#either way I can’t really tell if she falls under his chain of command

[brydeswhale]

Ppl love talking the age difference when it comes to Ezri/Bashir, while the actress is 28(no age given in canon IIRC) on her debut and Julian is, maybe six years older?

But we’re all fine with the guy in his fifties picking up Julian at the start of the series? When Julian is about 28 or 29, at most. Because that’s the age gap with Garak and Julian.

Just say you hate women and go.

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Broken trust, pt.2

Part one

Summary: Too quickly does the Darkling find his rogue Sun Summoner, but his arrogance will cost him. 

Warnings: slight fluff, angst

==========================

Faith – Y/N’s floated away from her a very long time ago, like a leaf being pulled away on the tide, and into the sea to become lost and alone, likely drowned. But she had faith in Aleksander. She always trusted him, not doubting he’d protect her. That’s why this is much more painful than it had to be.

“Running doesn't matter, I'll hunt you down if I have to.” Kirigan spoke through gritted teeth, as if he knew she could hear him, feel the palpable anger and betrayal he struggled to contain.

And still she ran. She ran without looking back, cutting through the forest with her breath caught in her throat. She ran, flinching with branches leaving cuts across her face, but she couldn’t stop. If she stopped, he’d find her and if he found her, Y/N didn’t know if they’d both walk away unharmed.

Finding a cave, she ventured inside. She sat curled up against a wall, shivering in the darkness. She clutched the kefta she wore in Little palace, clinging to his already faded scent. Just hours ago, his arms were wrapped around her, his lips claimed hers. She was his, undoubtedly in love with the very man who turned out to be the enemy.

A sob escapes her, whimpering as her hand covers her mouth to assure her silence. Risking being found because she needs to cry is stupid. Aleksander would expect her to cry.

“Where have you been?” The Grisha asks, breathless as it seems.

His presence alone commands awe, respect and his charisma can make any human stop and forget what they’re doing so long as it pleases him. He is magnetic, electric, someone you can get lost in before knowing what’s happening.

“Answer me.” He insists, lower his head to her level. His eyes narrow at her quivering lips, just then realizing she’s shaking.

“Leave us!” He orders the Grisha who came running once the light reached them outside the tent.

He taps her shoulder, the air around them turning static with contact, “What is happening?” Her shaky voice sounds and his eyes soften.

“You truly don’t know?” Raising an eyebrow, the Grisha steadies Y/N before letting her go. “My name is general Kirigan and you”, he points at her, his forehead wrinkling momentarily, “are the Sun summoner.”

A breathless chuckle escapes her, shaking her head in disbelief. “I’m a map-maker.”

“No”, Kirigan raises an eyebrow. He steps closer, his hands gripping her arms gently, “You are a Grisha.”

Swallowing thickly, her eyes flood with tears. One by one, they make tracks down her cheeks, stunning Kirigan.

“You need not worry”, wiping the tears off her left cheek with his thumb, Kirigan smiles softly, “I will protect you.”

Huffing, Y/N shakes her head. “I never should have trusted him.”

Suddenly, she felt her airways constrict. Gasping for air, she clutches her chest, unable to breathe or think clearly. Darkness etched into her vision, blurring it until there was nothing left. She felt her mind drift, the last she heard was a whisper she once adored.

“I’ll carry her back.” Aleksander states, his eyes never moving from her. He didn’t expect to find her, especially not as quickly as he did, but the ring she wore lead them straight to her location. Once again, she trusted the wrong person and once again, it brought them closer together.

Upon his return, he had laid her on his bed, hoping to speak to her somewhat peacefully this time around. If she could just feel the way his heart aches for her, maybe then she’d believe him he’d never do anything to bring her harm.

Groggy, Y/N groans. Her hand moves to her forehead, rubbing her temples.

“You’re safe”, Aleksander tells her, but the sound of his voice made her open her eyes wide, sitting up so quickly her vision blurred.

“St-stay away!” She pushed herself back, hitting the headboard.

“I won’t hurt you. I saved your life." Kirigan leans in, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"How? By taking my freedom, mind and identity?" She snaps at him, her nostrils flared with frustration and anger bubbling up to the surface.

"The chains are broken now.” Kirigan sighs, “You know the truth.” Wetting his lips, his eyebrows knit together, “Are you really free?"

Shaking her head, she narrows her eyes at him, "You are still my captive, no matter how beloved you once were."

Giggling, Y/N stumbles back and into the table. A few figurines fall to the ground, but it doesn’t seem to phase Aleksander who smirks as he rests his hands at each side of the table, essentially trapping her.

Raising an eyebrow, she looks up at him, batting her eyelashes. “Are you about to ravish me, oh sweet Darkling?”

Chuckling, he cranes his neck just enough for the tip of his nose to brush hers. Hearing her inhale sharply and hold her breath, Aleksander couldn’t help but peck her lips. It felt innocent enough, something that wouldn’t scare her but would satisfy his need to feel her closer to him.

“Don’t go looking for trouble, sunshine”, his lips twitch, amused how her hands have clutched his hips, pulling him closer to her.

“Maybe I like trouble”, she whispers, breathing heavily so much so he could count each and every breath passing the lips he wished her could kiss for an eternity, uninterrupted.

Biting her lower lip, her hand rests on his left cheek, caressing the scruffy beard with her thumb. “Come on, Darkling”, she teases, “What are you afraid of?”

“You”, he responds without a second thought. His response came so quickly, catching Y/N off guard. “I’m afraid of loving you”, he exhales through his nose, his clenching under the palm of her hand before he speaks again, “Afraid of losing you.”

“Please”, crosses his lips and Y/N’s heart skips a beat. Aleksander is a man of many virtues, but begging wasn’t one of them. He’s the man who demands and makes things happen. Such men don’t strike you as someone who plead often. And this was Aleksander pleading, asking her to do something irrational, to trust him, the only thing she couldn’t do.

“What could you possibly say to make this okay?” She swallows thickly, averting her gaze as if looking at him for too long could destroy her very essence.

"They called me the Darkling as an insult. You were the only one who used it as a term of endearment." Aleksander reaches for her hand, but she pulls away once again. “Let me put your mind at peace.”

Pressing her lips, she exhales through her nose, “You made me into a weapon. I'll never find peace.”

“I didn’t make you into anything”, he remarks, “You were born as my equal, to be my other half.”

Nodding to herself, she swipes her thumb under her left eye, “I sure feel like your equal now”, glancing at him she bites the soft flesh on the inside of her bottom lip, “You can still do the right thing. I believe there is a good person inside of you. The man I fell in love with must be somewhere underneath the darkness you're flaunting. Be him.”

His eyes narrow, clouded by his own sorrow, “It's too late to go back. You can't even look at me.” Standing, with his back turned on her, Aleksander allows tears to fill his eyes, “Do you even love me?”

“Of course I still love you, but trusting you is a different question.” With a heavy sigh parting her lips, she stands too. “You can’t force me to stay with you and expect unconditional love. That’s not how this works.”

Blinking fast, Aleksander refused to look at her. All she’d see is his weakness – his feelings for her have made him soft, too easily swayed by emotions and he mustn’t reveal it.

“You can’t catch sunshine, my dearest Darkling”, she wraps her arms around his waist. Resting her right cheek on his back, between his shoulder blades, she pulled him into her embrace, “You need to let me go and find my own way.”

“You’d be dead by nightfall.” He snaps, trying to push her off but she holds onto him even tighter, silently weeping.

How can she stay when every cell inside her body is screaming for her to leave? How can she leave when every single molecule she’s made up from is aching for just one more touch?

“If you love me, you’ll have to trust me”, her voice is shaky, unsteady as she feels. “Staying will make me resent you. I need some distance, time.”

“I can’t”, he shakes his head, wiping his tears away before she can see any.

“Then I need you to remember”, her hold on him lessens.

With a frown etched on his forehead, he turns to her with a lump at the back of his throat, “Remember what?” His words rip through her like glass shards do to skin, but he can barely tell if she’s shaking because he’s started to tremble himself.

A smile breaks on her lips, just as bright as the light she once emitted to contrast his. “Remember I love you.”

And once again, without a warning, Aleksander found himself on his knees.

He didn’t love her, he desired her most of all. He desired her gaze on him as desperately as the air he needs to breath. He desired her skin against his as the food he’d need to live. He desired her lips to speak his name in ecstasy more than the water as he thirsted for her light more than anything else in this world.

And in his desire for her he had lost himself entirely. He had lost his cold exterior, becoming putty in her hands. He had lost his ruthlessness he planned to aim her way, directing it to any and all who’d harm her. He had lost his resolve to stay away, so he’d give into her with all he is.

So with that desire and the loss of him, he hated her for all of it. He hated her with burning passion. He hated her so much it consumed him.

Or so he told himself so. For in the end, he did nothing to push her away.

He couldn’t.

Not now. Not ever.

Logic demanded him to stop her, but his entire logic went out the window the day he found her in his tent, stealing his grapes. He’s no longer a part of the living anymore either. She’s become his cornerstone and no matter how hard he tried to deny it, it didn’t change. It’s become factual.

He didn’t hate her, not even a little, not at all. Aleksander Morozova, Aleksander Kirigan, The Darkling, the unforgiving general, the Black Heretic, the Shadow King – all of him loved all of her, even as she had put a knife through his heart. The very heart that beat for her was now bleeding because of her. A betrayal, he realized, the very same as she had felt when she learned of his lies.

“We will see each other again”, she croaks, her tears crashing around him.

Gasping for air, he desperately fights the pain so he can keep his eyes open longer. This might not kill him, but it will slow him down. This time around, she’ll run and as she takes off the ring, he realizes it won’t be so easy to find her again.

She kisses his lips, so softly he’s unsure if it’s a well crafted dream.

“Moya lyubov'”, he manages to say as she stands and heads to the door. He can’t speak, but he’s screaming on the inside, hoping she’d look back at him. If she does, there was hope.

