, wishing to burn him from the inside out.

The god, the arrogant bastard he was, made a move to step towards me which made everyone else turn to focus on me. All of the sudden I was self-conscious of all focus on me, the only ones in the room where myself, Loki, Thor, Heimdall, Hulk, and the Valkyrie Brunnhilde, but why were they? Cold wetness sliding down my cheek told me why, forcefully I reached up to wipe it away.

“Are we done here,” I snarled.

Yes, it was meant that hate filled, that vicious and aimed at Loki. A quiet nod from Thor confirming it as I didn’t hesitate to turn and leave, the Valkyrie at my back sure to give me room. Choosing to ignore to the voice speaking to my subconscious, shutting him out completely as I hurried to our shared quarters.

The grumbling under my breath keeping me sane. I suppose, while jerking what had been salvaged from Asgard into a canvas pouch before hurrying out to the cargo hold of the ship. It may be cold but like it really mattered.

A quick look down the corridor telling me he was still occupied with details of the evacuation but didn’t mean I couldn’t start getting the few escape pods readied with supplies. The least I could do for the people of Asgard since concealing the fact the All-father had been hidden on Midgard in a rest home, while I enjoyed my time with the Loki I thought dead.

The Loki I thought I loved. The one that left a cold ache in my suddenly frozen heart. It left me wishing I had never allowed him to coax be back from Jotunheim when I had begun to make my way back through the mountain pass that held a doorway no one knew of but me.

I was shocked the old All-father had approved of me coming to Asgard. Surprised Odin kept my secret from Thor and I was allowed to follow Loki. The only thing stated to me staying in the realm was to hide my heritage but that was understood.

What hopes of survival could a Jotunn slave have in a realm of Aesir, a runt at that. Though it was all revealed why it was allowed when the old king fell into the Odinsleep. It was a shock, but it made since why I was allowed to pursue Loki, he was Jotunn. There was no harm in hurting one of my own.

A jarring of the craft brought me out of the little pity party I was throwing to realize we were under attack.

“Shit,” my voice rasped out to the open cold of the cargo bay.

Throwing the bag in my hand to the floor as I reached into it to pull out the twin swords that had been mine to use on Asgard. Losing no time to throw the belts over my shoulders to latch them quickly as another explosion rocked the ship causing me to stumble slightly. Regaining my balance to hurry towards the doors that opened to the ship to be bombarded by evacuees.

Immediately  I ordered them to board the escape pods. Locating one of the gladiators that had survived the battle, making sure he knew to get all he could onboard, taking off around the people to see where else I could help but froze. In the chaos that seemed to still my gaze locked on none other than that bastard Loki.

Shaking my head, I cleared my mind. Pushing forward through the panic, ignoring him. Thrusting past Loki but the bruising, burning cold grip on my bicep made me stop to meet angered gaze. Harshly I was jerked into the room that we were next to.

Not knowing when to shut up, I cursed the god with every breath. Drawing a blade as he forced our heritage to show. The door slamming shut as he disarmed me and slammed my body against it, crimson gaze meeting my own.

“Y/N STOP,” Loki growled in my face.

The tone chilled me to the core for once, he had never taken this cold of a tone with me. A fire burning in ruby orbs as he bared his teeth, making me do the same before I began to snarl back at him.

“I should have gone back to Jotunheim! Back to my master! She would have whipped me, placed me in the breeding pen to learn my lesson but at least…,” I tried to growl just as hatefully back but it earned me another slam into the door to stop me. “Just like a Jotun male! Doing what he feels will shut up a female! You're all beast all…”

​“That is enough! I never told you to protect you from him! From Thanos! If he ever knew of you, how I care for you… you have to leave with Brunnhilde. Get on the craft and help our people survive! Is that understood,” Loki snarled in my face.

Both keeping our blue tint, the air cold and freezing around us as his hands gripped bruises and making me squirm. This was the first time he had truly hurt me.

“I…I…Loki, I just can’t abandon you,” I finally whispered. Loki must have realized he was hurting me because his grip loosened yet he did not let go.

Who the fuck was I kidding, I wasn’t about to leave him to face this alone. I was a glutton for the pain, the punishment.

His crimson orbs glittered in the dim light as he searched my face as I done the same worriedly. Loki had forgotten I could feel his fear as the ship rocked again, mouth opening to protest but in an instant his lips were on mine. The hands on my biceps releasing so I could wrap my arms around his cool neck to pull flush. The cold between us a welcome sensation as he didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around my waist to pull me tighter.

“It will be OK my little snowflake,” his lips ghosted over mine as we parted, both gazing into each other’s crimson orbs that burned like firebrands, “go help Brunnhilde, take the craft, get everyone to safety. Thor and I will be along shortly.”

“You're lying Loki. I want leave you, not like this,” my voice rasped as he released one arm to lace deep blue fingers into my hair, my eyes going wide. I knew what he was getting ready to do as I shook my head for him to stop, pleading with him not to, trying to fight him. But I am too young, to inexperienced with my seidr, though it was powerful I still lacked the discipline as I held tight to him.

“No, no, please don’t,” my voice quivered, cursing myself for sniveling like a child. My seidr fighting his for control over my own body, a losing battle as I felt it coursing over my nerves like cold fire, numbing every ending as it went. “Loki, stop.”

“I will find you, and we will have us a beautiful place on Midgard. Away from all this. You will be safe, cared for, no more lies, I promise my queen,” was the last words I heard pass his lips. Loki had taken my hearing, but was allowing me one last look, one last memory of him before I was to never see him again.

This was his goodbye. My eyes fluttering shut to the vision of a home in the middle of a clearing, nothing for as far as the eye could see but open fields and a tree line in a distance. I could feel my lips still moving as I was bombarded by this vision, having made up my mind to fight this until my last breath. No way was I going to let him suffer this alone, not when I had cursed Loki like I had, but the moment he had me, the moment my body finally shut down I heard him speak one last time.

“I love you Y/N. Care for you more than you know. You will survive and that is enough for me to carry through with saving us all,” was the last words his voice spoke, before silence took over my being to plunge my senses into nothingness.

Silence for what felt like an eternity trapped in darkness. A freezing cold darkness that made me wonder if I was back in Jotunheim, if I was back with my mistress who had handed me over to the breeders, but the metal digging into my ribs told me no. Nothing metal on Jotunheim existed without having a layer of ice over it. A low rumble around me, a jerk of my arm making having disoriented body sitting up, gasping for air while folding my legs under me. Sensing I wasn’t alone with no clue who was around me and scared shitless when someone dropped next to me.

My body jolted hard as hands grabbed my shoulders to keep me from falling back into the panel behind me. The sharp edge would have surely cut my head open and in this addled state I wasn’t sure it would be beneficial as I finally focused on the one before me.

“Brunnhilde,” my hoarse voice gasped out, realizing it felt as if I hadn’t been breathing as the Valkyrie jerked me to my feet to slam me back into a white padded seat.The action had me cringing at how harshly she flung my muddled body into it.

“Thank the gods! I thought Loki had killed you,” the Valkyrie spoke worriedly, come to think of it my head spun, and stomach lurched.

“Loki,” I gasped when I found my voice, meeting the warriors cognac gaze, knowing I could trust Brunnhilde to be honest.

“The ships destroyed. You’ve been out for over a week… we had a transmission from Thor…,” she began to explain. I knew what was next, soul in denial as I pushed the bronze warrior away to get to feet that had to yet regain their feeling and fumbling at the controls to… to…

“I don’t know,” I uttered, falling into the pilot seat.

My clean hand hovered over the controls to pull up the last communication that had to have been Thor. Swallowing hard, cursing Loki for lying to me, hands balling into a tight fist to smash the control but tanned fingers wrapped around them to pull them to cross over my chest. The Valkyries arms wrapping around me, pining me back into the chair as her head laid to my shoulder.

“We are on our way to Midgard. The people are safely behind us. You did what Loki asked. You survived. We are going to make this right, but our job isn’t done and that means you continue to survive. I am here to make sure that happens. It is my duty and I will see it through,” the Valkyrie spoke into my ear, evident Loki had spoken with Brunnhilde about the matter, my body going limp in the seat for her to finally release me and take the other seat.

“We are less than 30 minutes from earth,” the Valkyrie spoke, my chest aching as Loki’ last words bounced in my skull.

My head beginning to ache, at least until that part of me shut down. Trading my Aesir form for the Jotunn. It was fitting since my soul began to harden, spreading from the ache in my chest while I gazed off into the blackness, crimson orbs picking up on the blue orb far away.

“Hey, you with me,” Brunhilde called out making me cock my head at the warrior that hinted to the change in the hue of once Aesir skin, calmly I nodded to her that I was indeed with her.

“Yeah. I'm done hiding,” I admitted, “there is no longer any reason for the waste of seidr to keep up the appearance. Don’t worry, I want burn anyone if they touch me.”

Damn, my voice was dead, but the Valkyrie nodded to me before going back to the controls. If anyone knew how I felt, what I was going through, it was her. Brunnhilde would know the emptiness, the hollow used up and damned feeling of a shattered soul.

“When we reach Midgard, I want you by my side in this fight. You are the only one I trust to have my back”’ was all Brunnhilde spoke the rest of the trip, my mind turning over what it meant.

Was this a ploy to keep me from doing anything stupid? Or did she truly trust me? A look over to the warrior had me noting the readout from the ships trailing behind us. Something looked off about them, the pods weren’t full so to say, how was that so?

“You have to leave with Brunnhilde, get on the craft and help our people survive! Is that understood,”  Loki’ words cut through my thoughts like a hot blade. Forcing my eyes shut to stop the flow of tears threatening to spill while taking in a ragged breath. This would have to be enough for now, see myself through this, opening crimson clear orbs to gaze over to the Valkyrie.

“Understood. I’ll fight by your side until neither of us has breath left. Is that enough,” my voice spoke calmly, some life edging back in as she smiled at me, cognac orbs sparking with fight.

“Aye, that is enough,” Brunnhilde spoke, holding her hand out for me to place a blue lined one in hers to grasp it firmly.

Yeah, this was my place no. The fire igniting in my chest, this is what I was born to do, this was what I needed to do before I could enter Hel with my head held high and claim my rightful place at Loki’ side.

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[saltxiron]

anonymous asked: Asha bit the inside of her lip but kept her eyes on Beck. "For what it's worth," she said in a low voice, "I am very sorry." (from @irnveined for the drabble)

To say she was in a state of shock was an understatement. Shock was a dull, numb feeling, but this went so much deeper. It was sharp and cold, and it drove through her gut and cut through her throat to leave her speechless. She could do nothing but stare, wide-eyed and silent, as everything shattered. More than anything she wished that Asha might break the eye contact first, that spurred on my some sort of shame or embarrassment or even as a kindness to Beck herself, that she would turn her gaze to the wall or the floor. Anything was better than the way her wife met her gaze right now. Beck couldn’t bring herself to move. As if, if she didn’t move forward from the moment she’d uncovered this dreadful news, then time wouldn’t move forward either and this could all be erased with the right incantation.

She felt sick.

