#code vein cassian

[seraphsredemption]

I'm sharing a Code Vein OC I've been working on. His name is Cassian Ambroz. I'll probably reveal some lore once I've come up with a color palette and stuff.

[jasmineandcedar]

Surrender | Masters of pretense, part 1

An Elriel two-part fic (dual POV)

Because Azriel is avoiding the Riverhouse, Elain comes to dinner at House of Wind with Nessian and Azriel for quiet, seductive, devastating revenge. Here’s my take on Elriel-coded ‘banter’. Subtle, alluring, quiet.

Because I like to play with stereotypes, here’s a little glimpse of Azriel believing he’s in control—until Elain proves, without question, that he never was. He is but a puppy on a leash whenever Elain is around.

Also, the potatoes make a re-appearance (the gravy too).

Content warning: sexual fantasies.

----

The fire was crackling softly in the hearth, sending shadows dancing along the stone walls of the dining room like living things. Dinner at House of Wind had long since ended, at least for everyone except Cassian, who was still shoveling food onto his place with the same enthusiasm he had at the start of the meal. The rest of them lingered in the quiet aftermath. Nesta was absorbed in her book, preternaturally still save for the occasional flick of a page. Elain gently swirled the wine in her glass, watching the dark liquid as if absorbed in thought.

Azriel sat there, pretending to brood. In reality, he was absorbed by her.

Elain.

She looked ethereal, beautiful as ever. Serene, even, with the soft glow of the fire kissing her impeccable features. But Azriel knew better. He knew that glint sparkling in her eye was not mere contentment. That delicate flush dusting her cheeks was not from the warmth of the fire. It was because of him. For him, if he allowed himself to wish. The way she quietly toyed with him, sweetly and mercilessly, whenever he had dared to show up at dinners after last Solstice had him wishing all kinds of things, despite himself.

Dangerous and foolish things.

And—Mother above—Elain was enjoying this far too much.

Sipping from her wine, Elain swallowed slowly. Azriel’s eyes—traitorous things that they were whenever she graced them with her visage—followed the movement of her throat. The slow bob, that delicate tensing of muscle, made his fingers flex against his knees and his jaw tighten. He wanted to trace the velvet-soft skin of that immaculate throat with his fingers, to follow its graceful line with his mouth, but that would be a sacrilege if there ever was one.

Her lips, soft and rosy and far too lovely for his sanity, parted slightly as she took another small sip of that crimson wine that stained those lips the colour of sin. Azriel let out a slow exhale and felt heat replace the ice in his veins.

He wanted to trace those delicate lips with his fingers too.

Feel their softness yield beneath his touch.

Before he put his teeth to them.

Then—Mother save him—her foot.

The faintest touch, just a whisper of contact, brushing against the exposed skin of his ankle. He stiffened, his entire body locking down with the precision of a Spymaster, every muscle going taut. She didn’t press or push. She was just… there. The faintest graze.

It was the kind of thing that drew him mad. Madder than if she would have flipped the table and straddled him right then and there. At least something like that, he could have handled.  He liked to think so, anyway. After all, restraint in the midst of chaos was second nature to the Spymaster of the Night Court.

But this? This was calculated. Precise.

The Spymaster of the Night Court had met his match.

In a female so lovely and ethereal she could have been spun from moonlight. A female who feigned innocence with the same deadly skill that he feigned indifference. Two masters of pretense, locked in a dance that could only end one way.

Surrender.

And Azriel was losing.

He was losing his damn mind.

She wouldn’t even meet his gaze. It made him want to flip the table and beg on his knees for her to just look at him.

But no.

Elain just tilted her head, the firelight catching in her curls and painting her in gold and honey. That maddeningly sweet smile danced across her delicate features as her eyes remained fixed on the wine she kept swirling with slow, measured grace.

She was ruthless. Gentle torment wrapped in honey and light and everything holy in the world. And that feigned innocence just made Azriel burn even hotter.

It made him burn to see what it would take to have her drop all pretense.

He burned to get his hands on her and finally find out how long it would take before those sweet smiles turned into breathless moans, into ragged, needy pleas that were everything holy in this world but had nothing to do with innocence.

He wanted her undone.

By his hand, sacrilege be damned.

“Az?” Cassian’s voice pierced the haze that was Azriel’s mind, distant and wholly unimportant. Because Elain’s foot was tracing a lazy, featherlight path higher up his calf, just enough to remind Azriel who was sitting in front of him.

Not that he needed reminding.

His entire body was wound too tight, like a string pulled so taut it was ready to snap. His breathing was shallow, every inhale a battle of control and every exhale threatening surrender. He felt his pulse throb in places he had no business thinking about at the dinner table.

He was too damn hot. Warmth curled through him like the shadows swirling frantically at his feet. It was as if his need for her had replaced the blood in his veins, pulsing through him with the promise of life itself—as vital as breath. Every beat of his heart carried her name through his bloodstream.

Elain. Elain. Elain.

His whole world had narrowed to nothing but her.

One single moment of her attention, and he’d practically be wagging his tail like some goddamn puppy on a leash, desperate and eager for more.

Never had there been a more useful time to be a shadowsinger.

To be able to conceal.

Spying and stealth be damned—without his shadows to hide behind, every secret, every dark desire and aching need would have been laid bare for all to see the second Elain Archeron stepped into any space he occupied. The shift in his scent would have revealed it all.

He gritted his teeth at Cassian’s interruption, trying to find his way back to the present moment through the maze of his desire.

“What?” he managed, without tearing his gaze from Elain. The word came out sharper and more impatient than intended, rougher than it should have been.

That was… slightly concerning.

Concealing his emotions had never been an issue. Neither through war nor centuries of calculated deception and carefully measured restraint.

Not until her.

Not until he met his match.

Elain Archeron had him beat for more than just secret-keeping. She had him beat at his own fucking game, and she knew it. In fact, she was looking far too pleased with herself. And that quiet boldness, on a face so innocent and sweet, had Azriel utterly leashed.

He wanted her.

Cassian raised his eyebrows. “Pass the potatoes, will you?”

Not the potatoes.

Even goddamn potatoes had him obsessing over her. Because of that first Solstice when he had been unable to stay away from her. When he had first started to fully realize how utterly fucked he was.

Azriel’s gaze drifted to the bowl of potatoes. They weren’t Elain’s this time, of course. They were courtesy of the House and, naturally, nowhere near as divine. But still, they reminded him. Of her.

Of how she had struggled with that heavy bowl, brows adorably furrowed in quiet determination. Of how he had walked up to her, his pulse hammering in his ears, shadows coiling nervously at his feet. Wingbeats had fluttered in his stomach—as if he was some foolish and inexperienced boy instead of a centuries-old, and certainly not inexperienced, spymaster.

It had taken every last drop of courage honed over all those centuries for him to, shamelessly and despicably, make damn sure their fingers brushed when he reached for the dish. But he had done it, even as he struggled to breathe as longing pulsed through his veins and his heartbeat quickened.

She had blushed.

Seemed stunned, even. More beautiful than he'd ever seen her, dusted with flour and all the gentleness of her caring heart.

Those foolish winged creatures in his stomach had taken flight again. Restraint stretched thin as he fought the urge to grin like a lovesick fool when he got to the table and let his lethal gaze sweep across the room, daring anyone to eat before Elain was seated.

Elain.

His gaze drifted back to her. Without tearing it from her, Azriel grabbed the heavy dish of potatoes a little more forcefully than he intended. Without blinking—or thinking—he dumped the entire bowl on top of Cassian’s plate with a dull thunk that echoed through the quiet room.

Elain’s lips twitched. Just barely. Of course, Azriel noticed it.

He noticed everything when it came to her, even without his shadows.

He could map every freckle on her face in his sleep, should he ever get any. He could track the smallest shift in her expression, every twitch of every muscle, every glint in her eye. Every strand of that thick, honey-brown hair out of place. He knew every wayward curl. Nothing in the world could have had that small, knowing smile escape his notice.

“Dude?” Cassian’s brows shot up as he stared at the heavy dish of potatoes now balancing precariously on top of his plate.

Still unable to look away from Elain, Azriel’s voice came out low. Rough. “You want gravy too?”

Those beautiful lips twitched again, and wingbeats fluttered anew in Azriel’s abdomen.

But he really shouldn’t have said it.

He really shouldn’t still be holding a grudge against Cassian for daring to eat before Elain was seated at Solstice more than a year ago. He definitely shouldn’t have let his voice drop or his emotions slip through the cracks of his dissolving composure. And he most certainly shouldn’t have let his gaze drop to Elain’s lips. To that small, knowing smirk still teasing the corners of her mouth and Azriel’s control just the same.

But he was out of his mind.

Elain’s foot retreated slowly, with a timing too damn perfect to not be calculated. Azriel let out a faint, shuddering sigh as the absence of her on him left him desperate for her to return. And—Cauldron damn him—he found himself leaning towards her, drawn to her like a celestial body helplessly caught in the unrelenting pull of its sun.

She had him dancing to her tune like a goddamn puppet on a string.

Elain—sweet, ruthless Elain—just tilted her head to the other side, still swirling her wine. Those wide and deceptively innocent eyes of molten chocolate remained locked on the dark liquid in her glass. As if she hadn’t just caught him in her gravity.

“I’d love some…” her sweet voice, all silk and secrets, pierced through the tension like a blade.

Then came the pause.

Long.

Lethal.

Almost casually, she let the air thicken around them once more before she delivered another blow.

“… Azriel.”

His name on those lovely lips nearly had him actually flip the damn table and throw himself on the floor before her.

But then, finally, she met his gaze. Warm brown eyes focused entirely on him.

Cauldron have mercy on his soul.

Azriel nearly groaned. He wasn’t sure if he actually did. He swallowed hard in a desperate attempt to collect his dissolving composure. He tightened his jaw and tilted his head slightly, gritting his teeth. Without a word, he leaned forward to slowly push the gravy boat towards her.

Cassian glanced between them before his gaze landed on Azriel, brows still raised. “Someone woke up on the wrong side.”

Azriel ignored him.

Because Elain was smiling at him now, sweet and demure as ever. Her quiet devastation and that soft curve of her lips had him enthralled. And when her foot ghosted over his ankle again, Azriel nearly knocked over his drink from relief and need.

Like a goddamn puppy on a leash.

“He always wakes up on the wrong side,” Nesta muttered, not bothering to look up from her book. She flipped a page, her tone dry, “Do you even have a right side, Az?”

Azriel barely heard her. His focus was locked on the female sitting across from him, the one who haunted his every waking moment. Including the ones he should have been asleep.

“I didn’t wake up,” he muttered right back, his voice once again lower than intended. “I didn’t sleep.”

Cassian huffed, lifting the heavy dish of potatoes from his plate.

“You should try it sometime,” he said briskly. “Might help with the chronic brooding.”

Azriel didn’t answer. He was getting cranky now. Restless. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone. He wanted to be free of this dining room, of the laughter and pointless conversation, of eyes that might see too much.

He wanted Elain. Alone.

“Why didn’t you sleep…” Elain murmured,  her attention still focused on the wine glass she now gently rolled back and forth by the stem between her slender fingers.

Slow. Effortless. Merciless.

She paused again, just enough to let the tension coil thick in the air between them before delivering another devastating blow.

“… Azriel?”

His name on those lips.

Heat licked down his spine, like a barely-there caress, soft and slow and dangerously intoxicating.

It set him ablaze more thoroughly than his fist around his cock did during the sleepless hours he spent stroking himself to the thought of her unravelling. To the thought of those perfect lips, soft and swollen, parting around breathless moans as he filled her. As she arched against his naked skin—equally bare and needy—her breath hot and sweet against him.

He could almost hear it.

The desperate little sounds she’d make as he reveled in her pleasure. The way she’d gasp his name, not teasing or coy, but pleading in breathless surrender.

He wanted to be so damn good to her.

He’d take his time. Taste every inch of her until she was gasping and trembling on his tongue. He’d lap up every moan, let every breathless whimper guide him like a treasure map to every hidden secret behind that feigned innocence. Then he’d bury himself in her, over and over and over, wringing every last drop of pleasure from her until it was him playing her body like an instrument and they moved to the same rhythm. He’d learn every tune by heart until he had nothing left in him to give and she had learned the true meaning of satisfaction.

Azriel exhaled through his nose and clenched his fists under the table as if willing himself to stay composed.

It wasn’t working. At all.

Because his pulse was throbbing even harder, in all the wrong places.

“I’ve been…” He looked up at her, hopeful—pathetic really—like some lovesick fool. But Elain wouldn’t meet his gaze. He’d tear down mountains to have those chestnut eyes on him again, to feel the featherlight weight of her gaze tracing over his face like the touch of a lover.

“…distracted, lately.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, and they felt like a confession.

Elain’s lips curled. Not quite a smile, but something more dangerous. Knowing.

And Azriel knew there was more of that sweet torture to come. And those wingbeats in his stomach were entirely overpowered by pure, ravenous heat.

“Distracted?” Elain echoed softly.

She put her wine glass down on the table. Her thumb began gliding in slow, measured strokes along the stem of the glass.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

She bit her lip lightly, her teeth grazing the soft curve of those rosy lips as her large, chestnut eyes followed the languid rhythm of her thumb.

That slow, deliberate rhythm made Azriel’s lips part involuntarily. His shadows slipped beneath the table, curling tighter around his feet as if they, too, were as desperate to reach for her as he was.

At least he still had enough sense left to not groan aloud.

“By what, I wonder?” Elain spun that silken voice between them like a web, and Azriel was caught like a helpless prey.

Was she really going to make him say it? Here? In front of Nesta and Cassian? His pulse thundered so wildly he thought surely, they must all hear it.

Perhaps he should actually say it.

Perhaps he shouldn’t be such a coward.

Perhaps he should just flip the damn table.

He cleared his throat, trying—failing, really—to mentally push back the desire licking at the edges of his control. “I’ve had… things on my mind.”

“Mmm,” Elain hummed sweetly, the sound dripping over him like warm honey, and Azriel felt it everywhere. Thick, slow, seeping into the marrow of his bones. Goosebumps rose in its wake, and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head. But Elain’s thumb—that slender, delicate thing capable of such ruthless, seductive intent—just continued that slow, sinful path up and down the stem of her wineglass.

Azriel couldn’t tear his eyes from it.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

He wanted this. All of it. Unleashed. On him. This beautiful predator hidden beneath the timid, delicate guise others didn’t bother to look past.

“Things?” she asked, her voice light and effortless. Her beautiful eyes, still torturously turned away from him, refused to meet his.

Mother, please.

Azriel swallowed thickly, feeling his throat go dry. “Only one, actually.”

Elain blinked. Azriel noted with a satisfied smirk how, for a fleeting moment, her eyes flicked to his before she looked away again, back to the dark liquid in her wine glass.

“I hope it’s something...” she murmured in that voice like warm honey. She paused, and her fingers moved to trace a lazy circle along the rim of her wine glass. “… worth losing sleep over.”

Azriel’s traitorous pulse hammered even harder in his throat. “It is.”

Elain’s lips parted just slightly in a soft intake of breath that had Azriel’s shadows singing in his ears, that puppy desperate for her approval running victory laps in his dazed mind.

And then—Cauldron damn him—Cassian’s voice shattered the moment.

“Yeah, he loves his reports,” he said through a mouthful of potatoes. “I never got the appeal.”

Nesta snorted softly, peering up from her book at last. “Brooding and mysterious as always,” she mused, but a knowing smirk was ghosting her features as her sharp gaze moved between Azriel and Elain.

Azriel braced himself.

“Maybe we should get him a hobby,” Cassian said, shoveling another forkful of potatoes into his mouth. “Might help get his mind off things”.

“Good luck,” Nesta laughed under her breath. “Have you tried knitting, Az?”

Azriel clenched his jaw. Hard.

“Knitting?” Cassian chuckled in between bites. He barely swallowed before grinning wide. “And what would our dear spymaster knit?”

Azriel didn’t take the bait.

Nesta smirked, glancing between Azriel and Elain once more before returning to her book with that knowing look still sparkling in her eye. “A leash, maybe.”

Cassian raised his brows in confusion.

Azriel pointedly ignored them. In fact, he barely heard them.

Because Elain’s foot was back. Sliding up his calf with that same sensual slowness that was driving him mad and making every muscle in his body tense. He swallowed thickly, fingers tightening around the fragile stem of his own glass until he thought it might snap.

He didn’t dare move an inch. Didn’t dare so much as breathe.

“Elain,” he said, his voice dangerously low, both a warning and a plea all at once.

Elain finally looked at him again and Azriel’s head stilled. His shadows paused their restless dance at his feet.

“Azriel?” she replied, her honey-sweet voice wrapping around his name, soft and lethal in equal measure. Her wide, innocent eyes held his. That beautiful, sweet deception.

He could think of an infinite number of things to say, all of them equally dangerous. All of them leading to the same inevitable, reckless end.

Surrender.

Instead, for now, he settled on the one that wouldn’t end with him exposing his every secret and begging on his knees, pleading with her to let him put his hands, his mouth, his tongue on her like the desperate male he was.

“Pass the gravy,” he rasped, his voice too rough. Needy even. “Please.”

Elain’s eyebrows lifted, her lips pursing slightly before she shifted towards him. She reached for the gravy boat, her fingers curling around the handle in a way that made his breath hitch. A wayward golden curl slipped free to fall in her face as she leaned forward.

Azriel froze.

He had never seen anything more beautiful.

The wicked gleam in her eye defying the shy blush warming her cheeks. The honeyed glow of her as the firelight danced over her features. How the wine clung to her lovely lips, the deep crimson a dark, sultry promise against the delicate fairness of her skin. Like temptation itself. And that wild curl—it had him spellbound. He ached to reach across the table, to brush it back and slide his hand into the thick, silken curls of her hair. To fist it, pull her against him, and claim those crimson lips the way he should have when he had the chance.

For the life of him, Azriel couldn’t breathe. He knew she must see the pure desperation in his eyes.

“Of course…” she murmured softly, and then—Mother save him—she slid the gravy boat toward him with torturous patience, those chocolate brown eyes never leaving his. When it reached him, she made damn sure their fingers brushed. Azriel swallowed every curse he knew, biting down another groan.

But she wasn’t done with him yet.

Because then, Elain—sweet, ruthless Elain—brushed that wild curl behind her ear. And when she looked up at him through her lashes, those doe-brown eyes shimmering with quiet victory, Azriel was utterly undone.

She had him exactly where she wanted him, and they both knew it.

Her lips parted. In a whisper, she delivered the final, lethal blow.

“… Azriel.”

His name. On those perfect, wine-stained lips.

Azriel groaned aloud. A deep, guttural sound that tore from the depths of him, carrying every ounce of need, every obscene fantasy, every shred of longing he fought so damn hard to contain.

The room went completely silent.

Nesta lowered her book. Cassian stopped mid-bite. Azriel’s shadows froze.

Even the crackling fire seemed to still.

“Well, fuck me,” Azriel breathed, every syllable slipping free in surrender.

And then—damn the Cauldron—he let go.

Dropped every pretense.

As Elain’s lips curled in quiet triumph, he finally flipped the damn table and fell to his knees.

Surrender.

[ryo-apologist]

Racer! Link

Racer! Link x Reader

CW: Smut, Minors DNI, I will block your ass, author knows nothing about racing and it shows

AN: Yes, this is about that Link. The one with the elf ears, says "Hyah!". Yeah I'm a Linked Universe Nerd. Sucks to be y'all. Keep ya guessing on which fandom has my balls this week.

~Darling XOXO

☾ So, I hesitated writing this for a number of reasons, but I decided I don't care. Hozier has a new song, April has me face down in the mattress with how hard it's fucked me and I just want to write about a Link near and and dear to my heart.

☾ Mario Kart Link.

☾ He's just a silly lil goober who's always having a good time. Especially when I play as him because what is second place? He'll never know.

☾ I know, canonically, both are Skyward Sword! Link and Breath of the Wild! Link. I do not care.

☾ Because come with me, sinner, as we explore a whole new world. A world where Mario Kart isn't a silly lil game. It's an empire.

☾ Like Fast and the Furious (I think, idk I never watched any of them). OR like sk8 the infinity at S. I do know that one.

☾ There are real things at stake here. It's intense, and it's heavy.

☾ Here, give me a break while I do some worldbuilding here. Mystery blocks are still a thing, they work by magic idk, except getting hit by one of those things is devastating. It's why the newcomers don't last long.

☾ All the main screen players (Mario, Luigi, Bowser, Inkling boy, etc.) are high level racers. They are A-listed and the ones you look out for if you see them in the lineup.

☾ Including Link himself. He drives a motorcycle he named Epona, which he built himself from scratch.

☾ I spent a lot of time (three minutes) trying to figure out a clever nickname for him, and then I saw some of the names other people gave their Linksona's and, while there's nothing wrong with them, I quickly realized I was overthinking things.

☾ It's mostly a stage name, his name is Link and outside of the raceway, he goes by it.

☾ But, for shits and giggles, and point of discerning him from the others, I don't care. Call him ratchet, greaser, racer, cypher, tank, axel, sparks. I'm giving you all the freedom! Me? Personally? I'm going to call him:

☾ Neo- a combining form meaning “new,” “recent,” “revived,” “modified,”

☾ Great I gave you some background, let's get into the fun parts.

☾ Neo, where do we begin with you.

☾ Have y'all read A Court of Mist and Fury? You know Rhysand?

☾ He's Cassian coded.

☾ LMAO You thought.

☾ He's a fun, kind-of guy but when shit gets real, he can shift from zero to a hundred like that.

☾ He'll be laughing with a newbie, patting them on the shoulder, but the second that visor comes down, he's unrecognizable. He's an A-lister for a reason.

☾ He's infamous for taking shortcuts that are insanely dangerous. He's almost always bandaged somewhere, but not his pretty boy, play bunny face.

☾ So Cassian and Lightning McQueen.

☾ He's totally the kind to shoot a wink and a flirty wave, spend the night and then be gone by morning. Or have them escorted out by his Zelda in the morning, Tony Stark style

☾ He's a slut.

☾ Can you tell I like my men slutty?

☾ And he's such a....character in bed.

☾ He's a selfish lover, but make no mistake about it. His partner gets their end. That's right. I said lover. He's fucked bowser.

☾ I'm kidding

☾ No I'm not.

☾ He doesn't care who's in his bed. Man, woman, the funky others who say FUCK YOU to the gender spectrum /pos

☾ He'll bottom, top, switch it up mid-way through. He just like me fr.

☾But he's not lazy. Selfish, yes, but lazy? No. He's the best rider both on and off Epona, yk yk.

☾ And he has such a pretty cock too. A pretty flushed pink, circumcised with such a lovely vein running up the bottom of it. And while pretty, sorry his balls aren't much to write home about.

☾ They are dangerously sensitive though. Suck on them and run your thumb along the head of his dick and he'll whimper.

☾ SPEAKING OF-

☾ He whimpers so nicely. God, when he's in the middle of bouncing up and down on you (artificial or organic both are good), and his own hands are running up his chest, plucking at his own pebbled nipples and playing with the piercings as his head is thrown back in pure bliss-

☾ He's probably sponsored by Monster Energy

☾ Has a sugar daddy FOR SURE. God wish I was HIM.

[imogenkol]

pairing: Imogen Kol (oc) x Bix Caleen word count: 3k rating: mature (18+) warnings: death mention, emotional and physical trauma tags: hurt/comfort, still repressing those feelings, but we're getting there read it on ao3! / previous chapter

Summary: after the traumatic death of Timm and a less than warm goodbye with Cassian, Bix seeks out an unlikely source of comfort.

The yacht’s comms crackled with a distorted voice. “ – you copy?” 

Imogen almost ignored it, but she thought familiarity might’ve caught her attention. She adjusted the frequency and listened. 

“Imogen?” Bix’s voice came through, sounding clearer. “Are you there?”

Profound shock caused Imogen’s body to freeze. Even if they hadn’t agreed to part ways for good, Bix never contacted her through such obvious means. Imogen always received coded messages for the safety of them both, but Bix didn’t seem to care about that anymore. Perhaps she felt more scorned than Imogen previously thought. 