Reaching for the knob, Y/N sighs, glancing over her shoulder at her Darkling with unimaginable pain tearing her apart. But sometimes you have to break in order to create something more beautiful. She knew he’d hate her for it, but she walked out the door anyway.

PART 3

[blzzrdstryr]

A silent plea

Yandere!Kujou Sara x gn!reader

Wordcount:1366

CW:Yandere themes, death and torture mention

Kujou Sara knows her place. It’s always beneath and at Raiden Shogun’s beck and call. Some may think it's humiliating, to dedicate so much time and energy for the tyrant, yet Sara disagrees - Baal may be a cruel goddess, but she is a goddess nonetheless, meant to be praised and obeyed and Sara is nothing but a devoted worshipper, willing to commit any atrocity if it will please her archon.

She doesn't indulge in it, preferring to endure the cruelty of her own hands and telling herself that it is needed for Baal's eternity. All who resist and defy have deserved their fates, no matter how grim and bitter they are. How many rebels did she strike herself? Electro archon’s heart holds no mercy nor pity for her enemies, so Sara’s shouldn’t either. And it did, for a time, allowing Kujou Sara to fight and torture and interrogate, all in the name of her Goddess, until she met you.

It happened on the battlefield. Sara was aiming at someone, all her attention consumed by the distant figure and the tension of the bow in her hands as she heard a rustle of the leaves and then sensed a blade pressing down her jugular.

“Order your men to retreat”, you demanded, adding a bit more pressure. She couldn’t see it but felt a small trail of blood trickling down her neck and staining the clothes. It was an awful and dangerous situation to be in and for the first time in months she experienced fear so clearly and brightly.

“I don’t comply with the requests of traitors”, she kicked you, focusing the electro energy around her body. It was enough to give her time and protect Sara from your weapon, leaving just a shallow cut on her neck.

You gasped then, from pain and shock, eyes wide as you grasped the injured hand, and dropped the weapon. And then it was Sara’s turn to get surprised - you didn’t flee and she couldn’t see your vision. Were you that stupid or desperate? Did you really think that you could defeat her in a fair fight?

Sara took a stance, preparing for a quick victory, which it wasn’t. She had to claw it out, deflecting your blows and kicks - you were like a wild animal back then, feral and forceful, seemingly just a step away from lunging at Sara and biting a chunk of her flesh out. But unlike the beast, you were smart and tricky too, throwing small metal trinkets to redirect her lightning, leaping at her only when you were sure she wouldn't attack. If it wasn’t for her approaching men who knows for how long you would drag out this battle, using lowly tricks and stunts to make up for your obvious disadvantage.

You fled then, pulling out a smoke bomb to create a distraction, and something inside her changed. At first Sara thought it was respect, keeping her up at night and making her return to the place of your “fight”, replaying your moves in her memory again and again. Respect for your resourcefulness and loyalty to your cause, despite the opposite allegiance.

Nevertheless, the dreams, wet and messy and too dishonourable to be said out loud, made her change her perspective - she didn’t respect you, no, she wanted to be at your mercy again, to feel herself helpless and powerless as your figure looms over her vulnerable form.

Those were sick perverted fantasies, not to mention traitorous too. As the loyal servant of Raiden Shogun she couldn’t allow herself to fall victim to the animal urges and sinful lust. Who knows, what if her arrow falters and blade dulls because of the same craving and shameful desire? How can she allow herself to live further after such failure?

That’s why her efforts in capturing and neutralizing rebel camps doubled, despite the slowly rising wave of hesitation inside her.

The early morning greets Kujou Sara with the cold breeze of grey waves and the news she has both dreaded and anticipated. Her men finally located and captured the small insurgent group, hiding among the lush forests of Kannazuka, roughly dragging the rebels back to the Kujou encampment.

“Bring them here”, Sara says to one of the troops after she exits her apartment, her battle regalia already on. The soldier bows and quickly hurries to the furthermost nondescript building - a makeshift cell for all prisoners before they’re sent to the capital.

Sara trails his figure, feeling how her own heart thumps, head aching from the sudden tension and anxiety and she doesn’t know whether she wants to see your face or not. “A moment of truth”, she whispers to herself as one painfully long second is replaced by the other.

Turns out, you are in that group too, as the mentioned soldier leads you out with the other prisoners, your hands tightly cuffed by a long chain. Kujou squints as she looks over all of you, your frame being her main focus. You are tired and dirty, she notes, but also defiant and full of fight, just like that fateful day.

Sara orders her men to lead you to the interrogation room, and put the rest in the cells, she accompanies the soldier, eyeing your form as he tugs on your chains - you don't want to go, it's obvious, but in the end fatigue and simple weakness win and your legs buckle.

You have new bruises, she notes, purple-bluish they stand out in a stark angry contrast against your skin. Maybe her men got handsy, maybe they weren’t careful with transporting you enough - no matter the reason she needs to punish them.

“Out”, Sara says, once you’re tied and secured in one place, defiant eyes burning right through her. The soldier quickly bows before exiting the room and leaving Sara with you alone, and that’s when she feels it again - the wave of longing and carnal desire so strong that she yearns to touch your body no matter how dirty and battered it is.

“Why am I here?”, you ask, voice low and scratchy after days of complete silence, snatching Sara from her thoughts, and by the archons the sound of your voice is enough to awaken something in her, pink dusting her cheeks.

"You don't have a vision", she says instead of answering you, feeling how her heart speeds up from those words alone:"but you still defied Raiden Shogun's eternity and you will be punished accordingly"

A crooked smile makes it to your face, resignation mixing with pure hatred boiling in your eyes. Sara wants to shiver and turn away, hide from your gaze, yet she endures it, not a single muscle betraying her.

"You will be tortured regardless of you knowing anything about resistance plans", you don’t stop smiling, yet your expression grows even more tense. Like a deadman, Sara thinks to herself - she had seen it of course, the face, the resignation, and she doesn’t like it. The mere idea of you suffering and screaming under someone else's hands enough to make her taste a sour bile on her tongue.

"Then why are you telling me all of this?", you raise one brow.

"There’s a way to avoid that. Aid me in my service to Raiden Shogun and your crimes will be forgiven". Sara leans closer to you, her golden eyes transfixed on your face. "Please agree", she wants to say: "It's for your own good".

“I don’t comply with the requests of traitors”, you spit back at her and she jerks away, remembering your bestial nature. If only you were more obedient Sara would worship you like a second deity, her love and devotion to you surpassed only by the reverence she holds towards Baal. She would dress you in silks and kiss every spot on your body, ripping out the most pleasurable and desperate moans out of your lips. She would fall on the knees before you, patiently awaiting your command.

But she can’t - deep down you’re an animal, feral and ungrateful and rabid beasts deserve nothing but death.

“I will come back tomorrow and ask you again. I suggest you take back your words”.

Kujou Sara knows her place. She wishes you knew yours.

[pomegranates-and-blood]

νοσταλγία (Chapter 44)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: The usual.

A/N: Hi, hope you like this! Ik I still have a winter blurb request to get to, I’ll probably post it sometime during the week. Thank you!

Btw, ‘mḗtēr’ is Ancient Greek for mother, and barley is a symbol of Demeter. :)

You are sitting on your bed, already dressed for the night, when Ivar comes into your bedroom.

You lift your gaze from your failed attempts at embroidery patterns that Thora makes look so damn easy, and watch Ivar walk closer, his free hand reaching to tug off the cloak over his shoulders.

You don’t miss the angry way he takes it off, or the stronger-than-needed stabs of his crutch against the ground.

He sits down before you on the bed, and you do not hesitate to move close, your legs on either side of him as you rest your brow between his shoulder blades, enjoying the familiar movements of his back as he starts to work on the braces of his legs.

Your arm wrapped around his torso, you let your hand travel up and down his stomach, smiling when he reaches back to put a heavy hand on your leg.

“Will you tell me what is wrong?” You prompt.

“Jarl Olavson was defeated.” He tells you curtly. Your hand stills, and so does your breath.

“Defeated?”

“Yes, defeated,” Ivar bites out, a movement of his head as his shoulders rise and fall with an angry breath. “Considering how we met, you should be very familiar with defeat.”

“Hey,” You chastise, tugging on his hair as reprimand. After a moment, he breathes out through his nose, and his hand tightens on your leg. You take it as an apology, certain none will actually leave his lips. “By whom?

Ivar doesn’t answer.

He should know by now that he says as much with his silences as he does with his words.

If it were King Alfred’s army, he would tell you. If it were any other Vikings that were somehow stupid enough to battle Ivar’s lieutenant in York and lucky enough to defeat him, he would tell you.

He wouldn’t tell you if it were the man he admitted to having in chains and on a moment of irrational impulsiveness, he let go free.

“How did he win? I would think he didn’t have the numbers after Strepshire.”

“He didn’t, not then,” He accepts, finishing taking off the braces of his legs. “But he does now.”

“Do you think his King aids him now?”

“No, it wasn’t Alfred’s army. We would have known if it were.”

You swallow down the pit of worry in your stomach, and move back on the bed, settling under the covers and waiting for your husband to join you.

He does soon after, discarding his shirt without a care for the cold that still bites, and -for reasons beyond the obvious ones- you keep your eyes on him.

You watch as he grabs a fistful of the pants’ fabric to move his legs, and you cannot help but notice the furrow between his brows, you watch his wrist expertly trapped in the chains that dangle above the bed as he settles for bed and you cannot help but linger on the tension that strains his shoulders.

If Stithulf managed to grow in power in such a way during the winter, enough to defeat the commander of York’s forces, most likely forcing him to retreat to the formerly Saxon city, then…even if neither of you would like to admit it, it is Ivar’s fault, and maybe yours.

Ivar let Stithulf go because of the deal you have made, because he wanted more time. Before he left you had to bite your tongue to keep yourself from requesting that of him, and you didn’t bite it when it came time to ask the Gods for the same thing.

And now, warm under the covers and laying on your side as your Ivar lays by your side on his back, pale eyes searching the nothingness of the space above him, you feel the tinge of worry, of regret.