After an eternity of staring, Beck managed to take a step back and turn away from her wife. She was sorry she’d said.

“For what it’s worth…” Her voice was barely a whisper, but the sadness in her tone caused the soft words to weigh heavily in the air. In the face of everything else, it wasn’t worth very much. She thought that she asked very little of her wife, but she had asked her for loyalty. What a stupid thing to ask of someone like Asha. And she’d come into this relationship with realistic standards… but it’d all happened so fast. The first year of their relationship had been a whirlwind experience that had swept away all traces of realism she’d clung to when she first boarded the ship to the Iron Islands. Trepidation had gone out with the tide, and it had never returned. It wasn’t tolerance or vows that kept her by her wife’s side—it was passion. It was genuine attraction that drew her in, only now she was crushing beneath it.

A fool. She was a fucking fool. An absolute idiot… because this had all become so much more than political.

Beck crossed her arms and headed to the window. It was raining. It was always fucking raining here. Between the mist and the driving rain against the window not even the tumultuous ocean could be seen raging below. Delicate fingers swiped across her cheek to dismiss the tear that rolled down her face. No. She would not make an even bigger fool of herself by crying; she wouldn’t be a child about this.

But what had she done wrong? What had Asha asked of her that she hadn’t given? She’d never denied her wife sex. Was it how she looked? Her reflection was clear in the pane before her, and she gently adjusted the golden curls that were currently free of their usual braids. Asha had never expressed disdain at her appearance before. Maybe—maybe that had changed. Had she gained weight? Had she lost it? Her teeth bit into her lip with a terrible force as she desperately tried not to cry. What if it went deeper than just sex? She didn’t think she could bear that. But it was the best idea she’d come up with so far. She wasn’t a warrior; strength and violence weren’t things she valued. Gods—was she a nag? Is that why they didn’t talk?

But did she not make sacrifices herself? Her home? Her family? Her friends? She’d left a familiar back across the sea, and to this day she felt the pull of him. She hadn’t resisted; she hadn’t complained, not even about Asha’s less pleasant family members like Aeron who scoffed at her, who had once had the gall to call her a whore, who had suggested she be taken to the sea and drowned in the name of a god that was not hers. Beck hadn’t cursed, she hadn’t complained, in fact she’d never even told her wife about his slander.

Her freedom. She had sacrificed her freedom to come live on a pile of gods forsaken rocks where the sun barely ever breached the clouds and the people thought she was strange. She didn’t travel, not anymore. Nor did she complain when her wife left with the ships and left her in this huge, dreary place that she felt like swallowed her whole in the depths of the night.

And all she had ever outright asked of Asha was two things: to treat any children they had well, and to be faithful to her. Was everything she had given and lost worth so little that she could not have that in return.

She needed to leave. She couldn’t bear to be in this castle, in this place that was meant to be her home that had now been defiled. The bed she had thought was theirs was in fact, only Asha’s, and she apparently decided just whom she wanted to bring to it and when. But the storm outside was a formidable one.

She’d have rather Asha raise her hand to her. That was a pain she knew. She could deal with that suffering. How many people had inflicted it on her? Her mother, her brother, her teachers, even Harper had lost her temper a time or two and it had come to blows. When it came to derogatory jabs and hard hands that struck like vipers, she had a tough skin. It was a pain she had become well accustomed to, and she had thousands of lies and excuses she could make so that she would forgive people for such things. Against this, she had no defense, and the pain penetrated every bit of her.

“For what it’s worth.” She said it again, a little louder this time, and her fingers began to play with the necklace she wore—a gift from her father. Her father whose grave she’d never pray at again for guidance.

Storm be damned, she couldn’t just stand here. She couldn’t breathe in here. More tears escaped her eyes, and she wiped them away forcefully before turning to head for the doors.

Beck couldn’t bring herself to look at her wife as she passed, “It’s not worth very much, now is it?”

Asha caught Beck’s arm desperately as she tried to sweep from the room, but then dropped it instantly. Beck was not hers to treat roughly. She had promised a new way with Beck and she had failed her. It stung. Guilt was an uneasy thing she carried with her but didn’t allow herself to think much about. But now as she faced Beck, it was drowning her, and she could neither hide nor run from it. She had thought she could be strong enough for Beck. She had gone against all her instincts and self knowledge when she made her that promise because she LOVED her wife. Beck had meant a new beginning for her. Family, hope... a redemption of sorts. 

She had given up Qarl for Beck... something she had never thought she could have done for anyone. Qarl was now feasting in the Drowned God’s watery depths but Asha still thought of him every day, and took responsibility for his death. And had he lived, it would have made sense if it had been Qarl that Asha had welcomed between her legs. It would have still been a betrayal, but at least it would have been understandable. But no... it was meaningless. Truly meaningless. She had plunged into bed with Hagen’s redheaded daughter just as they had plunged into battle together, reckless and primal and stupid. It had been so fucking stupid. And now with Beck’s face in front of her- so beautiful it hurt to look at her- she desperately sought some semblance of an excuse, a reason why, but came up hollow. 

The truth was she didn’t know why it had happened, other than the vague sense that all she wanted was to feel free and alive again. She knew that ruling would not be easy but without the freedom she used to enjoy when she was a reaver, she had become plagued by ghosts. Those that she had lead in battle to their watery graves ( many of them her friends and past lovers ) still weighed heavily on her as she attempted to pick up the shattered pieces of her grief and just get on with it as she had always done. But burying her feelings and sealing off her traumas with a laugh was getting more and more difficult the older she became. She loved Beck with a frightening intensity and had no idea how to express that love. She couldn’t blame it on the circumstances of her childhood either- because Beck’s childhood was also a nightmare and she was still gentle, and kind and impossibly open to her. 

Beck made her weak with the ( sometimes nonsensical ) caring and thoughtful things she did. The happiness that Asha felt when she was merely in the same room with the woman was almost oppressive. Indeed she felt trapped by it. Because she knew that she would eventually tear that happiness apart. She knew that she would inevitably hurt Beck as her parents had hurt each other, and the anxiety of waiting for that day to come was suffocating. No, better to smash it all to pieces right away, save them both the pain. But now, she had done exactly that, and the guilt and pain of the loss was even more excruciating. Because she was going to lose Beck wasn’t she? She had known that this was something that Beck could not forgive. 

The tears came suddenly in a rush, spilling out of her eyes, surprising her with their intensity. She bowed her head and fell to her knees before Beck, undignified tears now streaming down her face. The shame of losing control was eviscerating and cut almost as badly as the guilt of hurting Beck. She hardly trusted herself to speak. She knelt there in supplication, the stoic, iron veined warrior Queen who knelt for no one. “Please... please don’t leave.” It was all Asha could manage to get out and she knew that it wasn’t enough.

(  @wxldchxld  )

[ifridiot]

Spine

(For @spacepiratericky​ the sister wants a fic, the sister gets a fic. part of my NaNo project. Just call me Mr. NastyBadMan)

What Ricky came to understand about Teensy early on was that, under a deliberate layer of selfish whims and bitterness, they were an altruist. Teensy would bitch and grumble and complain, but they would move heaven and earth to do what they thought was the right thing for someone else. Especially for someone they cared about.

Ricky thought at first that this would be a useful thing to find in a friend. Someone who, if she played her cards right, would put all their passion to bear on anything Ricky might ask of them? Oh yes, that would be worth investing her time into.

Really, what she discovers, is that it was heartbreaking.

Teensy wasn’t frail, and they weren’t stupid or naive by any measure. Ricky never made that mistake. It was, in fact, Teensy’s razor intellegence and their piercing insight that attracted Ricky to them in the first place. And Teensy was sick, sure, they suffered through a kind of persistent agony that Ricky couldn’t imagine tolerating for any length of time, much less the breadth of a lifespan. But that pain put a sort of steel in Teensy that Ricky found almost enviable.

Certainly, Ricky lets herself relax a little, dropping the pretense that her attempts at friendship with this brilliant other was strictly for some kind of long term benefit, some nebulous future favor in waiting. Ricky lets herself see Teensy as one of her few genuine friends; eventually, Teensy is family.

Ricky discovers that under the bitterness and harsh tones, and under the oh-so-desirable altruism, there is a broken hearted young person, hearing the door eternally slam shut on a relationship they had thought would define their life. There is a trembling, frightened child, born to the slums of San Juan and pulled out to be raised in the suburbs of Dallas, who heard stern voices lecturing again and again, “you’re better than your roots. Smarter. Work and earn your place at the table”, but never heard that simple phrase, parent to child; never heard “Baby, we love you, succeed or fail”.

Teensy hides these things, these secret other selves, under acerbic commentary, under copious amounts of hedonistic indulgences. They hide behind make-believe apathy. Behind flat-toned dressings down of anyone who dares act the idiot in their presence.

Most people never saw under the first layer. Ricky knew that, in a way, she was privileged to know Teensy the way she did.

So to see Teensy this way, now, this was heartbreaking.

Teensy threw themself against the rocks again and again. They gave everything they had to any cause they chose to engage with; they refused to give less than their all to anything that mattered. There was a sort of grim fatalism to their deciding to involve themself in any given cause -- because they would see it through to whatever end any cause could have. To satisfaction, was how Teensy said it; “I will see this done to my satisfaction.”

Imperial. Commanding. Sometimes it was easier to believe Ricky was looking at an alternate version of herself.

Ricky had seen Teensy battered, bruised, bloody. Ricky had seen Teensy raging, Teensy wroth, Teensy in shock and in horror. She has seen Teensy in medically induced comas and in stasis tanks and carved open in surgery. And every time, she has felt her heart in her throat, concern so passionate it very nearly overwhelmed her.

She has seen Teensy push themself. Claw their way through anything asked of them. Seen Teensy on the edge of a mental breakdown from the stress they put on themself, frantic to made sure each tiny detail of some great grand scheme came together in the proper time.

The truth is, Ricky has thought about this moment a lot. She had an image in her mind, how this would go down, how she would compose herself. How she would handle it. Ricky is good at handling things.

A phone call, Teensy tired on the other end, “Come now, or don’t. You know, on your schedule. I’m not the boss of you.” It told nothing, but there was an air of finality to it that Ricky didn’t like, and so of course she’d gone. She’d even picked something nice to wear -- Teensy that tired sounded like they needed an outing, somewhere fun, somewhere noisy and crowded and energetic, where they could talk and get catty about the crowds and bitch about the stresses of being over sixty.

Finding Teensy bed bound, thinner than ever -- well, that didn’t fit with anything Ricky had concocted. This frail thing, sallow, eyes eating up their whole face… that beautiful hair, faded and brittle now. But the smile was the same, oh yes. That was all Teensy.

“Hey, bitch.”

Their voice, never melodic to begin with, was dry and soft, the whisper of skin against satin, and Ricky’s heart sank. She didn’t expect to feel so sad, when this moment came around.

“Didn’t pin any hopes on yer showin’ up. But it’s good to see you. Always liked th’ thought a dyin’ with someone ready t’ cry fer vengeance.”

“And who will I be killing in your name, dear?”