At first, she felt a strong burst of anger. Imogen’s hand hovered over the control panel with the intention to switch her comms off, but something made her hesitate. Just as her mind pinpointed the source of her body’s betrayal, Bix tried to reach her again. 

“I know you’re there, just –” the mechanic’s weathered sigh hissed through the speaker. Something caused her tone to waver just enough for Imogen to notice. “Please answer.” 

Imogen’s outstretched hand became a tight fist and, with a clenched jaw, she placed her headset on. “What do you want?” 

“Look, I know we ended things, but… I just need to see you.”

Imogen scoffed. “Why?”

“Timm is dead.” 

Loud silence filled the cabin of the ship. Imogen couldn’t really fathom how the idiot got himself killed in such a short amount of time, but it was clear that Bix had been shaken up by his demise. Her distress pulled at Imogen’s impulses no matter how hard she tried to ignore the defeat in her tone. 

After the silence dragged on, Bix continued. “There’s more. The Empire has taken control of Ferrix.” 

Utter exasperation caused Imogen to shake her head. All those people had to do was carry on exactly like they have been. Now they’ve managed to sentence their entire planet to eventual doom. “How did this happen?” 

“I’ll explain everything in person. Are you coming?” There wasn’t a single shred of hope in the question like Bix knew that Imogen would refuse. Her request had been desperate. 

The presence of the Empire was enough to ward the former Inquisitor off of Ferrix for good. Bix understood that. Yet, Imogen couldn’t think of anything else besides the grief stricken sound of her voice over the comms. Another long pause passed between them before Imogen’s resolve drove a stake into her chest. “I’m setting a course now.” 

Ferrix wasn’t too far from the system Imogen had been orbiting. Her bounties weren’t going anywhere, though she did take a moment after landing to check on their vitals. Carbonite could be a fickle thing on occasion. Confident that she would still receive full payment for their living condition, she pulled her hood up and stepped off the ship. 

Dawn had barely begun to tear through the gray painted sky. While Ferrix had never been a busy planet at this hour, Imogen sensed a shift in the air immediately. Things were too quiet. As if the entire community were muzzled. Imogen was once a harbinger of the very subjugation she recognized as she walked the streets. A certain power used to course through her veins during those moments where others had no choice but to bend to her will – an unstoppable, addictive rush in what her rage had wrought. Now all she felt was nothing. A cold, haunting nothing. 

A glimpse of white armor in the distance signaled an oncoming patrol and Imogen darted into an alleyway. 

I shouldn’t bother with this, her mind fretted. Stormtroopers were little challenge on their best day, but if it came to a fight, that would only mean more trouble for herself. This isn’t worth it. An odd creak came from her leg as she hurried to keep out of sight. Even more reason not to be here. But of course, Imogen continued towards the Caleen Salyard, slinking her way through the shadows to avoid the Imperials. 

The salvage yard was empty, but Bix’s lights were on as Imogen approached her door. She tapped her knuckles against it. “It’s me, I’m here.”

Imogen paced in lazy circles while she waited for Bix to answer. She put extra weight on her cybernetic leg. The next creak shifted through the metallic joints and nearly caused her to lose balance. During the last bounty she collected, she unwisely made a risky jump from one rooftop to another. The resulting impact put strain on her body, but she hadn’t thought much of it at the time. It seemed there might be some damage to the prosthetic after all. Imogen made a mental note to get it serviced.

The front door finally opened with a mechanical whoosh. While Imogen’s expectations were low, seeing Bix with an extremely noticeable bruise on her temple completely caught the bounty hunter off guard. 

“Bix.” Imogen rushed for the mechanic before she could stop herself. She gently cupped Bix’s face and turned her head to examine the wound. A fresh gash peeked through her hairline and Imogen felt a flush of anger in her chest. “Did the troopers do this?”

“No.” Bix closed her eyes like she might be avoiding Imogen’s gaze, but she leaned into her touch and allowed Imogen to look at her as long as she wanted. Or maybe she was just too tired to pull away. Imogen noticed the dark circles under her puffy eyes and the way her shoulders slumped. 

“What happened, Bix?” Imogen prompted and reluctantly dropped her hands. 

Bix took a moment to scan their surroundings before motioning at Imogen. “Come inside.”

“Was that Timm’s doing?” Imogen asked once the door slid shut behind them. She angrily pushed her hood down. 

Without so much as glancing over her shoulder, Bix shuffled into the kitchen. “Do you want some caf?”

Imogen put her hands on her hips. “Not as much as I would like an explanation. Particularly one that explains why I’m here.”

Bix finally threw her a weak excuse for a smirk as she prepared two cups. “Pretty sure you’re the only one that can answer that.” 

I came because you asked me to, felt like a pathetic excuse, so Imogen ignored her remark and accepted the cup of caf Bix offered. “There isn’t a lot that would motivate the Empire to seize control of a free trade planet.” 

“No,” Bix agreed and took a quick sip. “But a shootout with a bunch of corpos does the trick, as it turns out.” 

Imogen shook her head and scoffed. Corpos were even more useless than Stormtroopers. Fools, the lot of them. “How exactly did that occur?”

“They were looking for Cassian. Timm ratted him out…” It looked like Bix nearly choked on those last four words. She grimaced down at her cup as if it became too foul to drink.  

“So it was Timm’s fault.” 

“Some blame Cassian.” Bix shrugged. For how exhausted she appeared, her fingers tapped restlessly against the side of the cup in her hands. “What does it even matter? Timm is dead. Cassian is gone.” 

“And I’m here,” Imogen added like an accusation. 

The mechanic’s face fell. “I haven’t forgotten our last conversation. I just needed… someone.” 

Despite the urge to move closer, Imogen stayed still. “For what?”

Bix’s gaze locked on the bounty hunter’s, those deep brown irises unable to hide the pain tearing her up inside. “Comfort.” 

Imogen hadn’t forgotten their last conversation, either. Nor could she forget the will it took not to surrender herself to the woman in front of her. Now she asked for comfort. Imogen knew nothing of the sort, not even for herself. She set her cup aside and found it hard to look the other woman in the eye. “To what end, Bix?”

Bix released such a heavy sigh that her shoulders looked even heavier than before. She smiled flatly and shook her head. “Forget it. Get out.” 

No amount of effort could make Imogen ignore the sudden pit in her gut. “Bix –”

“No, it was stupid of me to ask.” Bix’s voice shook and she slammed her cup down on the nearest flat surface. 

Imogen had no clue what came over her. It felt like a foreign entity seized control of her body as she swiftly closed the growing distance between them and pulled Bix into an embrace. Bix stiffened in Imogen’s arms. For a moment, she tried to push her away, but there was hardly any effort in her attempt. With a choked sob ringing in her ears, Imogen felt the mechanic utterly melt into her. 

In a way, the fight drained out of both of them. Bix succumbed to her torment. Imogen gave up on resisting the persistent pull towards a woman she didn’t deserve. They simply clung to each other and abandoned any conviction that would stop them from doing so. 

“I was so stupid,” Bix whimpered into Imogen’s shoulder. “And there was nothing I could do – nothing.”

Imogen didn’t trust herself with words, so she planted her lips on the side of Bix’s head. That odd, warm sensation settled inside Imogen’s chest again as she shut her eyes and inhaled some of Bix’s scent. Imogen liked this. She liked holding her. She liked the way her hair tickled her face. The only thing she could do without were the painful sobs wracking through the woman in her arms. Even more bewildering was the desire to chase those tears away. 

“I’m here,” Imogen said again, this time without any hint of irritation.

Bix pulled back and carefully cradled Imogen’s face. She had never touched her this way before – had never looked at her with such fondness. Imogen got distracted by her deep brown eyes. The richness shimmered with unshed tears and Imogen saw herself reflected clearer than ever. “Thank you,” Bix said through a strained whisper. 

All she managed was a nod before Bix delicately brushed her mouth with a chaste kiss. Imogen moistened her lips as she resisted the desire to lean in for more. She tasted salt on the tip of her tongue and thought maybe Bix might need physical distraction. It would certainly be the easiest offering for Imogen. “Is that the kind of comfort you want?”

Bix shook her head and caressed Imogen’s cheeks with calloused hands. “Just stay with me for a little while. I don’t want to be alone.”

Not even a hint of disappointment twisted in her gut. “Okay.” 

The two of them found seats beside each other on the couch. Bix released her torment in waves, alternating from crying into Imogen’s shoulder to staring off at nothing in particular in quiet contemplation. She maintained physical contact, though. Whether it was a trembling hand grasping at any part of Imogen it could find or their sides brushing together during a break in the storm, Bix always had to touch her. Imogen silently allowed whatever she needed without judgment. 

The bell eventually rang outside. Soon the streets of Ferrix would be teeming with workers. It would be crawling with Stormtroopers, too. Imogen didn’t feel concerned, crowds were easier to blend into, but she did worry for her mechanic. Bix’s secret trade could land her in an Imperial cell if they ever found out. 

“Maybe,” Imogen started. The words were dry and heavy in her mouth. “Maybe you should leave Ferrix.” 

Bix slowly turned her weary head to blink at Imogen. “What?”

“You should go offworld. Get far away from here and start new.”

“With you?”

Imogen swallowed hard and nodded. “I can take you wherever you want to go.”

Bix’s features softened so much that it tightened Imogen’s chest. She sighed almost wistfully at the idea, but said “I can’t, Imogen. I have my parents’ salvage yard and I need to keep an eye on Maarva, too.”

“Since when is Maarva your responsibility?” she grumbled. 

“When someone matters to you,” Bix said, reaching over to place her hand on Imogen’s good knee. “You do what you can to care for them.”

The bounty hunter studied the way Bix’s thumb brushed back and forth, grateful that it had been on her intact leg. She wouldn’t have been able to feel her otherwise. “I guess I wouldn’t know.”

“You know,” she gently insisted.

“Bix…” Imogen sighed. 

“You’ve been saying my name a lot.”

After a moment of hesitation, Imogen looked up. Bix stared so intently into her eyes that Imogen couldn’t break from her gaze even if she wanted to. A part of her did want to – the part inside of her that screamed to hold her ground. She wondered if it ever occurred to Bix that walking away from her had been the closest thing to caring that Imogen was capable of. 

She never fully understood how compassion worked. That turned out to be her biggest problem under the tutelage of the Jedi, but her greatest tool as an Inquisitor. Neither offered her the opportunity to form a proper attachment and learn what it means to care about someone other than herself. It dawned on Imogen as she studied Bix that this might be the only person in the entire galaxy she has ever truly cared for.

“Swear to me you’ll keep a low profile,” Imogen requested and placed her hand on top of Bix’s where it still rested on her knee. “No more deals under the table. Don’t reach out to any offworld contacts.”

“Does that include you?”

“Do you want it to?”

“No,” Bix answered immediately.

The corner of Imogen’s mouth twitched with the flash of a smile. “Then promise me and… and I’ll come back whenever you call.”

Bix’s soft, genuine smile lasted long enough that Imogen had the opportunity to commit it to memory. She really is beautiful. It’s not that Imogen hadn’t noticed before, it’s that she hadn’t let herself appreciate Bix’s beauty with affection. The woman’s features were always something that brought forth a hunger to crave and possess. Now she was something to simply just admire for what she is. 

“I promise.”

“Good.”

“Now,” Bix’s hand switched to pat Imogen’s metal knee. “Can I get a look at this leg? You’ve shifted your weight.”

Imogen released an amused breath, both at her perceptiveness and her need to always fix something. “It’s a prosthetic, not a ship.”

Bix shrugged. “Can’t hurt to take a peek. Maybe you just have a screw loose.” 

Imogen cocked an eyebrow. “And if you fry the neural interface?”

“I’m a way too skilled mechanic for that and you know it,” she bit back. 

After another moment of hesitation, she nodded. “Fine.” At the very least, it was an excuse to stay a little longer… to keep Bix close.

Imogen opted out of synthflesh when she received her cybernetic leg, leaving most of the inner workings exposed without clothing. It made for easier accessibility for maintenance, but she mostly wanted a constant reminder of what Vader had so casually taken from her. She remembered lying on the floor of the training room, clutching the burned stump of her leg, and listening to her new master drone on about the importance of loss. The lesson had been pointless. He knew nothing about what she lost. Or what she took.

Bix had her walk around without pants to pinpoint the issue. Imogen usually underwent this process with medical droids and felt a bit foolish in Bix’s home, but she still silently obeyed every instruction. The mechanic eventually muttered something about an offset joint and sat Imogen back on the couch to get a closer look.

With the cybernetic leg outstretched, Bix knelt on the floor and leaned over it to tinker with the mechanisms in her knee. One arm rested on Imogen’s thigh as Bix got pulled into her element. Imogen may as well have been a ship for how concentrated the mechanic was. She wanted to watch her work more than anything, but Imogen averted her gaze to avoid irritating Bix. 

Even indoors, the chill of Ferrix caused the bounty hunter to shiver and her exposed skin to prickle with goosebumps. Out of the corner of her eye, Imogen saw Bix glance up. She made an effort to suppress her body’s reaction to the cold.

“There’s a blanket behind you,” Bix told her.

“I’ll survive,” Imogen dismissed. “You’re almost done.”

Bix leaned in until their faces were mere inches apart. Imogen stiffened and felt like she might fall into those rich brown eyes of hers, but she quickly realized the mechanic only reached for the blanket. As Bix placed it on Imogen’s lap, she smiled with a hint of coyness and said “It’s gonna be a few.” 

“You’ve made me your responsibility as well, it seems.”

“Like I said before,” Bix murmured absentmindedly as she returned to work. There seemed to be more she planned to say, but Imogen noticed her hesitate as if she caught herself. “I’m grateful you came,” she continued. The tone of her voice sounded more formal. “And this gives me something to do.” 

 Imogen saw right through the deflection. When someone matters to you, you do what you can to care for them. 

“You’re wasting your time,” Imogen warned. She meant it matter-of-factly. One only nurtures to see something change, typically in ways that are considered better by the perspective of the person devoting their efforts. If Imogen learned anything from her first master, it was that. Others had tried to make her right for so long that she finally turned wrong.  

Bix shrugged without looking back up. “Then it’s a good thing it’s mine to waste.”

Imogen didn’t really know what to make of that response. She simply stared down at her mechanic quizzically and admired her casual confidence in the silence that followed. The lack of resistance in Imogen’s chest allowed her to relax in the late morning light that shined through the windows of Bix’s home. The rising presence of the sun brought little warmth with it, but Imogen began to learn that there were other means to chase away the cold.

[youareiron-andyouarestrong]

Hello!!! Your Rebelcaptain Secret Santa here! *ominous version of mariah carey’s all i want for christmas plays in the distance to herald the coming holiday*

Soooo based on last week, I have to say I kicked my feet and giggled at you saying you enjoy Taylor Swift lyric titles. Because. Well…Guilty as charged. Your entire fic was inspired by one little TS lyric kind of as a joke and then it became reality. Will you guess the song? 🤔 Who knows?

But in that vein, now I HAVE to know what lyrics are Rebelcaptain-coded for you? More Taylor? Someone completely different? I’m a big fan of From Eden by Hozier, myself. The idea of the way they mirror each other *clenches fist*

Have a lovely week!

this is such a good question, and my brain is mildly vibrating right now

obviously, is it even an otp if the Song that Invented Romance™️, by the Bog Man Himself, Hozier's "Work Song," doesn't apply? i think not ("when my time comes around / lay me gently in the cold, hard earth / no grave could hold my body down, i'll crawl home to her" he climbed to reach her on a broken leg!!)

for a purely Swiftie take, definitely, one of my sleeper faves off of evermore, "long story short," which is perfect post-canon vibes: "so i dropped my sword / threw it in bushes and knocked on your door / and we live in peace but if someone comes at us / this time i'm ready" if that's not the most Jyn-coded lyric I've ever seen I don't know what is

"She Calls Me Back" by Noah Kahan also gives me massive Rebelcaptain vibes, if we wanted a glimpse into Cassian's head: "Lost for a long time / Two parallel lines / Everything's alright when / She calls me back, she calls me back" 

also, maybe my favorite Rebelcaptain song, on the dearly departed but not forgotten Official Spotify Cassian Andor Playlist: "Ophelia" by the Lumineers. "oh, oh, Ophelia, you've been on my mind girl / since the flood. / oh, oh, Ophelia, heaven help the fool who falls in love."

[offtorivendell]

Will Elain Archeron become "the Shadowsinger's Knife"?

Or has she already taken on this nom de guerre?

Please don't share or screenshot this post without credit. Art used with permission from the amazing theclever.crow on Instagram.

Disclaimer: this post is really more of a meandering discussion than a theory, which makes no claims of accuracy. It's just something I've been speaking about with @wingedblooms and @silverlinedeyes as a continuation of my posts about the parallels between the Archeron sisters - specifically Elain - with Bryce Quinlan and Theia, as well as Elain's association with Truth-Teller.

Spoilers: ACOTAR, CC and TOG series to date.

Relevant previous posts:

Could the Archeron sisters be descended from Theia, the Starborn Queen? Here.

Powerful parallels between the Archeron sisters, Bryce Quinlan and Theia. Here.

Theia's secret legacy: is "Gwydion" code for Theia's own deeds in the Prythian history books; was she forgotten on purpose? Here.

Does Truth-Teller portend a future relationship between Azriel and Elain Archeron? Here.

Azriel and Elain Archeron live up to their names: Here.

To clarify, I'm not suggesting that Elain will become known as "The Shadowsinger's Knife" as a title - she is a Seer, with possible mystic or oracle* powers, so something along those lines seems more likely to me (although even then I can understand her not wanting word to get out, because she'd never be left alone) - but that she, or another being, might have nudged a cosmic thread or two in order for her name to be replaced by that of the blade she used to pierce the King of Hybern's throat in any historical accounts of the event, or even in the minds of her family and friends.

* Post by @wingedblooms.

Does Elain have a nom de guerre?

Many have noticed the fact that, as of ACOSF, Elain's crucial role in killing the King of Hybern to save Nesta and Cassian - and their world! - appears to have been erased, with Nesta herself claiming to Gwyn that it was "luck and rage" that allowed her to slay the faerie who was seconds away from ending both her and Cassian, before Elain stepped out of a shadow and stabbed him through the neck so hard that she created an exit would on the other side.

We've all seen the following parallel between Elain and Azriel, with Feyre calling Az "the knife in the dark," but Elain actually performing the deed:

But the second male, the more classically beautiful of the two … Even the light shied from the elegant planes of his face. With good reason. Beautiful, but near-unreadable. He’d be the one to look out for—the knife in the dark. Indeed, an obsidian-hilted hunting knife was sheathed at his thigh, its dark scabbard embossed with a line of silver runes I’d never seen before. - ACOMAF, chapter 16

The king’s hand began to drop. And then halted. A choking noise came out of him. For a moment, I thought the Cauldron had answered my pleas. But as a black blade broke through the king’s throat, spraying blood, I realized someone else had. Elain stepped out of a shadow behind him, and rammed Truth-Teller to the hilt through the back of the king’s neck as she snarled in his ear, “Don’t you touch my sister.” - ACOWAR, chapter 74

I have previously discussed the idea that "Gwydion" might be synonymous with "Theia" in Prythian's history books and, to me, Elain's erasure appears to be in the same vein. Elain - possibly - either already is, or could become known as, "the Shadowsinger's knife" when the King of Hybern's assassination is referred to in the history books. Again, I don't think this will be a title, simply a way for her to remain private and fly under the radar. When Gwyn said to Nesta that she killed the King of Hybern with "the Shadowsinger's knife," could she have inadvertently been referring to Elain? Was Nesta lucky that Elain was enraged at the threat the King posed to her life?

If Elain does end up working in the intelligence field in some capacity, it would make complete sense for her actions to remain as hidden as possible, given her very public identity. Additionally, if Theia* was a Seer - and I wouldn't be surprised, Theia being the Greek goddess of Light and Sight - it would fit with the theory that Seers, and the fact that Cauldron Made beings, can make themselves be forgotten.

“Made objects tend to not wish to be found by just anyone,” Amren cautioned. “That they have faded from memory, that even I didn’t think of them immediately in the fight against Hybern, suggests that perhaps they willed it that way. Wanted to stay hidden. True things of power have such gifts.” - ACOSF, chapter 20

Given Nesta didn't think, even once, of Elain's crucial actions when Gwyn asked her about the King of Hybern's death, I lean towards Elain - who is Made - or another being - maybe a mystic or god, who can nudge psychic threads - being responsible for this (consciously or not on Elain's behalf), and not Nesta deciding that Elain needed to be protected, though I could be incorrect, of course.

Is Elain Truth-Teller's chosen wielder?

This is an incomplete discussion, because metas are hard work, but consider the following... we saw Truth-Teller devour sunlight in ACOWAR:

Elain’s eyes widened at the obsidian-hilted blade in Azriel’s scarred hand. The runes on the dark scabbard. “It has never failed me once,” the shadowsinger said, the midday sun devoured by the dark blade. “Some people say it is magic and will always strike true.” He gently took her hand and pressed the hilt of the legendary blade into it. “It will serve you well.” - ACOWAR, chapter 69

And then in HOSAB, Truth-Teller and Gwydion's (aka the Starsword) relationship was revealed:

The male dropped the dagger to the plush carpet. All of them retreated as it flared with dark light, as if in answer. Alpha and Omega. “Gwydion,” the dark-haired female whispered, indicating the Starsword. - CC HOSAB, chapter 78

Elain "stepped out of a shadow" to save Nesta and Cassian, answering Feyre's prayers.

Elain, in Hebrew, means my god has answered me.

I've been wondering for a while if the dark light with which Truth-Teller flared in answer to the Starsword could potentially be shadows, similar to Azriel's own, because we don't actually know what Az's shadows truly are. So, did Truth-Teller...

Allow Elain to focus some latent shadow magic of her own; ie. could she be a Singer of some sort? These posts here, here and here discuss this,* but additionally, I wouldn't be surprised if Truth-Teller allowed Elain to pierce the fabric of reality and shadow walk to save her sister.

Forge a carranam bond with Azriel that let her access his powers?

Does the magic reside within the blade itself, and Elain managed to recharge it with her (hypothetical) light?

* Reblogs of posts by @silverlinedeyes and @wingedblooms.

Could it be a combination of these scenarios, or something else entirely?

“You honestly think he’d ever give up Truth-Teller?” “He gave it to Elain,” Mor said, admiring a moonstone necklace in the counter’s glass case. “She gave it back,” I amended, failing to block out the image of the black blade piercing through the King of Hybern’s throat. But Elain had given it back—had pressed it into Azriel’s hands after the battle, just as he had pressed it into hers before. And then walked away without looking back. Mor hummed to herself. - ACOFAS, chapter 4

Given the above ACOFAS quote with Mor and Feyre it wouldn't surprise me if Elain wielded Truth-Teller once more... or even permanently. This could lead to another parallel between Elain and Bryce Quinlan, who currently wields Gwydion/the Starsword.

Bryce and the Starsword seems to be a foregone conclusion:

Given the a possible link between:

Theia (and now Bryce) wielding Gwydion, which is known in Midgard as the Starsword,

Elain wielding Truth-Teller, Gwydion's paired blade, and

The blades hypothetically being known for their deeds, rather than the person who used them...

How will this affect Bryce going forward? Will her actions also be forgotten by history, or be labelled with the Starsword's name? Or is this phenomenon only applicable in Prythian? Alternatively, will something change in the future, as the Starsword and Truth-Teller have now been reunited, or perhaps only once the Asteri have been defeated?

I know I've mentioned it before, but I do hope that any link between Elain and Bryce is more intrinsic to themselves, and not just because they are the hypothetical "chosen" of each blade - which, I really think they may be, as each blade was found by a shadowy male (Azriel and Ruhn, respectively) who is important to them, and then used by him for years, but they were never fully utilised, as Bryce and Elain appeared to do so with little training.

As if it was meant to be.

What could this mean for Azriel?

These parallels are part of why I think Azriel could be Starborn, with a little light. Like Ruhn Danaan, is Azriel's (hypothetical) Starborn light hidden beneath his shadows, and could his discovery of Truth-Teller parallel how Ruhn once found the Starsword (aka Gwydion) during his ordeal?

How could this impact the plot?