You ran from Fate once, when you decided to go to Eleusis even while aware that the Gods -your own or others, you aren’t yet sure which- summoned you to Scandinavia; and you burned for it. You fought, and you lost, and you died.

You dread to think maybe you ran, maybe Ivar ran.

“Their movements, their…formations,” He stops himself, a twitch of irritation in his nose as he debates with himself whether to speak or not. “They don’t fight like Saxons.”

“They never did,” You offer, quietly. “And if you are right, and most of the Arabs survived…”

He shakes his head, sitting up on the bed once again. You take a moment to watch the outline of him bathed in the low and warm light of the dim fires, before you sit up as well, shuffling closer and bending your legs underneath you.

“It is more than that, it isn’t just the foreigners,” His words die with a frustrated sigh, his left hand closing into a fist before it releases when it doesn’t find the familiar handle of the crutch he can grab tightly onto. Past the clear tell of gritted teeth, he admits, “When we sail back to England, we will be going in blind.”

“You still have time.” You say, but it seems it goes unheard.

“How can I prepare if I can’t…predict him?” He asks, and it isn’t really a question you think he wants an answer to. If he did, all you could offer would be that he would have to fight like the others do, the ones that don’t have his mind that seems to let him get ahead of his enemy’s moves, his eyes that seem to let him foresee his enemy’s plans. But, you don’t say anything, instead resting your chin on his shoulder and letting one of your hands trail down his back. Ivar grits his teeth, and stays silent for a long time. After a while, he turns his head slightly to you, “What would you do?”

“You’re asking me?”

A shrug of the shoulder you’re not resting on, and Ivar offers simply, “Why not?”

“I have never led an army.”

“Your commander did, and he obeyed you.”

You lift your eyebrows, and insist, “He died because of it.”

“I am not planning on doing that,” He clarifies, the beginning of a smile on his lips, “Obeying you, or dying.”

Your eyes narrow at his taunt, and you retort, “Why are you asking me, then?”

“I’m curious.”

“I don’t have any answers. I am not…” You take a breath, and mull over your words before you start again, “One of the things I admired Narses the most far was how he…” A small smile curves at your lips, and you look at the nothingness ahead, somehow able to see clearly in your mind’s eye the cocky smile of the young Strategus as he hooked the spear under his arm and bowed mockingly at you. “He was never caught off guard. He was foolish, and he refused to stick to a plan most of the time, but…with the passing of time I started to think he counted on that, on the lack of a plan. Back in Greece, the battles we won were because of his adaptability, as much as any strategy I could…suggest to him. I insisted on a plan, and he was smart enough to not defy me, s-…”

“I wouldn’t say smart.”

Your lips curve into a smile, and you lift your head off his shoulder to meet his gaze directly. Ivar leans back, falling back on the bed, and you follow, leaning over him as your hand travels up and down his chest.

“What would you say then, love?” You ask, a challenge and something else. You bring yourself closer, “Would you say bewitched?”

You remember being in that small hut in Aneridge, able and willing to forget either of you had names and stories, and daring ask him, are you one to believe Stithulf’s tales that I can bewitch men to their deaths? Blind them and have them follow my every whim?

And, more importantly than that, you remember the way his eyes remained on you, a slow blink as he considered his answer. You remember the tone of his voice that made a shiver run down his spine when he replied, not through magic.

His smile is challenging, mocking, but Ivar shakes his head instead of answering.

“You were speaking of how you won, back in your homeland.”

“He…adapted, a lot. Too often for my liking,” You furrow your nose, and your husband chuckles, his hand warm as it travels up and down the arm you’ve draped over his chest. “My pride kept me from accepting we had to change our tactics, I will admit that. Maybe that arrogance was my downfall.”

Your eyes fall from his, and you almost want to ask, order, don’t let your arrogance be yours.

The words are at the tip of your tongue when the voice of one of Ivar’s guards on the other side of the door startles you.

“Someone is requesting the…the Queen to, uh, meet with them.”

“Is it Rúna’s husband? Is it the baby?” You ask, already scrambling to get out of bed at the mere thought that she is to give birth now. It has been a difficult pregnancy for her, and you’ve given stern orders to her husband to come to you when the time comes for her to deliver.

“No, uh…your mother, my Queen.”

The air is knocked out of you with those words, and you stand unmoving for a few breaths too long. You feel the cold of the floor seeping into your very bones through your bare feet, but you feel rooted to the ground.

A quiet call of your name, and you turn wide eyes to Ivar. He searches your gaze, a strange sort of hesitation in his expression that is probably born out of whatever he sees in yours, and he says your name again.

You blink, swallowing hard.

“Go to her.”

You nod your head, but don’t move for a couple of heartbeats, until you have the cold startle you into movement. Wrapping the robe over your nightdress, you slip into your shoes and step out.

Letting the two guards lead the way to one of the back rooms of the -now deserted- longhouse, you try deciphering if what runs through your veins right now is thrill or dread.

Sieghild stands tall by one of the stone pit fires near that are lined up near the walls, surrounded by seats; her shield not at her back but, as always, close to her. At the sound of your steps, she turns around, the same almost-crooked smile on her face, the familiar face with traces of ink in the shape of the roots of Yggdrasil, the same green eyes of your childhood.

You stumble over your own feet as you run to her, and never before have you felt as time disappeared and you were suddenly a child again as you do then.

“Mḗtēr!”

Sieghild embraces you tightly, with the desperation of having thought you lost forever, the relief at having you back, the anger at your disappearance; strong arms wrapped around you and lifting you a bit off the ground. You breathe a relieved laugh that sounds like a sob, your own arms wrapped as strongly as you can around your mother.

“Little one, you are alright, you are alright.” She whispers, and even if she talks to her own fears and not you, you still nod against her shoulder.

“I thought you were-…”

“I am here, child. The Gods wouldn’t call me to Valhalla while you still need me.”

You look into familiar green eyes and offer a helpless shrug, “I’ll always need you.”

“Then I shall always be here.” She promises, pressing a kiss against your forehead like she did when you were a child.

But you weren’t, your heart bitterly wants to say, words you keep at bay by biting your own tongue.

For now, you close your eyes at the rough touch of Sieghild’s battle-worn hands on the sides of your face, you let her brow press against yours and the familiar scent of iron and the always underlying scent of those fields of barley you would run through with her as a child.

When you step back, you feel the months-old anger come back, you feel the uncertainty and resentment settle over you like a warm cloak, and you meet Sieghild’s eyes, unwavering.

“I would like a word with my mother.” You state, keeping your gaze on her. You watch as our mother watches the people leave the room, watching out of the corner of her eye as the last of the men closes the door behind him.

She turns to you with a smile that is in part mocking and in part proud.

“I always did say you were Fated to rule, did I not?”

Many times she told you that, usually angrily, when what she stubbornly calls your ‘Athenian nobility’ shines through.

Galla spares you a glance out of the corner of her eye, the faintest quirk of a smile on her lips, her words a tease and something else as she quips, “Born with a crown on her head, this one.”

Many others have implied the same, sometimes in praise and often in reprimand.

Ivar meets your eyes, an unwavering edge to his madness, a darkness to the curve of his smile, as he promises, “Don’t lie to me, Priestess. You were made to rule, to command. Don’t pretend otherwise with me.”

You shake your head, “Fate has nothing to do with it.”

“Doesn’t it?” She retorts, but it isn’t a question she expects an answer to. Instead, the shieldmaiden strides to the seats by the dimmest hearth in the room. She always has done that, ever since Eleusis, making sure you aren’t near open flames that make your skin crawl.

You walk to her, hands folded in front of you, and take a seat before her.

“You gave me up. You arranged for me to marry Ivar, and you never told me.”

A deep breath, like she was expecting this, and Sieghild leans back, a hard nod of her head.

“I did,” She offers no other explanation for a few moments, before adding, “I had my reasons.”

“Which are?”

Her eyes narrow as she looks you over, a quirk in her mouth that speaks not of a smile but of something wilder, and Sieghild’s voice is icy when she asks,

“Who do you think you are, to demand anything from me?”

Your answer is unwavering, and you don’t even think twice about the words that are to leave your lips, “Your daughter.”

Sieghild holds your gaze for a few breaths, before looking away with a grunt and the clear tell of gritted teeth. She was expecting something else out of your answer, the years alongside her let you see that in that small gesture.

A twitch in her nose, furrowed for only a moment, and Sieghild offers, voice unusually quiet,

“I told you since you were a child about the path the Gods, yours or maybe mine, had woven for you,” Green eyes pierce into yours, and for a moment you are saying goodbye again, in the outskirts of Aneridge and by the gates of Eleusis. She swallows, and continues, “You ran once, and I lost you, I had to leave you behind and let those damned Christians burn you alive. I couldn’t let you run again.”

“That is why you asked me,” You state, not even a question. The night she left you behind on the edge of that forest plays behind your closed lids with striking vibrance. “You took me there and told me we were at a crossroads, the…the world between worlds. I chose to stay.”

“It was Fate you did so.” She retorts with a sigh.

And that word grates at your ears. It always has, ever since you have had memory.

Your eyes fall shut, and you take a deep breath to remain calm.

“You know, with time passing I had forgotten how much I hate that word leaving your lips,” You grumble, mostly to yourself. Sieghild still chuckles, but it is dimmer than usual. The errant thought that maybe you don’t know what the usual is for your mother anymore crosses your head, but you dismiss it easily enough. Finding your strength, your anger, you meet her gaze and with your head held high you insist, “You cannot hide behind Fate, mother.”

For all the times she has accused you of your own fair share of arrogance, few times she has admitted you take after her in that regard. Now, more than any other time, her own arrogance, her own pride, are apparent in the way she bristles at your words, suddenly sitting straighter.

“I don’t hide, little one. You know that.”

You shake your head, at her resolve, at her unwavering certainties, at her abandonment. Your eyes wide, you lift a hand and point a finger at her, too late realizing that is a gesture you have seen often in the man you married.