Her own voice is soft, like this is a private place, a holy place, solemn and secret. Not the bedroom where they’d collapsed together so many times, high or drunk out of their minds, laughing their asses off, triumphant and exultant in their own survival, the glory of being alive and getting away with some stupid thing or another.

“Well, you could start with Stan,” Teensy rasped, but the grin said it was just a joke, one more dig at their ex-husband.  

Ricky makes herself laugh, because it’s what she would have done if this were normal. If Morticia wasn’t sitting in the corner chair with red-rimmed eyes; if the quilt weren’t carefully tucked around Teensy to help insulate a failing body.

The sound dies quickly and Ricky doesn’t know how to fill the ensuing silence. She grasps for something light, something pithy, something uneffected.

“What happened,” she asks instead, and Teensy just smiles, slipping a hand out from under the quilt and holding it, palm up, toward Ricky. It could barely be raised over the surface of the bed, and shook with the effort of just that. Slipping to sit on the edge of the bed, Ricky laced their fingers together.

“It’s the punchline, that’s all.”

The punchline. Teensy had once talked about their life in the terms of a joke where the timing was always just off. Ricky had asked, dryly at the time, finding the line of the conversation a little bleak for her tastes, what the punchline was. “You don’t get one,” Teensy had said, and they’d laughed and laughed.

Squeezing that bony hand in her own, Ricky closed her eyes. Composure was important. Dignity. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Oh, just sit for a while, I ‘magine.” Already Teensy sounded tired. “And when it’s all done, make sure they do it right. I want my vigil. Novenas. Whole nine yards.”

“Of course, darling.”

“And do something fun. Go somewhere nice. Pretty. Come back and tell me about it, sometime.”

Ricky smiles, and she hopes the expression is sincere enough to pass. She never wanted this. She never pictured this. She’s not prepared…

So when Teensy falls asleep, minutes later or hours, Ricky certainly isn’t any position to be sure, she steals away. Hears Morticia try to say something, but the girl won’t shout, won’t speak up lest her grandmother wake, and Ricky is an opportunist. She can leave, and so she does.

The ship is quiet and cold, and Than welcomes her with his usual deadpan -- there’s a comfort in that, in the simplicity of it. She finds herself in her quarters, but the bed holds no comfort, the cool familiarity no relief. Ricky is good at handling things.

She doesn’t know how to handle this.

When she cries, the tears fall silent. She is alone, and it is bitter -- bitter.

[general-nion]

The General And Her Landing

Guess I’m going to keep this going! So here’s part two to my Frieza Fanfiction!!!

__________________________________________________

How long I was in hypersleep was unknown to me. My last memory was the computer confirming my destination before the cold rush of the cryotech kicks in and I’m out to sleep. A blessedly dreamless sleep.

A sleep that is I’m suddenly torn from when the computer shuts off the cryotech and I’m welcomed to the bright flashing red lights of a threat to my Attack pod.

“General. Landing imminent. Vessel has taken damage during the atmospheric breach. Autopilot systems non operational.”

“Redirect power to restarting the Autopilot then!”, I’m too disoriented to move fast enough without the Computer’s help.

“Command not possible, General.”

“Why not?!”

“Your journey has stretched the Attack Pod to its limits. Impact imminent in five minutes. Survival Rate low.”

I slam my hands against the control panel, “Survival rate of ejection?!”

“Significantly higher than the possible damage you will undertake inside the Pod, General.”

“Out of options then. Computer, ready for ejection on my order.”

“Yes, General.”

A few keystrokes and I have the Pod set to self destruct once it lands without me. Last thing I need is the inhabitants of this world learning to reverse engineer the technology here.

“Eject!”

Hydraulics hiss, the seat within the Pod begins to jerk with each lock that releases, and I reflexively shield my eyes from the harsh son as the door lowers.

A loud click followed by one last hiss and my seat is sent skyrocketing up and out of the Attack Pod.

Deft hands work at the restraints before I send the seat hurtling to the ground below me as well. I was still falling toward the planet’s surface, but at this rate even if I was lacking most of my coordination I would be able to slow myself enough to crashland somewhere less dangerous than towering trees or an ocean.

Swinging my legs back turns my body midair until I’m positioned to hit with most of the force being taken by my right shoulder.

This wouldn’t be the worse impact I had ever taken, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

But dammit! It was going to hurt!

________________________________________

A state of the art, pristine, Capsule Corp home reflects the midday sun as a young woman frets over a dress form.

“Come on now, I got that deadline comin’ up and y’all’re goin’ to make this far too close for comfort…”, Hair like fire and eyes sharper than knives are the defining features of Geneva Smith. Her day has been spent with needles between her teeth and measuring tape over her shoulders. A rather routine day for her.

Until she feels her home shake from some unseen impact. Her eyes glance over toward a cabinet of Fine China and Crystal glasses. Upon seeing the nothing has been disturbed she shrugs off the odd tremor in favor of going back to the current pattern on the Form in front of her that just doesn’t seem to want to come to life.

She goes to set another pin at the Mannequins waist but a second tremor causes shockwaves strong enough to knock her off her feet.

“God’s sake! What the hell could that have been?!”, dusting off her dress and standing back up, Geneva strides over to the window overlooking her backyard.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

Or what had been her backyard.

The entire area had been carved into a crater large enough to become an inground swimming pool.

Flight or fight goes out the window along with Geneva as she rushes out her backdoor to investigate.

________________________________________

Oh.

That hurt.

That hurt A LOT.

I must have miscalculated how high up I was or how able I’d be to gather the energy to slow myself down. Either way, I was in pain.

Cracks in my armor were littered across my body.

I could feel dirt between the toes of my left foot. That boot must have burned up from the fall.

My right pauldron was completely shattered.

Speaking of my right shoulder. I couldn’t feel it. Or that arm.

I could taste the copper in my mouth, however. Figured I’d be bleeding.

I just needed to lay here a minute while I gathered myself.

Then I could find shelter-

“Well, well, Well. Look what I’ve found.”, a snarling, icy, and rage filled voice causes my entire heart to stop.

With what movement I can muster I turn my head to the left and I’m sure at that moment I could cry.

The sun reflects off of brilliant amethyst biogems and blood red eyes bore into mine with such veracity I forget how to breathe.

“My Lord-“

Frieza looks down at me with something akin to disappointment as he walks over to my incapacitated form, “You never should have left me, General.”

The end of his tail ghosts across my jaw before it winds around to weave through my hair and cradle my neck.

“Lord Frieza I never- I had no choice-!”, I hate my begging tone.

“Please. Please. Please. Lord Frieza. I’m sorry- Please!”, I hate the way my voice cracks.

Frieza chuckles and kneels down enough to look my face over, but not enough that his knees touch the ground. He would never demean himself in such a way.

“Are you begging my forgiveness, General?”, his whisper is soft, but there’s that edge to it. That very dangerous edge.

“I’d beg at your feet for eternity if it meant forgiveness, my Lord.”, I choke over a sob before I realize that I’ve started to cry.

“How darling. Begging forgiveness. What do you think, General? Should I give you forgiveness?”, he smiles as a clawed finger taps against the gem of the cracked headpiece I still wear, “It would be such a waste to believe my Father had nothing to do with this. Especially since you’ve always been so daring to wear his colors while in my command.”

“A direct order-“

“Shut up, would you?”, his eyes cut down and I’m silenced immediately, “I suppose I should take you back to the ship before you bleed out.”

Forgiveness! A second chance! Elation floods my heart, because of course he’d come to fetch me! Of course! I knew he would!

Frieza.

Frieza.

Please.

Allow me the honor to see you send the Universe to Hell.

Please.

“Ohohohohohoho! You should see the look on your face!”, Frieza’s laughter echoes across the crater before he suddenly stops and sneers down at me, “You filth.”

What?

“Did you think this is how it would work out for you?”, a pressure applies to my airway and I register the feeling of his tail slowly constricting around my neck, “Did you? You’re just scum! A filthy, flea bitten monkey! And I! The mighty Lord Frieza! Above you in every possible way! As if I would lower myself to come and fetch you for anything less than eternal suffering.”

“Ah-!”, my entire body is lifted from the ground as a Frieza stands and his tail supports my weight with absolutely no effort.

“Don’t be stupid, General. Certainly don’t be so presumptuous. Should I deign to waste my time to hunt you down you had better pray that I never find you.”

“I don’t-! My Lord!”

“You’ve hit your head rather badly, General. When you wake, do yourself a favor, hm? Find the nearest cliff and jump off of it. You will never be able to return to me. Ever. I’ll simply kill you on sight and forget about it immediately after. There’s no place in the Universe for Saiyan trash, and there’s certainly no place by my side for traitorous whores.”

“Lord Frieza, just let me explain-!”

“Wake up, Nion.”

________________________________________

I bolt awake and immediately collapse back down when my shoulder screams in agony.

Wait. This isn’t the ground. This is a bed. Where the hell…

“Oh thank Heavens you’re finally awake!”, a woman approached the bed and smiles down at me, “Y’all took a nasty fall, didn’t ya Sugar? Well don’t you worry your little head about it for one second. I’ve got dinner almost ready and I’m sure you’re starved! You’ve been sleepin’ like the dead for the past three days an’ all.”

“Who-“, my throat strains and I swallow to clear it, “Who are you? Where am I?”

“Oh! Where are my manners! My name’s Geneva Smith, sugar, and you’re in my guest bedroom. Been keepin’ ya alive and breathin’ with some help from some Docs I know that still do house calls. Told ‘em I didn’t know ya from Adam and Eve but that I’d pay ‘em to get ya all patched up.”

“Why would you do such a thing?”, when she mentions medically assistance I become hyper aware of areas of my skin that feel much tighter than the rest of it.

Stitches. How vintage.

“Why? Well cause ya needed help. You called out for someone named Frieza a couple a times, but I couldn’t figure that one out at all. You lose someone?”

“...myself.”

The woman, Geneva, blinks once before she smiles kindly and clicks her tongue, “Then I guess I’ll have to help ya find yourself. Lucky for you I do that for a livin’! Now! The bathroom is down the hall and dinner’ll be ready in thirty minutes. If ya can, go get cleaned up and come join me.”

Before I can deny any further aid she’s exited the room with a rather eccentric swish of the odd skirt she’s wearing.

What the hell have I gotten myself into...

[dfroza]

True patience.

this is illuminated in Today’s reading with the beginning of the Letter of James:

James, a servant of God and the Lord Jesus, the Anointed One, to the twelve tribes of Israel who are spread across the earth: I send you my warmest welcome!

Don’t run from tests and hardships, brothers and sisters. As difficult as they are, you will ultimately find joy in them; if you embrace them, your faith will blossom under pressure and teach you true patience as you endure. And true patience brought on by endurance will equip you to complete the long journey and cross the finish line—mature, complete, and wanting nothing. If you don’t have all the wisdom needed for this journey, then all you have to do is ask God for it; and God will grant all that you need. He gives lavishly and never scolds you for asking.