The Starsword belongs to Bryce (and Ruhn), but could Azriel wield it for a time? In ACOSF, Azriel mentioned that he preferred swordplay to close quarters fighting... could that have been a hint that he would wield Gwydion, while Elain used Truth-Teller (thus fulfilling the ACOFAS conversation between Feyre and Mor)?

Will there be some sort of lending of the blades between their worlds - and is there a difference in timelines that could allow this - such that they can each use the magics at full strength to defeat their respective enemies and then give the blades back? Could Hunt possibly use Truth-Teller to power up the Starsword from a distance, instead of the risky and inconvenient practice of throwing lightning bolts at Bryce?

Like I said at the start, this is more of a meandering discussion than a fully fleshed out meta, but I'm excited to see where it goes.

[nikethestatue]

in that MC vein, what about the male leads? Rowan, Rhys, Cassian, Hunt, etc.?

Well, you can never bring Cassian into a conversation with me.

Because Cassian is the love of my love. My soul mate. My heart mate. The light of my world. The one I love the most and above all others.

So, taking Cassian out of the equation,

Rhys is always #1. I continued reading SJM books because of Rhys. I will love Rhys always. I love Rhys's unabashed duality, his extreme grayness, his lack of ethics and morals. :) No matter how much SJM tries to make Rhys 'good' she can't, and I love that. He overpowers her good intentions every time. Because Rhys is not good, or decent, and Rhys will stomp on your little heart and your little moral code and chew right through it. He is so awesomely fallible. He makes terrible decisions, he throws literally everyone under the bus. Who else can do that?

Rowan is #2 because Rowan is so monolithic. He has this massive presence, and such an excellent counterpoint to Aelin's madness. He is the Azriel to Cassian. He is rational, unemotional, and steadfast. He fell in love with Aelin without any stupid mate bond and I love that. Also a giant man with a tattooed face and white hair is something else. And if your heart doesn't break when you read "Where is Aelin? Where is my wife?" then you should check your heart.

Hunt is #3 He is the least compelling of them all. In CC1, he had moments of brilliance and torment, but HOSAB sort of murdered the free will that he only just gotten. He became too passive and too 'I'll go along with anything Bryce said'. I also want him to be more tactical, more cerebral, more experienced--in everything. He is an angel and a general--where is the spark? I want the CC Hunt back. Now I hope he doesn't have some Asteri induced amnesia, and forgotten everything that he is. That would be tragic. I hope SJM gives him a little more oomph going forward. He got lost in HOSAB (just like most readers did).

[yazthebookish]

How Azriel was feeling when in his scene with Elain and Rhysand:

Azriel tucked in his wings and left without another word, stalking through the house and onto the front lawn to sit in the frigid starlight. To let the frost in his veins match the air around him.  

Until he felt nothing. Was again nothing at all.  

In both his scenes with Elain and Rhysand, his inner loathing was potent and visible from his POV. You clearly see how those thoughts are eating him up.

---

How Azriel was feeling when his scene ended with Gwyn:

"I blame Cassian for this. He's too busy making eyes at Nesta to notice such mistakes these days."

Azriel laughed. "I’ll give you that."  

Gwyn smiled broadly. "Thank you."

Azriel dipped his head in a sketch of a bow, something restless settling in him. Even his shadows had calmed. As if content to lounge on his shoulders and watch.

...

How Azriel was feeling when his last scene ended with Clotho:

Clotho's pen moved once more. She deserves something as beautiful as this. I thank you for the joy it shall bring to her.

Something sparked in Azriel's chest, but he only nodded his thanks and left. He could picture it, though, as he ascended the stairs back to  the House proper. How Gwyn's teal eyes might light upon seeing the necklace. For whatever reason... he could see it.  

But Azriel tucked away the thought, consciously erasing the slight smile it brought to his face. Buried the image down deep, where it glowed quietly.

A thing of secret, lovely beauty.

...

Both scenes that ended on a positive note were connected to Gwyn. If this isn't a hint enough about how his future relationship with Gwyn will make him happy... the romantic coding in the last passage of his chapter is strong.

...

Highlighting this specifically to see the comparisons between. Sarah wouldn't have ended his chapter this way if she didn't want the reader to catch this.

AND now that it's canon we will see him sing:

She angled her head, hair shining like molten metal. "Do you sing?”

He blinked. It wasn't every day that people took him by surprise, but..."Why do you ask?"

"They call you shadowsinger. Is it because you sing?"

“I am a shadowsinger--it's not a title that someone just made.”

She shrugged again, irreverently. Az narrowed his eyes, studying her. "Do you, though?" she pressed. "Sing?"

Azriel couldn't help his soft chuckle. "Yes."

...

I can imagine Azriel may started his singing when he was alone in the dark cell as a way to cope with his loneliness. Singing could be a comfort to Azriel in his loneliness as it is a comfort to Gwyn and I find that beautiful.

[wildlyglittering]

The Journey Begins with a Smile

So ages ago (and I do mean ages) I asked people to give me some Nessian prompts and I had four requests. Not many so that’s completely doable I thought. 

Since my request, things didn’t go so well for my personal life and then, on a global scale, a pandemic hit. Both those things meant I wasn’t writing or even reading much. 

BUT I was determined to fill those requests - even if the requesters had forgotten or no longer cared! Luckily I have managed to get my groove back so am trying to ride the writing train for as long as it will carry me!

@ekaterinakostrova requested something where Cassian made Nesta smile for the first time. I’ve taken some liberties to fill the prompt but here it is. Finally. 

I hope you enjoy!

***

The multi-level gardens of the Day Court stretched outwards like a labyrinth.

Unlike the Night Court, whose gardens were sensibly flat, Day’s held winding staircases which lead to a plethora of mezzanines, stacked one after another. Each offered a new delight; pools of water swimming with gold and white fish, pagodas draped with ever blossoming honeysuckle or fountains carved with the curved forms of caressing lovers.

Some paths appeared to lead to dead ends, but the experienced visitor long learnt appearances were deceiving. As long as the explorer had the foresight to move thickets of ivy and trailing roses aside, they would find smaller paths twisting towards secret grottos.

Aside from the romantic allure of mystery, the garden’s contained an energy which reverberated through Cassian’s bones. Although the deep calm of the Night Court lands was his preference, Cassian found staying in Day was never an unpleasant experience.

Wandering the gardens would have been its usual satisfying activity if not for the frustration simmering in Cassian’s veins. Not an hour before he’d bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted the copper of his blood before storming from the bedroom suites, leaving the other occupant behind.

His anger, and hers, were twins to each other. When the subject matter at hand arose, rational discussion dissipated like smoke in a storm and, as they were both apt to lose their tempers, that’s exactly what they did. After those times, it was best they stayed apart.

Being away from the Night Court brought up the familiar argument.

Cassian scrubbed a hand over his face, they were in Day on Rhys’ orders otherwise they wouldn’t have been there at all.

The knowledge of who Lucien was to Helion, and who the Lady of Autumn had been, was now widely known. Now, the painful possibility of civil war loomed over the Courts, brought on by the betrayal of an unwritten code of conduct. Helion was thinking ahead, reaching out to all potential allies in the hopes if he gained enough, Autumn would be dissuaded to start conflict.

There was no question Rhys would pledge to Helion.

It didn’t hurt though, Rhys said, to pay Day a visit.

Rhys spoke about contingency planning and counter-measure tactics but Cassian had known Rhys long enough to understand the guise. Under everything lay the ripple of the question of Spring’s allegiance and the inevitable shift of power towards the next generation of High Lords, including those Rhys was unable to befriend.

Custom dictated High Lords, and now High Lady, were the only ones to be allowed in the sanctum to speak politics. However, Rhys requested the attendance of his Inner Circle - where Rhys went, his most trusted followed.

What was less clear was the rationale behind Rhys’ request that those connected to the Inner Circle also attend. It was, Cassian believed, Rhys’ attempt to keep his friends compliant and a way to curry favour from others - namely Lucien who always hungered for time with Elain.

This secondary request was the one which opened the festering wound close to the surface of Nesta’s skin.

In an effort to find some calm, Cassian took to walking the gardens, like he had many times before. Like those times before, his steps took him a familiar route. Maybe, in the depths of his subconscious mind, he sought out what would bring him solace no matter how measly a sliver.

He ventured down a staircase, overflowing with floating lilacs, and onto a terrace which was surprisingly spacious for such a narrow-arched entrance.

This particular mezzanine was paved with sand coloured stone and framed by apple trees, their branches reaching towards each other like fingers. The waist high balcony overlooked the next level down – the glass domed ceiling of the sunken library.

This terrace, tucked away in the constructed gardens, housed the collection of seven statues who all faced inwards, into their circle, for eternity.

Like all statues in Day, the figures had been carved from marble run through with thick veins of gold and silver. Unlike the other statues, Cassian held an interest for these and these alone.

Whichever sculptor Helion found, he found one with talent. Despite the fact they were rock the sculptures contained something so painfully real. They were motionless yet their bodies held motion, they were emotionless yet their faces held emotion. When Cassian reached out to touch them, he swore there was bone beneath their stone skin.

Day was never more glorious then how she was now, in the full swing of her namesake and the wide blue sky called to Cassian to dance. Though his muscles ached to obey and his wings quivered in anticipation, he wouldn’t fly. Day was filled with sharp, ornate spires and he’d navigated a similar path unsuccessfully before.

But being trapped on the ground did nothing to help his mood; his legs shook, his eyes stung. Cassian was tired of the burning sun, tired of being apart from his friends, tired of the endless political deliberations of the other High Lords.

When he was unable to fly, Cassian needed to find other ways to curb his energy. One of those ways often involved his willing mate.

Except, at this current time she was not quite so willing. The blush pink rooms they were guests in were uncomfortably close to the rooms of others so Nesta didn’t want to make love to him here. She was even less likely to be inclined towards Cassian’s persuasions following their argument.

This was a radical departure from how they were in the isolation of their mountain cabin, especially in those final days. Time had turned into hourglasses and the sand of their lives trickled through their fingers fast then they breathed.

They couldn’t move to each other quick enough then, couldn’t remove their clothes fast enough, couldn’t press their bodies close enough.

Since their return to Velaris it was as though Nesta was turning into stone as cold and hard as the material of the statues Cassian now stared at.

Cassian sighed, drawing a deep breath of the lilac scented air into his lungs and walked towards one statue in particular. The one he thought of as his twin.

The stone fae stood high on the ends of its toes, as if it couldn’t bear to have any part of itself touching the ground. The arms stretched over its head, fingers straining upwards, begging for the sky to claim it. The figure didn’t have wings but Cassian imagined them, stretched out behind, broad and strong.

Cassian’s own wings, tangible flesh and bone, twitched as a breeze drifted past.  

The circle existed for centuries but grew in number over the years. The first ones, the original ones, hadn’t changed but the way Cassian looked at them had. Once a carefree nature danced about them but, like all things weightless, that had floated away.

The invisible weight on them now was hard and heavy. Even the figure for the sky had something buried under the surface that hadn’t existed before.

Cassian was no fool – he recognised his own transference. What he saw; fatigue, anger, sorrow – these were his own burdens and in turn he projected them onto the poor stone creature in front of him willing it to absorb what he didn’t want.

Cassian ran his hand once more over his face. He wanted his effigy to take Nesta’s words which today were sharper than usual with insults flung towards his family with flippant ease. He reminded her that when she spoke with venom against them, she spoke venom against him.

Take your antidote then, she’d sneered, beg your friends to draw it all out if you think I’m such poison.

Nesta hadn’t been fully happy in the mountains but she’d been as close to peace as he’d ever seen. Finally, a part of Nesta was at rest, and the female Cassian loved was in a place he loved. All had been right for a time, their hearts in full growth, only to shrink into themselves when they were summoned back to Velaris.

Cassian would be misguided to think their arrival in Day was what agitated Nesta to begin the fight that morning. He could pretend she picked up on his restlessness or that she didn’t care much for the Court however the latter was a lie.

During her lengthy rehabilitation Nesta had visited Day on numerous occasions, sometimes with Cassian but often without. On the instances he visited her he was forced to choke down his jealousy at seeing Nesta and Hellion walking arm in arm, understanding that the High Lord of Day was playing a significant part in helping her heal.

Nesta would spend every minute in this place if Helion asked her to.

No, everything triggered from Rhys’ request that Nesta come to Day.

In Nesta’s eyes, Rhys’ request was a command; a command which served only to appease Rhys’ ego and prove he would always be able to demand the lives of those around him bend to his will.

Rhys wanted Cassian to be in Day and Rhys wanted Nesta to provide a pleasant distraction for Cassian’s restless nature. There was no other purpose.

The bitterness bled into Nesta at the fact Rhys demanded her attendance in a place she adored and would visit without complaint. Rhys had smirked it was the ‘without complaint’ he’d wanted from her for once.

She came only because Cassian had pleaded.

 The heavy honeysuckle cloyed at Cassian’s nose and he decided to leave the gardens before he drowned in the scent of flowers. He’d find Az, a permanently sympathetic ear, who would patiently listen to Cassian’s complaints about how suffocated he was in a place he longer wished to be.

As he turned, a flash of marble hidden in the trees caught his eye.

Cassian hadn’t noticed anything else on this mezzanine before but it was no surprise, the white figure among the deep green leaves was set apart from the circle and tucked out of sight.  

Drawing closer he saw the statue stood with its back to the rest, head titled downwards. The marble designed to be the hair splayed outwards as though caught in a tumultuous wind. Something about the statue, something about her, hollowed out Cassian’s chest.

“Why didn’t Helion put you with the others?”

“Because she doesn’t belong with the others.”

A voice, smoky and deep, carried across the space and Helion appeared from behind a wall of ivy onto the terrace next to him.

Cassian quirked an eyebrow. “I didn’t know about that secret passage.”

“That’s the whole point of it being a secret,” Helion said with a wistful sigh. “Now I’ll have to move it.”

“Don’t on my account.”

“And have you get here quicker to start your sulking? I don’t think so.”

Cassian opened his mouth to refute Helion’s words but the High Lord spoke over him.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” he said with a nod to the statue. “Out of all them, this one’s my favourite.” Helion turned to Cassian, dark skin glowing from the light within, mischief in his eyes.

Cassian bit his teeth together.

She was beautiful though, curves and angles, and the strength of stone. But who were they speaking of? The statue or Nesta herself?

“Why is she over here and not with the rest?”

The smugness slid from Helion’s face, his dark eyes scanning Cassian’s face, categorising every imperfection and scar as though he searched for something. Perhaps he wasn’t able to find what he wanted and a sad smile crept onto his face. “I told you – she doesn’t belong with the others. If I put her in the circle where would she gaze? At the ground? I won’t have that for her.”

Cassian’s mouth twisted, “She’s already looking at the ground.”

Helion cocked his head to the side, like one of the curious dogs in the mortal realm who sensed an invisible Cassian without truly perceiving him.

“Interesting how we can view something so differently. Tell me,” Helion said, “what are you seeing?”

They stood, arm length apart, one a High Lord and one a General. One draped in white and gold silks and the other clad in black leather. Winged and grounded.

Centuries existed between them with decades of Helion’s decadent parties where his fingertips would trail across the skin of Cassian’s muscled forearm, his mouth curled into a sensual smile. They’d not gone to bed with each other but shared at least one female over the years.

Here they stood in the sun; no lustful invitations, no pulling of rank. They were two males, competing in a game with stakes Cassian didn’t care for.

Still, he described her. Head downward, eyes downcast, eyelids. No sculptor would ever be able to create something so fine but Cassian swore there were delicate, long eyelashes casting a shadow against the sharp sculptured cheekbones. The graceful neck curved into a collarbone and clavicle with strands of stone hair caught in a storm of her own making.

Head and eyes down. This is what Cassian relayed to Helion. “Are you satisfied?” he growled, “I’m tired of playing.”

Cassian had jested over the years that Helion had a way of undressing him with his eyes, of looking beyond the armour and siphons to the male underneath. Helion had roared with delight and asked Cassian if he wanted to put that feeling into action.

Now, with the High Lord’s dark eyes on him, Cassian believed Helion was witnessing something deeper, that he was now staring beyond bone and blood.

“I know when you’re upset,” Helion said, glancing away, “and where you go when you are. You’ve walked this pathway numerous times and besides, these are my gardens, they tell me everything.” Helion’s eyes flickered back to Cassian, “You’re not as prone to idiocy as Rhys would have you be. Look again and try and do it properly.”

I have, Cassian wanted to tell him but he hadn’t.

Her stone feet were planted on solid ground, the stone hands down by her sides with the palms facing upwards. Her head was still down as were her eyes.

The figure seemed to change the longer he looked, one expression melting into another, completely different from before; disinterest, anger, peace. Cassian followed the line of her eyes to the gold domes roof of the sunken library glinting in the sunlight on the mezzanine below.

The statues full lips were tilted upwards into a smile, small but there.

“You don’t love Day,” Helion said to him, his deep voice breaking through the storm of Cassian’s thoughts.

“I enjoy it.”

“But Day will never be home.” Helion raised a robed arm towards the sky, long dark fingers stretching out, the light greedily swimming around his skin. “You seek freedom and you can’t find that here. So, my question to you oh miserable one, where do you find freedom?”

Cassian shrugged; this was an easy question and though Helion already had the answer, Cassian would play a little longer. “Velaris. The mountains.”

“And who are you free with?”

Helion’s tone was sly and conspiratorial as though he was inviting Cassian into a darkened room and asking him to share all his secrets, whispering across velvet pillows or through draped curtains. It was like honey dripped from Helion’s mouth.

Cassian’s fists clenched, tendons sliding over bones as he flexed his fingers.

Helion was skilled at drawing out confidences that most fae wanted to keep hidden. He emitted some strange magic which made Cassian want to dash to the nearest scribe and spill everything he had. Names and faces swam into Cassian’s mind, seemingly at Helion’s bidding, the most prominent being the one who spent her morning scowling at him.

Her name took shape at the end of Cassian’s tongue.

“You know who,” Cassian choked the words out in lieu of the ones that was forming, “don’t play your games.”

Helion stepped closer to the statue with a sigh and trailed a graceful finger across the carved lifeline on her upturned left palm. The line cut off not long after it started before beginning again, half a nail width away. It matched the real version perfectly.

Helion pouted and peered over the ledge. “It’s no fun if you don’t want to play but let’s not then, let me share with you a truth which your own truth speaker doesn’t care to bring to you. Nesta isn’t free in Velaris, but then you do know this.” Helion’s eyes glanced from the sun glinted library roof to Cassian’s face.

“She’s free here though. My statues, my darling beauties, represent the hearts of my most welcomed guests and while you are quick to immediately assume that Nesta spends her time staring at the ground, I see she is simply seeking her own peace.” Helion shrugged, gold and white silk sliding over smooth dark skin. “Freedom looks different for everyone.”

“I know that,” Cassian snarled, teeth bared, “I don’t need some heavy-handed lecture.”

The air began to pulse as an energy reverberated around the stone of the terrace. The tree branches shook and the leaves rustled. One growl of power to a disobeying dog. A warning; never bear your canines at a High Lord in the very Court his blood runs through.

Cassian uncurled his fists, splaying his fingers in Helion’s eyeline. Acquiescence. Cassian was guilty of foolish behaviour but he was no fool.

Helion’s tone had bite. “I’ll forgive your misjudgement on account of your poorly developed emotional response mechanism but only this once. You get away with burying your head when in the Night Court but I won’t have it here. Let me speak plain - this statue is an everlasting part of my garden but it’s rock, expensive rock, but rock. I would happily welcome the originator of its visage to become a permanent member of my Court. I think she’d accept, don’t you?”

Although the power of Helion still sang its presence, Cassian restrained the urge to turn feral. He didn’t, wouldn’t, because despite what others thought, Cassian was no animal. Besides, some part of Helion’s words wormed their way through Cassian’s brain.

Perhaps Helion discerned the calm Cassian was desperately trying to maintain because his voice was soft when he next spoke. “You have two options my handsome friend; go together to a place where you are both equally as free or find your freedom apart. Sacrifices have to be made and they shouldn’t all be hers.”

The sweet scent of roses and lilacs drifted through the mezzanine and Cassian looked down at the statue’s open palm.

 “You can spend your time out here staring at an exquisitely carved piece of stone or you can reach for something real,” Helion said. “Your choice.”

Cassian thought of the circle of statues at his back, most especially the one on its toes spending centuries reaching for something that never came.

The squeeze on Cassian’s shoulder was gentle. “You’ll find her in the library,” Helion told him, “but then, you already knew that.”

Cassian sighed and closed his eyes and when he’d opened them, Helion had gone. Only the hanging ivy swaying by the wall was any indication of where he’d gone. Cassian looked back at the statue’s calm and serene face before trailing a fingertip onto the other open palm, half expecting her hand to curl around his, finding that he wanted it to.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “I knew.”

Cassian wanted everything; Nesta, the Inner Circle, Velaris. He wanted his freedom; long fought for and hard won. He could have all those things if he pushed hard enough - but only for a time. His desires co-existing side by side would have lasted as long as a breath in the span of his lifetime.

There will be cost and Cassian understood the price.

He left the mezzanine and its sculptured delights behind. They were just statues, fixed to stand forever. Living things were meant to move.

The library was cooler than outside, filled with white marble columns and an expansive white marble floor making the space larger and lighter. Ivy weaved its way up the columns while the golden domed roof provided a welcoming warmth, counterbalancing the coolness of the stone.

Nesta was exactly where Cassian knew to find her, tucked away in her favourite loveseat under an arch in the romance section.

In the mountains Nesta told him how she spent her days in the Day Court; meals with Helion, walks with Helion, talks with Helion.

They all made Cassian’s stomach twist.

Nesta also told him she learnt to be alone with her thoughts. In those moments she went to the library, one of the few places she found comforting. There hadn’t been many safe spaces on offer to her in Prythian.

Cassian stood a small distance away behind one of the larger columns, folding his wings in as tight as he was able.

Nesta would always be one of the most beautiful females he’d ever seen. As she was now, with her head bent to her pages, she matched the statue above their heads; watchful and waiting.

Her face, smooth and still, could have been carved from stone, a testament to how expressionless she could be. If Cassian hadn’t experienced the passion, the sadness and the rage which existed underneath he would have believed she felt nothing at all.

Her cool voice carried across to him.

“Are you going to spend all your time lurking in the shadows?”

“I don’t lurk.”

Nesta looked over briefly, a delicate eyebrow raised, her pink lips downturned. Those blue-grey bore into him. She wasn’t in the mood for playing.

Cassian sighed and walked toward her. At least, he thought, Nesta shifted on the loveseat to make room for him. After their argument he thought she would be more inclined to try and beat him with the book she’d turned back to read.

They sat in strained silence. Nesta’s soft breaths out of sync with Cassian’s. She inhaled on his exhale. Everything was out of sync with them, even down to the core.

Cassian let out another sigh. Maybe he could fix this, re-set where they were going wrong. He shifted, his leg brushing against hers, so he could see her while he spoke.

“I was speaking with Helion,” he said.

Nesta kept her face to her book but raised an eyebrow again, “Oh.”

“Yes, in the garden.”

“Hmm,” she murmured and turned a page.

“He found me through one of his secret passageways.”

Nesta’s lips quirked into a small smile, “Now he’ll have to change it, so you don’t find it.”

“Yes, that’s what he said.”

“He has many that he’s always changing. I wouldn’t worry.”

“I’m not.”

The silence fell over them again like a fog. They’d reduced themselves to small talk between strangers, Cassian at a loss for what to say and Nesta with no desire to help him find his words.

“He found me in the statue circle.”

She was about to turn another page, although she hadn’t really been reading since he sat down, but her fingers stumbled and she dropped the book which landed with a thud.

Cassian picked it up, the gold embossed words on a cover of rich green telling a story of love. Nesta reached out and as she did, Cassian used his other hand to grasp her wrist, “Nes...”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. “Let me go.”

It was a weak command, her voice shaking as she spoke but Cassian would always obey her will and he released her wrist. Nesta snatched at her book.

She didn’t open the cover, abandoning her pretence of reading and instead placed the volume on her lap, staring upwards towards the ceiling.

“I hate those statues,” she said.

“I know.”