“Fate didn’t chain me to Ivar’s side until you made a deal with him!” Your voice thunders at the same time it breaks and you do not care. Your lip curls into a snarl, or maybe something more fragile, something more broken. “You fulfilled what you were told was Fate, because you believed it was inescapable.”

“And you stayed behind to die in Eleusis because you wanted to fight Fate,” She retorts, green eyes blazing. “How is that any different?”

“It was my choice.”

“And it was my choice to send you to Kattegat.”

You hate the way your lower lip trembles, the way sorrow wants to overpower pride, and succeeds.

You furrow your lips, raising your chin as you insist, “You abandoned me.”

“I did what I should have when you were younger. I saved you.”

Your nails dig into your palms, and you stand up. The chair makes a horrible sound against the wooden floor, and you pace away from the table, shaking your head to yourself.

Your mother follows you with a challenge shining in her green gaze.

“You didn’t save me.”

“You are alive, you are safe. I wouldn’t ask for anything more.” She crosses broad arms over her chest, head titled to the side.

You feel your lip curling into a snarl, your hands trembling at your sides as the anger that burns in your blood demands you do something.

Voice thundering, you demand, “I would have!”

“And you would have died for it!” Sieghild barks back, voice rising as well. “You think you would have survived Stithulf if it weren’t for that boy, huh? You think that damn Christian would have kept you alive for much longer?”

You shake your head, feeling like a chastised child under her burning green gaze.

“Ivar isn’t the reason I survived.”

“He kept you safer than I ever could, even if he didn’t realize it, even if you don’t like accepting it, little one,” She retorts, standing and walking closer. “You are arrogant, but you are also smart. You know it is true.”

You shake your head, stepping back.

“You didn’t tell me, you just left me behind in that place, and I-I was alone, and…” Your eyes fall shut and you find yourself almost compulsively twirling your wedding ring as you try finding resolve again. Without opening your eyes, you take a deep breath and ask, “Why come back now?”

“I told you to survive until spring came, I knew we’d be together again after the winter,” She tells you, quietly, almost mournfully. “Even if you hated me, even if you hate me now…what I did, I did for you. To keep you alive, to let you have a future.”

“All my life, I-…” You furrow your lips, consider your words and start again, “You more than anyone knows how important it is for me to be…free. Free to choose, free to…be. You took that from me, you let Ivar take that from me.”

But Sieghild doesn’t falter, even if her eyes give away more than she would like to admit.

“It is a privilege to be able to live life in the way you have, little one. To never have your beating heart be the only thing that you can count on, that you can call your own. The truth is that there is no reason for freedom without life, not the other way around,” Strong arms crossed over her chest, your mother insists, “Between seeing you in chains and seeing you on a grave, I know which I prefer.”

“Does it matter which I prefer?”

Her silence is enough of an answer, and you sit back down on your chair, twirling your wedding ring on your finger. You notice the way your mother’s eyes travel to the movement, but if she has anything to say about it, she keeps it to herself for now.

“When you love someone, someone that you know will go where you cannot follow once death touches them…” She starts, slowly, deliberately. “Is there anything you wouldn’t do to keep them alive? Keep them with you?”

“I never tried keeping you, or anyone, from your dear Valhalla.”

A quirk of her mouth, humorless and challenging, as she sits back down as well, “I taught you to lie, don’t try it with me.”

“I’m not-…”

“Four years ago, on the outskirts of Circe, you did what you had promised you wouldn’t do. Do you remember, little one?”

You bite your lip to keep it from trembling, as you take in your mother’s pale features, “You could have died.”

“And what glorious death it would have been,” Sieghild retorts, not missing a beat. Her smile is wry, tired, but still irrevocably hers. “Better than whatever awaits me in this bed, that’s for sure.”

“You won’t die here either.”

“I better not,” She warns, closing her eyes. You are worried about the sunken look on her face. Your leg bobs up and down anxiously and you feel your fingers fidgeting as you itch to get to work on making something, anything, that will make it better. “To be robbed of a chance to enter Valhalla because my child is too stubborn t-…”

“Valhalla cannot have you yet!” You snap, blinking past the burning in your eyes when Sieghild opens her eyes to meet your gaze. “Your Gods cannot have you yet, I-I need you with me.”

“Of course I remember.” You retort, gritting your teeth. She has always had this infuriating way of hers of deliberately and obviously guiding you with questions to say what she wants you to, to admit what you refuse to.

“What I did was no different. You dragged me from the battlefield and insisted on delaying the inevitable by tending to my wounds, because you didn’t want to lose me. Even if it cost me what I live and fight for, you want-…”

“You Varangians and your glorious deaths,” You groan, rolling your eyes, “You lived. You lived to fight in another battle and die another day.”

“And you lived to see yourself free once more.”

“It is not the same.”

“Explain why, then.”

That gesture, it is the same as the life that once was all you had known, of her routinely throwing a stick your way, smoothing the ground with her boot and demanding an explanation for the newest battle you had witnessed, or the latest historical one that you had been drawn to.

You sigh, tired beyond what you think you could express with words, “Mother.”

Sieghild considers you for a moment, gaze travelling over your features, taking you in as if a stranger. Maybe you are, in some ways.

She softens after a breath, shoulders lowering as she takes a deep breath.

“I…I had a dream, the Gods showed me that when the ground was softened, when the earth thawed, you’d be returned to me. So, I was certain I would find you once spring came.”

There’s a part of you that tries thinking of it all and tries making all the pieces make something that makes sense, and that part whispers that the Gods let Sieghild see that spring would see you returned to her because it was when spring came that you would make your choice, that you would be free to leave Ivar. That part of you has a heart that beats along the cadence of all the prophecies and half-coherent visions that have plagued you and others, that part of you feels like blind eyes looking directly into yours and bloodstained lips whispering you will not find your belonging amongst flowers.

But that part of you is trying to accept a world where somehow what has happened, what you have lost and what you have suffered, has a reason. It cannot have a reason, it cannot be inevitable.

So, you search your mother’s gaze and ask,

“Why spring?”

“We can set sail away from here now that the season allows it,” She replies easily, and you lean back in your seat, irrationally stunned. Sieghild raises her brows, “Have you already forgotten all that was keeping you here was the harshness of winter?” Your eyes lower from hers, and Sieghild takes a breath, “Ah, but it isn’t the season what keeps you here now.”

You shrug, reaching for the bread and picking out a piece with your fingers as you mumble, “You were the one to tell me all my life that my Fate lied in Kattegat.”

“Many would say your Fate is to fight for Greece.”

You lift your gaze to hers, head tilted to the side.

“My Fate would be to rule over it,” You correct her, and the lines on your mother’s face deepen when she smiles. “But I have no interest in doing so.”

Sieghild looks you over, green eyes shining with something you could swear looks like pride. Eventually she leans back, an arm stretched over the back of her seat and her head tilted to the side.

“You will be staying in Kattegat then?”

You bring the piece of bread to your mouth, offering another shrug, “It is my home.”

“Kattegat is?” She drawls out the words, lifting her brows. Your eyes narrow as you are put on the spot, and there is no hiding the bite in your tone when you ask,

“Why do you ask questions you know the answer to?”

Your mother shrugs, “It entertains me.”

There’s a sigh making its way past your lips before you can stop it, an exasperated but fond one. In the look you and Sieghild share there are more words than either of you would ever dare to say aloud, and you lean back in your seat, picking another piece of the bread.

“Where were you all this time?”

“With King Angantyr of the Black Danes, mostly,” She chuckles to herself, “All the way in England they speak of Ivar the Boneless’ witch, you know.”

“As long as men have tongues to speak, they will speak lies,” You offer around a shrug, words that were of someone you met along the Silk Roads, and though you do not remember their face, you remember their wisdom, and you know your mother does too. Still, she narrows her eyes, almost suspicious, and you clarify, “I am no witch, mother.”

“But you are his.” She sentences.

“Only because he is mine as well.”

Her eyes shine with a glint you haven’t seen in years when she smiles, and you find yourself smiling back, heart lighter.

After a breath, your mother leans forward and quietly asks, “Do you trust him?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Of course I do.”

The shieldmaiden nods once, and takes a deep breath, “We have matters of war to discuss then, you and I. Your husband too.”

You frown, and when she stands up you do the same. Your mother simply starts walking, long strides towards the front of the longhouse. You scramble to catch up, asking questions as you go,

“What? Why?”

“I had a plan, you see. I didn’t come to Kattegat now on a whim.”

“You are hiding something.”

“Not for long. I had counted on using this…information to our advantage if you were to decide to leave, but…” She looks at you out of the corner of her eye, “Plans change, little one.”

____ ____ ____

Thank you for reading, hope you liked it!

I have a lot of fun writing Sieghild, she’s like the Priestess without the snobbiness lol. Main example of how much fun I have writing her being the length of this chapter lol, sorry. But yeah, they had (have) a lot of things to work through, though they are, much like the Reader and Freydis, on very different world perceptions when it comes to the issues they’ve discussed, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927​ @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax​ @angelofthorr​ @samsationalwilson​ @peachyboneless @1950schick​ @punkrocknpearls @ietss​ @itsmysticalmystery​ @revolution-starter​ @the-a-word-2214​  @fae-sedai​  @crazybunnyladysworld​    @funmadnessandbadassvikings @stupiddarkkside​ @aprilivar​ @msrawog  

[azazelsconfessional]

((Azazel's abilities(and some combat abilities for the other Missionaries as they continue to be side characters when this event ends)

Azazel is ridiculously powerful. He's easily the most powerful member of the Missionaries, after Nyarlathotep.

Shame about the chains that keep his power and true form locked away.

Rule of Revelation (Sacred Artifact: Bible "Eyes of the Fallen")

Azazel's Bible is always on his person. He does NOT put it down and does not give it to people except those he trusts. He's willing at times to show its contents to people but he won't let most anyone hold it.

If you do get a hold of it it will stop working/won't show you anything. It will just become a book with glowing symbols on/in it or a regular Bible with an eye on the front.

Eyes of the Fallen allows Azazel to view and proccess anything the pages see, including outside of Missionaries territory.