The key is that your request be anchored by your single-minded commitment to God. Those who depend only on their own judgment are like those lost on the seas, carried away by any wave or picked up by any wind. Those adrift on their own wisdom shouldn’t assume the Lord will rescue them or bring them anything. The splinter of divided loyalty shatters your compass and leaves you dizzy and confused.

If you are a brother of humble means, celebrate the fact that God has raised you up. If you are rich and seemingly invincible, savor the humble reality that you are a mere mortal who will vanish like a flower that withers in the field. The sun rises with a blazing heat that dries the earth and causes the flower to wither and fall to the ground and its beauty to fade and die. In the same way, the rich will fall and die in the midst of their busy lives.

Happy is the person who can hold up under the trials of life. At the right time, he’ll know God’s sweet approval and will be crowned with life. As God has promised, the crown awaits all who love Him.

No one who is tempted should ever be confused and say that God is testing him. The One who created us is free from evil and can’t be tempted, so He doesn’t tempt anyone. When a person is carried away with desire, lured by lust, and when desire becomes the focus and takes control, it gives birth to sin. When sin becomes fully grown, it produces death.

My dearly loved brothers and sisters, don’t be misled. Every good gift bestowed, every perfect gift received comes to us from above, courtesy of the Father of lights. He is consistent. He won’t change His mind or play tricks in the shadows. We have a special role in His plan. He calls us to life by His message of truth so that we will show the rest of His creatures His goodness and love.

Listen, open your ears, harness your desire to speak, and don’t get worked up into a rage so easily, my brothers and sisters. Human anger is a futile exercise that will never produce God’s kind of justice in this world. So walk out on your corrupt liaison with smut and depraved living, and humbly welcome the word of truth that will blossom like the seed of salvation planted in your souls.

Put the word into action. If you think hearing is what matters most, you are going to find you have been deceived.

If some fail to do what God requires, it’s as if they forget the word as soon as they hear it. One minute they look in the mirror, and the next they forget who they are and what they look like. However, it is possible to open your eyes and take in the beautiful, perfect truth found in God’s law of liberty and live by it. If you pursue that path and actually do what God has commanded, then you will avoid the many distractions that lead to an amnesia of all true things and you will be blessed.

If you put yourself on a pedestal, thinking you have become a role model in all things religious, but you can’t control your mouth, then think again. Your mouth exposes your heart, and your religion is useless. Real, true religion from God the Father’s perspective is about caring for the orphans and widows who suffer needlessly and resisting the evil influence of the world.

The Letter of James, Chapter 1 (The Voice)

do we think that God is not absolutely pure True nature?

and we are all made in the image of our Creator, but we’re not all children of God our heavenly Father

we have to choose to be.

and the Scriptures are a wake-up call to the heart to awaken to the eternal, to be open to welcome the entrance of the Spirit as a guarantee of sacred promises to come as seen in the True illumination of the Son

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 20th chapter of First Chronicles that documents ancient wartime in Israel:

That spring, the time when kings usually go off to war, Joab led the army out and ravaged the Ammonites. He then set siege to Rabbah. David meanwhile was back in Jerusalem. Joab hit Rabbah hard and left it in ruins. David took the crown off the head of their king. Its weight was found to be a talent of gold and set with a precious stone. It was placed on David’s head. He hauled great quantities of loot from the city and put the people to hard labor with saws and picks and axes. This is what he did to all the Ammonites. Then David and his army returned to Jerusalem.

Later war broke out with the Philistines at Gezer. That was the time Sibbecai the Hushathite killed Sippai of the clan of giants. The Philistines had to eat crow. In another war with the Philistines, Elhanan son of Jair killed Lahmi, the brother of Goliath the Gittite whose spear was like a ship’s boom. And then there was the war at Gath that featured a hulking giant who had twenty-four fingers and toes, six on each hand and foot—yet another from the clan of giants. When he mocked Israel, Jonathan son of Shimea, David’s brother, killed him. These came from the clan of giants and were killed by David and his men.

The Book of 1st Chronicles, Chapter 20 (The Message)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for Tuesday, january 19 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible, along with Today’s Psalms and Proverbs

A post by John Parsons about knowing:

You may feel anxious about knowing God, about how to relate to him or how to understand or interpret the Scriptures, though the heart can only know the essential meaning of God in the state of its need, as its ultimate concern, and therefore unless you cry out “from the depths” of your being, you are merely intellectualizing or playing games... After all, the inner heart asks "How can I find God?" "How can I relate to God?" "How can I find hope and life?" but the answers to such questions are found by personal encounter with the reality of the Spirit of God, not by theological rationalizations.

It is one thing to say "Lord" or "Master" but quite another to say "my Lord," or "my Master..." The Torah teaches that name of God refers to that which God alone is, namely, the "I am that I am"(אהְיֶה אֲשֶׁר אֶהְיֶה) which is unknowable apart from the miracle of disclosure within the heart. That is why we find so many different names and titles for God in Scripture, for these are disclosures to the heart in a time of its need. For instance, to know God's name as "Savior" (מוֹשִׁיעַ) means experiencing deliverance from your struggles, pains, and fears by the agency of God’s victory, comfort, and consolation as given in Yeshua. However, unlike the experience of worldly education that might enable you accomplish certain tasks, spiritual education leads to a “dark clouds of unknowing” where you must regularly confess your weakness and your need for divine connection. God's name is therefore bound up with the basic quest within the heart for meaning, healing, and the desire of unconditional love. Knowing the name of God is an ongoing process as you struggle to accept and trust your life to be a blessing, and as you are enabled by the Holy Spirit to say "yes" and "amen" to life despite your failures, pains, fears, sorrows, and even your unanswered questions... It means opening your heart to life and believing that you are loved, that you are accepted, that you will be okay, and that God is holding you in his everlasting arms. [Hebrew for Christians]

https://hebrew4christians.com/

1.18.21 • Facebook

Today’s message from the Institute for Creation Research

January 19, 2021

The Blindness of Israel

“What then? Israel hath not obtained that which he seeketh for; but the election hath obtained it, and the rest were blinded.” (Romans 11:7)

One of the saddest aspects of our world is the blindness of Israel. Even the Orthodox Jews, who strongly affirm their belief in the Old Testament Scriptures, seem unable to see what the Scriptures clearly show, that their Messiah has come and gone. In the first book of the Torah, we read: “The sceptre shall not depart from Judah, nor a lawgiver from between his feet, until Shiloh come; and unto him shall the gathering of the people be” (Genesis 49:10). Ancient Jewish commentators agreed that Shiloh was another name for Messiah, but this very fact should prove to modern Jewish expositors that Messiah has already come, for the scepter (the symbol of national leadership) did depart from Judah, very soon after Jesus was crucified.

King David was the first descendant of Judah to attain the scepter of leadership among the tribes of Israel, and the divine promises were clear that Messiah would be in David’s lineage. That Jesus’ legal father, Joseph, and human mother, Mary, were both in that lineage was shown in the genealogies of Matthew 1:1-17 and Luke 3:23-38, respectively, both of which were written when the genealogical records in the Temple were still intact. No one at that time ever questioned their validity, in spite of intense opposition by the Jews to the claims of Jesus and His disciples that He was the Messiah. In 70 AD, the records and the Temple were destroyed so that no later claimant to the title could ever prove his right to the throne. Messiah had come, and was slain, so the scepter departed from Judah until He comes again. It is certain that Jesus was, indeed, the Jews’ promised Messiah, and we should pray that God will soon open their eyes to see and believe. HMM

[threadsketchier]

Paper Planes

Well then, it’s October and I seem to have written something seasonal.

WHY CAN’T I WORD VOM EVERY FIC LIKE THIS?

So I made the mistake of actually reading the terribad scene near the end of the Jedi Academy Trilogy’s Dark Apprentice for Research Purposes™ on a totally different idea and my authorial sensibilities were so offended this happened instead.  You’re welcome?

Dark Side shenanigans and indestructible superweapons, meet Luke Skywalker.

Read it at AO3

It’s been a long time since this dream has come to him.

At the end of the stars there is only eternal darkness, and the Dark exults in its triumph, refusing to acknowledge the irony that there is no one and nothing left to gloat to.  Besides him, anyway.  He is encased in stone, but his tomb is also surrounded by murk and vines, so apparently there is something more than nothing left.  He breathes the Dark and it fills his veins, but he is indifferent to its icy caress and razor edges.  He’s been here before and there’s no further to go, no greater horror than the inevitable end that makes life no less valuable.

He emerges from obsidian and earth, the steaming, jagged edges of his father’s broken mask grazing his cheeks.  The mud is heavy and clings to his body, but it will dry and crack, and he will dust it off and get to his feet again and climb back to the surface.  He sighs, weary but unafraid.

Until he sees them hanging from the walls.

Bodies tangled in vines, roots wound into their mouths and ears and noses and eyes.  Immobilized and helpless, black vipers slowly descending from above to slither across their faces and throats, slime-coated fangs glistening in the gloom.

The bodies of his students.

His cry reverberates back from the stone walls of his room when he jolts awake.

They’re all still there when he reaches out in instinctive concern to check on their presences.  All asleep - so soundly asleep, in fact, that not even a spark of mental activity flickers among them, as if no one else is dreaming.  It’s a relief in one way and unnatural in another.  The air seems thick and coldly oppressive, and Luke feels that he can’t draw enough breath to slow his pounding heart.

He’s felt this black veil before, on Dagobah and Jomark and Byss.

So he stops trying, lies still on his pallet while his heart reluctantly lurches to a calmer pace, holds his limbs rigid against the urge to shiver.  When the slightest ache begins to prod his lungs he sips a deep breath and centers himself.

There’s a void waiting for him atop the temple, fiercely hungry.

Sighing, Luke rises, dresses, hangs his lightsaber from his belt.  All right then.

The soft orange glow of early planetrise greets him, along with Kyp Durron in a black cape and the Sun Crusher suspended overhead, its pale hull pinging and crackling as it cools in the morning air.

Luke allows himself a moment of horrified dismay, eyes darting between the boy and the superweapon.  As much potential as he has, Kyp obviously hasn’t done such a feat alone.

“So it’s come to this, then,” Luke says softly.

Kyp sneers imperiously.  “I’ll do what needs to be done to eradicate the Empire once and for all.  You can stay here and practice your pathetic little Jedi tricks while I make the galaxy safe for everyone else.”

Luke raises an eyebrow.  “But it won’t be safe from you.”

Kyp’s frown deepens in offense.  “I’m not out to blow up every star system, I’m only wiping out the Empire.  So this war will be over and no one else will have to suffer and die because of them.  I’m not stupid,” he spits.

“No, you’re not, Kyp.  You’re hurting.  I know this.”  Slowly Luke approaches him, his hands empty and spread open in non-threatening appeal.  “I’m far from the first person, but the Empire has taken much from me also.  And frankly, it’s given me a great burden in having to reestablish the Jedi Order with very little resources.  It took my sister’s homeworld.  It took my brother-in-law’s and my friends’ livelihoods and dignity and freedom.  It took my father and mother and aunt and uncle.  And I have fought them with every ounce of my body and soul.”  He holds up his palms, tracing their lines with his sight before returning his gaze to Kyp.  “I have killed millions in this war.  I even embraced the Dark Side and served the reborn Emperor.  I thought by learning its secrets I could find a way to defeat it from within.  I didn’t care what happened to me, as long as what I did might save more lives in the end.