“You have to visit them every time you’re here.”

“Not every time,” he replied but she turned, looking him in the eye.

“Yes, every time. I’ve seen you and I’ve felt you through the bond.” She looked away and started to trail the lettering on the cover with a fingernail. “Besides, Helion tells me you visit them a lot.”

Well, Helion is a spy and a snitch, Cassian wanted to say but bit those words down. This was Helion’s court and those were his garden’s, his statue’s. He went where he pleased and talked to whomever he pleased, and that, unfortunately, included Nesta.

“After our argument this morning I knew you would go there instead of coming to see me,” Nesta continued, “you and that damned circle.” Her voice cracked and she bent forward, placing her face in her hands so Cassian couldn’t see. Strands of hair fell from her crown braid over her forehead.

“Nesta,” he said, and Cassian took her wrists in his hands, gently pulling them away from her face.

Her face had blanched a stark white and the rims of her eyes were tinged pink. Despite the sheen of tears in them, Cassian knew she wouldn’t allow herself to cry. Nesta always found a way of shoving everything into a box in her soul.

“You all get to spend eternity gawping at each other in every Court in every form, don’t you?” She snatched her hands away, smoothing down the frayed hairs away from her face, wiping at her eyes.

“They’re just statues,” he said.

“I know,” she hissed, “Don’t be belligerent Cassian, we both know you’re too smart for that.”

“I’m not being-” but he stopped speaking and sat back against the marble wall, his wings hitting them with a bang.

Cassian closed his eyes, trying to think of what to say to make any of this better. He thought back to their argument in the bedroom, mere hours ago which felt like days, surrounded by excessive amounts of silk in various shades of pink.

“There’s a statue of you,” he said, envisaging it like some lost old memory and not something he had been staring at less than hour ago. The image was clear in his mind; the windswept hair, the upturned palms, that lovely but sad face with its hopeful, delicate smile.

“I know.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“It’s set apart from the others.”

Cassian heard the rustling of her dress as Nesta shifted. “Helion told me he wanted it separate from the rest because it didn’t suit the others.”

Cassian’s heart picked up its pace, “What do you think about that?”

“I agreed. The statue should be away from the rest. It doesn’t fit with the others.” Nesta let out a gentle sigh. “I don’t fit with the others.”

Cassian opened his eyes and stared into the distance.

The gardens were a labyrinth and the sunken library even more so, rows of white bookcases lined with vibrant colours, pastels or even shimmering golds stretched outwards until they stopped short of the central atrium, right underneath the top of the dome. The light shone through in beams and specks of dust danced amongst them.

They both sat rigid and unmoving with muscles locked into place and stared ahead, not at the rows of books but at the future in front of them, at decisions that would take them away or bring towards.

“Would that suit you?” Cassian asked, his voice thick. “Being apart from us? Elain? Amren? Me?”

Nesta’s fingers twitched on her lap, digging deep into the material of her skirts. “I don’t need to consider Amren in my plans and she knows this. Elain will understand in time; besides she has her own life now and gets to live the way she wishes so I don’t understand why I cannot.”

She paused. “Feyre will be irritated but she’ll come around in time. She’ll have to.”

“And me?”

The seconds of silence lasted longer than Cassian liked. There was no definitive answer, no immediate outpouring of emotion. His breath rasped in his ears and now he could hear Nesta’s, finally in time with his own. Her voice was quiet, travelling from a universe away.

“You can’t seem to understand why I don’t love the Night Court as much as you do so I don’t know whether you’ll come around in time.” Nesta picked at a loose thread on her dress. The more she pulled, the more it seemed she unravelled the sinews in his heart. “I don’t know how much longer I can wait until you do, if you do. I don’t heal in the Night Court; I can’t heal among those who hate me.”

Cassian wanted to reassure her; to say he would understand why she couldn’t love the Night Court, that eventually she would heal amongst the copper roof tops of Velaris and she was never amongst those who hated her. The words stuck in his throat and burned.

His love for the place he called home was built in his bones, constructed as part of him as he had wings on his back. Without his home he wouldn’t be Cassian of the Night Court, he wouldn’t be anyone.

“Helion has offered me a home here,” she continued.

Cassian nodded, his head bobbing on a neck that now felt too thin. Cassian understood Helion wanted to offer Nesta a home in Day, he wasn’t aware he already had. “Would you be happy here?”

“I think so.” Nesta let out a mirthless laugh, “Day is the opposite of Night and so the Court would suit me just fine.”

Something burnt inside his chest. His overworked, overwrought centuries old heart was now in flames and this was the beginning of it turning to ash.

“I can’t live in Day,” he said. “The Court is fine enough but this place would become to me what Night is to you. It wouldn’t sustain me.”

“We’re at an impasse then. The road ahead of us is splitting.” Nesta spoke the words with cold, impassive authority, the kind of tone she used for others which led them to assume she was a heartless creature.

But Cassian could feel her as he always had. A crack across her heart ran deeper than anything before. She’d been through hell and come out the other side carrying what pieces of herself remained within her clenched fists. This couldn’t be the event which broke her, he couldn’t be the fae that broke her.

Sacrifices, Helion told him less than an hour ago, needed to be made. But not all sacrifices needed to be a bad thing. Sacrificing something didn’t mean you would always lose; it may mean winning something more valuable.

“Yes,” he said, voice soft, “if you think the road only has two paths to choose from.”

Nesta took in his words, and Cassian could sense the moment they landed in her mind, how she sounded out their meanings. A strand of wavering hope rose between them.

“Oh,” she said but her voice held a tremor, the edge of anticipation she was clinging to and the thread wound itself tighter round her finger until her flesh turned white.

“I believe this morning an angry female hissed at me about retreating back to the mountains and staying in the cabin forever.”

Nesta pursed her lips. “Well, I believe the female had a right to be angry as I believe said female was being abandoned by her mate.”

“He would never.”

“Hmm.”

Cassian ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. “I don’t want to leave them,” he said.

Nesta’s shoulders sagged and her hope dissipated from her like smoke. “I know,” she said, “I just-”

“However,” he interrupted, “that doesn’t mean I won’t leave them. At least on a semi-permanent basis.”

Nesta took a deep breath in.

“I can’t live here,” he gestured outwards to the marble pillars and trailing ivy and streams of violently bright light. “Day isn’t for me but Night isn’t for you. My life is in Velaris and I have responsibilities that I can’t leave and friends I want to see, but as long as I’m somewhere near, somewhere I can fly to them I think that will be fine.”

Nesta released her breath and Cassian carried on. “I can’t lose them Nesta but I won’t lose you. I’ve waited a long time for you even before I understood what I was waiting for. If Velaris will destroy you then at some point the city will destroy me too.”

He continued to stare ahead but Nesta’s arm brushed against his as she moved, her slight frame against his broad one. From the corner of his eye, he saw her pale face gazing at him and if he turned to her, he would see her hope anew.

“The cabin needs more work to make it habitable all year round and the winters are hard and isolating. I’ll need to fly to Velaris more often than you would want and you’re still going to have to visit your sisters. Honestly, I’d hate to make Elain angry.”

There was a soft sob next to him. “I’d hate to make Elain angry too,” but she smiled through her tears.

“We’ll have to think of a way to transport all your books. I’m not flying them to the cabin, not if you’re bringing that twelve book saga you’re into with the-”

Nesta grasped his chin in her slender fingers and turned his face to hers. Shining in those blue-grey eyes through the misty layer of tears was pure delight.

“Thank you,” she whispered and brought her mouth to his. The kiss was sweet on his lips, soft and slow and filled with the promise she would always love him. Cassian deepened the kiss, sliding his hands over her waist before trailing upwards on her back to tangle in her hair.

They stayed like that for a while, his tongue seeking out and sliding against hers; wet, luxurious kiss after kiss. Cassian groaned and gripped Nesta’s hips, fingers digging into the flesh beneath her dress and he swung her up and over onto his lap.

She pulled her mouth away and gasped, “No! Not here, not in front of the books!”

“The gardens then?” he joked and received a flick to his chin for his trouble.

“Helion will be disappointed.”

“That’s perverse.”

“No,” Nesta crinkled her nose, “that I won’t be making my home here.”

Cassian trailed his hands up Nesta’s back to her hair, tangling the strands around his fingers, looking forward to when he could make it took as disordered as her glorious statue’s. “Make this place your holiday destination. I’m sure you’ll frequent Day every time I’m in Velaris.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“And when we’re done appeasing the world we’ll be together again, at home.”

Nesta’s eyes scanned his face, the way Helion’s had done earlier, but instead of an assessment that had left Cassian found wanting, her eyes were soft and the blue-grey was the colour of the sky in the Night Court just after a storm.

“Yes,” she said, “at home.” She leaned in to kiss him again and before Cassian closed his eyes he soaked in the image, letting it burn forever into his mind. A perfect picture of Nesta in the flesh; her fluttering eyelashes, freckled nose and the sweetest smile he’d ever seen.  

[acotartogfan]

34 nessian pls i love ur writing sm

Thank you! I don’t hear comments like those often so they are greatly appreciated :)

──

You can find my full prompt list here!

other asks are also encouraged 🖤

Prompt: 

#34~ "Okay, okay! Fine. You win. Just give me back my diary." - "Well, that wasn't part of the deal, now was it?"

Cassian’s POV

Cassian quietly sat on the floor of Nesta’s room, lazily thumbing through her (private) diary. He had to admit; it was dry. He was expecting something a little juicer, perhaps, an entry about him. Much to his disappointment, there was nothing in the diary that particularly piqued his interest. Cassian sighed dramatically, disappointed.  He had hoped to dig up at least some dirt on the stone-faced sister of Feyre’s. 

Carelessly tossing the book across the room, it landed on the ground with a loud thud and flipped open to a random page. Glancing halfheartedly at it, he exhaled through his nose when something caught his eye. Hastily scrambling on his hands and knees to the diary, he picked it up gingerly, as if the book itself were worth thousands of gold marks. 

At the very back of the diary, a page beheld a beautiful drawing of Illyrian wings. Even Cassian himself was impressed. He lifted an eyebrow in amusement, surveying the drawing. The picture depicted the back view of an Illyrian warrior. Two magnificent wings were displayed the sheer size enough to make even Cassian hum appreciatively, although he was sure his wingspan was (slightly) bigger than this male’s, however impressive. Each wing was balanced on either side of the male in the picture’s back, every vein and talon beautifully sketched. The wings were stretched out to reveal their full glory, talons and all. The drawing ended just above the waistline, the rest of it fading off the page. Powerful arms peeked out from behind the wings on either side of the male’s torso, each hand fisting an intricate Illyrian blade. Beautiful, swirling tattoos ran down the male’s muscular arms, each slight dip and curve beautifully illustrated. Nesta really has an eye for detail, he thought. Gauntlets covered the male’s wrists while strappy leather bands holding an assortment of daggers were wrapped securely around the male’s biceps, presumably for training. Cassian raked his gaze to the top of the drawing, where the back of the (mysterious) male’s head was depicted, a mass of long, curly hair swept haphazardly in a bun. Stray tendrils had escaped, some curling at the base of the male’s neck. Cassian gently traced the picture with his fingertips. The male depicted in the picture oddly looked like him, but he quickly shook the idea off. It sounded absurd. A drawing of him? In Nesta Archeron’s diary? He scoffed, rolling his eyes. It was preposterous. Or was it? No. No! No. There was no way in hell he would even be mentioned in her diary. Not that he was anyways. The thought itself was ludicrous. Absolutely absurd. Suddenly intrigued, he flipped through the rest of the diary hurriedly, hoping to find another drawing. The door creaked loudly, and Cassian jumped, startled. Eyes wide, he was the epitome of guilt. Nesta’s diary was spread open in his hands, and he knew he looked like a deer in headlights. It was bad.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Nesta stood in the doorway, horrified, and attempted to swipe at her diary in Cassian’s hands.

Cassian, using his height to his advantage, flung it out of the way, dangling the book over her head. 

Nesta huffed impatiently and put her hands on her hips. Cassian smirked at her annoyance. “Not so fast, sweetheart,” he mocked.

Nesta only raised her eyebrows at him. She grabbed at it again, rising to her tip-toes, but Cassian only swung it out of her reach and Nesta nearly toppled over. Cassian chuckled, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. Nesta scowled at him. 

“Give it back, Cassian!” he held it right above her head while she swatted at it again, dignity long gone. She crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes. Huffing away a few rogue strands that had flown in front of her face, she tapped her foot impatiently. Pursing her lips, she closed her eyes for a second, then opened them again, eyes flashing with annoyance. 

“Let’s make a deal,” Nesta said, raising a groomed brow elegantly. Cassian was certainly not expecting that.

Cassian was curious. He raised an eyebrow in return. “A deal?”

“Yes, a deal,” she huffed.

“What kind of deal?”

Nesta hummed thoughtfully. “Let’s see who can read the most books in 24 hours.”

“I don’t read.”

“How about a flying contest?” 

“I don’t have wings, you idiot,” she smacked his chest, hard.

“Ouch,” he whined, feigning hurt. Nesta only rolled her eyes.

Cassian suddenly smirked, a wicked idea springing into his head.

“How about a sparring contest? First one to yield gets to keep the diary,” the Illyrian wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Stop that!” she mumbled at his eyebrows. “Fine, we’ll have a sparring contest.” 

“If I win, I get to keep it and you have to tell me who this drawing is of,” Cassian flipped through the diary and pointed to the drawing. Nesta’s cheeks blushed a rosy pink, feathers clearly ruffled. That was a first. Cassian had never seen her flustered before (not even in the slightest).

“Fine. Deal.”

Cassian reached his hand out to shake, and she took it, staring at him fiercely. Then, without warning, she lunged for the diary, catching Cassian off-guard. Luckily for him, the centuries of training he had endured were now essentially coded in his DNA. His instincts kicked in immediately, and he yanked the diary out of her reach just as her fingertips grazed the cover. 

Just to tease Nesta, Cassian waved the diary high in front of her and laughed not unkindly. Nesta made a half-assed attempt to grab it but failed. "Okay, okay! Fine. You win. Just give me back my diary." 

Cassian crossed his powerful arms, holding the diary in one hand. "Well, that wasn't part of the deal, now was it?" he asked smugly and smirked for the umpteenth time.

Nesta only scowled at him. Rising to her full height, she raised her chin and looked him squarely in the eye, her icy blue-gray eyes boring holes into his hazel ones. Something deep in Cassian’s gut twitched, but he ignored it. It happened so often when he was around her it had become routine. He never thought much of it.

“I’ll see you at 4.”

She whirled around and stalked off, head held high. The long skirts she insisted on wearing swishing loudly behind her. Cassian’s lips twitched upwards, bemused. “4 o’clock it is.” 

 I actually had a lot of fun writing this and I’m pretty happy (and surprised) with how it came out!

Word count: 1091

You can find more fanfic prompts here!

part two :)

[ritamordio19]

A Court of Steel and Fire (3/?)

Summary: Post-ACOFAS. My take on Nesta’s banishment to the Illyrian camps with Cassian and her corresponding recovery process.

Alternatively, a reminder that hardened steel doesn’t melt easily. ~~ All the characters/locations are owned by Sarah J. Maas :).

Chapter 1 Here

Chapter 2 Here

AO3 Link Here

~~

Cassian hesitated at the entrance of her room, still questioning last night’s decision to have her accompany him on his rounds throughout the campsite.  Her reactions were still unstable, and the fact she hadn’t been ready to go right at 5, despite his note, should have made him decide to abandon his plan altogether and make his rounds himself, if only to avoid the inevitable conflict between her and the Illyrian warriors.  The operative phrase was, of course, “should have,” as he knew what that decision would mean on a deeper level, that abandonment of hope that she might find herself again, that willingness to give up on her that he couldn’t allow himself to accept.  So he raised his fist to the door all the same, ready to knock.

He needn’t have bothered; the door swung open hard enough that he had to dodge to his left to avoid being crashed into.  His resulting, exhausted glare was met with those familiar steel eyes staring him down, before Nesta Archeron dismissed him outright on her warpath through the living room, calling behind her and waving her arm.  “If you have all this time to waste in front of my door, I don’t see why I had to be ready promptly at 5.”

“My days are long here, and it’s the only way to guarantee sunlight for most of them.  Not that you’ll last more than a few hours in that state.”  For she was still in her clothes from the previous day, eyes dark and hair unkempt.  He doubted she’d slept a minute the night before.

“And what state would that be exactly?”  She turned on her heels at the entrance, staring him down.  “I wasn’t aware I had to meet your grooming standards.”

He growled in annoyance, closing the distance between the two of them, her gaze locked firmly on his the entire time.  “That state would mean being able to stand up for more than an hour without passing out from exhaustion; I feel that’s a fair bare minimum to ask for.  Go out naked for all I care about your grooming standards.”

“Maybe I will.”  Her retort came as he passed her on the way out of their cottage, and her eyes met his again in challenge, stopping him in his tracks with her endeavor to bring this to an accustomed fight, one where she could argue from their past, where she could use his jealousy to misrepresent his motives, to get out of the day’s tasks.  So he didn’t bite, despite the roar of familiar feeling that flared in his core, instead exhaling his retort into air as he tossed her a spare coat from the foyer closet and reached for the front door handle.

“Then I fear for the Illyrian who would be the first to leer; his torture would be an example to many.”

The biting cold that struck him as he passed through the wards blanketing the cottage spared him the process of wondering which of the two of them would be responsible for that consequence.

“I’m surprised you deigned an appearance today, with the hatred you seem to harbor for this place.”

Nesta flashed a poisonous simper in Cassian’s direction at his opening barb.  Three hours. It had taken Nesta only three hours to get under the skin of Prythian’s most cunning and powerful warrior, she noted internally to no small amount of debased satisfaction.  Sure, she had interjected the cold comment here or there, but it was her silence, the power in following him but ignoring him, that was ultimately her greatest weapon.  She had watched as it ate and ate away at his resolve, until her desired scene had reared its head at the edge of camp, far away from prying ears after his morning inspections of the training rings, where she could make her finishing blow and end this day early.

“I wasn’t aware there was much of a choice.”  She kept her body angled away from his, but glanced ever so slightly toward him, barely locking eyes before continuing.  “Besides, why shouldn’t everyone hate this place?  Your men are despicable, your women near-desolate.” She swept her arm across the campsite.  “If you ask me, I don’t see much difference between Hybern and here.”  

The words hung in the air, a blow to his gut as powerful as any her powers could summon.  It would be a lie to say the predictable blanching of his face didn’t revolt her to her core, that the pursing of his lips didn’t cause an instinctual, subtle aversion of her gaze, but he couldn’t be a part of her life anymore.  Telling him that to his face hadn’t worked; avoiding him hadn’t worked. So if the only way for him to learn that was for her to strike low, to assault the very core of his identity, then she would do so; she would make the point clear that it was not his job to push her forward.  After letting a few moments of stunned silence pass between them, she waved him off and turned on her heels, striking again before he could recover.  “I’m heading back to the cottage.”

“Where do you want me to take you?”

She hadn’t expected the reply, having known the emotional effects her words would exact, but she masked her surprise with her continued stride.  “I,” she spoke curtly, “don’t need you to take me anywhere.  My legs work perfectly fine.”

His pace sounded quickly behind hers, and she spun on him before he could cut in front of her.  She opened her mouth to speak again, but he was faster.  “No.  Not here.  Not this camp.”  He matched her respondent daggered glare and pressed further.  “Where do you want me to take you?”

She let the words settle in, her chin risen in defiance at his persistence, before dismissing him abruptly and turning to walk away again.  This time, he succeeded at blocking her path, and she turned wildly to him in incredulous anger.  “And where,” she seethed, “could I possibly choose?  This is your world, and mine doesn’t want me anymore.”  She pushed him aside, grateful for his final lack of resistance as he drifted to the side. “Just leave me alone.”  His hand grasped at hers desperately, but softly; she pulled sharply away and continued to storm off.

“I know how you really feel.”

That was her final straw.  Her insults aside, their dysfunction aside, that was not to be discussed, and he knew it.  For him to break their code, after all this time...even with their fights, it was inexcusable.  Cheeks reddening, Nesta halted in her tracks. “I. don’t. care.”  She laughed grimly as she wheeled on him, hands and eyes darkening in black and crimson flares she carefully wove around her body.  “Do you think I’m scared of this?”  She took a step toward him, amplifying the effect further and darkening her laugh.  “Do you think I can’t handle this?  Do you think I need you to help with any of this?”

He studied her slowly, his stance unchanged.  “No.”  He took a step toward her, but paused as she increased her flames even more.  He crossed his arms nonchalantly in response.  “But you can’t make me hate you.”

She met his unimpressed stare for a few seconds, black fire licking at the air around her, before cooling off her flames in quiet irritation at the lack of impact.  “Find someone else to torment, Cassian.” She turned away from him again, and shot back a line of black fire at the briefest sound of his movement.  “NO.”  This time, as she disappeared within the canopy of the surrounding forest, his presence did not follow her.

Nesta knew she’d made a massive mistake the moment she'd summoned that abhorrent power.  That eye had appeared – that eye that opened from deep within her, that called to her from far away.  She’d immediately changed her cabin plans, bolting for the woods in case it decided to pay another visit to her location, but she began to wonder if that had been an error as well, with the sensation of its eye opening wider the deeper within the forest she dove and the sense of foreboding filling her further and further, regardless of what change of direction she cut.

She’d lost her cool with him; she’d worked so hard for months to stay disconnected enough, drugged and sexed enough, unfeeling enough to prevent this very reoccurrence, only to have it dashed with a single, vexing sentence from him.  And now this feeling, her magic boiling over, filling her past the brims of her body...she collapsed to her knees as she broke into an open pasture and screamed, slamming layer after layer of her power into any and every inanimate object she found and turning several large boulders into elemental mist that swirled around her.  Tears swirled down her face as she collected her power as strongly as she could, dissipating it around her in a spherical structure to drain the overflowing energy from her body. Her hands bristled as the leaves and grass beneath her turned to ash, a perfect circle of blackened death surrounding her.  A metaphor for her life, she noted solemnly to herself.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?”

She shot to her feet, uneasy, at the clipped voice to her left.  The elemental mist floating around her from the boulders began to spiral in a tight oval a few meters away, before settling slowly into an undeniably male shape.  The figure, a mass of sparkling dots, jokingly marveled at his limbs before settling into a mock bow. Nesta threw black fire at him the moment his head dipped, only for the flames to pass right through him, hitting a tree on the other side of their clearing and slowly spreading those black veins through its healthy bark.  The figure chuckled at the sound of the tree collapsing under the disintegration of its trunk, before he straightened once more.

“Did you hope to use my own power against me?  Surely you understand you cannot kill me like that–” He raised his arm, and ashes from the ground shaped into black daggers and flew directly at her body. Nesta rolled to the side in anticipation, only for the ashes to divert course immediately.  She covered her head, then raised it when the expected pain did not arrive.  “–just as I cannot kill you with mine.”  And indeed, the ashes swirled through and around Nesta’s body as if she were air, piercing no skin and causing no pain.

“Leave me alone.”  She crawled back slowly onto her feet, giving the man a death stare.  “You can have the power back for all I care.”

“Oh?” The elements swirling around the man quickly flew into the air, before reappearing right before her, the figure’s head leaning toward hers; it was an effort for her to maintain her ground, stance, and glare.  “But you see, I’ve had time to think since your last...adventure with my powers.  It would be quite troublesome to find a way to kill you, what with us sharing the same carbon-based source of power.”  He shifted rapidly to her left, her eyes moving to match.  “And believe me that I would have to kill you, for certainly Beron would’ve taken his power back from your sister already as well otherwise, would he have not?”

Her lips pursed in anger.  “Don’t talk about her.”

“Why not?”  The man dissipated again, and the elements swirled around, kicking the ashen leaves up in an orchestra that sounded chillingly like laughter.  “She’s not the sister you truly care about, after all.  Besides--”  His body reassembled a few feet further away.  “--neither of us can do much about the other’s existence, so perhaps you should hear me out, after all.  I need a favor from--”

“No.” Her deadpan reply caused the elemental man to swirl three times as large, towering over her as he shone brightly.