In order to use Eyes of the Fallen, Azazel needs to expose his chains, causing him to remove his cassock.

Azazel can move the pages wherever he pleases. They're magical so there's some resistance in them, however they are paper and thus easily destroyed or removed or displaced.

Large eyes made of light will appear in the sky over large areas he's searching.

Within Missionaries Territory Azazel can see anything without the aid of his Artifact.

Azazel can see anything there is to be seen and a bit more. Though he can't see "how" someone came to be who/what they are, he can see their current form and see them for what they really are(MC has 24+ souls and he can see and identify them all; Nomad is a human modified into a tiger and he can see his human soul; Shino is a Shadow/ghost/etc and he can see that he's no longer really alive/his original form; when Raphael made them all see zombies and the Fisher King he was able to confirm they weren't real zombies but the memories of a past occurrence; etc)

He can both see and hear things, however the other senses don't work.

There are little to no combat capabilities to Eyes of the Fallen.

Healing capabilities slightly described below.

Magic & Game Unit Skills

Azazel is insanely powerful to the point that his Summopedia page described him as being the most powerful of the Missionaries. However his chains prevent him from accessing his true form or power.

Azazel is able to use bursts of Aether(equivalent Light, Holy, etc) magic despite being a Fallen Angel.

They're not super strong, but they do have a decent range. He can use them more or less infinitely due to his huge power reserve that's otherwise restricted to him.

He's able to heal himself and others. In-game limits this to using Eyes of The Fallen/his Charge Skill and only to allies in his immediate vicinity, so I'll consider this healing happening through use of the pages of his Artifact over wounds.

Applies the effect 'Blessing' to his allies around himself(heals over time temporarily.)

Can remove a debuff of people he hits; weaken(defense) of people he hits; temporarily prevent use of skills of those he hits; heal allies after damaging opponents

Taking damage can strengthen allies(increase their charge points, which isn't really a concern in terms of writing since they can use their powers more or less instantly)

Misc

Azazel has wings he can magically produce/retract. He can use them to fly.

Azazel's pain tolerance is obscenely high. He responds to pain as though it's pleasure.

Azazel cannot be killed. Killing him will change him into his true form.

Breaking his chains(accessible only to beings with powers on level with a Supreme God/King of Gods; Archangel Raphael; and entities with Rules that can cut through/break/open things absolutely(MC's Rule of Rending, primarily) and a few others) will also change him into his true form and return to him his powers.

Eyes of the Fallen and some other things can make his tail turn from a goat tail into a snake tail. His scales are slightly keeled and more keeled when agitated/fighting, making them spiky like a spiny bush viper

Exists but is inaccessible--a spear with the Rule of Corruption inherit in his true body. Cannot access it unless chains are 'loosened' by an Archangel or are cut enough maybe????? I haven't decided how this headcanon works since he can't use it anyway

Under the cut a small rundown on side characters' powers

Arsalan:

Artifact is a shamshir that can spray an infinite amount of sacred oil

Oil is fired at a speed that can knock one off their feet or knock weapons out of one's hand

Oil is obviously slippery and heavy enough to prevent use of wings as well; holding things and maintaining footing is very difficult

Allies are adept at fighting through/with his oil and thus are uninhibited except if their wings get too oily

Always covered in oil himself, hard to hold on to

Oil has healing properties(Unction), hurts enemies after they've been hit by Arsalan(Unction Weakness)

Oil is flammable, Zabaniyya controls his flames and uses the oil to spread Hellfire if need be(see: Zabaniyya)

Sword is strong against demons in particular; sacred oil is all over his body and makes him strong against/resistant to demons as well

Rarely uses sword as weapon, sticks to oil and physical combat unless given permission by Jacob or in a desperate situation that requires it

Physically and mentally extremely strong and resilient, uninhibited by his own oils even when manhandling enemies via wrestling

Sword allows him to resist oil and temptation as well

Teeth and claws are very sharp

Incredible leader, almost all of Aoyama Guild will obey him without question

Maria

Artifact is thorns that can move pain to and from others and herself(including painful memories)

Thorns are able to grow just about anywhere, including inside, and cover spaces

Applies Stigma to herself and those she hits or is hit by(applies damage over time and reduces defense)

Heals self and allies, especially by transferring damage from them to enemies through thorns

Temporarily disable skills

Leader of the Aoyama Guild, obeyed by most of the current members

Gabriel

Rule/Sacred Artifact(undisclosed? May be a microphone?/magical girl wand?) allows her to drive others to madness through the power of moonlight. Dubiously part of her Rule is her ability to make others fall for/obey her simply by commanding them

Likely also has a sword Artifact, rarely uses it, similar circumstances as Arsalan

The latter usually is used to make people stop attacking(Charm)

Very support-based, strengthening, healing, and motivating self and allies through song and magic

Has wings, can fly quickly

Maddened people are probably controllable by her, or at least they adore her and will probably listen and attack allies that threaten her?

Zabaniyya

Role of the Torturer; Rule of Hellfire; Sacred Artifact is a fiery spear, however he doesn't use it, similar circumstances to Arsalan

Fights using martial arts, mastering the 'Fiery Spear Hand' in which he channels his weapon through his hands

Can also fight from a distance using fire, but rarely does

Inflicts internal and external burns through his Artifact. Rule of Hellfire under the Role of the Torturer causes eternal pain.

Internally burning all the time, high pain tolerance, considers pain a penance and doesn't shy away from it very much; probably essentially immune to fire? Basically a firey tank. V high defense.

Applies Stigma and deals additional damage to those afflicted with Stigma and Burn; also applies Stigma to those who hit him

Can harm others from a distance using a chain of cross-shaped flames if they're afflicted with Stigma; chains are probably homing?

Heals allies apparently???

Rule of Hellfire purges people of sin and evil through flames, thus likely more effective against demons

Can ignite flames of passion/love, although he refuses to do this

Has wings, can fly, rarely uses them

Will not fight unless ordered by appropriate parties or the enemy has broken divine law

Kimun/Wen Kamui

Rule allows him to strip others (of their growth). Artifact is the 'Mankiller Sword' which he uses on himself as Kimun and others as Wen.

Mankiller Sword, if it's able to strip someone of their clothing, fur, hair, or flesh, is able to spawn a copy of the person's past self for them to fight--losing the fight against themself will cause them to lose their growth. If they win, the copy disappears.

Can spawn multiple copies if he cuts them multiple times

Can duplicate himself this way as well

Copies(of himself or enemies) might not cooperate with him although they mostly obey, depends on the person and their traumas/what they're struggling to grow or move on from/etc

Temporarily can't attack after doing this????/after using his Charge Skill

Can copy enemy buffs

Able to heal self and allies

Very high defense and pain tolerance due to his role/rule causing him to strip himself of his own skin/pelt/fur to give it to others

Hurts you even if he misses.

Unable to be frozen

Can apply freeze(lowers defense, damage over time) if he misses

Jacob

Sacred Artifact is a Pillar allowing him to remember all previous loops; connected to the Tree of Life in Eden; cannot be killed

Sacred Artifact is the Archangel Uriel's whirling sword of flame. Doesn't use it in flame form most of the time, only uses it to enhance his punches and kicks and movements; it also guides him around due to his blindness; also able to restore people's memories from previous loops(including people he doesn't know and he "can reach even those who have never appeared in this Tokyo with his Rule") and makes a pillar of holy light that leads to the Tree of Life in Eden, making him more effective against either angels or the undead(hard to tell because it was used against undead angels, possibly both)

Blind, thus unaffected by anything that requires sight

Leader of the Aoyama Guild, although a lot of people aren't aware of it due to his absence, thus obeyed by most of its members(if not all of them because the Admins obey him)

Can multihit/punch very fast. He's no Captain Falcon but his fists are Dangerous.

Relies mostly on sound for navigation but can also be guided by his Artifact. Can probably blind others with the massive pillar of light from it.

Cannot be forced to move backwards. Can pull people in a certain range towards him/get in people's personal space easily to fight since he fights with his fists

Weakens enemies, applies Blessing(healing over time) to himself

Artifact heals him, removes ALL debuffs, and makes him highly resistent to damage temporarily

Artifact also provides him a shield that keeps him from being exposed to life-threatening conditions(Korpokkur's blizzard is how we learned about this--also keeps him warm and guides him to people and things he should meet)

Takes less damage from other close range fighters using their bare hands/fists(and any enhancements like knuckles, claws, etc--basically if you're a Blow unit/hit in a singular space in front of you he takes less damage from you)

Can use his Artifact as a sword but generally refuses to. It's a big, spinning sword of flame and would apply burn but he avoids using it because he hates weapons

NPC Angels

Primarily attack in a group. Always guarding the Church and its activities and almost always accompany its admins. The church is rarely unattended.

Fight with spears which can be thrown. Some level of magic?

Apply stigma to hit enemies. Deal more damage to Stigmafied enemies.

Can heal surrounding allies.

Nyarlathotep

You just die. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[jadelotusflower]

Robin Hood Rewatch: 2x06 For England!

Almost at the halfway point of the season, and things are really ramping up - Allan is transitioning to team Castle, Robin is in full blown solider (assassin) mode, and Marian is (sigh) yet again under the threat of sexual assault. And of course, more silly disguises, but perhaps the less said about those hats the better!

Another opener, another one of the Sheriff’s contractors murdered.

How did the gang find Allan’s secret stash? They got to it first, so they couldn’t have just been tracking him.

The Pact is being signed for King Richard’s birthday, which is the 8 September - we find out later that Robin’s birthday is 14 October, which means the events of 2x06-2x012 take place over less than a month. I mean, if any of the writers cared about such things, which I suspect they didn’t. But from memory, it doesn’t seem preposterous - things are moving quickly as tensions are escalating. It also means that we’re a year on from the events of 1x08, which also took place on Richard’s birthday. It kind of works, even if they are living in Sherwood, the Land of Endless Summer.

Djaq’s face this entire scene. She’s the only one who doesn’t hurl accusations at Allan, just gives a sad shake of the head.

And...Robin’s off on his own again.