“I failed, Kyp.  All the darkness did was break me, and I caused even more destruction in the process.  If it wasn’t for my sister pulling me back, we would have all been destroyed, and the galaxy lost.  There’s no strength in the Dark Side, Kyp.  The greater strength is in resisting it, and not returning evil for evil.”

He can see his words sinking into the boy, the self-righteous façade cracking, but Kyp shouts, “That’s a lie!  I’m strong enough to pull this ship out of a planet’s core!  Why shouldn’t I use this to help others now?  If you were too weak to handle it, that’s not my problem!”

Luke stares at the Sun Crusher, at its angular hull scoured clean by the tremendous pressures at Yavin’s core.  Quantum-crystalline armor.  Han had rammed this thing straight through a Star Destroyer’s bridge without even a nick.

All right then.

Luke breathes deeply again and closes his eyes, feeling the subtle throb of his own pulse in his chest, the warm, humid breeze across his skin and the faint shift of his hair and garments in the air currents.  Then he surrenders his sense of self, his awareness expanding as he descends into the Force.  He is in every leaf, every drop of dew, every twitching wing and stretching paw, every drifting spore, and they are in him.

In the Force he sees their bonds, and now the weapon is but a tightly clad mesh of molecules.

One by one he dismantles them.

Even in his trance of concentration Luke knows that Kyp is startled, then screaming - no, wait, what are you doing, no - as the ship begins to disintegrate, the energy of its atomic unraveling barely held back within an invisible containment field.

Not even dust is left behind when he’s finished.

Luke sways a little when he comes back to himself, lightheaded and breathing heavily; his tunic is now clinging to him with sweat.  But he keeps his knees locked and his gaze steady as he opens his eyes to see Kyp looking back at him in shock and rage, and not a little terror.

“H-How did you do that?” he stammers.

Somehow Luke finds it in himself to give a faint shrug of nonchalance.  “It’s still just crude matter.”

He is thirty standard years and while Han will always call him Kid, even Chewbacca still calls him cub.  In this moment, though, he feels as old as the ancient stone beneath his feet, power too vast and incomprehensible aching in his fingers and behind his eyes, waiting to be released again.

Kyp wavers, taking a step back in intimidation, and it pulls at Luke’s heart to see the young man looking at him with the kind of fear that this power summons, that the situation has escalated to the point where such a demonstration is necessary.  His empathy for Yoda grows with each passing year.

He holds out his hand again.  “We can stop this now.  Come with me, and we’ll talk.”

Unfortunately reason and a particularly pointed warning isn’t going to work.  Kyp shakes his head.  “I don’t have to give up.  I’m not alone.  I have someone just as powerful as you, even more powerful than you.”

An exhausted dread tightens Luke’s stomach, not for himself but for the boy in front of him.  Keeping his tone light, he replies, “Not that I prefer to keep an inflated opinion of myself, but I still doubt that.”

“Well, he’s my teacher now.”

In the Force an abyss opens behind him, and Luke slowly turns to watch a tall and broad silhouette materialize out of the air, a hooded figure whose face appears to be carved from solid basalt.  The wraith grows to tower over him, darkness billowing out around it.  This is the spectre that impersonated Anakin Skywalker, that lured and destroyed Gantoris.  And now has Kyp fully in its thrall.

Luke blinks up at the shadow, thoroughly unimpressed.  Always such theatrics.

Regarding Kyp again, he says, “You don’t have to listen to it.  You’re a free man now, Kyp.  This thing, this Dark Man - all it wants is to exploit you.  Don’t let despair turn you back to slavery.”

That makes the boy flinch.  Pressing on, Luke continues urgently, “No, Kyp, you’re not alone.  You have me, and everyone else here.  Just come with me, and we’ll all face the Dark Man together.  I won’t let you be harmed.”

For a split second a childlike fear flashes in Kyp’s eyes, a fleeting acceptance of Luke’s offer, but he sees the shadow behind Luke and the last trace of humanity disappears from his features.  Face twisting grotesquely, he screams and raises his hands, and blue-white bolts shoot forth.

Luke doesn’t bother to reach for his lightsaber; his own hands stretch out to catch the lightning, the Force flowing through his arms and into his palms to shield himself from the assault.  He aims to deflect them aside and downward into the flagstones where they can dissipate, but some branch out behind him and then reflect back -

- toward Kyp.

Luke’s breath seizes as he realizes with agonizing clarity what the Dark Man is doing.  At first he has hope, for he’s survived Force lightning on multiple occasions.  He needs to defend Kyp rather than himself.  But in that instant Kyp is wreathed with deadly light, and in abject horror Luke watches his flesh incinerated down to the bone.

The cry escapes his throat as he staggers forward and falls to his knees, catching the boy’s smoldering remains in his arms.  He doesn’t feel the pain on his own skin as the heat sears him.  Somewhere behind him a voice like molten lava blasting from the earth laughs in spiteful victory, and then the abyss is closed again.

They arrive a few minutes later, footsteps clattering across the temple roof until they all stumble to a stop, no doubt by the sight of what’s left of Kyp cradled in Luke’s grasp.  Keiran - Corran - swears loudly and beckons everyone to help him lift the still-smoking body; sleeves are tugged and robes wound over hands to let them safely handle the charred remains and set Kyp down a few meters away.  Tionne shrouds the body with her cloak before crouching in front of him and gently taking him by the shoulders.  “Luke, you’re hurt,” she says in concern.

“I know,” he whispers numbly.

“We need to get you to the infirmary.”

He doesn’t move.  He can’t.  He’s rooted to this spot with the ashes spilled across his lap.  He’s kneeling before Gantoris’ room.  Before the burning homestead.

Someone else lifts his left arm and drapes it over their shoulders, pulls him up from the stones and takes his weight against them.  “I’ve got you, Luke,” Kam murmurs in his ear.

Standing aside from the terrible scene is Streen, pale eyes transfixed not upon the corpse but Luke.  As Kam steps forward, compelling Luke to walk, Streen utters, “The Dark Man.  He did this.  But did he murder Kyp himself?  Or did he speak to you too?”

Everyone comes to an audible halt, leaving only the distant plaintive calls of birds stirring in the dawn.  Kam stops, and Luke can feel the indignation radiating from him.

“This man here,” he rumbles, “is the only reason I’m still alive and free of the Dark Side.  You think he’s capable of this?”

Luke lets his head hang and keeps his gaze down, too spent to say anything in his own defense.  So this is the shadow’s next tactic - sowing doubt and dissent.  Despair.  However irrational the accusation, the words are spoken and a seed of suspicion is planted.  His integrity is now called into question.  And he was alone up here with Kyp with no other witnesses.

Perhaps they will even begin to think there is no Dark Man here but himself.

Streen only stares back, unable to give an answer.  Shaking his head angrily, Kam passes him, holding Luke to his side.

Luke closes his eyes, and all he can see is darkness.

[mild-lunacy]

The emotion which obstacles to love produces in the feminine heart is: angst.

This is what I think most readers are missing when they mock stories meant for teenage girls. The very thing they criticize it for having is the thing that makes it valuable to the young girl. So often, I hear the complain that a story is angst-ridden, as if that alone was evidence of its poor quality. Even many adult women tend to forget they once felt that way—the ones who no longer read tearjerkers.

It is not the fact that there is angst, but that it is often not done well, that leads people to denigrate it. Angst in romances is a lot like violence in action stories. A good action story has a brave hero, a great plot…and lots of violence and explosions. A cheep action story tries to replace the hero and plot with more blood and more explosions. Angst works the same way.

A really good heartbreaking, angsty story has problems that are outside of the main character’s control and these problems threaten to keep her from a happiness that she cannot live without. The main character expresses her pain and sorrow as she faces these terrible situations. Bad angsty stories just consist of stupid misunderstandings—things that are in the main character’s control but which she does not avoid.

This is a great insight, when you think about what makes angsty or dark romantic story arcs work vs. just making people frustrated or angry. I definitely think of myself as an angst-lover in exactly this sense-- I was that girl who fantasized about my crush crying inconsolably... until I came along, back when I was 12-13. I was that girl, but not everyone was, or people do forget as they grow older, too. I know people who have a much lower and much higher tolerance for romantic angst than I do (like, I'm still into painful obstacles to love, but I'm not into... pointless or utterly gratuitous emotional torture). I guess what's 'gratuitous' torture for characters to go through for love is very subjective. Still, it really does seem similar to those gratuitous explosions and/or misunderstandings. I really hate misunderstanding stories, or things that can be easily fixed. Seeing Johnlock, Harry/Draco or any other favorite ship like that was always frustrating to me. If the problems are easily overcome, it's not an epic romance, is it? It's really like those fics were saying my OTP wasn't, in fact, able to overcome the true scope of the obstacles in front of them and more besides, even though that's totally irrational and ridiculous. But that's the instinctive thought process.

I was also thinking that this relentless drive to overcome external obstacles to love can be seen as the feminine version of the traditional Hero's Journey mythic arc. The quest quality to the attainment of the beloved is definitely heroic in nature. When you think about the fairy-tale stories that have female heroines-- especially variations on Psyche and Cupid, such as Beauty and the Beast or The Snow Queen-- there's always that scenario where the girl suffers through external tasks and obstacles to prove her strength of feeling first and foremost. It's not about defeating the enemy or even becoming a more worthy/transformed/adult person, like the Hero's Journey, but about showing the intensity and strength of inner feeling alone. The feeling overcomes by *surviving* at all, not disappearing, not being extinguished by hardship. Pain and suffering is what allows that insight for any onlookers or the listeners, as well as the beloved. This then allows the possibility of comfort and the lovers' assured eternal happiness.

The point is, 'look how I suffer for you! Look what I do for you! I would suffer anything for you, the beloved, with no hint of a guarantee of a happy ending or attaining my heart's desire'. That kind of attitude is surely why Sherlock has read romantically to me ever since the beginning of Series 3, once I thought about it. The more awfully and selflessly he suffered and experienced pain in love, the more directly it was for *John*, the more transcendent the romantic devotion became. Mind you, I'm not saying that this is the be-all and end-all-- I'm a big fan of happy endings. I'm just saying both expressing *and* experiencing pain and sorrow (not immediately comforted) are important for the sake of a good angsty romance.

There is somewhere in the back of the feminine psyche—way, way, way back—an unspoken assumption that sorrow can only get so bad. The thought is that if you can just pile on enough heartbreak, you will, some day, hit the breaking point—where either the universe itself shatters and rights everything that is wrong or, like an elf, you die of a broken heart.

That idea—that elf maids are hard to kill physically but more vulnerable to perishing from heartbreak—is one that goes very well with angst. Because the idea that no matter how sad you are, you are going to get over it eventually cuts against the premise that love is all and the only thing worth living for.

One cannot help being curious, then as to where this breaking point is? How much sorrow can I suffer before I cannot go on? How much can Juliet endure before she gives up? How much can Prince Charming overcome?