“You don’t have much of a choice, Nesta.  You think today was bad?  I may not be able to physically harm you, but I can make every ounce of your power feel like blades cutting into your skin from inside; I can make your blood burn as if molten lava itself courses through your veins.  Hm? How long do you think you’ll be able to escape from me through drugs this time, Nesta, before I can latch on again, before you’re forced to endure me again?”  The form shrunk down to its previous size and moved as if brushing off its collar, sending bright sparks in the air.  “Oh dear, you’ve made me lose my temper.  Again.”  Its eyes narrowed.  “So perhaps we can come to an arrangement, being that you possess my stolen power and yet, ironically, pose to be quite valuable to me alive after all.  I’ve had quite a lot of time to think about this, after all, in the year that you’ve laid waste to the body I so graciously gifted you.  So, what do you say?  Do one simple task for me, and I can ensure you will never be bothered by my power again, forever living dormant in your body.”  He tilted his head expectantly.

“I don’t even know...what you’re asking for.”  She grunted out the words, as the previous, rapid usage of her powers finally began catching up to her.

“But you will, when it matters.”  The figure appeared inches in front of her again.  “Trust me.”  The flickering lights in the man’s face tilted upwards in what Nesta chillingly realized was supposed to be a smile, then the figure shrugged.  “And I assure you that I will be dropping by again to check in on you.”

“I’d rather die than hel--”  Nesta screamed as electric current flowed through her body, collapsing to the ground and clutching at her skin. Just as suddenly as it came on, it ended, and sure enough, she found her body completely unharmed, although she lay panting in her field of blackened leaves.  She gave a vulgar gesture to the figure, earning another scream from a second blast of current.

“We are connected, Nesta.  Neither you nor I can break that, whether we want to or not.  I am as much a part of you as you are of me. Though...perhaps it is beneficial that I can’t harm you.” The figure cupped her chin with his glowing hand, before passing it harmlessly through her skull.  “After all, my deal wouldn’t be nearly as incentivizing for either of us if I could.”  He paused in a mocking posture of contemplation, then stood up and began walking away.  “Either way, I’ll wait here with you for awhile while you think about what I’ve said; what you stand to gain...or lose...from your choice.  There’s not much--”

The figure paused and glanced up as a swift gust of wind flurried through the clearing and kicked up the ashen floor, and Nesta seized on its distraction, pulling out the Illyrian blade she’d hidden from her ankle and thrusting it upward.  It barely grazed skin before a force barreled into her from the side, and she quickly found her head pinned to the forest floor as she heard the quiet clanks of the knife bouncing away from her.  Her instincts, against good wisdom, tried summoning her power in protest, but it was as if she were mortal again, her core empty of force.

“Binding amulet.”  The gruff, unmistakable, condescending voice of Devlon sent adrenaline coursing through her veins, and she struggled and bit at him until he lifted off her.  “As much as I’d love to kill you for what you did to me--” She gasped as he turned toward her, his face intermittent with large spots of rotten flesh, twin amulets at each of their necks growing brightly.  “--I don’t feel like dealing with Cassian.  And speaking of which, the next time you try that--” He gestured at the knife laying a few feet away. “--try not to scream, would you?  Prevents me from looking away.”  

She glared at him, but her retort died in another powerful gust of wind as Cassian abruptly landed a few feet away, scattering a wide arc of ash.  Devlon held up his hand at Cassian, the latter Illyrian’s face red from more than just exertion.

“Relax, General.  Her scream wasn’t from me.”  He pointed at the knife on the ground.  “Your little witch here tried to take her own life.  I was merely intervening on your behalf.”  He shrugged as he flexed his wings in preparation for departure.  “I assume you can manage her from here.”  A quick smirk followed from Devlon before he continued.  “We can discuss my payment later.”

Nesta glared at Devlon, though she wouldn’t deny her true motive in avoiding Cassian’s eyes.  Not that she needed to look to know what she’d see.  She heard his voice distantly.  “And her shoulder?” She blinked as she checked both shoulders, finding her right one sticking out at a sickly angle.  She gently touched it, feeling no pain.

“Couldn’t help it; had to make a hard tackle.”  He gestured vaguely toward her. “She’ll be a mess to deal with when her amulet’s power wears off shortly. Unfortunately, hers barely has any magic left; I had to save our stronger ones for our soldiers, after the war you put them through.”  He stared down Cassian for a long span before taking off, blasting the ashen floor in her face in a move she knew was intentional.

She didn’t have much time to dwell on his patronizing departure, however.  True to Devlon’s words, the amulet’s glow almost immediately died, and she stifled a yell as she collapsed, her shoulder beginning to burn with hot fire.  She felt Cassian’s hands around her arms, and she tried to shove him off with her left palm, earning a muted, but exasperated, grunt.

“For Gods’ sake, Nesta, let me do one thing. Please.” His eyes tore into hers, and only the agony she saw piercing back at her caused her to relent, reluctantly allowing him access to her arms as she scanned the pasture, noticing the elemental man had disappeared as she had assumed.  And as she bit her tongue down to keep the yelps and curses down when Cassian shoved her shoulder back into place, tasting the coppery tang of blood as her eyes watered from the blistering pain, she realized how restricted her life might become in the coming weeks.

And how unbelievably screwed they both were as a result.

~~

Author's Note

I apologize for the [very long] delay!! I know 18 months is a long time to restart updating a fanfiction, so I hope it reads continuous for everyone. As always, comments and critiques are appreciated. I hope everyone enjoys, and thank you for reading!

[theseviolentdelightss]

Counting Paths XVII

Series Summary: After a lifetime on the run from the Empire, Reader makes a move that could have drastic impacts for both friend and foe. A Reader insert/fanfic. Gifs belong to their respective owners.

Word Count: 4386

Author’s Note: Sorry again for the wait.

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX Part X Part XI Part XII Part XIII Part XIV Part XV Part XVI

It was cold when you awoke. Eyes fluttering slowly as the memories came flooding back. The cantina, the code black, running yourself ragged which would explain why it felt as if someone had taken every muscle in your body and rung them out like a soaked cloth.

“Called it!” The sound of Roland's voice, while a small comfort, did nothing to stifle the pounding in your head nor the ringing in your ears. It rather enhanced it, earning an agitated groan from you as your eyes struggled to adjust. “Two hours and fourteen minutes, everybody pay up!”

All around you came the sound of grumbles. Money being dug out of pockets and wallets as Roland chuckled proudly. His paw out and ready for the taking.

“Did you seriously take bets on how long I would be passed out?” You asked coolly once the crowd had cleared. Narrowing your eyes as you stared down the older rebel, hands over flowing with newly acquired credits.

“No...” Roland stuttered. If you hadn't known better you would have sworn you saw guilt in his eyes as he adverted his gaze. Catching a glimpse of your reflection it was easy to see why.

Fainting from exhaustion and dehydration had done you no favors. The color in your cheeks had yet to return and your hands trembled as you ran them over your face. Apparently the first medic on site had struggled to find a vein, leaving the inside of your elbow an abstract mess off deep purple and sickly yellow skin. The bruise bloomed around the needle in your arm like a dying violet. Growing more gruesome by the moment.

When word first made it to Roland that you had ran out of the bunker with less than three minutes to spare he had assumed it was just another rumor. They seemed to have been following you as of late. Sprouting like weeds about your feet. It was only when Penny began to panic, pushing through the rows of bunks and cots towards the small infirmary area that he began to believe it. Nearly 30 flights of stairs and you had ran it three times in under five minutes. It was no wonder the exhaustion had gotten the better of you, not to mention the liquor. “Well maybe-”

“Give it!” You held your hand out, turning your attention away as you waited.

Dragging his feet Roland placed the pile of money into your palm. Licking your thumb you flipped through it before handing over a small percentage.

“Finders fee.” You smirked softly, feeling your head beginning to clear.

Following the IV in your arm you recognized the mixture hanging above you. A combination of saline and nutrients. Glancing around it was obvious that you weren't the only casualty of today's surprising great escape. A handful of cots sat occupied in the dimness. Strangers with swollen ankles and knees, a man with a thick piece of gauze wrapped about his head. Even from this distance you could spot where the blood had began to seep through. On the cot nearest you Penny lay dozing with no sign of visual injuries. Gently pushing aside her red curls you couldn't help but chuckle as the drool ran down her cheek. For now she would be fine, the hangover wouldn't hit her till she woke up.

“Where's Zara?”

“Off sleeping I think. Took some skinny kid half an hour to convince her you'd be fine.” Roland replied. “Want me to go tell her you're up?”

“No let her rest.”

“They need you.” Roland's eyes again shifted to the ground as he spoke. “In the control room.”

“Why?” You asked, unsure as to why the Rebellion saw need to punish you so quickly. Sure, you had disobeyed a direct order which in itself wasn't a first, but no one had gotten seriously hurt. Minus the guard you had punched but he had it coming. You still had the scar beneath your hairline from where he had struck you long ago. That was well worth a week of messhall duty. Still, that wasn't an urgent matter, not enough to warrant a trip to the control room in the middle of a code black no less.

“The hell if I know.” Roland spit bitterly. He was an amazing soldier yet for all his military prowess he hated authority more than a hormonal teenager.  “Captain Andor ordered me to stay here and fetch ya as soon as you woke up so hop to it.”

“You do see the IV in my arm right?”

Licking his thumb and forefinger Roland reached forward, snatched the plastic butterfly wings on either side of the thin needle and slid it out from under your skin like a warrior drawing a sword.

“For fucks sake Roland!” You hissed, reaching up to smack the curly haired man across the back of the head. What had only moments before been a dull ache now stung white hot. “There's a reason people don't actually do that you jackass!”

A half roll of gauze and a handful of curses later Roland was escorting you through the dark tunnels that lead to the lowest level. To keep the temperature from spiking most everyone had been spread out among the various floors. The bunker itself had seven and at its heart sat the war council. The most highly concentrated area of people and still it did nothing to stave off the cold. By the time you made it through the beehive of workers busy at various consoles and tablets you could faintly see your breath in front of your face. Wrapping your arms around yourself you tried to find some degree of warmth. Dragging the sleeves of your jacket over the palms of your hands as Roland motioned you forward.  

“Baby...” Roland muttered, side eyeing you as you began to shiver.

“Not all of us have been blessed with blubber to keep us warm.” You replied, eyeing Roland's protruding gut. Typically you weren't one to shame a person for their body but considering this was the same man who had only minutes before ripped an IV from your arm, you found it in yourself to make an exception. Thankfully it shut him up, allowing you a few moments of silence before coming to a stop outside a large set of wooden double doors. Unlike most on base these had been built in the old style that swung inwardly rather than sliding open or closed.

“From here on out your on your own kid.” Roland leaned against the wall as he spoke, retrieving a small knife from his pocket he began to pic the dried grease out from under his fingernails.

Sighing you knocked on the old wood nervously. The door opened with a low groan, kicking up a whirl of dust around your feet as you slipped inside. The space was noticeably cooler, the mood even more so.

“Sargent L/N please come forward.” Mon Mothma spoke calmly as always. She was a decent and honorable woman but that didn't mean her composed demeanor wasn't hiding an ugly truth.

Perhaps they had finally decided you were too much of a liability.

Maybe this most recent act of defiance truly was the last straw.

Stepping forward into the dim light your eyes scanned the various faces for anyone who might speak on your behalf. Cassian's dark eyes found you instantly, as if your gaze had been magnetically drawn to him. He stood with his arms crossed, jaw tense as if he were grinding his teeth. Draven sat at the large wooden table that stood in the center of the room. A massive piece carved with the same script and symbols as the door behind you. It had likely been there as long as the temple itself. Standing strong for hundreds of years. You couldn't help but drag your fingers across the surface as you made you way to your seat. 

“We have serious matters to discuss.”

The edge to the ginger haired woman's tone might have upset you if it weren't for a sickening realization, one that washed over you like an icy wave.

“Where is Theodren?” You asked instantly, trying hard to hide the fear growing inside you. The silence that followed was no help, seconds ticking by like hours as you waited. “Where is-”

“We don't know.” Mon Mothma replied, her tone gentler than before yet straight to the point. No time for curtsies. “Commander Theodren had departed for Bakura shortly before we were alerted of an Imperial patrol entering our atmosphere. Until the code black has been lifted any attempts to contact him are impossible.”

It felt as if the floor had been ripped out from beneath you. That weightless feeling of falling that jolts you awake. Surely you must be dreaming. Your luck may have been notoriously bad but this was nightmarish. Grabbing a hold of the table for support you allowed your body to slump into the chair nearest you. Mon Mothma continued to speak, for how long you can't be sure, it wasn't until General Draven snapped his fingers in front of your face that your mind cleared. Glazed eyes blinking for the first time in minutes.

“Sergant L/N?” Mothma spoke calmly, holding out a hand to hush Draven as she stepped closer. The room was dim but it may as well have been pitch black. Even with eyes open you looked but did not see. It was only Theodren you thought of and the space where he should have stood. “You're bleeding.”

The words had no sooner left the woman's mouth when you felt the first drop collide with the back of your hand. Closing your eyes tightly you allowed a second and third to fall before reaching for the source. A stream of blood trailed from your right nostril. Stickily coating your fingertips and leaving the taste of metal on your lips. Out of the corner of your eye you watched as Cassian moved forward. His face calm and composed as ever. Before he could step any further you were already standing. Hand held firmly against your nose trying in vain to stem the flow. It made sense, your tears had long ago been used up, only blood remained to spare.

“I apologize...” You muttered, pushing yourself away from the table and towards the large doors you had came in through. They sprawled open rather easily at your touch. The chill of the room a distant memory as the heat bloomed at the base of your neck and began to spread. The mix of worry and fear enveloping you as you searched for an exit, not caring where it went. It was solitude you yearned for. A space of your own where you could internalize the wars currently raging between your head and your heart.

Sighing you spotted a door that led through yet another dark hallway. Pushing your way further down till the last door stood waiting. Without so much as a knock you let yourself in. The stale smell of dust and age rushing up to greet you as you stepped inside. Rows of empty shelves lined the walls. The pale light above flickering out as you settled to the floor.

You hadn't prayed in years. After everything you had done you doubted the anyone would pay you so much as a passing thought. Still, even as the cold seeped through your bones you found yourself murmuring the words. Blood stained hands held tightly together.

“I didn't know you prayed.”

“I don't-” You replied, red eyes adjusting to the small lantern the captain held in his hands. “not usually at least.”

“Neither do I.”

“Why not?”

“Because they were never answered.” Cassian's eyed you cautiously as he knelt in front of you. Noting that the bleeding that had provided you a perfect out had yet to stop. Sitting the lantern to the side Cassian dug his hands into his pocket, retrieving a clean rag he leaned forward to press it delicately around your nose.

“Mine were never answered either.” Your voice felt small as you reached forward, trying to take a hold of the rag yourself, expecting Cassian to let go yet he held on.

“What were you thinking?”

“Excuse me?”

There was no hiding the tone to your voice. It was one thing to question yourself. The last thing you needed right now was Cassian doing the same.

“I told you to stay where you were.” Cassian replied calmly, ignoring your weak attempt at an attitude.

“I never told you how my brother died, did I?” That caught him off guard. The frustration draining from his eyes as he gazed back at you. “Come to think of it, I'm not sure I ever mentioned him at all...”

Settling onto the floor with a thump Cassian let the rag slip from his grip. His expression gentler than before, clearly this new revelation was not what he had been expecting.

“His name was Willis I had just turned eight when he was born. I was so excited. I'd finally have a friend that I wouldn't have to say goodbye to after a few months...but mama died on the birthing bed so I had to step up. It wasn't easy, especially not at first. I was still just a kid myself, and a part of me hated him for taking my mother away, but that didn't last. He was too kind, too gentle to hate and he was so smart. He could be a real brat about it too, always correcting my spelling.” You chuckled lightly, losing yourself in a memory for one brief moment.

“He heard it first, woke me up. I thought he was just having another bad dream but then I heard it too. It all happened so fast, the chaos, the slaughter. It started in the outlying villages but it didn't take long to make its way into the city. All of the sudden they were in the streets, kicking down your door, coming through your front room window. That's when the exodus started. I had never seen anything like it. All around us the buildings were going up in flames. You could hear people screaming. I passed the body of the baker who had made my bread that morning lying in a gutter as we fled. His face was gone but I recognized his apron. It felt like we were at war.”

“Antar IV.” Cassian said quietly, turning his head to face you. “The massacre. You were there?”

Nodding you tried to steady your breathing. It had been years since you had spoken about that night and for good reason. Anytime it came up you felt your pulse quicken, the cold sweat forming on the back of your neck. As if some small part of you was forever trapped in the moment and just for a second it had pulled the rest of you under. Drowning you on dry land.

“I lost my father's hand in the crowd, my brother begged me to go back, but I had promised...so I didn't. I couldn't. I wanted to more than anything but I knew if I stopped, if I looked back we would both be lost. So I lied. I told him we would meet my father at the ship. The old man had been working on the same one for ages, kept it docked at this little hole in the wall station he worked at. I thought for sure by the time we got there all that would be left was ash and rubble but there it stood. No more than twenty yards away. I was moving so fast I didn't even see him until-”

You voice hitched in your throat with a weak shudder. The hairs on the back of your neck standing on end as you began to run your hands up and down your thighs.

“I begged him to let us go. We were just children. I swore to him we wouldn't tell anyone, not a soul, but he just put us in his sights.” Turning your eyes to the ceiling you were happy not to have to look at Cassian's face as he heard what came next. “I tried to move Willis out of the way, but he had twisted his ankle during the run and I was carrying him. All I could do was turn around, try to cover him with myself but it didn't make any difference. That fucker cut us down like we were nothing.”

“How did you survive?” Cassian asked softly.

“I drove a screw driver through his eye and out the back of his skull.” You replied coolly, the sadness in your voice replaced with an entirely different emotion. “The first life I ever took and it didn't even matter. Willis died anyways. He bleed out in my arms. One second he was crying and trying to say something and then he just...went still. I had never seen someone die before but I watched as the spark drained from my brothers eyes, and that pain...”

Again you had to stop, try to calm your thumping heart as it pounded away against your chest. There was a reason you avoided this subject. It was always painful to speak of, but now with Theodren's fate so uncertain it only served to frighten you more. To remind you of what it felt like to lose someone you love.

“I didn't think I'd ever get over it so I locked that part of me away. Stopped caring about everything and everyone.”

Across from you Cassian shifted, leaning his back against the wall as he took in all you had to say. Not entirely sure if he should be relieved that you were sharing so much with him or worried. Crossing his arms to stave off the chill he watched as you fidgeted with your hands, pulling at the edges of your sleeves, tucking those relentless loose curls behind your ears. His own hands itched to reach out, take a hold of your own and still them but he thought better of it. Now wasn't the time.  

“I didn't join the Rebellion because I wanted to be a hero Cassian. I didn't give a damn about glory. A quick death was all I wanted, but then I met Theodren, and he was alone too. He was the only one that ever...he was my one true friend. I lost him once already, I don't want to lose him again.”

“You won't.” Cassian said with a bit too much certainty, overcompensating in his hopes of comforting you. “Theodren is the smartest person I know. I'm sure once this code black has lifted you'll hear from him.”

“Why are you here Cassian?” You asked suddenly, the urge to be alone over powering your usual politeness.

“I was worried about you.” He replied, not defensive in the least. A welcome surprise given your own change in demeanor.  “Didn't want you to be alone.”

“I appreciate that Cassian, truly I do, but you don't have to worry about me.” You stated, maintaining your full attention on him. Noting the subtle change in the distance between the two of you. Typically the captain preferred to put added space between the both of you yet today seemed the expectation.

“Look, I worry.” He stated simply, laying his hand out flat in a gesture to simply accept that fact and let it go. “Just promise me you won't do anything stupid.”

“Cass I-” Chewing your bottom lip you considered lying, it would be easiest for everyone but Cassian deserved the truth. “It's Theodren, if there is even a small chance I have to try.”

“Are you in love with him?” Cassian asked, his eyes glued intensely to your own.

“Who?” You scoffed. “Theodren?”

The dark haired rebel nodded sheepishly and in that moment you could have kissed him because despite everything that had happened Cassian had managed to do the unthinkable. He made you laugh. No sweeter a gift could he have given you in that moment.

“What?” You half chuckled, the very idea of it still tickling your sides. Not that Theodren wasn't a catch, it was just so far removed from anything you could have imagined. The two of you had been best friends for years and not once had there been even an inkling of romance. “No! Of course I love him but Theodren is like family to me.”

“I understand.”

“Are you alright?” You asked, watching as Cassian began to draw in on himself. Scooting himself to sit with his back straight and flush against the wall. Hands swiftly shoved into the pockets of his jacket.

“I'm fine.” He replied but you simply shook your head. How the hell was this guy a spy?

“You're a shitty liar you know that.” You nudged Cassian's knee with your foot as you spoke. Thankful that the tension had for a moment been lessened enough to catch your breath.

“Only with you.” His answer was short but it was enough to return the tension tenfold.

Whelp, that didn't last long...

“And that bothers you?”

“I'd be a fool if it didn't.” Cassian's brows knitted as he spoke, looking any where but at you.

“Why?” Leaning forward you grabbed a hold of Cassian's hand and squeezed it tightly. “What's so wrong with being honest with me?”

“You're always saving people.” Cassian said simply, at last turning his gaze to meet your own.

“What-”

“Just-just listen.” He insisted calmly and you couldn't blame him. You were well aware of your bad habit of interrupting people. It wasn't that you were rude, some people just spoke so slowly by comparison.

“You're always saving people. You saved Zara, you saved Roland, hell you saved me the night we met. Its who you are.” Sighing Cassian let his eyes drift to where your fingers sat wrapped around his own. Your knees inching closer, unwilling to give in to his poor attempt at gaining distance.  

“When I came down here I wanted to yell at you, to tell you that you were being foolish, convince you to stop...but I can't because that's not you.” Shaking his head Cassian smiled gently, his eyes warmer than before. Filled with an emotion you couldn't quite peg down but you were all too aware of how it made you feel.

“What's so wrong with that?” You half whispered.

“Nothing.” Cassian answered, turning your hand over in his own. Fingertips softly tracing along the lines of your palm. “Nothing, it just frightens me.”

“Cass I'm fine, seriously you don't have to worry-” You tried to put on your best smile as you spoke. If Cassian truly worried about you the least you could do was assure him you would try your best to stay alive. It was a bit of a priority anyways but if it mattered to someone else why not try harder?

Even if you weren't sure how to feel about it.

“And what if you weren't?” He asked sharply, turning the tables and instead interrupting you. “I know why you went back for Zara. I know why you want to go after Theodren. Because what if something happens and you could have done something but didn't? Then that's on you right? But if you go back and something happens to you then that's on me.”

“I'm not your responsibility anymore.” 

“It's not like that.”

“Then what is it?” You pushed, trying to hide the faintest hint of desperation in your voice. As if months of second guessing had inevitability lead you here. “What are you so afraid of Cassian?”

“You want to know what I'm afraid of?” Cassian eyes burned as he leaned closer, bursting the tiny bubble of personal space that existed between the two of you. “Losing you.”

And there it was. The truth you had been running from. It wasn't often that you felt vulnerable. It wasn't the sort of thing you were allowed, not if you wanted to stay alive.

“Your turn, no bullshit this time.” Cassian said, his mouth twitching as he spoke.

Taking a sharp breath through your nose you allowed yourself a moment of rational thought. To think of how very wrong this may all go. How much you could stand to lose, but that moment ended.

Unblinking you watched as Cassian's eyes flickered with longing. Something you only now realized had been there all along. They continued to follow your every move, watching as you inched closer until your knee dug into his thigh. Trembled and shifted. A pale hand snaking its way along the back of his neck. For a moment Cassian felt as if his brain had stalled, unable to process what was happening like a teenager second guessing themselves, but then you kissed him, putting those fears to rest in an instant. It was everything he had remembered from that night many months ago when he had first stolen a taste. 

Only now there was no limit. No hesitance.

It surprised you as well, how easily you melted into his grasp. Calloused hands swept along your sides until your shirt began to bunch between his fingers. The touch of his skin burning as it grazed your own. Feather light fingers threading through your hair as he pressed you against him.