Marian’s new wardrobe, Guy clearly doing his shopping at the peasant woman’s Laura Ashley store we saw in 2x01. Other than the blue dress she’s holding, I don’t think she wears any of these, does she?

Guy makes it clear he’s actively pursuing her again, the suspicion of a few episodes ago conveniently forgotten.

Marian’s hairpins: useful as weapons and lockpicks.

Robin’s disguises: once again, a hood and an accent. “Be meek and obedient, my child” with a wink is cute, however.

I actually love the dress Marian’s wearing in these scenes, but we never really get a good look at it.

I wish I had more to say about Edward, but I don’t. He’s just there.

And it’s Wedge Antilles! Commander of Rogue Squadron, Red Leader, General of the New Republic himself. Denis Lawson great in this role.  I also very much enjoy him as Captain Foster in Hornblower.

Alright, so Robin at this point still doesn’t know that Roger of Stoke was intercepted (aka killed). I actually appreciate that this is a plot point that has been ongoing for several episodes.

Much has been in this outfit for most of the season (but this is the first really good shot of it) - it’s actually Robin’s vest that he wore early in season 1, let out a little at the sides. I really love the attention to detail here, in that the gang would of course be repurposing clothes, and that it’s Much in particular that would be getting Robin’s hand me downs.

It’s nice when we get to see how clever Will is - forward thinking about signing the gang up as musicians and making the instruments.

“They’re just bells.” John’s face! Then the payoff with the guards - “bells, mate” (ring ring).

Allan’s still got a bit of grey in his costume - he hasn’t fully made the switch yet. It does seem that Allan’s initial plan was to flee with his hoard, but when the gang found it first, he chooses to go to Guy for employment rather than leave Nottingham.

Sorry this is an image heavy post, but John’s tag is completely visible in this scene! Where was the continuity editor? Where was the director? I mean, it’s not craft service coffee cups, but jeez.

Is this the first time we learn that Marian’s mother’s name was Kate? Or that she’s even been mentioned?

Sussex. Sussex. Sussex? Sussex. SUSSEX!

For all of Guy’s talk earlier that he’s gaining more power, he can’t save Marian, and he can’t save Allan - his “power” exists only in exercising Vaisey’s will, he has none of his own.

I will however give him credit for the instinct to try and get Marian out of the castle - perhaps the only honourable thing he’s done so far, in that he thinks of her welfare before his own in arranging her escape without any promise of reward.

But...of course it doesn’t last. Now, Vaisey clearly has some kind of psychological hold over Guy, and the scene between them is incredibly creepy, as Guy seems almost hypnotised while Vaisey invades his personal space and gives slow deliberate orders. He makes no threats, his words are actually quite benign, but there’s a sinister undertone to the whole thing.

But still, Guy ultimately chooses Vaisey over Marian - as he will do again at the end of the season. He allows Marian to be chained at the wrists and taken to Winchester - and it’s interesting that Vaisey leaves him in control of this. At this point, Guy still could have facilitated Marian’s escape, Vaisey isn’t there watching to make sure he does what he wants, he let’s Guy make the choice, he’s so certain of his own control over Guy. Vaisey is such an astute judge of character (well, men - he always underestimates women), and master manipulator.

Meanwhile, Robin’s also making the choice not to confide in or seek help from his gang, instead taking up the role of assassin himself, and there’s a lot going on in that. We know Robin is the kind of commander who will always throw himself into the fray first, put his life on the line before those of his followers, and in a way it’s reminiscent of 1x02 where Robin made sure his men were safe on the other side of the portcullis before fighting off the remaining guards single-handedly. But we’re a way from half-showoff, half-deathwish Robin now - this choice is calculated (but still reckless). He sees his role as captain to protect his soliders, not the other way around, and he thinks its a suicide mission and doesn’t want to risk their lives.

He tells Edward “I have no choice” but at this point Robin has lots of choices. Because he should tell the gang what is going on, not leave them in the dark, he should seek their counsel, and accept their help. But he doesn’t, because for all the justification he’s cloaking himself in, he knows it’s a terrible thing and while he’s willing to bear the burden (after likely doing much worse in the Holy Land), he’s not willing to let the gang bear it with him. But also - he’s not willing to let the gang talk him out of it either, which they would certainly try to do. He’s in war mode and his only objective is to eliminate the enemy the most effective way he knows how - to turn off the humanity in himself and let the solider take over.

Allan, Guy, and Robin are again falling back on their old patterns - Allan to talk his way into the most advantageous position possible (and survive), Guy cede control to Vaisey (and further his ambition), and Robin to act recklessly (and protect his King). All of these cycles are self-destructive, and only really Allan will be able to break free from his by the end of the season.

Not the face of a rational man. If he’d talked things over with the gang first, things might have been different.

There are lines of Robin’s letter that are (inadvertent) foreshadowing - “but most of all for the life, for the love we could not have” and “I’ll see you in heaven.” Debatable whether Robin genuinely believes the latter (given he’s about to commit some mortal sins without the opportunity to repent), or whether he says it for Marian’s comfort.

Very lucky Robin didn’t aim for anyone’s head - but Vaisey would know he would go for the heart, the most effective kill shot.

CONDENDER, READY? GLADITATOR, READY? 3...2...1...

Both Robin (righteous anger) and Allan (seething resentment) are being unreasonable here. Robin: “You don’t have to do this” - and do what instead, exactly? Allan: “You should have given me a second chance.” Well, he did. It’s Allan who swings first, and wins, thanks to Robin’s distraction at seeing Marian in chains - but he doesn’t go in for the kill swing, and I don’t think he would have, actually.

Tar and fire - weren’t we here three weeks ago?

First John disarms Guy with his quarterstaff, then distracts him with the bells, then hits him in the groin. What a legend.

It bothers me when they all tell Much to shut up and it’s played for laughs. Really, this scene should have been the gang giving Robin the what for about going off alone and making suicide-shaped plans without them, but it also makes sense they don’t want to rub salt in the wound.

A dark end to the episode, a sign of things to come.

[xjoonchildx]

guarded | jhs x reader | chapter four: cham-pain

summary: you’ve tried to separate yourself from your infamous crime family, but a new case has your carefully-constructed world crashing down around you.  now you have to figure out how to heal old wounds and handle the new man who enters your orbit.

pairing: hoseok x reader

genre: mafia AU, E2L, slow burn, tsundere, eventual smut

rating: 18+

word count: 4.4K

A/N: hey, you.  yes, YOU. has anyone told you that you’re pretty today? well, if not let me be the first. i can’t help but feel lovey-dovey about the love you guys have shown me on this story. thank you so much for everything.  i hope you like this chapter and i hope you’ll reach out and let me know either way.  big shoutout to the baes @ladyartemesia​ and @taetaewonderland​ they know why.

Chapter 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | EPILOGUE

********************

At what point do you stop calling them shorts and start calling them panties?

That’s the question Hoseok ponders when he walks into the kitchen to find you precariously perched on tiptoes, straining to reach for something in an overhead cabinet.  He lets his gaze linger over the soft skin of your legs, up to your thighs, up higher to where he can damned near see the swell of your ass peeking out from that obscene little scrap of cloth.

What he does next is probably unwise.

What he does next is approach silently from behind, pressing one hand into the small of your back as he reaches over you to get a hold of the jar you’re struggling to grab. And if he enjoys the way your body jolts with surprise beneath his fingertips or the way your hair smells when he’s this close, then that’s his business and no one else’s.

“Thank you,” you murmur, avoiding his eyes and for a moment Hoseok thinks you’re going to scold him for being so bold.

But you don’t.

*********************

Hoseok shouldn’t be toying with you right now and he knows it. It’s not like you’ve ever been an open book with him, but these past few days you’ve been even more withdrawn -- more in your head than ever before.  

Not that you don’t have your reasons.

Shit is off the rails with your case and you’re living with a complete stranger and someone left a live fucking snake in your bedroom a few nights ago.  

So if Hoseok has noticed that you walk around in a fog — that the fire he used to see inside of you from time to time seems extinguished — well, that’s certainly understandable. 

But he can’t help but wonder if there’s something more to your melancholy. He can’t help but wonder if you actually hold a candle for that idiot you left reeling at the restaurant.  

Hoseok can’t stop thinking about that guy.  

There is a feeling he can’t shake and it’s not just the urge to beat Kang Donghyuk to a pulp. Hoseok can’t shake the feeling that beneath the dopey smile and the lazy charm and the overall benign affect, there’s something more.  

Something Hoseok is determined to figure out.

So he leaves you to your cooking in the kitchen and retreats to the privacy of his room to phone Seokjin.  If this piece of shit is up to something, Hoseok is going to make it his personal mission to find it.

And if he finds something?

Then Hoseok will make it his personal mission to make him pay.

***********************

YOU

“Amsaja -- with Hoseok.  Try being nice.”

You think back to your brother’s words as you stand just outside the door to Hoseok’s room, fist raised to knock.  But you don’t, at least not right away.  

What is your fucking problem?

You remind yourself that you are a grown woman, not some skittish little girl.  You remind yourself that Jung Hoseok is just a man.  

And then you get a grip.

The door opens after one light knock.  You don’t mean to stare, truly you don’t -- but Hoseok is wearing one of those goddamned tank tops again.  What happened to suits all day and all night?  Suits are a hell of a lot less distracting.

“What’s up?” he asks cautiously.  

Your eyes dart from his face to his chest to his arms and finally settle around his neck, where a pair of dog tags hang from a silver chain.  You had nearly forgotten that Jung Hoseok made a career of the military before he was one of your brother’s right-hand men.

“I made some Samgyetang,” you say lamely, gesturing to the bowl of soup in your hands.

I made it for you. 

“And it’s uh, supposed to be good for a cold,” you add, when he says nothing.

Which you have.  

“So, I -- ” you clear your throat, shift your weight back and forth on your feet, “ -- made some.”

For you.

Hoseok stares at the bowl like you’ve brought him a grenade instead of a meal.  The puzzled look on his face makes you feel awkward, makes the entire gesture seem silly.