I think this particular thing is hardest for non-fans of romantic angst to understand: getting over it is not the point. You're not *supposed* to get over it. I especially remember my frustration with fics post-S3 that 'fixed' things for Sherlock by giving him a new boyfriend and/or new outlook on life. It's hard to imagine a more horrifying or pointless course of action for the angst lover romantic type fan. Like... 'getting over it' invalidates the purpose and higher calling of all the previous suffering. It's like, you've failed in the quest and have gone home, perhaps after proclaiming that love itself is dead. It's unthinkable.

I like the point that the lover dies from a broken heart-- or "the universe itself shatters and rights everything that is wrong". Remember, pure feeling and devotion is the 'weapon', and endurance is the name of the game when it comes to romantic angst. The endurance has to be for a worthwhile cause, but after that, all bets are off. And that in itself creates tension of the sort you see in the mass cultural response both to things like Twilight and Sherlock. The main critique in both cases is generally that the relationship isn't healthy and/or not 'worth it' since the beloved is unworthy or immoral in some way. How can it be okay to be hurt?

Remember what I said about the Psyche and Cupid myth in this context, though: the beloved himself may well be or become cold, monstrous, and untouchable. This theme of 'the cold lover' or 'the painful lover' is a typical one for the mythic-inspired romantic angst tales, such as 'The Snow Queen'. Kai is, of course, the beloved with the shard of ice in his heart, and Gerda doesn't even know that. She can only suffer. The threat is definitely external in the end-- it's not really Kai's fault-- but the experience is that of suffering at the beloved's hands. This is what Twilight clearly recreates: Edward's behavior is due to circumstances beyond his control (his vampirism, his responses to it, his attempts to protect Bella from the fallout from it, etc). However, that doesn't really matter, because he still hurts Bella, one way or another. She suffers, she endures, she survives the test. Is it well-written? Not really, no. But the point is that a lot of the critiques were oblivious to the whole point of what was going on and the appeal of the genre to its intended audience.

The greater the amount of heartbreak overcome, the greater the victory of love.

Because if love is worth having, then it will triumph, victorious, and the lovers will come together, despite all.

And that, by the way, is the unspoken assumption of all romances: that the couple is destined to be together. They belong together, and if they do not, their lives with be warped and ruined. There is something in their togetherness that is so important that they—and the entire universe—cannot function, cannot become whole, without it.

That is definitely it for me, and why it's related that I have a high tolerance for angst and I'm a huge romantic, someone who gets frustrated by fics that dismiss or somehow tarnish the eternal truth is that is my OTP. The whole idea, the entire purpose of angsty romance is to demonstrate that love endures and conquers all. Obstacles to love are necessary only to purify it, to justify it, to make it ascendant. That's why I simply say I'm a romantic much more often than I claim to love angst: I don't love your garden-variety angst, where someone simply gets hurt and overcomes it (or not). That's fun, but that's more of a thriller than anything. And I do love the more masculine style thrillers and adventure tales, but it's nothing to how passionately I feel about well-done romantic agony. Combine the threads of high adventure and romantic angst-- in the true mythic tradition, of course-- and I'm on cloud nine. I was definitely like this at age 12-13, too. Give me a princess who's also a pirate, any day.

[chasingthecosmos]

Two Words to Keep

Fandom: Doctor Who Rating: T Pairing: The Doctor/Rose Tyler, Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler Chapters: 17/18 Read on AO3 here.

“This new body was all about words, but in that moment, the Doctor found himself struggling to find the right ones to say. He knew already that there were really only five that he absolutely needed to tell her - five words that would change their lives forever.”

A (sort of) season re-write centering around the Doctor’s touch telepathy and the many inconvenient ways that it gets between him and his companion, Rose Tyler. This work is based around Season 2 and the Tenth Doctor. It’s a sequel to “A Hand to Hold”, but can also be read as a stand-alone. This is NOT going to be a Doomsday fix-it fic, but there will be a separate Journey’s End fix-it sometime in the future.

Chapter Seventeen: Army of Ghosts & Doomsday (Part Three)

Stage one of the Doctor's plan: retrieve the magnaclamps that he had spotted in one of the Torchwood warehouses when he had been traveling around with Yvonne earlier in the day before everything started to fall apart. Easier said than done when a full-on war was being waged around them - two separate armies and four armed daleks all fighting to wipe each other out of existence.

However, his handy 3D glasses gave him hope as the Doctor covertly ducked his head back into the firefight and noticed the tiny floating particles of void stuff that seemed to track every movement that the daleks and cybermen made. Stage one of the Doctor's plan: successfully completed.

Stage two of the Doctor's plan: find out what was in the "genesis ark" that the Cult of Skaro was toting around like a trophy. To do that, he had to drag the entire Tyler family, Mickey, and Jake all up to the top floor of the tower. Back in Yvonne's office, they all watched in wide-eyed horror as the device floating above London slowly slid open and then began to spin, spewing out more daleks at every turn.

"It's bigger on the inside," the Doctor breathed in quiet disbelief. "It's a prison ship."

"How many daleks?" Rose asked warily, flashing him a concerned, sideways glance.

"Millions."

Stage two of the Doctor's plan: successfully completed, though the end result was far less than ideal.

Which brought them all to stage three of his plan: don't let Rose catch on to what was going to happen next.

"We're going home," Pete Tyler stated definitively, outfitting each of the humans in the room with one of the yellow button-pendants that would transport them back to his parallel world and out of harm's way. "Doctor?" he asked, casting the other man a pointed look to let him know that it was his turn to do his job and save them all.

The Doctor was only too happy to oblige, and he turned to face them all with a wide smile, making sure to keep his own doubts and fears buried deep within where no one would be able to see them. "Oh, I'm ready," he stated eagerly.

And then, he was off like a shot as he quickly and efficiently implemented stage three and explained to them all how he was going to pull every single last dalek and cyberman back into the abyss of nothing that awaited them in the void. But Rose - good, strong, beautiful, impossible, painfully clever Rose - instantly saw the gaping hole in his plan that he was fighting so desperately to conceal.

Stage three of the Doctor's plan: horrible disaster.

"But, it's ... like you said - we've all got void stuff. Me, too, cause we went to that parallel world," she muttered slowly. "We're all contaminated, we'll get pulled in."

The Doctor stepped closer as she examined her own hand curiously through his 3D glasses. When she finally took them off and looked up at him questioningly, he forced himself to meet her gaze as he replied simply, "That's why you've got to go."

This last leap of logic seemed to be the only one that his clever Rose couldn't force herself to make, and she watched him in wary confusion as the Doctor attempted to busy himself with the magnaclamps that he had nicked from the Torchwood warehouse. "I'm supposed to go ..." she murmured in disbelief.

"Yeah," he replied, pointedly not meeting her gaze.

"To another world, and then it gets sealed off ..."

"Yeah." The magnaclamps were out of his hands now, so the Doctor moved to the controls that operated the breach and busied his fidgeting hands with that instead.

"Forever." Her tone had taken on a sort of desperate helplessness, and the Doctor instantly felt all the rest of his words dry up and die on his tongue. Every other time she had spoken that word to him, it had been a promise, a sacred oath, a declaration of love and eternity. Now, it was a plea, a cry for help, and he had no answer for it.

"That's not going to happen," she insisted, breathing a small, disbelieving laugh as she shook her head at him in stubborn refusal.

"We haven't got time to argue," Pete reminded them all sternly. But he really should have known better - the Tyler women were not to be bossed, and emotions began to run high as the three members of the small, broken family argued about what to do next, as though any of them really had a choice.

But Pete and the Doctor both knew that the choice had already been made - it was say goodbye forever, or face eternity in a timeless, empty abyss. Rose's desperate, teary words still cut the Doctor to his hearts, though - and each step that he took closer to her was more painful than the last as he deftly slipped the chain of the dimension-hopping device around her neck, and then watched as Pete ejected them all back into safety.

The Doctor's last glimpse of the love of his lives was of her wide brown eyes as she turned on him in surprise, and then her precious voice was cut off mid-sentence as she shimmered out of view and out of his life forever. He supposed that he should have been grateful to Jake for taking him to the parallel world against his wishes earlier - with their bond already broken, the Doctor didn't have to suffer the pain of a severed connection again as Rose disappeared for the last time.

However, he still felt her loss from this universe like a punch in the gut and the Doctor stood frozen, staring blankly at the empty space that Rose had inhabited just a moment earlier.

Unfortunately (was it unfortunate? He still couldn't quite seem to decide between his traitorous hearts and his head), he wasn't left waiting for long before Rose was suddenly blinking back into existence in exactly the same spot where she had disappeared just moments before. She was murmuring to herself as she looked around in wide-eyed confusion, trying to get a grip on her bearings.

As soon as her whiskey-colored eyes landed on the Doctor once more, she frowned, narrowing her eyes in a look of frustration that he had (unfortunately - definitely unfortunately) grown accustomed to seeing over the years.

The Doctor immediately rushed to her side, intent on having a good row and then forcing her back to the parallel world where she belonged, but he didn't have the chance to get even a single word out before Rose had her hands around the back of his neck and she was pressing a hard, angry kiss to his lips.

Their bond snapped back into place immediately - the shields that the Doctor had attempted to construct against her instantly dissolving into ash as though they never were. He grunted against her mouth and Rose gasped at the quick stab of pain that shot through both of their minds as the open wound of their bond was seared shut and their connection was abruptly reestablished.

Rose's thoughts came rushing back to him like a whirlwind, filling the Doctor's head with her presence and immediately drowning out all else. How dare you? her mind demanded, her own hurt stinging him as he automatically embraced her. The Doctor welcomed her anger and chastisement without argument - it was nice to have a second voice in his head that wasn't his own confirming to him what an idiot he was. Besides, it wasn't as if he didn't deserve every last bit of it.

So the Doctor swallowed Rose's bitterness and echoed it with his own, kissing her back just as hard until the rush of their rejoined bond finally dimmed and he felt as though he could breathe normally again.

As soon as he was certain that they were securely linked together once more, the Doctor quickly removed his arms from around Rose's waist and grabbed her roughly by the shoulders instead as he stepped back to meet her eye with a heavy, severe look.

"Once the breach collapses, that's it," he snapped angrily, quickly reminding her of her poorly-made, rash decision. Why had she chosen him over her own family? Why did she always have to choose him? Didn't she know how useless he was? Hadn't she realized by now that he would only ever let her down? "You will never be able to see her again - your own mother!" he added bitterly.

"I made my choice a long time ago," Rose replied evenly, her voice low and serious as she stared him straight in the eye, not allowing any room for doubt or misinterpretation between them, "and I'm never gonna leave you."

The Doctor's hearts stuttered to a stop, and with their bond freshly renewed between them, there was no hiding from her his breathless awe as he stared down at the precious human girl who had saved his life so many times and in so many ways that he didn't even deserve.

"So what can I do to help?" she offered quietly.