Sometime later after you finally gave in to the need for oxygen did you allow the reality of what had just happened sink in. The terrifyingly true severity of it washing over you all at once. Still, it was impossible not to smile and lean into the palm of Cassian's hand as he held you close. Foreheads pressed against one another. So close you could feel his every exhale on your skin.

“That.” You finally admitted, knowing for certain that you were now well and truly fucked.

[imogenkol]

Pairing: Imogen Kol (oc) x Bix Caleen Word Count: 3,005 Rating: Mature (18+) Warnings: death mention, trauma Tags: hurt/comfort, still repressing those feelings but we're getting there Read it on Ao3! / Previous Chapter

Summary: after the traumatic death of Timm and a less than warm goodbye with Cassian, Bix seeks out an unlikely source of comfort

The yacht’s comms crackled with a distorted voice. “ – you copy?” 

Imogen almost ignored it, but she thought familiarity might’ve caught her attention. She adjusted the frequency and listened. 

“Imogen?” Bix’s voice came through, sounding clearer. “Are you there?”

Profound shock caused Imogen’s body to freeze. Even if they hadn’t agreed to part ways for good, Bix never contacted her through such obvious means. Imogen always received coded messages for the safety of them both, but Bix didn’t seem to care about that anymore. Perhaps she felt more scorned than Imogen previously thought. 

At first, she felt a strong burst of anger. Imogen’s hand hovered over the control panel with the intention to switch her comms off, but something made her hesitate. Just as her mind pinpointed the source of her body’s betrayal, Bix tried to reach her again. 

“I know you’re there, just –” the mechanic’s weathered sigh hissed through the speaker. Something caused her tone to waver just enough for Imogen to notice. “Please answer.” 

Imogen’s outstretched hand became a tight fist and, with a clenched jaw, she placed her headset on. “What do you want?” 

“Look, I know we ended things, but… I just need to see you.”

Imogen scoffed. “Why?”

“Timm is dead.” 

Loud silence filled the cabin of the ship. Imogen couldn’t really fathom how the idiot got himself killed in such a short amount of time, but it was clear that Bix had been shaken up by his demise. Her distress pulled at Imogen’s impulses no matter how hard she tried to ignore the defeat in her tone. 

After the silence dragged on, Bix continued. “There’s more. The Empire has taken control of Ferrix.” 

Utter exasperation caused Imogen to shake her head. All those people had to do was carry on exactly like they have been. Now they’ve managed to sentence their entire planet to eventual doom. “How did this happen?” 

“I’ll explain everything in person. Are you coming?” There wasn’t a single shred of hope in the question like Bix knew that Imogen would refuse. Her request had been desperate. 

The presence of the Empire was enough to ward the former Inquisitor off of Ferrix for good. Bix understood that. Yet, Imogen couldn’t think of anything else besides the grief stricken sound of her voice over the comms. Another long pause passed between them before Imogen’s resolve drove a stake into her chest. “I’m setting a course now.” 

Ferrix wasn’t too far from the system Imogen had been orbiting. Her bounties weren’t going anywhere, though she did take a moment after landing to check on their vitals. Carbonite could be a fickle thing on occasion. Confident that she would still receive full payment for their living condition, she pulled her hood up and stepped off the ship. 

Dawn had barely begun to tear through the gray painted sky. While Ferrix had never been a busy planet at this hour, Imogen sensed a shift in the air immediately. Things were too quiet. As if the entire community were muzzled. Imogen was once a harbinger of the very subjugation she recognized as she walked the streets. A certain power used to course through her veins during those moments where others had no choice but to bend to her will – an unstoppable, addictive rush in what her rage had wrought. Now all she felt was nothing. A cold, haunting nothing. 

A glimpse of white armor in the distance signaled an oncoming patrol and Imogen darted into an alleyway. 

I shouldn’t bother with this, her mind fretted. Stormtroopers were little challenge on their best day, but if it came to a fight, that would only mean more trouble for herself. This isn’t worth it. An odd creak came from her leg as she hurried to keep out of sight. Even more reason not to be here. But of course, Imogen continued towards the Caleen Salyard, slinking her way through the shadows to avoid the Imperials. 

The salvage yard was empty, but Bix’s lights were on as Imogen approached her door. She tapped her knuckles against it. “It’s me, I’m here.”

Imogen paced in lazy circles while she waited for Bix to answer. She put extra weight on her cybernetic leg. The next creak shifted through the metallic joints and nearly caused her to lose balance. During the last bounty she collected, she unwisely made a risky jump from one rooftop to another. The resulting impact put strain on her body, but she hadn’t thought much of it at the time. It seemed there might be some damage to the prosthetic after all. Imogen made a mental note to get it serviced.

The front door finally opened with a mechanical whoosh. While Imogen’s expectations were low, seeing Bix with an extremely noticeable bruise on her temple completely caught the bounty hunter off guard. 

“Bix.” Imogen rushed for the mechanic before she could stop herself. She gently cupped Bix’s face and turned her head to examine the wound. A fresh gash peeked through her hairline and Imogen felt a flush of anger in her chest. “Did the troopers do this?”

“No.” Bix closed her eyes like she might be avoiding Imogen’s gaze, but she leaned into her touch and allowed Imogen to look at her as long as she wanted. Or maybe she was just too tired to pull away. Imogen noticed the dark circles under her puffy eyes and the way her shoulders slumped. 

“What happened, Bix?” Imogen prompted and reluctantly dropped her hands. 

Bix took a moment to scan their surroundings before motioning at Imogen. “Come inside.”

“Was that Timm’s doing?” Imogen asked once the door slid shut behind them. She angrily pushed her hood down. 

Without so much as glancing over her shoulder, Bix shuffled into the kitchen. “Do you want some caf?”

Imogen put her hands on her hips. “Not as much as I would like an explanation. Particularly one that explains why I’m here.”

Bix finally threw her a weak excuse for a smirk as she prepared two cups. “Pretty sure you’re the only one that can answer that.” 

I came because you asked me to, felt like a pathetic excuse, so Imogen ignored her remark and accepted the cup of caf Bix offered. “There isn’t a lot that would motivate the Empire to seize control of a free trade planet.” 

“No,” Bix agreed and took a quick sip. “But a shootout with a bunch of corpos does the trick, as it turns out.” 

Imogen shook her head and scoffed. Corpos were even more useless than Stormtroopers. Fools, the lot of them. “How exactly did that occur?”

“They were looking for Cassian. Timm ratted him out…” It looked like Bix nearly choked on those last four words. She grimaced down at her cup as if it became too foul to drink.  

“So it was Timm’s fault.” 

“Some blame Cassian.” Bix shrugged. For how exhausted she appeared, her fingers tapped restlessly against the side of the cup in her hands. “What does it even matter? Timm is dead. Cassian is gone.” 

“And I’m here,” Imogen added like an accusation. 

The mechanic’s face fell. “I haven’t forgotten our last conversation. I just needed… someone.” 

Despite the urge to move closer, Imogen stayed still. “For what?”

Bix’s gaze locked on the bounty hunter’s, those deep brown irises unable to hide the pain tearing her up inside. “Comfort.” 

Imogen hadn’t forgotten their last conversation, either. Nor could she forget the will it took not to surrender herself to the woman in front of her. Now she asked for comfort. Imogen knew nothing of the sort, not even for herself. She set her cup aside and found it hard to look the other woman in the eye. “To what end, Bix?”

Bix released such a heavy sigh that her shoulders looked even heavier than before. She smiled flatly and shook her head. “Forget it. Get out.” 

No amount of effort could make Imogen ignore the sudden pit in her gut. “Bix –”

“No, it was stupid of me to ask.” Bix’s voice shook and she slammed her cup down on the nearest flat surface. 

Imogen had no clue what came over her. It felt like a foreign entity seized control of her body as she swiftly closed the growing distance between them and pulled Bix into an embrace. Bix stiffened in Imogen’s arms. For a moment, she tried to push her away, but there was hardly any effort in her attempt. With a choked sob ringing in her ears, Imogen felt the mechanic utterly melt into her. 

In a way, the fight drained out of both of them. Bix succumbed to her torment. Imogen gave up on resisting the persistent pull towards a woman she didn’t deserve. They simply clung to each other and abandoned any conviction that would stop them from doing so. 

“I was so stupid,” Bix whimpered into Imogen’s shoulder. “And there was nothing I could do – nothing.”

Imogen didn’t trust herself with words, so she planted her lips on the side of Bix’s head. That odd, warm sensation settled inside Imogen’s chest again as she shut her eyes and inhaled some of Bix’s scent. Imogen liked this. She liked holding her. She liked the way her hair tickled her face. The only thing she could do without were the painful sobs wracking through the woman in her arms. Even more bewildering was the desire to chase those tears away. 

“I’m here,” Imogen said again, this time without any hint of irritation.

Bix pulled back and carefully cradled Imogen’s face. She had never touched her this way before – had never looked at her with such fondness. Imogen got distracted by her deep brown eyes. The richness shimmered with unshed tears and Imogen saw herself reflected clearer than ever. “Thank you,” Bix said through a strained whisper. 

All she managed was a nod before Bix delicately brushed her mouth with a chaste kiss. Imogen moistened her lips as she resisted the desire to lean in for more. She tasted salt on the tip of her tongue and thought maybe Bix might need physical distraction. It would certainly be the easiest offering for Imogen. “Is that the kind of comfort you want?”

Bix shook her head and caressed Imogen’s cheeks with calloused hands. “Just stay with me for a little while. I don’t want to be alone.”

Not even a hint of disappointment twisted in her gut. “Okay.” 

The two of them found seats beside each other on the couch. Bix released her torment in waves, alternating from crying into Imogen’s shoulder to staring off at nothing in particular in quiet contemplation. She maintained physical contact, though. Whether it was a trembling hand grasping at any part of Imogen it could find or their sides brushing together during a break in the storm, Bix always had to touch her. Imogen silently allowed whatever she needed without judgment. 

The bell eventually rang outside. Soon the streets of Ferrix would be teeming with workers. It would be crawling with Stormtroopers, too. Imogen didn’t feel concerned, crowds were easier to blend into, but she did worry for her mechanic. Bix’s secret trade could land her in an Imperial cell if they ever found out. 

“Maybe,” Imogen started. The words were dry and heavy in her mouth. “Maybe you should leave Ferrix.” 

Bix slowly turned her weary head to blink at Imogen. “What?”

“You should go offworld. Get far away from here and start new.”

“With you?”

Imogen swallowed hard and nodded. “I can take you wherever you want to go.”

Bix’s features softened so much that it tightened Imogen’s chest. She sighed almost wistfully at the idea, but said “I can’t, Imogen. I have my parents’ salvage yard and I need to keep an eye on Maarva, too.”

“Since when is Maarva your responsibility?” she grumbled. 

“When someone matters to you,” Bix said, reaching over to place her hand on Imogen’s good knee. “You do what you can to care for them.”

The bounty hunter studied the way Bix’s thumb brushed back and forth, grateful that it had been on her intact leg. She wouldn’t have been able to feel her otherwise. “I guess I wouldn’t know.”

“You know,” she gently insisted.

“Bix…” Imogen sighed. 

“You’ve been saying my name a lot.”

After a moment of hesitation, Imogen looked up. Bix stared so intently into her eyes that Imogen couldn’t break from her gaze even if she wanted to. A part of her did want to – the part inside of her that screamed to hold her ground. She wondered if it ever occurred to Bix that walking away from her had been the closest thing to caring that Imogen was capable of. 

She never fully understood how compassion worked. That turned out to be her biggest problem under the tutelage of the Jedi, but her greatest tool as an Inquisitor. Neither offered her the opportunity to form a proper attachment and learn what it means to care about someone other than herself. It dawned on Imogen as she studied Bix that this might be the only person in the entire galaxy she has ever truly cared for.

“Swear to me you’ll keep a low profile,” Imogen requested and placed her hand on top of Bix’s where it still rested on her knee. “No more deals under the table. Don’t reach out to any offworld contacts.”

“Does that include you?”

“Do you want it to?”

“No,” Bix answered immediately.

The corner of Imogen’s mouth twitched with the flash of a smile. “Then promise me and… and I’ll come back whenever you call.”

Bix’s soft, genuine smile lasted long enough that Imogen had the opportunity to commit it to memory. She really is beautiful. It’s not that Imogen hadn’t noticed before, it’s that she hadn’t let herself appreciate Bix’s beauty with affection. The woman’s features were always something that brought forth a hunger to crave and possess. Now she was something to simply just admire for what she is. 

“I promise.”

“Good.”

“Now,” Bix’s hand switched to pat Imogen’s metal knee. “Can I get a look at this leg? You’ve shifted your weight.”

Imogen released an amused breath, both at her perceptiveness and her need to always fix something. “It’s a prosthetic, not a ship.”

Bix shrugged. “Can’t hurt to take a peek. Maybe you just have a screw loose.” 

Imogen cocked an eyebrow. “And if you fry the neural interface?”

“I’m a way too skilled mechanic for that and you know it,” she bit back. 

After another moment of hesitation, she nodded. “Fine.” At the very least, it was an excuse to stay a little longer… to keep Bix close.

Imogen opted out of synthflesh when she received her cybernetic leg, leaving most of the inner workings exposed without clothing. It made for easier accessibility for maintenance, but she mostly wanted a constant reminder of what Vader had so casually taken from her. She remembered lying on the floor of the training room, clutching the burned stump of her leg, and listening to her new master drone on about the importance of loss. The lesson had been pointless. He knew nothing about what she lost. Or what she took.

Bix had her walk around without pants to pinpoint the issue. Imogen usually underwent this process with medical droids and felt a bit foolish in Bix’s home, but she still silently obeyed every instruction. The mechanic eventually muttered something about an offset joint and sat Imogen back on the couch to get a closer look.

With the cybernetic leg outstretched, Bix knelt on the floor and leaned over it to tinker with the mechanisms in her knee. One arm rested on Imogen’s thigh as Bix got pulled into her element. Imogen may as well have been a ship for how concentrated the mechanic was. She wanted to watch her work more than anything, but Imogen averted her gaze to avoid irritating Bix. 

Even indoors, the chill of Ferrix caused the bounty hunter to shiver and her exposed skin to prickle with goosebumps. Out of the corner of her eye, Imogen saw Bix glance up. She made an effort to suppress her body’s reaction to the cold.

“There’s a blanket behind you,” Bix told her.

“I’ll survive,” Imogen dismissed. “You’re almost done.”

Bix leaned in until their faces were mere inches apart. Imogen stiffened and felt like she might fall into those rich brown eyes of hers, but she quickly realized the mechanic only reached for the blanket. As Bix placed it on Imogen’s lap, she smiled with a hint of coyness and said “It’s gonna be a few.” 

“You’ve made me your responsibility as well, it seems.”

“Like I said before,” Bix murmured absentmindedly as she returned to work. There seemed to be more she planned to say, but Imogen noticed her hesitate as if she caught herself. “I’m grateful you came,” she continued. The tone of her voice sounded more formal. “And this gives me something to do.” 

 Imogen saw right through the deflection. When someone matters to you, you do what you can to care for them. 

“You’re wasting your time,” Imogen warned. She meant it matter-of-factly. One only nurtures to see something change, typically in ways that are considered better by the perspective of the person devoting their efforts. If Imogen learned anything from her first master, it was that. Others had tried to make her right for so long that she finally turned wrong.  

Bix shrugged without looking back up. “Then it’s a good thing it’s mine to waste.”

Imogen didn’t really know what to make of that response. She simply stared down at her mechanic quizzically and admired her casual confidence in the silence that followed. The lack of resistance in Imogen’s chest allowed her to relax in the late morning light that shined through the windows of Bix’s home. The rising presence of the sun brought little warmth with it, but Imogen began to learn that there were other means to chase away the cold.

[illyrianwingspans]

Do Not Go Gentle: when the party’s over

Link to song: when the party’s over by Billie Eilish (ma queen)

Synopsis: Feyre says fuck it. 

TW: Emotional abuse, non-con near the end, brief mention of physical abuse, dark thoughts. Please, if you're sensitive to the topics, read with caution.

Ao3 Link

Chapter 11: when the party’s over

Relapses come slowly.

They don’t happen overnight: you don’t go to sleep one evening and wake up the next morning with your brain scrambled and fried with darkness and shadows. It doesn’t hit like a wave or a bullet or blunt impact.

Relapses are like parasites. They present themselves slowly, precisely, they’re smart—they know exactly what they’re doing. Relapses know your weaknesses, your Achilles’ heels, they know which strings and blocks to pull in order to make you unravel and come crashing down. But never, never are they fast. Never are they quick and dirty. They take their time and they enjoy it as they slowly suck the life out of you and you’re let with nothing but the shell of the person you once were.

As I stared at myself in the mirror that night, I wondered how I let myself get this far. I wondered why I didn’t just leave, why I didn’t pack my things, cash my cheques, take my money and run. What was it that kept me here? Why didn’t I just…go?

In the shower, I scrubbed at myself over and over again, trying to figure out how everything had gone so wrong so quickly. Was it me? Was it my mind, prone to these slips?

Was it the man who occupied my bed?

I didn’t know. I didn’t know.

Because no matter how much I racked my brain, no matter how many times I tried to untangle this knot, all I found were more questions. More dead ends. More thoughts, darker than the rest, that were threatening to destroy me altogether.

The mirror was fogged over with condensation. Good. I didn’t want to see the finger-sized bruises peppering my neck.

Because I knew they were there. They were blue and purple and gruesome, and I’d need to cover them up for the next week. Tamlin hadn’t tried to speak to me this morning as he got dressed for work, and I pretended to be asleep. Tonight would probably be another night of unbearable, stifling silence.

But I didn’t care. It felt like somebody had poured cement in my body over night, leaving me stiff and heavy, and my head was filled with this mind-numbing static that wouldn’t go away no matter how much cold water I splashed on my face.

Because another day of silence wasn’t anything new. This silence… it was all I had anymore.

And I found that I’d grown fond of it, and began to fear the noise.

Noise, like the chime of the elevator that had me scrambling to the closet to pull on a turtleneck sweater and some leggings. Starting my day off nude in front of Alis wasn’t necessarily a good thing. She was supposed to stop by at some point today to drop off some groceries, but I didn’t expect her to be so early.

“Hey Alis—” I croaked, voice rough, as I made my way to living room, only the person in the entrance wearing a black, crisp immaculate suit definitely wasn’t Alis.

Rhysand stood in front of me, hands in his pockets, smug amusement pulling the corners of his mouth into a smirk. “Feyre, darling. Looking lovely as ever. Really love what you’ve done with your hair.”

I blinked. Seeing him here was a shock, but honestly I wouldn’t really put it past him at this point.   Crossing my arms, I sighed. “How did you get in here?”

The smirk on his face paused for a moment as his eyes shifted around my face, then settled on my eyes. He shrugged. “You weren’t very subtle when you punched the code in. And Tamlin’s not very creative. Zero three twenty-one, first day of Spring.”

I stared at him pointedly, and the smug faded away. He took in my appearance—really searched my face and wandered my body. It would’ve felt predatory, even suggestive if his face wasn’t filled with concern and sorrow.

My face filled with heat once more, and I turned around, swallowing hard. “Why are you here, Rhys.” It sounded more bored than curious. I knew why he was here, and I didn’t want to hear a word he had to say.

I didn’t need to look over my shoulder to know he’d followed me and the scraping of the chair against the floors let me know he sat at the counter bar stool. For a few moments, he was silent as I got the espresso beans from the coffee counter and fired up the machine.

“I miss you making my morning coffee. Nobody makes an Americano quite like you.”

I didn’t say anything. He goaded, “Nothing? No, ‘Thank you Rhys, I’ve missed you too’. No ‘Go to hell, Rhys’. Or my favourite, ‘You’re a prick, Rhys’.”

I stilled and closed my eyes. “Get to the point.” I didn’t have time for his wit or sarcasm. I just wanted to be alone.

His eyes practically burned into my back. I paid him no heed, though, as I poured the milk into the stainless steel steaming cup. Rhys cleared his throat, then said, “I was worried about you. After everything that happened yesterday.”

The din from the street below filled in the silence between us as I tried to find something to say. “You couldn’t have called? Texted? Something a little less invasive?”

“I called you seven times. Both last night and this morning.”

I frowned. I hadn’t checked my phone at all, too preoccupied with…

Absentmindedly, my fingers brushed the collar of my turtleneck. “I’ve been away from my phone.”

“I knew there was a reasonable explanation. But I had to see you anyway. To make sure you were okay.”

The milk steamer whined and I winced, then said over the shrieking machine, “I’m fine. Happy? You can leave now.”

“Feyre.” He sounded hurt, like he was betrayed or something that I couldn’t trust him. “Please. I’ve been searching every possible lead to find the people trying to kill you. You know the police won’t know where to start, they have no clue what happened with Isaac and James.”

Hazel eyes flashed in my mind but I shoved them away.

The bullet yesterday was a blip. I knew I should’ve but I… I just didn’t care.

“I told you Rhys. Let the police handle it, they know what they’re doing.”

“They don’t because they don’t know where to begin. You’re not listed to have any known enemies. Say, I don’t know, people who were killed in an accident at a coffee shop.”

I whirled around to him, spoon still in my hand and pointing at him accusingly. “You’re a real prick, you know that Rhys?”

Rhys stared at me, spoon raised, looking like a madwoman, and grinned. “There’s the Feyre I know and love.”

But there was this…this distraught filling my chest. Like before an earthquake when you feel the ground beginning to tremble beneath you, so infinitesimally, but enough to let you know that the whole goddamn world is falling apart. The blood in my veins froze, then thawed and boiled over until I melted, angry tears in my eyes.

Because this one interaction was probably the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in the last three months. Even with the wedding, even with the absurdities I dealt with being attached to this whole mess, this one simple conversation was more stimulating than three months living what was supposed to be my perfect life.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” he murmured, and I looked up, realizing my cheeks were wet with tears. Rhys’s face was soft as his gaze met mine. And I could tell he knew.

The ring on my finger, though, Tamlin’s words in my ear, made me snap out of it. I wasn’t supposed to talk to Rhys. I wasn’t supposed to even be in the same room with him, lest I wanted to royally piss off my finacee.

And I really couldn’t afford more nights like the last.

“Please, just get out. Leave me alone.” My voice was guttered. There was no winning not for either of us. Though Rhys had been a good friend, one of my only friends, my loyalty was to Tamlin. To the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

The thought shook me to my core.

“Feyre—”

“Get out. Now.”

Rhys didn’t waste his time and slid out of the bar stool, feet swiftly carrying him to the front entrance. I followed behind him quietly, arms crossed in front of my chest as he straightened his jacket and cleared his throat.

“One thing, Feyre,” Rhys said quietly, defeat lining the droop of his shoulders.

“What?”

“It’s Cassian’s birthday tomorrow night. He’d really like it if you came. We’re going to Rita’s at seven.”

Tamlin would never let me go. And I was in no state to go to a night club, let alone with people I didn’t know, because surely there would be plenty more with them. But the kindness in his voice, the gentle, sincere manor with which he’d said it…

“I’ll think about it.”

***

I wanted to hurt him, I realized, as I sat in the bath, filled with bubbles so I couldn’t see my body. Alis had come and gone, the only other exciting part of my day—and I realized, stuck up here with nothing to do, that I wanted to hurt him. Like he hurt me.

Even if it would make things worse. Even if it was stupid, and I was being reckless, immature, infantile, I wanted to hurt him.

If that was going out with my friends, my true friends who had been there for me, then so be it.

Because honestly, at this point, I didn’t know if there was anything else left for me. Hope had flown out the window the second that I’d pulled that trigger. The second that the bullet had whizzed past my face.

The second he’d laid his hand on me.

And I knew, because every time I took a bath, I had to hold my sponge as tightly as possible to keep my fingers from reaching into the drawer beneath the sink and resorting back to my old ways.

***

That night, Tamlin bought me soup.

Soup, and flowers, and chocolates—and remorse. It was all over his face, I could tell when he saw me in the turtle neck, and his eyes had filled with shame. Something softened in me, and I let him pull me into his arms. I let him talk, talk about nothing and everything as we ate in bed together, and he put on my favourite movie.