“Never mind,” you say under your breath, turning on your heels.  

“Wait --” Hoseok calls quickly, stepping out of his room to follow you,  “ -- I didn’t -- I was just surprised, that’s all.” 

“It’s just soup,” you say over your shoulder, trying like hell to sound casual and not at all offended.

Hoseok keeps pace behind you into the kitchen; commands your attention with one firm hand on your arm.  You turn to face him, averting your gaze from the sweatpants that hang low on his hips and the thin cotton that grips every muscle of his lean chest.

“I didn’t mean to make that weird,” Hoseok says quietly. “Thank you. It’s been a long time since I’ve had homemade Samgyetang.”

You pull your arm out of his hold.  

“Well, it’s there if you want it,” you shrug, brushing past him.

It’s a relief to trade the charged air of the kitchen for the uncomplicated quiet of your room.

*************************

Hyejin takes her reading glasses off to rub the bridge of her nose.  

“I’m not even kidding about my eyesight being shot,” she sighs, reaching for her coffee cup.  “It gets worse every day and the print on these depositions does not help.”

“I know,” you mumble, highlighter flying over your own set of fine print.  “Sorry.”

“Hey, at least we’re in this together,” she smiles. “Right?” 

Her face falls when you don’t return the gesture.

It’s not exactly a secret that you haven’t been firing on all cylinders lately.  You are so worn out from the shit going on at work and the shit going on at home that it feels like you don’t have much more to give.  You just want to climb into bed and sleep for a week straight.

If only you had that luxury.  

Instead, you’re back at it with Hyejin today, trying to figure out a way around the missing digital evidence you so desperately need.  The loss of those files was a terrible setback, but you refuse to let it be the end.  You still have an entire warehouse full of confiscated guns under lock and key.

Now you just need to get your head in the game.

“You still going to the gala tomorrow night?” Hyejin asks, sipping her coffee.

So much for getting your head in the game.

“Not sure,” you murmur, underlining a key part of the testimony.  “Lots of shit going on right now.”

“Yeah, I know things between you and Donghyuk got weird,” Hyejin says carefully.

You stop yourself from laughing out loud. 

Donghyuk is so far down your list of fires to fight, you’d nearly forgotten him completely.  You probably could forget him if you weren’t subjected to his dirty looks every time the two of you cross paths at the office.  You’ve made at least two very awkward cups of coffee standing side-by-side in the past week alone -- but honestly, you can’t bring yourself to care.

“That’s -- “ you start and stop before continuing, “ -- not really an issue right now.”

“Okay, sure,” Hyejin concedes. “Just don’t forget that I’m here if you need someone to talk to, alright?  You don’t always have to take everything on by yourself.”

You stop your incessant highlighting to look up at your friend and colleague.  

Concern is written all over her pretty face and for a moment you entertain the thought of opening up to her.  The idea of talking about what’s going on is tempting -- like if you could share just a piece of your burden you could relieve some of the pressure inside of you.  But there’s another part of you that worries that you are too pent up to let go of any of this.  A part of you that feels like all it will take is one tiny crack for the entire dam to give.

You finally manage to muster one weak smile for your friend, who seems relieved to see any display of emotion out of you.

“Thanks, Hye.  I’ll keep that in mind.”

***********************

You almost skipped tonight.  Almost.

But you’d already bought a dress and the tickets were paid for and Hoseok didn’t even flinch when you told him you had to go to a black-tie event. 

If only you could say the same for the moment you saw him in the living room.

When Hoseok turned at the sound of your heels on the marble floor, with hands tucked into the pockets of his bespoke black tux, you nearly forgot to breathe.  All of the coordinating details, the slim-cut jacket and the perfectly-styled hair and the carefully-crafted bow tie felt like a gut punch.

You’d silently prayed that Hoseok didn’t catch the way your eyes lingered on him for just a beat too long -- or that he didn’t spot the heat you could feel creeping up your neck and into your cheeks. The color that must have been made all the more obvious against the rose shade of your gown.

“You ready?”

Hoseok interrupts your thoughts with his usual business-like tone.  The one that tells you that this inner monologue about how incredible he looks tonight is painfully one-sided.  

You nod, not trusting yourself to use your words.

All things considered, the situation with Donghyuk couldn’t have gone south at a better time.  He would have been your date for the night were it not for the blow up at dinner -- and it certainly would have drawn unwanted attention to have two men at your side all evening.  

Though with the way Hoseok looks tonight, you imagine the attention will come anyway.

*********************

There are few things in life rich people enjoy more than pretending to give a shit about poor ones. 

They make sport of it, jockeying for position in front of the cameras, gladly shelling out hundreds of thousands of won a plate to prove just how much they care.  They spend their evenings drinking top-shelf liquor and eating top-notch catering and convincing themselves that they’re making some kind of sacrifice for the greater good.  

A string quartet plays softly in the background as guests mill about, grabbing drinks and hors d'oeuvres off of passing trays.  Hoseok is at your side, a glass of water in hand.  He is just close enough for you to take in his heady, masculine smell -- but not too close.

You hate that he smells this good.

You hate that he looks this good.

You have tried -- and failed -- to ignore the appreciative stares he’s gotten from some of the gala guests.  You already caught one woman ogling outright, gawking unrepentantly while at her own date’s side.  When a cocktail server walks by with a carefully-balanced offering of champagne flutes, you grab one right away.

Hoseok, as usual, takes nothing.  

You sip your champagne and watch him watching the room.  

He certainly looks the part of a society player tonight in his tux, the occasional wrinkle of his nose the only indicator of his disdain for the men and women drinking and dancing around him.  When a woman bumps into him while carrying a plate of appetizers, he holds out a hand to help her keep upright and she damned near melts at his reassuring smile.  

“Oh, thank you,” she breathes deeply before her eyes dart in your direction.  

You look away.

Not once have you ever seen this man smile, and he’s certainly never smiled at you.  You turn to slam the rest of your champagne and put the empty flute on a nearby table just as another cocktail server passes with a full tray of drinks. 

How fortuitous.  You grab another.  

There’s a few more minutes of mingling before the guests are asked to take a seat at their assigned tables.  Hoseok holds out your chair and you accept. 

The interaction, like always, is silent.

You look up from the perfectly staged spread to spot Donghyuk two tables away.  Even from a distance you can tell his cheeks look ruddy — like he’s already had way too much to drink. He narrows his eyes when he realizes you are looking and you lift your champagne flute to tip a sarcastic salute in his direction.  He scowls back.

“Miss Kim,” a deep voice interrupts your petty exchange. “What a pleasant coincidence.”

You force a smile when your boss and his wife unexpectedly fill two empty seats at your table.

“Mr. Park,” you return quietly. “Nice to see you tonight. And Mrs. Park, of course.”

Mrs. Park’s answering smile is warm and genuine, but the same cannot be said of her husband’s. Of course, the last conversation you had with him one-on-one, he’d practically thrown you out of his office. The smile on his face right now is a bit watery.

“It’s so nice to see you dear,” Mrs. Park says sweetly.  “And who is this handsome fellow?”

You falter when you open your mouth to answer, but Hoseok smoothly interjects.

“Yi Sang, ma’am. Pleasure to meet you.”

You close your mouth and turn to smile woodenly at Hoseok, who doesn’t bother to look back. 

“Mr. Yi,” your boss extends his hand for a firm handshake, but a strange look passes over his face.  “The pleasure is ours.” 

Hoseok’s mouth pulls into a tight smile and you down what’s left of your champagne.

A couple you don’t recognize join your table before dinner is served.  You do your best to appear engaged in the small talk; nodding when appropriate, smiling during the awkward pauses.  But there is an emptiness in you tonight.  You spend the entire meal pushing the artfully-arranged dishes around your plate because you find you have no desire for food.

The same cannot be said for the champagne, though. That’s going down quite nicely.  Your server dutifully brings another flute as soon as yours is empty.

“I must commend you, Miss Kim, on forging ahead with this case,” Mr. Park says, when the plates have been cleared and after-dinner coffee is being served.  “I know it hasn’t been easy after the theft of your files.”

“Oh,” you clear your throat. “Yes, well -- I’m doing my best with what I have left.”

“Of course. It’s important we do what we can to bring these low-lives to justice,” Mr. Kim says slowly.  He looks from you to Hoseok with an expression that stops just short of a challenge and the champagne in your stomach seems to come to life. “Organized crime in this city is out of hand. We can’t allow Seoul to descend into chaos because of the trash making a living off of guns and drugs.”

Trash like your brother. 

“Right,” you say quietly, swallowing past a lump in your throat. “I’ll do my best.” 

Hoseok remains composed at your side, but you don’t miss how his knuckles go white as his grip around the water glass tightens.  

Trash like Hoseok.  

You swallow another mouthful of champagne.  

The couple sitting next to the Parks -- oblivious to the friction at the table -- strike up a conversation about the dessert selection and you’ve never been more glad for small talk.  The tension in the air slowly dissipates.

But you keep drinking.

Hoseok leans into you, lips so close they nearly brush the shell of your ear and your entire body goes still.  Goosebumps bloom all over when you feel his breath against your skin.

“You should eat something,” he murmurs.

You could almost laugh at the way your stomach seems to fall with disappointment.  What were you expecting him to say? Something complimentary? Something reassuring?  

What a joke.

All at once you decide you need space, you need air, you need a break from the bullshit you seem to be taking from all sides tonight.

Hoseok’s eyebrows lift as you stand from your seat.

“If you’ll excuse me,” you announce to the table, “I need to visit the powder room.”

The champagne seems to hit you the moment you stand and you have to work hard at keeping your steps steady as you make your way out of the ballroom.

You would never admit it, but Hoseok is right. 

You really should eat something.

***********************

hoseok: text me or i’m coming in [11:02 PM ]

You stand in the mirror and stare at your reflection in the dim lighting of the ladies’ room. You’ve been to dozens of these events over the years and it’s never felt as pointless and unnatural to you as it does right now.  A part of you hates how much you’ve tied yourself into knots seeking the validation of these pompous assholes.  So desperate to be chosen by the chosen few. 

hoseok: last chance [11:06 PM ]

Another part of you hates Hoseok.  