The Doctor's fingers tightened around her arms as he glared down at her and silently begged Rose to rethink her decision and go back where it was safe. However, he knew from experience not to argue, and he couldn't deny the foolish, reckless part of him that was so, so satisfied to have her back within his reach again.

"Better with two," she had told him, back when she still hadn't even really known who he was. The Doctor hadn't been able to deny the wisdom of her words then, and he certainly couldn't deny them now. So he resigned himself to Rose's stubborn will and told himself that he was angry about it as he snapped out orders and told her what to do next, but he knew that he wasn't fooling anybody - least of all himself - as he flooded her mind with love and gratitude and silently begged her to stay.

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

CSUAVS prt 13 update... have I mentioned I really hate Klearo for a name?

Lance soon added "technician" to his growing skills. Having attempted to push his engines too hard a fuse had blown, causing issues in the sensors that led to a chronic beeping. If Hunk or Pidge were there they'd probably have solved the problem in doboshes. Hell. Keith probably would have known what to do given Keith was pretty much perfection incarnate. He'd had such a crush on him, before the Allura incident, and afterwards. Keith had made the time for him. Sought him out and done everything he could to be the friend Lance really needed. He hated him for it. He hated how he missed Keith even more than he missed Hunk. He hated how he missed the stupid mulleted emo would was always up for causing trouble. He'd genuinely disliked him to begin with. Keith was everything Lance ever wanted to be, and what was worse was that he didn't even realise he was. Most of all he hated the fact he wished Keith was there to keep him company as he tinkered under the dash of the ship. They probably would have dissolved into a fight by now... but that would be preferable to the crushing silence of being in space alone. Keith had become his best friend before he'd known what was happening. He'd also been the cause of his first bi-panic even before they'd... ended up in bed together which totally absolutely never happened because he'd rather deny it until the end of time than lose his friendship with Keith despite the fact they hadn't talked in movements and each call they exchanged messed with his memories of what had happened with Klearo and now he was spiralling. Even now that he accepted that he was bisexual, he know a lot of people didn't get it. He loved people, but sometimes they really sucked. With what had happened with Klearo, he'd realised that he could never be with Keith. He was tainted. He was a monster. He was wrong and he was dirty. No matter how many times he scrubbed his raw, it didn't change the fact the man had made him cum. That point hanging in the corner of his mind like a neon trophy of disgust. So even if he wanted to confess to Keith, his love had twisted and warped. He'd never be free to love him, so why even entertain the thoughts anymore? He didn't know why his mind tormented him with thoughts of Keith instead of allowing him to forget his feelings for the man, but he was beyond tired of it all. He just wanted to focus on killing Klearo and anyone else with that obnoxious "y" shaped tattoo. Lusting after the lions was old news. He was over it... and soon Klearo would be shuffling off the mortal coil, so if his mind could please shut up he'd be eternally grateful. Receiving a zap for all his trouble under the dash of the ship, the beeping noise finally came to stop. Lance laughing loudly before slapping a hand to his mouth to silence himself. He couldn't laugh like that for no reason. People would think him insane. He probably already was. He definitely wasn't who'd used to be, and more than once he'd let himself be swept away by fanciful daydreams where he was covered in Klearo's blood. It was weird how when he'd been a Paladin, he'd hated killing. He'd secretly been praying for a way to end Zarkon without having to actually kill, but now the desire to kill was the only thing that got him out of bed in the morning. That and the momentary high that shooting more the yellow painkiller into his blood would bring. If only his friends could see him now. Hopelessly damaged and addicted beyond belief to god only knew what. The pills shouldered his burdens, eased his mind and let him function without the emotional pain of what he'd been through. The knife wounds across his upper inner thighs and hip bones were the only way he knew to ease the physical phantom pains that came with such emotions as he dipped between doses. Instead of the cocky-Red Paladin everyone only ever tolerated, he'd become the poster boy of disfunction. Those who knew him would surely lament his decent into darkness if they knew the real him lurking beneath the mask of Leandro. They'd blame themselves. They'd be revolted and everything would fall apart. So, until his dying breath, he'd be Leandro. * Landing his ship on a rather bright planet, Lance dressed simply. A black body suit he'd had made was covered by a black and silver suit that may or may not have been made remembering how hot Keith had looked in his Blade uniform. Kre'el had begrudgingly contacted him to inform him they'd had a report of a disappearance come in from sector 16 of the area patrolled by Erathian police. There were other jurisdictions out in the area, yet being the "Earth" planet, her bosses always seemed to think them better and more competent than those. Shoving themselves firmly into the fray of things despite what other officers had planned, in order to take all the credit for Erathian. It was all one giant pissing match that he wanted nothing to do with. He was there for Klearo. "The hunter becomes the hunted" had always been a novel phrase. He wasn't sure why it'd wormed its way into his mind as it had, but it seemed apt to adopt it officially as "Leandro's motto". Informing him there'd been talk of Klearo taking the daughter of a ruling family in promise of status elevation after the seizure of the Red Lion, Lance's messed up heart had felt all kind of raw emotions that he shouldn't feel as Leandro. Another princess was missing. Allura who'd died for everyone merged with the image of a small scared girl. He hadn't been able to save his princess, but he sure as hell wasn't about to let another one down. Arming himself with his blaster, he also slipped two small knives into the sides of his boots. Klearo would expect him to have a blaster, not so much the knives. He'd foolishly admitted to the man he wasn't that great at hand-to-hand combat... which he wasn't, but in a bar fight he'd more than definitely come out the winner. Sliding his mask down to cover his face, the look was complete and it was time to move out. Bathed in blues and greens, the planet was unusually bright for the sector. The other planets either a rusty red or dull grey, orbiting so slowly it was like they'd given up the will to exist and were just waiting for a weblum to come finish them off. With no appeal on ground, he had no idea why Klearo would choose to stop over here, yet wasn't prepared to look the gift horse in the mouth. Leaving his ship behind he plunged through the thick growth, forced to land a little over two kilometres away from where Klearo's forces were gathered. It wasn't a walk he was looking forward too. Still... when he thought of Klearo choking to death on his own blood, the ache in his legs passed as he picked up the pace with renewed vigour. He was finally going to put an end to the suffering of those the Klearo used and tossed away. Reaching the clearing where Klearo's gaudy ship was parked, Lance darted through the shadows as he edged his way around the space, slowly counting the guards as he did. Security had definitely risen since the incident on Klearo's original ship. All of them were ridiculously big, and all of them were armed with blasters. He didn't particularly feel like dying before he killed Klearo, yet that seemed to be what was about to happen. More than likely his ship had been picked up on their radar, leaving the droves of guards to play welcome party. Hearing a rustle in the bushes, Lance wasn't proud of the high pitched squeal he released as two people barrelled into him. His mask stifled some of the scream, yet it was still mortifying for that very long moment before his brain kicked in and he releasing he was striking a pose highly reminiscent of when he'd first met Coran. Raising his blaster, the two aliens in front of him clearly weren't part of Klearo's group. They looked... lost? And glorious under armed "Who the Quiznak are you?!" Hissing at him, the male stepped back as he asked the question. The female alien taking the male by his arm, whispering something in their own language "Me?! Who are you?!" "I asked you first" The slim alien had a point "I'm... Leandro. What are you doing here? Are you with them?" "Us!? With them? They have our sister" Great. He'd been right. They weren't with Klearo... instead they were idiots who thought to take him on. Just... great "You two need to go" "Us?! Who are you? What is a "Leandro", and why do you hurt so?" The woman's voice was soft. Once she passed the initial shrill of "us" "I'm here to take... you know what, this is stupid. You two are going to get yourself killed. Go home" Stepping in front of the woman, the male growled. English was definitely not their first language, leaving him to wonder if he was getting his point across "Who are you say that?" Facepalming, Lance shook his head "I'm here on official business. Not to babysit" "You're here to stop Klearo?" Thank god the woman had some measure of intelligence "Yes. Now your compromising my mission" "Then we shall come with you" With armour that looked to be fashioned out of something vaguely kitchenwarey, and a tiny gun each, that wasn't happening "No" "We help" "You'll get in the way!" "What makes you so sure? How do we know you don't get in our ways?" "Because I know what I'm doing" He was running out of patience, that's what he was doing "How do we know that? We haven't heard of you" "I haven't heard of you either. Look. Your sister is the princess that was taken right?" "How do you know?" "Because I'm here to help" Puffing his chest up, the male strode forward to push Lance in the chest "What proof do you have we can trust you? How do we know you are with him?" Shoving the stranger back, Lance had had enough. These two were grating on his nerves, and they were making far too much noise to remain hidden for long "Because I'm the Red Paladin of Voltron" Lance didn't expect the swing at his face. Knocked backwards, he tasted blood as he bit his tongue "You work for him!" Pulling his mask up to uncover his lips, Lance spat next to him "I do not work for that man" "We say you!" He obviously meant "saw" "I'm undercover" "You were with him!" Grabbing her friends arm, the woman pulled him away. The pair dissolving back into conversation in their own language. After a few doboshes, the woman stepped forward "We agree to trust you Paladin. Our sister was taken by Klearo. He wanted her and took her. Please, her name is Annla. Tell her Daehra and Lucteal are here for her. She'll trust you if you do" Names were good... but did the princess have to start with "A"? His nerves were already playing up from his having his plans interrupted "You two go home. I'll get her out" "You will? He wishes for her..." "He won't do anything to her. I'll take her place. It's... not unusual where I come from. But you two need to go" Shaking her head, Daehra's curls bounced. Her thin lips turned down "No. Not without our sister" "I can't concentrate knowing you two are out here, in danger. I'll bring her back. She'll be safe" Staring into his eyes, the woman took a breath then nodded "We will hide. Not leave. They will not find us" He wasn't getting better than that. Her gaze said as much "Fine. Stay hidden. Here, take my blaster. Those guns of yours won't do you any good" "What of you?" Handing the weapon over, Lance was sure he'd signed his own death warrant "I'll be fine. Wait, you should take this too" Taking off his black communicator, he passed it Daehra "If things go bad, call Kre'el. She's a police officer. One of the good ones. You can trust her" Kre'el would probably kick his arse when they met again, but he needed to do this. He needed to do this before Annla could be harmed. Plans were never his strong point if one was to ask his friends. Despite the fact his mind was often so busy he couldn't help but breakdown every step of every plan. This plan would have seemed like he was proving them all right. Walking down the slope towards the ship, he pulled his mask up as he stepped. His hands moving up to the standard "surrender" position as his heart hammered away. It was nerve wracking as he moved towards the small army of armed soldiers, each with their weapons trained on him "Klearo! I know you're in there!" With each step he took, he was sure he'd be shot. Reaching the shadow line of the ship, he stood waiting. As greedy as expected, Klearo descended down the loading ramp, three of his previous four personal guards had been replaced with even larger Galra. Starting to clap, Klearo threw his head back and laughed "I knew you'd be back. I waited. Then I heard you. My scanners picked up your ship... so I simply had to land and wait. I knew you'd come back to me" Talk about rude. Who went around scanning random ships and listened in on people's private breakdowns "Take him. Put him in the back. We have much to talk about" * Cells. He freaking loved cells. There was nothing like the cold metal of the smelly space to make you regret your life choices. Shoved in without being patted down, someone was sleeping on the job. Brawn didn't guarantee brains, yet Lance was definitely not complaining. Pulling out one of the small blades from his boot, he went to work on the vent in the centre of the roof of his cell. He wanted nothing more than to breakdown. The space far more taxing on his fragile mental health than he'd thought it would be, so much so that his hands wouldn't stop shaking as he forced the blade tip into the screw hole. Ventilation wasn't his favourite way to travel. Keith would probably laugh at him to hear that, given how often the blades infiltrated through the ventilation systems. One day builders were going to put fan systems in, and fuck them all over.