I let him pull my body into the warmth of his. I let him touch me, intimate in a way we hadn’t been in a while.

I almost laughed when I realized after we’d both finished that he hadn’t taken off my shirt. That it was too painful to remind him of what’d he done, last night, not ten feet away from where we laid intertwined in each other.

So, no, there was no guilt the next day as I donned my warmest pair of dressy heels and a white, thin strapped dress I could layer beneath the black turtleneck I’d worn the day before. There was no guilt as I went out and bought a gift for Cassian using my secret debit card. And there was no guilt when I texted Tamlin saying I was going to Alis’s for her nephew’s birthday party. She wasn’t going to be at reception today, and I knew that tomorrow morning when she stopped by it wouldn’t be too hard to ask her to cover for me.

When seven o’clock came around, I was getting out of the Uber, my stomach in knots as I made my way to the hostess bar and asked, “Reservation for Cassian?”

“Right this way.”

The restaurant was food by day, shots by sundown, and I could see the dance floor in the distance, currently barren. I think I’d been here once, many moons ago in my college years, way before I’d met Tamlin. I also remember puking my guts out in the bathrooms, which only brought a small smile to my face.

It terrified me with each step we took closer to the table. Knowing Cassian, there were probably two dozen people there, maybe a few gym rats, or worse, mousy bimbos—

“Here you are,” the hostess said, and pointed to the table in the corner. Booth style, not too far off the dance floor, with only…

Five people. Five people sat around the circular booth, Rhys and Cassian included—both of whom were laughing heartily at something a gorgeous, jaw-dropping blonde woman who swirled a glass of red wine in her hands.

“Feyre!” It was Cassian who first spotted me, delight in his smile as he stood from where he was at the edge of the table. “You made it!” He slid out of his seat and made forward to wrap me in a hug. I couldn’t help but laugh as his arms squeezed me.

“Jeez, you really need to come back to the gym. You feel like a twig.” He said as he set me down. I punched him in the arm, which earned me whoop and a strangely terrifying smirk of approval from the other, smaller woman with black hair.

“A twig who hasn’t forgotten how to punch,” I said, before sliding into the table beside him. Across from me, looking as immaculate as always, Rhys grinned as he brought his drink to his lips.

“Everybody, this is Feyre Archeron. Feyre, this is Azriel, Morrigan and Amren. But feel free to refer to her as Tiny One.”

“Put a muzzle on it, Cassian. Lest you want spit in your food.” Amren, the asian woman with dark hair and grey, gleaming eyes looked as though she would rather be anywhere but here. She looked like she ate blood for breakfast.

The blonde one, Morrigan, said, “These two always go on and on about you. I’m so glad we could finally meet. Honestly, they’ve been hoarding you all to themselves.”

“For good reasons.” The last one, Azriel, said, voice low and rough like midnight. As I finally took in the dark hair, tanned skin and high cheek bones, I realized that I remembered him. I didn’t know where, but his face—it was like we’d seen each other just the other day.

“You look so familiar,” I said, and Azriel’s head tilted to the side. His face betrayed no emotion, and I could tell by his stiff demeanour that he wasn’t much of a talker. It was like shadows clung to him, like he preferred it that way, blending into the background.

He shrugged, the barest movement of his shoulders. Morrigan interjected, “I mean, he does look a lot like these two idiots.”

Rhys rolled his eyes. “Mor, that’s no way to speak to the person who signs your pay check.”

“Last time I checked, Mr. Noctis, we aren’t at work. And I may address my cousin however I please.”

My brows shot up as I looked from Mor to Rhys, from Mor’s round, rosy cheeks, fair skin and nearly bleach blonde hair to Rhys’s dark, tan features. I drawled, “Cousins?”

“In the loosest possible term biologically.” Cassian supplied. “Otherwise, they were basically attached at the hip as children. And now I’m stuck with her for every holiday and celebration against my will.”

“I can always return your gift, Cassian,” Mor said sweetly before taking a glass of wine. Then she looked to me and said, “Oh, we must get Feyre a drink. Pick your poison.”

I hadn’t drank in a long while. Usually just champagne or wine at Tamlin’s work events. But it’d been a long while since I had…

“Tequila?” Was the first word that left my mouth. I didn’t know what instinct made me say the most potent of liquors, but the knot in my chest was loosening with every smile and laugh shared around the table. Tonight, I wanted to let loose. I wanted to damn tomorrow and just do this one thing for myself.

For once, Tamlin’s voice wasn’t in the back of my head with a warning. And if that wasn’t a sign…

“Ooh, I like her. We can keep her. Make it two.” Amren said, a wicked smirk on her face. I didn’t know if it pleased me or horrified me.

Cassian jostled my shoulder and gleaned, “You’re gonna drink me under the table bringing the tequila out this early, Archeron.”

The waitress interrupted us, asking for our orders, and I quickly glanced at the menu and ordered the salmon and a salad, knowing I probably wouldn’t be able to finish half of it. And, just before she left, Rhys added, “We’ll also take a round of tequila.”

The evening passed by savoringly slowly, peppered with fine food, strong drinks and conversations that had me stifling my laughter. Cassian, Azriel and Rhys recounted the times they were in the Academy training together and the foolish things they’d pulled on each other—Azriel had stolen Cassian’s clothes and forced him to run buck-naked through the dormitory courtyard—and Mor told me of all the stupidities that came with working retail as a teenager. Amren offered quips and snide comments, and chatted quietly with Rhys about matters that seemed business-related, by the look of seriousness in Rhys’s eyes. His gaze flicked to me, catching me staring at him—I looked away quickly, but not before I saw the small grin on his face.

The meal, as the exorbitant prices promised, was delicious. And as I predicted, I only managed about two thirds of it before a wave of nausea and fullness ran over me and I had to resort to pushing food around the plate for the remainder of the meal. Rhys’s eyes narrowed as the waitress took away the plate, and I looked off towards the expanse of dance floor to conceal the blush flooding my cheeks.

There was cake—was, meaning Cassian ate most of it—then more drinks. Too many, because next thing I knew Mor was laughing and screaming at the top of her lungs against the din of the pounding music, trying to entice the table into dancing with her. Azriel and Cassian immediately stood, the both of them disappearing into the amassing crowd on the dance floor, whereas Amren headed over to the bar looking for something stronger, apparently (as if the other rounds weren’t enough to knock someone as tiny as her on their asses). It left Rhys and I remaining in the booth.

He pointed to the slice of cake sitting untouched before me. “You going to finish that?”

“Hm,” I snorted, “another bite wouldn’t hurt.” The chocolate mousse melted in my mouth and I sighed. Rhys was across from me in the semi-circle, and with the noise of the club, we’d have to shout at each other all night. So I stood, cake, fork and drink balancing precariously in my hands, and slid over until I was beside him.

He looked down at me and wondered, “Didn’t feel like dancing?”

“I’ve got two left feet.” I replied before taking another bite, my eyes wandering over his seated silhouette. Tonight he hadn’t worn his usual immaculate suit, but instead opted for a black silk-like button down and black jeans, tailored to the very inch. From beneath the collar of his neck, I could see the hint of a tattoo, and my brows shot up.

“You have a tattoo?”

His fingers tugged gently at the collar of his shirt. The movement sent a draft of something sweet in the air, like citrus and jasmine. A refreshing, comforting scent that had me leaning back against the plush leather. “It’s customary for people in my culture to get these tattoos.”

“Where are you from?” I wondered, fingers wandering over to my drink (though I knew full well I should’ve been slowing down).

“Illyria,” he answered, and pointed vaguely to the dancing crowd, “as are Cassian and Azriel. My mother was Illyrian and we were raised on the reserve. My father didn’t particularly like that, thought I should’ve been in the city with him, but my mother didn’t particularly care about what my father thought.”

Sipping from my drink, I nodded politely. I’d never been to the Illyrian reserve, which was an hour or so north of the city, though heard about it here and there in the news. Mainly about land disputes and rich assholes trying to buy it out. Now, looking at Rhys, the distinctive striking features made perfect sense.

“You can stare all you want. I consider it volunteer work, letting you gawk at me so openly.”

My cheeks heated and my mouth dropped open. I scoffed, “Gods, now I know why your only friends are your employees.”

“Keep your friends close and your payroll closer.” He gave me a wink, and I rolled my eyes. My gaze wandered off to the dance floor, where I could spot Mor in the distance flailing her arms—gracefully—and swaying from side to side in her bright red, skin tight dress. Cassian and Azriel were alongside her, though Cassian’s eyes were fixed on another woman who’d fallen into step with him, a slick, seductress smile on her face. Rhys shook his head at the sight, despite his cheeky grin, and I only laughed as I took another sip.

“Why aren’t you out there with them?”

At that, Rhys also took a long sip. He opened his mouth, closed it, then finally said, “I prefer your company far more to their sweaty…” he looked over, just in time to see the woman unabashedly grinding against Cassian, “‘dancing’.”

“Glad to know I rank a step above that.” My eyebrows raised emphatically, and Rhys’s face broke into a smile. I said, “Reminds me of my college days.”

“You went to college?”

“Prythian University,” I nodded, “two years only. I was part of a sorority for a while, though.”

His mouth fell open in surprise. “Oh, Feyre darling, you must tell.”

***

The rest of the night went…easy. I wasn’t worrying. There was no impending panic. There were no fears. Part of it had been the alcohol, yes—it’d loosened what’d been wound so tight for so long—but being here, being with people, laughing with friends… My mind, despite the haze of alcohol, felt clearer than it had in days.

Talking with Rhys was easier than breathing. It started with my college days, then to his studies abroad—peppered with some particularly interesting sexual experiences in foreign countries—then moved onto how he’d met his friends, which he assured me, were family first, employees secondly. Cassian had been abandoned in the Illyrian village, left to fend for himself in an inexistent, permanently drunk foster family, and Rhys could tell by the way the boy never had a lunch at school. CPS hadn’t gotten involved because of the abhorrence that was dealing within the torrid laws regarding indigenous communities, which meant Cassian was stuck. Rhys had found Cassian shivering in the cold at recess—his family hadn’t gotten him a winter jacket—and decided to bring him home to his mother. She’d been furious at first, but Cassian returned the next day, and the day after.

The same had been for Azriel, though the details were much more vague about the man cloaked in shadows. It was a gruesome tale, being an illegitimate son, constantly berated and beaten by his parents and older brothers. He’d gotten the gnarled, scarred hands because they thought a fun experiment would be to douse Azriel’s hands in gasoline and set them on fire. When Rhys came home with another stray, this time his mother didn’t even bother with fury. Only set to buying another cot to be squeezed in next to the two other boys.

Amren, though, met Rhys much later—in his college years, after the academy. She was an upperclassmen he’d met at a bar and tried to hook up with, to which she responded by humiliatingly laughing in his face. Rhys admitted he’d never felt more undignified than when Amren was doubled over in stitches at the thoughts of sleeping with him. Yet still, they’d become fast friends, and even faster business partners. Amren was the top of her class in law school, one of the smartest people he’d ever met, and as soon as he seized control of the company, his first order of business was hiring her as his second in command and chief legal officer.

The second order was to hire Morrigan—simply Mor—as his chief experience officer. Her and Rhys’s father had been the most invested in the company being the two major shareholders, though Rhys’s father shares made Keir’s, Mor’s father, look like pennies. Mor’s childhood had been a series of parental pressure, encouraging her to be wed off to exemplary, rich suitors Keir consistently tried to set her up with. She’d been engaged to marry one of them, Eris, son of Autumn Publishing’s CEO, not of her own volition. Rhys didn’t mention any specifics, only that it’d ended horribly, and Mor had never been the same since. But she was fiery, determined, and Rhys could only describe her as his best friend (though he made me promise to never mention that to her).

At some point, Mor had to come peel Rhys and I away from the booth—despite our vehement protests—and drag us onto the dance floor. The whole lot of us were jumping, screaming at the top of our lungs, and pounding back more liquor as the night sped along. I danced with everyone (Amren compromised by allowing us to dance near where she was seated by the bar), even Rhys, whose hands had been soft and warm as they wandered down the skin of my arms and shoulders. Cassian and I shimmied, Mor and I fake tangoed, even Azriel gave me a few twirls, not before it felt like the liquor was going to come straight back up, and I had to take a seat. The plush back of the booth seemed comfier than when I’d first sat down at the beginning of the night.

“Feyre?” Cassian asked. I opened my eyes, not having realized they were closed in the first place. Exhaustion had hidden just far enough away from me to have not noticed it drenching my bones. Beads of sweat had gathered on Cassian’s forehead from all the dancing. My tongue felt limp and heavy in my mouth, and the room felt as though it was spinning.

“Yes, my good sir?” I grinned sheepishly. Cassian’s mouth fell open in amused shock.

“You’re drunk,” he chortled.

“Pfft. Am not.”

“Are too,” he said, letting out another laugh. “Dear gods. What are we going to do with you?”

“Let me have some fun!” I whined, then knocked back the rest of my glass. My fingers groped at  my throat as if they could ease the fire slithering in my chest. It burned all the way down, like I knew it would burn on its way back up—but I wanted more. This excitement, this pleasure, no matter how clouded or distorted it was, was all I had anymore.

“Let’s slow down, there, you’ve had a lot tonight.” Cassian suggested as I tried to wrench myself up from the table to get more. My butt hit the cushioned seat once more, body bouncing slightly with the impact. It made me laugh.

A laugh that slowly melted away as I took in Cassian’s sombre gaze, trained on my mouth. No, not on my mouth, I realized, but lower. My neck.

My stomach dropped. The neckline must’ve shifted, already it’d barely covered them in the first place—

Cassian’s eyes were burning when they met mine, and it was like my head was dunked into ice cold water, and I was sober in the span of a heartbeat.

“Feyre,” he breathed, and it was like the rest of the club disappeared.

I didn’t waste another second. He’d already known too much, and by some sort of miracle had kept it to himself, but this—this would ruin Tamlin and I. Quickly, I scrambled to find my bag, and pulled out my phone to call an Uber.

Only to find twenty two missed calls, and over fifty text messages from Tamlin. The earth dropped out from underneath me. My chest collapsed as I realized how horribly, horribly wrong this had all gone.

I should have never stepped foot outside the apartment. I should’ve just grinned and bared it instead of creating this steaming shit storm raining down on me.

Cassian was shouting something over the music, and I couldn’t hear him as I pressed away from the booth, heading to the club’s side door entrance where the smoker’s were. A voice called out my name, and I turned around to look over my shoulder—

To bump face first into a hard, male chest, sending me nearly teetering to the floor. When I looked up, an apology already on my tongue, every nerve in my body jumped as my eyes met Tamlin’s golden emerald ones, boring into my soul like he would shred it apart with his bare hands.

“I didn’t know Alis’s nephew was turning twenty one,” Tamlin snipped coldly, his fingers tightening around my wrist to the point of teeth-clenching pain.

“Tamlin, please. Not here. Let’s go.”

“What did you think would happen, Feyre? That I’d sit idly by as my wife was out to a child’s birthday party until one in the morning?”

“Fiancée,” I corrected seethingly, my hand slithering between us and pressing against his stomach to get him to move. “Let’s leave.”

“Feyre!” A voice called once more, only it died out right behind me. I sighed, tears pricking the corners of my eyes as I turned to see Cassian standing there, his expression one of stone cold fury as he stared Tamlin down.

Tamlin, the picture of opposition, only laughed. “I see. Alright.” He looked at me, but inclined his head to Cassian. “You came for a quick fuck?”

My face flushed with shame. I couldn’t even look at Cassian. “Tamlin, stop.”

“No, I get it. I understand. I think I have to set the record straight, though.” The only warning I had was the clenching of his fist, and it was the only warning I needed. I acted on instinct and brusquely grabbed my fiancée by his right arm to hold him back. I hate that I knew it was his preferred hand to punch with.

Tamlin whirled on me, his eyes burning with rage. His hand clutched my jaw, fingertips pressing painfully into my cheeks, and I gasped as he pushed me into the wall perpendicular to the exit door. He growled, “Stay out of this. You’ve done enough already, you fucking—”

“Let go of her!” Cassian yelled, striding towards us like he was ready to slam Tamlin through the goddamned door.

Another figure appeared in the background, the same man who’d been outside the door who only uttered, “You two. Out. Now.” Pointing to both Tamlin and I, he signalled for us to step out. Even Cassian paused at the bouncer’s presence.

And behind the bounder stood Rhys, whose eyes were filled with contempt for the man beside me. He’d lowered his hands, thank the gods—I don’t know what Rhys would’ve done if he’d found us like that. Eviscerated Tamlin, most likely.

I just wanted to go home. I wanted the silence back.

“Let’s go, Feyre,” Tamlin said, laying his hand on my shoulder. I flinched at his touch.

We stepped out the door, and I didn’t look back, though I knew their eyes were burning through me.

***

“I told you to never speak to him again.”

I said nothing. It was true. I’d explicitly gone behind his back.

“He was being friendly, Tamlin.”

“You’re not friends. Rhysand is not your friend. How many times do I have to say it to you for you to finally understand?”

He’s more of a friend than you, I wanted to spit, but there was no fire left in me. It’d been strangled out the moment his hands had clenched around my throat, bereft of the oxygen needed to keep on.

“I know you went to see him before the wedding.”

I swallowed hard. I couldn’t even look at him from where I sat perched on the edge of the bed. “You’ve been following me again?”

“Because you’ve been disobeying me.”

Disobeying. The word sliced through me. Like I was no more than his pet.

“He’s the danger, Feyre. He was involved in the operation that nearly got you killed. The day after you went to see him, the day of our wedding, that sniper nearly killed you. Don’t you see it?”

I wanted to laugh. I wanted to draw a map of Tamlin’s ignorance, of all the ways he’d went wrong—I wanted to show him his shortcomings, how foolish he was not to see that he’d dug this grave himself.

But there was nothing left within me. Only a barren of wasteland bestrewed with the ruins of the person who’d crumbled into nothing.

“I’m sorry.” The words were broken jagged pieces I offered to him with bloody hands.

He didn’t respond. Only approached me slowly, carefully, then tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. I sighed and leaned into the palm of his hand. Then he was kissing me, pushing me back onto the bed.

Mine, mine, mine—I could see the word in his eyes, feel it with every thrust of his body from behind me, hands gripping my back and pinning me to the mattress. Protect, protect, protect. We both finished, and he rolled onto his side and fell fast asleep.

I curled onto my side, wondering if the tears would ever come. They didn’t. Only silent, dry sobs I tried to stifle with my pillow.

Because I wouldn’t dare shatter the silence I’d finally found at last.

[youareiron-andyouarestrong]

the princess rebel, pt. 9

@skitzofreak, thank @crazy-fruit for providing me the much needed kick in the pants to keep going! warnings here for implied torture, though nothing graphic or detailed. 

now, where we were? …oh yes, 

The Pit of Despair 

When Cassian opened his eyes, a few things became apparent: one, he was lying on a table. Two, he was strapped to said table. Three, he was definitely in some kind of cell, with tall walls and a high ceiling and a not particularly promising smell clinging to the air, metal and leather and caustic cleaning solutions, but something…unpleasantly organic underneath.

And four, there was someone to the side of him, tending to the wound in his shoulder.

His neck was free enough so he could turn to look, though his arms and legs were strapped down securely.  A man, with broad stooped shoulders leaned down to the side of him, seemingly paying no attention to Cassian’s now wakeful state. His dark hair was streaked with gray, and his uniform was definitely some kind of Imperial, but…someone low-ranking in the science division, judging by the dull gray bands over the chest.

Cassian took stock. Physically, other than his shoulder, he wasn’t in much pain. His mouth tasted spectacularly bad, but he’d been through that before.

Still, the being strapped to the table gave him pause before he got too optimistic.

“Where am I?” he asked, his voice hoarse, but clear enough.

“The Pit of Despair,” the man at his side rasped, almost croaking. “Don’t even think of—” he coughed, choked, cleared his throat before continuing in an much more normal sounding voice, “Don’t think of trying to escape. Forgive me. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to converse with another organic being.”

Strangely, the man didn’t sound smug or gloating. His voice was almost…kind, grinded down to nothing but sad and knowing resignation.  There was compassion there, strangely enough.

“Am I to be here long, then?” Cassian asked, figuring that since the man was talking, he might as well gather some information.

The man shrugged. “Until you are killed here, yes.”

Cassian fought down the automatic impulse to struggle, or lash out. It would only be a waste of energy. “Then why bother healing me?”

“The Director likes his subjects to be in good health,” said the man, a certain rhythm to his words betraying he had heard them said many times. “Before the…experiments begin.”

“So it’s to be torture then,” Cassian said flatly. The man looked up through the overlong gray bangs of his hair and shrugged, a tiny motion that confirmed it. “I’ve been through torture,” said Cassian and now the man looked Cassian in the face, eyes sad. He had…seen those eyes before, but the ones he knew were bright and full of fire, ferocity, light. The man before Cassian now looked as if someone had been carving pieces away of him, one bit at a time.

“You survived the Fire Swamp,” the man said as if making a great concession, “You must be very brave. But I’ve seen no one withstand the machines here.”

Cassian kept his mouth shut, his teeth clenching together almost audibly. The man smiled, a twisted, rueful thing. “You seem to seem to have more spirit than most who come in. So who knows. You might survive yet.”

There was a whirring, clanking noise from the other side of the table, which made Cassian turn his head. And despite being strapped to a table, almost certainly due for Imperial torture, his blood still ran cold.

An eight-foot tall Imperial droid enforcer, a KX unit, loomed up to the side of him, it’s long arms almost touching it’s knee joints. It’s blank, featureless face with enormous glowing optics peered down at the two men, somehow managing to convey it was deeply unimpressed and uninterested in the proceedings.

“Galen,” it said, mechanical voice crackling, “You should not be conversing with the prisoners.”

Cassian tensed under the restraints, the name going off in his head like a blaster shot. The man besides him—Galen—sighed deeply. “This is K2S-O, my…companion.”

“I am your guard and your caretaker,” the droid corrected flatly. “Not your companion.”

“For lack of anything better,” said Galen, a hint of bitter humor in his voice. “Forgive me, Kay-Too.”

The droid whirred, somehow conveying long-held disapproval. “The apologizing to me is ineffective and inefficient.” Then it stomped off, disappearing from Cassian’s vision.

“He’s not so bad,” Galen murmured, returning to Cassian’s shoulders. “Believe it or not, he used to be worse.”

Cassian kept silent. Galen peered into his face, face creased. “May I give you some advice, young man?”

“I don’t suppose I can stop you,” Cassian retorted. At best, the man was an Imperial torturer. At worst, he was a collaborator.

“Die fast and quiet when they interrogate you,” Galen told him gently, no louder than breath. “Or live so long they are ashamed to hurt you anymore.”

*

Time blurred. Cassian…not slept, but dozed, in fragmentary snatches as the stooped form of Galen moved around him, tending to his shoulder wound, moving around the cell, seemingly doing the same repetitive tasks over and over again. The droid seemed to mostly lurk in a corner, never taking it’s optics off of Galen, or Cassian for that matter.

Cassian stared at the ceiling and ran code in his head. Code, ship schematics, names of beings he knew, the first ship he’d ever piloted, the first time he’d taken on the name of Fulcrum, no, wait, thoughts of Fulcrum led to Jyn.

Well…there were worse things to think about.

Jyn. Had she mentioned her father’s name? Had Bodhi? Had he misheard, or been mistaken?

No, no, he hadn’t been. Galen Erso. How many Galens could there be in the galaxy?

A maker of weapons, a scientist, an Imperial pawn, a collaborator—

Jyn’s father. The one she mourned as much as Saw.

Jyn. Now she was in the forefront of his mind, as clear and as complex as code.

He ran through the physical details in his mind—below average height for the typical human female, most of her weight was compromised of muscle, nerve and daring, she had the faintest trace of freckles across her nose, if you looked hard enough. If you were close enough. A blade she used like an extension of her own body.

It was a terribly inconvenient time to remember what it had been like, that strong, tightly muscled body pressed up against his, a blade sharp enough to cut shadows at his throat. And the memory of her eyes, clear and bright and blazing with the energy of the fight, looking into his. Her mouth had been an unexpected source of softness in that fierce face, the lower lip full than the upper, and her tongue had flicked out to moisten it—

From somewhere, a wall hissed and Cassian thought he heard a panel slide open. His thoughts were confirmed when the sharp, crisp bootfalls of an Imperial officer came close to him, only they walked like the rest of the world was in the way.

Cassian waited until the footsteps stopped besides his table before he opened his eyes.

Orsen Krennic’s smug face peered back at him, haughty and satisfied. He couldn’t quite maintain the air of cultured menace that Lord Tarkin did, or the sheer overwhelming terror that was a figure like Darth Vader. He was a man, Cassian thought, who was far too aware of his own shortcomings, and in his furious efforts to conceal them, only made them more obvious to the onlooker.

He could do something with that, if provided with the opportunity.      

“So,” Krennic began, no doubt about to being the “how worthless my opponent is” spiel Cassian had definitely heard too many times before, “Princess Leia insists you are nothing but a royal retainer, devoted and loyal, who brought her back from among the savage Partisans.” It took a lot more than that to make Cassian twitch, so Krennic persisted in this vein. “She says your name is José Ceniza, that you have been in her household your whole life, and she insists that you be returned there immediately.” Krennic gazed down at Cassian, with the smile of a man who knows he has a good hand of cards. “Of course, we looked you up in the records. Perfect background, immaculate. One would think you were made up, so exemplary is your record.”

Cassian still didn’t react. Mainly because he’d been trained for this, and mostly because he wanted to see what kind of reaction Krennic would have to his non-response, if he would continue to sneer and gloat, or become angry and begin the hurt. He seemed like the kind of man who would want a victim to show some visible response to torment.

Cassian kept his eyes in the direction of Krennic’s right ear, a little above it, to give the illusion that he was looking him in the face. He wanted to see if Krennic would notice this subtle little defiance and what he would do about it.

“We continued to search for the Partisans, of course,” Krennic continued. He had a tic, Cassian took the time to note, scratching his nails very lightly over the surface of the table, the subtle little motion betraying some inner thought. “Unfortunate, but they managed to elude us this time. Well, not for long, I should think. They are like vermin, easily exterminated.”

You are terrible at this, Cassian thought, inexplicably fed up with this posturing, this sneering. No better than a back-alley thug, only you wear better clothes.

“Well, no matter,” Krennic concluded, evidently ready to move on to more interesting venues of conversation, like Cassian’s torture. “Let’s begin.”

*

In the after, Galen tended to Cassian. He hadn’t even been hurt yet, Cassian thought, staring up at the ceiling. Only had a truth drug shoved down his throat and started to spout the most ridiculous, farcical things, about cooking and code and droids and math, because he wasn’t a goddamn amateur and knew how to divert things like truth serums into relative uselessness. Granted, his audience was now infinitely more informed about the proper method of cooking gherkins, and Cassian hoped they would be better for it. Once it had worn off and he could reel himself back in, Krennic had left, not irritated or annoyed yet, only contemplative. Cassian wasn’t sure which was worse. 

“Well done,” said the droid flatly, once Krennic was gone. “I found it most informative. Especially the section about all the differences in droid mechanisms and parts, according to make and model, and year of production.” “Did you really?” Cassian said, still not entirely down from the effects of the drug.

“No,” said the droid, still flat. “You made forty-five mistakes and sixty-three different miscalculations. I will inform you of them later.” 

“So that’s to be my torture then,” Cassian retorted, and bit the inside of his cheek, hard, to shut himself up already.

“It will be the truth serums, first,” Galen said softly, carefully cleaning the bandage on his shoulder. “Then he will list the names of all the Alliance spies ever caught and how they died. After, if you do not break by then, it might be the machines, the instruments.”

“Does he do it himself?” Cassian asked, deciding to forgo addressing the prospect of being faced with the names and deaths of his (alleged) fellow agents.

“Sometimes,” Galen said, his eyes somewhere else. He had that trick that Bodhi had, of sending himself somewhere else inside his head, of disassociating when life became too loud or harsh. “Or he will make me do it, or Kay-too.”

At the sound of its name, the droid raised its head. “It is a waste of my intended purpose to regulate me to a torture droid.” Unless it was Cassian’s imagination, it sounded distinctly resentful. 

“That’s his real crime,” Cassian agreed. “Improper distribution of resources.”

Galen stopped, peered into Cassian’s face. “Are you taking your situation seriously?”

“Yes,” Cassian said and shut his eyes, trying to sink back into that place where he knew himself, where he could control what he would or wouldn’t say. “I can’t not, can I? I’m strapped to a table, and some two-bit, jumped up, would be Imperial pendejo leers at me, awaiting my torture. I’m damned well taking it seriously.”

“This room is bugged,” announced the droid. “I would recommend against insulting Director Krennic too much, or he will almost certainly hear of it and exact some form of petty, ultimately meaningless recompense from you.”

“Kay doesn’t like the Director,” Galen informed Cassian solemnly, something almost like humor flashing across his face. “Then, one can’t blame him.”

“Why?” Cassian asked.

The humor faded as quickly as it had appeared. Nothing but bone stark weariness remained. “Krennic’s idea of a joke, I’m afraid. I am down here with nothing organic for company, and apparently, Kay-too’s model of droid was starting to get phased out of the production lines. The broken down, decrepit man with an outdated droid. No offense, Kay.”

“If someone only bothered to update me regularly,” said Kay-too pointedly, “I would not be considered to become obsolete.”

For one insane moment, Cassian almost offered to do some work on the droid’s code, maybe give him a few minor upgrades to his processer, maybe update his system—He killed the thought before it could grow.

*

Krennic came back the next day. Or so Cassian assumed. It wasn’t like there were only chronos or windows.“Where were we the last time we met?” asked Krennic mock consideringly. “Ah yes, you were giving us a fascinating dissertation on gherkins. Truly, an inspiration.”

Cassian did not deign to respond.

“Now,” Krennic went on, moving out of Cassian’s eye line, “let’s start with what we have.”

Cassian stared at the ceiling as Kay clumped around the chamber and Galen shuffled.There were ominous mechanical clanking, grinding sounds in the background. Cassian wondered what was worse, thinking about it or not thinking about it.

“You see,” Krennic continued, slowly pacing about as Cassian looked at the ceiling, “I’m well aware our mutual friends here might have told you what to expect from the next few days. Galen is kind-hearted like that. But for you…well, Mister Ceniza, I find myself feeling inspired.”

Cassian felt the table jerk and move under him. Kay was pushing it. Pushing it…where?

“You may know I’m rather interested in the nature of pain,” Krennic said, as a monstrous, hulking nightmare of a machine loomed up before Cassian.  Do not react, do not react, do not fucking flinch—

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Krennic said almost fondly, like another man might look at a sunset or a beloved’s face. Beloved, beloved, beloved, Galen, father of Jyn, Jyn, Jyn, Jyn—

“The work of a lifetime,” he went on, gazing at the machine. “Most torture machines are much more precise than this of course, but this…” he turned to smile down at Cassian. “I have it on good authority, the best authority, that this machine sucks away life force. Isn’t that so, Galen?”

Cassian went rigid, staring at the ceiling as Galen’s low rasp of a voice reached him. “It was only a theory.”

Krennic made a movement that might’ve been a shrug. “Well, this is for posterity, remember,” he said casually to Cassian. “So after, try to be honest about what you feel.”

Cassian closed his eyes. It was a useless, futile gesture, but he did it anyways. When his eyes were closed, he could think of the stars, the black, of Jyn, lighting up dark places. 

*

“Are you well?” Galen asked softly, after. Cassian still had his eyes closed. If he opened them and looked at Galen, he might do something supremely stupid, like chew off his restrains and gut him with his bare hands.

“No,” Galen murmured, “I didn’t suppose you would be.”The whirring, clanking approach of Kay-too made Cassian flinch in spite of himself. “Vital signs low,” the droid intoned flatly. “No other symptoms.” His voice sounded distinctly displeased.

“The work was not mine,” Galen said quietly, easing off wires and tape. Cassian felt his skin ripple and shudder under his touch, like the skin of a beast that was trying to cower away. “It was another’s theory,” Galen went on, “that…devising a device that could drain the life force out of a living being was possible. I only…I only tried to slow it down, the building of the device, but—”

“Do not justify yourself to me,” Cassian grated out. Galen went silent. “Do not stand there,” Cassian hissed, “And tell me another would’ve done this work instead of you. You built this machine. Do not fucking apologize to me for monsters of your own making.”

He had to stop then, and gasp for air, because even spitting that out at him took too much of whatever remained of his energy. He heard movement, shuffling.“Open your eyes,” Galen said softly, and there was some inherent rhythm to it, a father talking to his stubborn, angry child.

Cassian did it. He didn’t know why. Galen stood over him, a canteen in his hands.

“Kay,” he said softly, “tell him what’s in it.”

A brief whirring and Kay’s intoned, “Water.”

“Drink,” Galen told Cassian quietly, raising it to Cassian’s lips. “I need to support your head.”

Cassian let him do it. Cassian let cool, life-giving water slide down his throat, wet the insides of his cheeks, his tongue. Then, it was over, he eyed Galen, contemplating, just for a moment, spitting it back in his face.“I wouldn’t,” Galen said, still measured and quiet. “You need your reserves.”

Cassian swallowed the water. Then he did it anyways, a sharp, direct hit. Galen didn’t flinch.  “There was an eighty-seven percent chance of him doing that,” Kay informed Galen, barely helpful.  Galen reached up, wiped away the spit. Cassian braced himself for the near inevitable retaliation.

Instead, Galen bent his head still lower to Cassian, practically within biting range, if necessary. “The machine does nothing,” he breathed into Cassian’s ear, so low as to be missed by any hearing devices. “It inflicts pain, yes—it could not do otherwise. It could easily kill you. But it does not take away life force. Nothing can do that but your own soul. Krennic is too obsessed with power and inflicting pain to realize otherwise.”

*

After about what seemed to be third time Krennic came down to inspect the ongoing work, Cassian had had enough.

He’d been mocked, patronized, tortured. He had watched a man with no subtlety and no finesse hamfist his way into attempting to get the truth out of him.  And he could feel time continuing outside of this chamber, this pit, time that was going faster and faster away from him.

The whole time, Cassian had remained silent. Or as silent as he could. Not that it had helped, Krennic had pushed harder and harder, slowly and then more quickly becoming dissatisfied and impatient with his lack of visible response.

Upon seeing Krennic’s impeccably white clad form loom over him again, as he was about to undergo the machine again, Cassian allowed himself to cut a glance at him. “I’m ready to talk now.”

“Ah!” Krennic leaned over, eyebrows raised mock inquisitively. “Well, I must say you lasted longer than most—certainly it had been a challenge breaking you. But come, I am fascinated—what should we discuss first?”

Cassian rolled his shoulders, as best he could. “Well, for one—you are terrible at this.”

Krennic’s eyebrow twitched. “No, truly,” Cassian said, feeling almost cheerful. One way or another—it would be over soon. “Who taught you how to interrogate people? The sneering and gloating and looming. Because this is amateur hour. I know gangsters on the furthest Outer Rim planets who are better at this than you.”

Krennic stared down at him incredulously. From wherever he was, Galen was silent. “It appears,” said the voice of Kay-too from somewhere, almost thoughtful, “he is attempting to provoke you into ending his torture short by killing him.”

“And another thing!” Cassian practically shouted, morbidly gleeful. “You are wasting a perfectly good KX unit by leaving him down here. You could easily update his code and restore him to usefulness but you won’t because you’re lazy.”

“He’s right,” announced Kay, now sounding the most approving he had the entire time. Now Krennic was starting to look distinctly purple around the edges. “You’re lazy and hamfisted and unimaginative, and what’s worse, you’re so fucking blind and stupid that you don’t know your end when it stares you in the face.” Cassian felt his chest start to heave from exertion, from adrenaline. “The Partisan? With the stars on her blade?” He would not say her name, even now, in this pit, he would keep her free. “She is coming for you. And you will know your end.”

“Stardust,” whispered Galen from somewhere behind them and Krennic whirled, teeth bared.

“I should’ve let you rot,” he seethed.

A dry, rasping choke of a laugh came from Galen. “You already did.”

Krennic snarled and started towards the machine.“Start it,” he spat over Cassian’s head and there was no movement from either corner of the room. “I said start it!”

“No,” said Kay and Galen in one voice, and a huge, massive, dark form loomed up in front of them. “You are a waste of resources,” said Kay very decisively. “For the sake of effiency, you must be removed.”

“Useless—” Krennic yanked out a blaster and fired. The bolt went through Kay’s shoulder joint, and the droid staggered.

“No!” Galen lunged, the two men fumbling for the blaster as Cassian watched helplessly. There was furious struggle and then, the sharp report of a blaster going off. Galen staggered, hand pressed to his chest, face gone gray.“Now then,” Krennic got out, panting hard, “look what you’ve made me do.”  He moved towards the machine and slammed his hand down on a panel.

Pain shot through Cassian, furious and brilliant. He screamed then as he had never screamed before, the sound torn out of him by the roots. He was going to die, the world was ending around him, and for once, just once, he was not going to go quietly. He would rage and howl and scream until the stars shook from the force of it.

The machine howled as if in response to his own noise, and something shuddered and pounded, as if a huge fist was beating on the walls of the world. The sound grew so loud and terrible Cassian wondered if this was death already, come for him. Something huge and dark loomed up and smashed an iron fist into the machine.

The world went abruptly dark and silent, and then, so did Cassian.

[red-wardens]

Red-Warden’s OC Page

Because this is all on my OC Page (that I have a link to on my sidebar), but is therefore inaccessible to those who using tumblr app or tumblr from their non-computer devices, I am copy and pasting my OC Page onto a post for anyone interested :) My Warden Squad + Hawkes + Inquisitors 

Under the cut because pictures + descriptions = long post.

------

Picture Credits: Isseya Mahariel (@Vasirah), Kieran Tabris (@noquiethere), Ronan Aeducan (@blue-spectre), Nora Brosca (@chillyrose), Cassian Cousland (@varrric)

Ages: Start of Origins (Dragon 9:30), Start of Inquisition (Dragon 9:41)

Blue Surana: the Leader (my “canon” Warden Commander) and Most Powerful Warden on Squad 

5'4, silence and duty and eccentricity; elf mage, Fire mage (Specialization: Arcane Warrior/Spirit Healer/Battle Mage), royal blue eyes, expressionless face, seldom talks but when she does her voice is very toneless; strong sensitivity to loud sounds/bright lights; generally has a physical touch aversion; True Neutral, Virgo

During Blight: age 18, bobbed white hair tied back and straight-across bangs; has difficulty processing emotions and understanding feelings/actions of others; generally keeps to herself, somewhat scary/spooky aura; 

During Inquisition: age 29, waist-length white hair and straight-across bangs; sclera of eyes is darker and some of her veins are black/blackening due to the taint (affects her more than most Wardens)

LI/sexuality: mutual pining for Sten; Asexual/Grey-romantic

Creator Notes: Though there’s no official word for it in Thedas, in Modern AU Blue is diagnosed as a child with high-functioning Autistic Spectrum Disorder. She is also half-Middle Eastern, half-Indian coded.

Hero of World State 1 (survives Archdemon)

Blue’s Aesthetic Tag

Isseya Mahariel: the Second in Command and the Arlessa of Amaranthine

*also Becomes Warden Commander when Surana steps down to look for Cure for The Calling

5'7, sternness and skill and pride; Dalish Archer, Rogue (Specialization: Ranger), dark green eyes, beautiful but often looks annoyed/disapproving, alcoholic tendencies; low key really likes halla; Lawful Neutral, Capricorn 

During Blight: age 19, thick black hair in long thin braids, impatient but not impulsive, prone to yelling, very prideful and sure of herself, generally unsentimental 

During Inquisition: age 30, the Grey Wardens are her life (married to job trope, but also married to Zev), scars from archdemon fight, firm but fair; wants kids but the Warden taint makes it hard; lost faith in Elven gods but still respects Dalish culture   

LI/sexuality: Zevran Arainai; Heterosexual 

Creator Notes: In Thedas her Mahariel parents are from Rivain; in Modern AU she is Kenyan-Japanese mix coded with predominantly Kenyan culture (understands Swahili). 

Hero of World State 2 (survives Archdemon)

Isseya’s Aesthetic Tag

Alyss Amell: the Healer/medic of Squad; generally non-combatant beyond setting glyphs and in-fight healing

5'2, sweetness and hope and tears; human mage, Creation Mage (Specialization: Spirit Healer/Blood Mage/Rift Mage [by Inquisition time]), pale blue eyes, half-Orlesian and fluent in the language, loves reading/studying, shy and gentle, blushes easily; Chaotic Good, Cancer

During Blight: age 21, light brown hair slightly past shoulders and tied back with a pink ribbon; kind but timid, no self-confidence and no “fight-or-flight” instinct only “freeze and cry"; huge affinity for sweets and breads

During Inquisition: age 32, still kind-hearted but braver and more sure of herself, still shy but can speak up in front of others now, hairstyle now the “bisexual bob”, new hair ribbon is a pale blue 

LI/sexuality: Leliana; Demisexual/Biromantic

Creator Notes: In Thedas her father is Orlesian so her mom Revka Amell decides to keep her maiden name to make it easier on her children; in Modern AU she is French-American coded and was diagnosed with Severe Depression and Generalized Anxiety Disorder at age 14. 

Hero of World State 3 (dies slaying Archdemon)

Alyss’ Aesthetic Tag

Kieran Tabris: the Vanguard, always first to charge into battle

5'9, candidness and loyalty and a fiery temper; City elf, Two-Handed Sword Warrior (Specialization: Templar/Reaver),  motivated by spite and aesthetic (also attention), talks about his mom a lot; Chaotic Neutral, Aries

During Blight: age 20, pretty but petty with a loud foul mouth, has never had a single chill in his life; raging hatred towards humans (except is neutral to human mages), idiotic tendencies, a pain in the ass to Mahariel 

During Inquisition: age 31, has obtained some chill but not much

LI/sexuality: has a son with Morrigan (one night stand, never sees her again, doesn’t want to), was in an on-and-off relationship for a couple years with Velanna but they eventually broke up for good; Bisexual/Grey-romantic (strong aversion to humans). 

Creator Notes: In Thedas he and his mom came to Ferelden from an island to the East of the Amaranthine Sea. His mom married Cyrion after Adaia and City Elf Warden (the real Tabris Warden) both died. Kyung-jae is his real name and “Kieran” was the name he adopted in Ferelden while learning Trade language. He is not blood related to Sorris or Shianni; in Modern AU he is Korean coded and diagnosed with ADHD and ODD when he was 9. In any AU he has poor eyesight. 

Not a ‘Hero of Ferelden’, exists only in Multi-Warden AU

Kieran’s Aesthetic Tag

Ronan Aeducan: the Battle Strategist of Squad; the Lazy Genius™ 

5'0, naps and brilliance and easy-going neutrality, dwarf noble, Two handed Battle Hammer Warrior (Specialization: Berserker/ Spirit Warrior),  great at sketching and painting; good at remaining impartial towards things; Neutral Good, Aquarius

During Blight: age 27, man-bun and many earrings, avoids responsibilities but is chill to talk to; huge guilt complex and overthinks things but keeps anxiety and intrusive thoughts to himself

During Inquisition: age 38, generally the same but slightly less lazy; has reconciled with his past and mostly found peace

LI/sexuality: n/a; Asexual/Aromantic

Creator Notes: In Thedas, while his brothers look like their father, Ronan looks like his mother. Modern AU he is Indian coded and can speak Hindi and English.

Not a ‘Hero of Ferelden’, exists only in Multi-Warden AU

Ronan’s Aesthetic Tag

Nora Brosca: the Wildcard of Squad; great in battle, not so great at taking orders

4'8, laughter and blades and boldness, dwarf commoner, Dual-Wielding Axe Rogue (Specialization: Assassin/Legionare Scout); Chaotic Neutral, Leo

During Blight: age 22, medium-length wild red hair and freckles, jokes and puns; solves problems with murder, kleptomaniac tendencies and habitual liar; brave but not loyal (self-preserving)

During Inquisition: age 33, shorter red hair and more freckles, even more jokes and puns; has had casteless tattoos removed; nugs are now friends not food; now deeply loyal to friends/wardens

LI/sexuality: Sigrun, Lesbian

Creator Notes: In Modern AU she is German coded born and raised in Brazil, speaks fluent Portuguese. 

Not a ‘Hero of Ferelden’, exists only in Multi-Warden AU

Nora’s Aesthetic Tag

Cassian Cousland: the Tank of Squad; the “Stay Behind Me” Hero

5'11 (slouching) 6'1 (prosper posture), kindness and justice and passion; human noble, Sword and Shield Warrior (Specialization: Champion/Guardian), moves his hands a lot while talking, laughs easily, passionate romantic, will always do The Right Thing™ but often struggles deciding what the “right thing” is; Lawful Good, Libra

During Blight: age 24, scruffy hair, adopts all the dogs, long scar from top to bottom left of face from Rendon Howe; likes to journal everything and write stories,

During Inquisition: age 35, slightly longer scruffy hair, adopts more dogs and orphans of Mage-Templar War, has published some of his books

LI/sexuality: Nathaniel Howe; Gay

Creator Notes: In Thedas his mother’s parents are from Antiva and he can speak Antivan, moderate PTSD from his experiences during the Blight; in Modern AU he is Mexican coded and speaks fluent Spanish and English. 

Not a ‘Hero of Ferelden’, exists only in Multi-Warden AU

Cassian’s Aesthetic Tag

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Aesthetic Boards: Click here to see their pretty aesthetics!

My OC’s Summarized in 5 GIFs: Click here!

What they each think of The Taint/The Calling: Click for Mild Angst

If they each had 1 Pokemon: Click to see their partner!

My OC’s Zodiac/Astrology Sign Explanations: Click if Curious

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Claira Hawke: the “Champion” of Kirkwall; the Hot/Cold Mess

5'5, conversation and anxiety and adaptability; Blue-Red Hawke, human, Dual Sword Rogue (Specialization: Shadow), Alyss Amell’s cousin; dynamic but fickle, brave but get panic attacks, literally runs away from problems, changes demeanor depending on who she is with; Neutral Good, Gemini

Fled to Kirkwall: age 25, good intentions but has no clue what she’s doing, fumbles around and gets by on more luck than skill (sometimes wit), weary around strangers but won’t shut up around friends, her mabari’s name is Bear.

During Inquisition: age 36, takes Anders (and their 3-year old son Silas) to the Wardens to hide them there with her cousin and her friends while she goes help the Inquisition 

LI/sexuality: Anders; disaster Bi

Creator Notes: In Modern AU she is English coded and has had Panic Disorder and several eating disorders since she was 13. Loves cats but is allergic to them (and to many other things).

Champion for World State World State 3 and the Multi-Warden AU

Important Headcanon: In the Multi-Warden AU, both twins live (Varric lies to Cassandra that Carver died to keep his whereabouts hidden) - Carver becomes a Warden and Bethany a Circle Mage; but in her canon World State 3, both of the twins die (Carver is killed by the ogre, Bethany dies during the Deep Roads Expedition)

Click for 5 Facts

Click for Faceclaim

Claira’s Aesthetic Tag

Henley Hawke, The Champion of Kirkwall; the Insomniac Goth 

5'10, tired eyes and sharp edges and blunt apathy; Red Hawke, human, Spirit/Primal focused Mage (Specialization: Blood Mage), tattoos to hide dark-eye bags, rude and anti-social attitude mostly because she’s so exhausted all the time from her insomnia; Neutral Evil, Taurus

Fled to Kirkwall: age 25, cool, capable yet completely uninterested in anything but making gold and keeping her rivaled brother Carver and her mabari “Better Carver” (“BC”) alive. Very “I’m not here to help anyone or make friends,” (Varric is literally her only friend)

LI/sexuality: Sebastian Vael (Rivalmanced); pan-romantic/asexual

Creator Notes: In Modern AU she is Irish coded and still has chronic mediation-treated insomnia. Also she’s very goth punk and dyes her hair often. In Thedas she uses magic to make it that color of burgandy. 

Champion for World State 2 

Described in 5 Gifs

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