[sserpente]

In a heartbeat (Chapter 33)

A/N: Heyho there my lovelies! It took me a while longer to finish this chapter, I spent the entire last week sunbathing in Croatia. But I am back and I can’t wait for you guys to read it! Have fun!

Loki stepped out of Strange’s shadow and into the light, revealing himself to Thor. He was nervous. His palms were sweaty and his heart was beating as fast as it was whenever he kissed you. Half an eternity seemed to pass, an eternity in which the brothers solely stared at each other, none of them quite aware of how they should behave.

“Loki…” Thor finally mumbled, disbelief present on his face. Was his one eye tricking him? Was he hallucinating already from the grief his brother’s death had caused? But no. Here he was. Alive. Safe and sound. Unlike last time he had learned that Loki was indeed still alive, the Trickster God did not smile. He felt concern radiating off of him, fear of how he would be accepted again.

He had made him suffer. Not just once but twice. Loki was about to say something else when suddenly, he heard two, three, four, five... no, six more people enter the escape vessel attached to the ship. One second passed, then another. He looked at you, thin lips parted, blue eyes filling with tears. And then you threw yourself into Loki’s arms.

“(Y/N)…”

A devastated and relieved sob escaped your lips when you spotted him standing there next to Stephen. Was it an illusion? A trick? Were you still dreaming? No… no, not this time. This was… different. It felt different. Crying uncontrollably, your arms wrapped around his middle, eyes shut tightly. Unwilling to let go of him, you hugged him so tightly he gasped and when his own arms came up to pull you even closer, you had to force yourself to breathe again. Mantis winced.

“Please tell me that this is real, please tell me that it’s real…” You choked out as you looked up with teary eyes, lower lip shaking. Instead of answering, Loki simply leaned down and pressed his lips against yours, kissing you so carefully you were overwhelmed by another crying fit.

He was there. He was alive. Whatever you had seen… it had been a trick after all. All of your suffering, all of it… in vain?

Never forget I am the God of Mischief. Loki had tried to tell you all along, in case you… in case you found out he had ‘died’.

Sobbing, you pulled away from him to take a shaky breath, hands reaching up to caress his cheeks. His beautiful and mesmerising blue eyes were filled with antagonising pain.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice almost breaking. “I am so sorry.” When you shook your head, all you could do in response was hold on to him again, reassuring yourself that he was in fact with you again.

“I love you.” You whispered, over and over again. Loki’s grip around your, compared to his, tiny body, tightened. “D-don’t… don’t you ever do something like this to me, a-again, do you hear me?! Don’t you f-fucking dare to do this to me ever again!” You shrieked hysterically, your ranting interrupted by several, heart-breaking sobs.

Then, before he could reply anything else, you kissed him again so hard he gasped for air once more. Desperately, as if he was drowning and you were his oxygen, he clung onto you, unwilling to let go of you again. In this moment, he did not care he had an audience. In his moment, he did not care that he felt Thor’s hostility directed at him yet again.

“I love you so much,” he uttered into your hair, his lips brushing against your earlobe when he broke the kiss to let you catch your breath.

“I am Groot.” Flinching, you turned half-heartedly, watching the tree-like creature from the corner of your eye.

“W-what did he say?”

Thor frowned. “That one day, he wants to love someone as much as you love my brother.”

“Wow,” Rocket added, sarcasm and amusement dripping from his voice. “That’s the deepest thing you’ve ever said, Groot!”

“I am Groot!” He complained.

“No! You’re not deep, you’re a bloody teenager.”

“Wait, so this is your dead brother?” Peter tossed in. Confusion spread on his face and while Loki shot him a hopeful glare, Thor’s short response was cool.

“Yeah. He seems to die all the time.”

“Brother…” Loki began. The pain cursing through his heart was the same that you felt, the way he treated his younger brother heart-shattering. You knew what he had done to Thor was inacceptable. It would take you a while yourself to come to terms with the fact your grieving had been but a farce he had caused, feelings that you had chosen to torment yourself with even though he had been the reason for them.

“Tell us what you know. Surely, you have it all planed out?” He continued. Thor crossed his arms. You had expected him to at least give Loki a hug. He had, after all, seen Thanos snapping his neck like a doll’s… real or not, the moment had been atrocious, visual and intense. Loki did not deserve the cold shoulder, not after everything that had happened.

“I had no other choice, brother.” He was still holding you as he spoke, hugging you for support you were all too willing to give him.

“You had the choice to tell me.”

“I tried.” Loki snapped. “Did you not listen? Do you remember a single word that I said to you?”

Your jaw dropped slightly. It all made sense now. The God of Mischief. Odinson. The rightful king of Jötunheim… Jötunheim. Was this where he had gone after his alleged death?

“Thor… it might be best if we all sit down for a moment. As much as I hate to admit it, your brother might be the key for us to stop Thanos once and for all.” Strange interrupted quietly.

Everyone fell silent for a moment. So you sat down. And Loki started talking.

The sun will shine on us again. Loki had indeed tried to tell Thor what he was up to. He had wanted you far away from Thanos so you would be safe and to prevent you from witnessing his death. Now, Valkyrie was still gone, the escape vessel’s coordinates too far away to be detected on board.

Strange had not yet found out where the Asgardian population had gone but at the very least, they were in possession of one great advantage—Loki had provided Thanos with a fake Tesseract. Vital knowledge that would change the outcome of this entire war.

“As soon as it is necessary… and necessary, it will be… we will bring the Jötuns to fight for our cause.” Loki explained just then, looking his brother dead in the eye.

“Have you thought this through, Loki? The Frost Giants will destroy Midgard in an attempt to build their power again!”

“I can ensure you, they will not.” The rightful king of Jötunheim. They would listen to him. You knew. Biting your lower lip, you leaned against his shoulder and reached for his hand to hold it. It was cold.

“And where will you be? How can you guarantee that they will not turn against us?” Thor roared.

“They will not. I am going to take (Y/N) away from here. I have done everything I can, brother.”

“Wait, you want to leave us again?” Rocket tossed in confused.

Loki’s expression was stern as he glared down at him. “I faced Thanos twice. I am not going to push my luck. He believes I am dead and I would like to keep it that way. Letting you and your petty friends know I am still alive is risky as is. I only came back for (Y/N).”

Your heart jumped. And then, much to everyone’s surprise, Thor nodded sympathetically.

“Hey, who’s the petty one here?” Rocket complained. “We can’t just let him leave! Your dead brother ascended from the grave, he’s doing wicked magic tricks and tricked Thanos into believing he already has the space stone and we’re gonna let him leave?”

“I did not ask for your permission, Racoon.”

“Don’t call me a racoon!” Rocket hissed, standing to grit his teeth. Doctor Strange sighed.

“If Loki wants to leave us, he is more than welcome.”

“Rocket is right. You can’t let him leave. He’s as beautiful as Thor.” Drax tossed in out of context. Rocket rolled his eyes. “Like a statue. People must be kneeling before him.”

“Oh, you have no idea…” The Thunderer uttered grumpily.

“He is right, Thor.” Strange tried again then. “He has done everything he can.”

“So what do we do?” Gamora asked quietly. Her hands kept playing with a beautifully crafted dagger. She refused to look up properly.

“Nidavellir can’t be far now. I need a new weapon and I need it fast.”

“You are talking about contacting Eitri?” Loki asked, frowning as he did. Thor nodded grimly.

“Then we will split up. Gamora, Drax, Mantis and I are going to—“

“A weapon that will be strong enough to summon the Bifrost,” Loki suddenly murmured, ignoring Peter’s planning completely. Thor frowned. “Where is Heimdall’s sword?”

“It… I believe it was destroyed, they made sure of that before they killed him.”

“Then ask Eitri to forge the strongest weapon he had ever made. Something strong enough to bring an army of Jötuns to Midgard.” Loki insisted. Was he shaking?

Turning your gaze away from the pondering God of Thunder, you instead focused on the man you loved. He was pale. Sweat was pooling on his forehead and yes… his arms were trembling. Travelling by Tesseract… how often had he done it already? Did it take a toll on him?

Thor nodded, pleased with his suggestion.

He joined Peter’s conversation when Doctor Strange asked for the second escape vessel to find Stark and a kid with spider powers, who had ended up somewhere in space, trapped by the Black Order. For just a brief moment, no one was paying any attention to the tragic couple sitting in the corner of the ship.

“Loki… lie down a little, you’re shaking.” You whispered.

“I’m fine, little minx.”

You knew it was a lie. Leaning your forehead against his, you shifted until you came to sit on his lap, hugging him tightly. Losing him had made you so weak. Your heart and your feelings were sore, singed even. It seemed, however, like Loki’s were too. You could tell he had been looking forward to reunite with his brother after their deadly encounter with Thanos. After what Thor had told you not long ago, you were certain he would calm again.

“Thor will listen to reason.” You started out of the blue, anything to comfort him a little. By making him feel better… you would feel better too.

“But you barely talk to me either.” Loki responded dryly. Disappointment mixed with his quiet tone.

“I’m… because I don’t know what to say.” Other than ‘I love you’. “I’m not angry with you, Loki. God, I am so glad to have you back.” You said, tearing up again. “I just… it’s not your fault. I need time to… comprehend all of this. You were gone and I mourned and that pain was unlike anything I had ever felt… Seeing you die like this…” Lower lip shaking, your voice broke.

Loki tenderly cupped your face, a simple gesture you had missed so much. An instant sob escaped your lips.

“You were not supposed to witness this, little minx. I never intended to hurt you.” He replied softly.

“But I have witnessed it… a-and now I have to deal with it, I will. It’s okay. I know you didn’t… just… Just give me some time to… come to terms with this, Loki. Please.”

The God of Mischief’s expression was shattered when you slid off his lap. There was a wall between you. An invisible wall that his fake death had built between you and now refused to crack. What was it that you meant? That you would need time… away from him? Time to find out whether you could still be with him? Insecurely, in this moment, he was afraid you would leave him too. What was that again, about him finding a way for you to be together forever? To claim you as his, no matter what? Disappointed, he faced the metal floor.

“Come and lie down a little, please.” You heard yourself say as you slipped off his lap tiredly, stretching on Gamora’s cot only a few inches away from him. Exhaustion won over your body as you fell asleep next to him, still holding on to him tightly.

You never noticed how Loki glanced down sadly at his fingers which kept fiddling around with a golden engagement ring, ornamented with a green emerald. His promise for you to be together forever.

A/N: 😈