You hate his constant presence and his constant silence and his constant judgement.  It always feels like he’s punishing you for some transgression you don’t even know you’ve committed.  Your phone buzzes with a reminder of the waiting texts and you sigh, unlocking the screen to fire off an answer before Hoseok makes good on his threat to storm his way in.

you: i’m fine. be right out [ 11:08 PM ]

You take one last look in the mirror.  Have you always looked this tired? 

Before dinner -- after you’d meticulously primped for tonight -- you’d been satisfied with what you saw in the mirror.  Now all you can see are the shadows under your eyes, the grim set of your mouth.  Is this what other people see when they look at you, too?

A knock sounds on the door and you blow out an exasperated breath.  Hoseok must be tired of waiting for you to wrap this pity party.  You yank the door open with more force than intended, fully prepared to tell him to fuck off.

But it’s Donghyuk on the other side.

You stare at him.

“What do you want?” you hiss, stepping out into the hallway.

“I just want to talk,” Donghyuk says coolly, standing just a bit too close. You grimace at the smell of liquor on his breath.  “You still haven’t given me a chance to thank you personally for making me look like an asshole at dinner the other day.”

“Oh, honey -- you don’t need my help to look like an asshole,” you fire back, pushing more space in between you with a firm shove of your fingers to his shoulder. “You do a fine job of that all on your own.”

His laughter blows whiskey-tinged hot air in your direction and you make a face.

“I see you upgraded the bodyguard to dinner date.”

“Shut up, Donghyuk, honestly,” you seethe.  You try to step around him to leave, but he blocks you with his body.  

“You fucking him now, too?”

You barely register the movement of your own hand before it’s connecting with the side of Donghyuk’s face.  You barely register Hoseok’s arrival before he’s between you both, pulling you away and practically shoving Donghyuk to the floor.  You barely hear Hoseok’s whispered threats and you nearly miss the way he unbuttons his jacket to ensure Donghyuk sees his gun.

The whole debacle is so fast and so surreal you could almost convince yourself you imagined it.

But there is no imagining the sting still throbbing in your palm.

*****************************

HOSEOK

The trouble tonight started long before you smacked the shit out of Kang Donghyuk. 

The trouble started when you walked out of your room in that goddamned gown. Hoseok had not been entirely prepared for you in that dress.

He had only a split second to make sure he wasn’t staring.  He jammed his hands into his pockets and forced the most casual demeanor he could muster, but fuck it wasn’t easy.  There were a hundred things he could have said in that moment, would have said in that moment -- if you weren’t you and if he weren’t him.

Of course, dinner was a bit of a clusterfuck, too.

Playing dress up with the city’s elites was somehow less enjoyable than Hoseok imagined it would be.  The stares from tipsy society girls and the critical looks from their dates were bad enough but your boss laying it on thick with the white knight bullshit at the end was the real icing on the cake.  The coded language and the veiled threats that made loud and clear he knew exactly what Hoseok was but wouldn’t say it out loud.  

Hoseok saw the way you seemed to retreat even further into yourself during the exchange, silent and thinking.

And drinking. 

Hoseok has only ever seen you enjoy the occasional glass of wine with meals.  Tonight was an entirely different story. You were on a mission to get wrecked from the moment you sat down; forgoing food for an alarming amount of champagne.  Hoseok counted four glasses down before he decided to say something. 

Of course, that went over about as well as he’d expected -- and seconds later, you were walking away.

Hoseok hadn’t planned on following you to the bathroom. He hadn’t planned on overhearing the nasty back-and-forth in the hall . And he hadn’t planned on threatening to kill Kang Donghyuk at some ridiculous charity dinner.  But when he saw the man get up from his seat to follow you -- Hoseok moved on auto-pilot.  

There was no avoiding what came next.

**********************

You don’t utter a single word on the ride home.  

You don’t say a word when Hoseok walks you upstairs, unlocks the door to usher you inside.  He’s still securing the new deadbolts when he hears your bedroom door slam shut.

Hoseok scrubs a hand over his face and sighs deeply before loosening the bow tie and slipping it off.   

Then he pulls out his phone to text Seokjin.

hoseok: you on him? [ 11:48 PM ]

seokjin: sleeping it off in his car right now. what a slob [ 11:49 PM ]

seokjin: you’re welcome btw [ 11:49 PM ]

hoseok: thx [ 11:50 PM ]

Seconds later, your bedroom door swings open so hard it bounces back off the opposite wall. Hoseok looks up from his phone just as you are storming into the living room, hands still securing the belt to the short robe you’ve just changed into.  

You are positively vibrating with a dangerous energy Hoseok can feel clear across the room.  Maybe you’ve been sleepwalking through these past few days, but you are definitely awake now.

And angry.

“I don’t need you to win my fights,” you fume, pointing one hostile finger in his direction. “I took care of myself long before you came along and I can take care of myself now.”

Christ, do you have any idea how little you are wearing right now?  

Hoseok focuses on that accusing finger because it keeps him from staring at your legs. It also keeps him from opening his mouth and making you madder than you already are. 

“I don’t need you or anyone else swooping in with that macho bullshit,” you hiss, bringing your body within inches of his.  “I have had enough of men running and ruining every aspect of my life.”

Shit, do you have any idea how close you are right now? 

Hoseok can smell the perfume that lingers on your skin when you’re this close.  He can see how your pupils are blown wide and your cheeks are flushed with heat when you’re this close. 

“Say something,” you demand, jabbing your finger into his chest.  “Do something.”

Fuck, you are playing with fire.

You want a fight and Hoseok is this close to giving you one.  He has to summon every ounce of his self control to keep his voice and breathing steady. He fists his hands at his sides to keep them from moving.  

“You’ve had too much to drink,” he replies with careful calm.  “You should go to bed.”

“Or what?” you challenge, fingers reaching to unfasten the top buttons of his dress shirt.  Hoseok’s entire body tenses under your touch. 

“What the hell are you doing?” he says between gritted teeth. 

“Checking for a heartbeat,” you murmur. “Looking for signs of life.  Is there a real man in there?”

There’s a real man in here, alright, Hoseok thinks darkly.  Keep pushing me and you’re going to find out.

“Of course not,” you whisper to yourself, snaking one hand into the collar of his shirt. He flinches when your fingertips brush up against the cool metal of his dog tags. “You’re some kind of robot.”

You pull the tags out from under his collar and Hoseok swallows thickly.  

“Just a machine programmed to follow orders, right?  My brother’s orders. The Army’s orders,” you pause to read the embossed letters on his tags.  ‘Isn’t that right, Captain Jung?”

You gasp when Hoseok’s hand comes up to seize yours.  His fingers circle the delicate bones of your wrist and he doesn’t let go, applying a pressure that sure as hell gets your attention.

“People like me follow orders so people like you don’t have to,” Hoseok seethes.  “People like me do the dirty work so people like you can impress rich assholes at stupid parties. People like me stay behind and handle our responsibilities so people like you can walk away from yours.”

Your stare at him for a moment, eyes wide at his outburst.  Then you jerk your wrist out of his hold so violently you nearly fall back with the force of it. 

Hoseok freezes when your robe slides down off your shoulder. He stares when his eyes settle on the jagged scar that runs deep across your collarbone.  

Fucking hell. 

Hoseok traded one bloody business for another when he gave up his rank in the Army for his rank in the Gajog. He’s seen more than his fair share of vicious cuts and nasty wounds. 

Whoever did that to you wanted to make sure you’d have to carry it with you for the rest of your life.

********************

Tomorrow morning, Hoseok is gonna regret a lot of shit that happened tonight. 

He’s going to regret not telling you how beautiful you looked when you walked out of that room.  He’s going to regret going out of his way to hurt you with his words. 

But most of all, he’s going to regret the moment he looked into your face and saw the anger in your eyes change over into pain.

You yank the robe back over your shoulder, cinch the belt tight — and walk away without another word. 

********************

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[youllneverknowrac]

Oscar Diaz-Protect

For my bitch @spookysmujer, hope you like it girly! And y’all go check out her stuff!

Warnings: A fucking sleazy guy 🥴

~

“What do you say you come back to my place for some fun?” Some random guy asks as you walk out of the corner store that was down the street from your boyfriend Oscar’s house. You were actually heading that way after deciding to walk so you could pick up some snacks to munch on during the movie marathon he had planned for you guys.

“Fucking pig.” You mumble as you ignore him, taking a few more steps before you hear his deep voice once again.

“Are you a stuck up bitch that can’t answer a question or what?” He asks in a teasing manner as he walks closer.

“Oh no, see that’s what you’re not about to do.” You snap as you turn around to glare at the man,”Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Woah, woah, woah chill out baby.” He chuckles,”I’m just trying to get to know you, that’s all.” He says his fingers coming up to your face as he try’s to push some hair behind your ear.

“Don’t touch me!” You cringe in disgust as you swat his hand away,”Just go back to your car.” You say with a wave of your hand in that direction,”You don’t want the problems that come with me.”

“Am I suppose to be scared of you?” He chuckles,”Besides I wasn’t doing anything wrong, there is no harm in trying to make new friends.”

“Nah you’re doing more than that.” You say as a knowing smirk forms on your face,”You ain’t from around here huh?” You ask with a chuckle as you glance around,”Cause if you were, you wouldn’t even be looking in my direction. Especially not on this street.”

“What? Your daddy own this neighborhood or something?” He asks with a scoff,”Last I checked this was America baby, I can say what I please.”

“You could say my daddy owns this block.” You smile sweetly at him,”Which is why I’m going to let you walk away. I would hate for him to have to take time out of his day to beat the shit out of some sleazy dumb fuck.” You say as you spin around in the opposite direction, the guy biting his lower lip and nodding before heading to his car with sick intentions.

“What a asshole.” You shudder as you walk at a hurried pace along the sidewalk. Oscar’s house in sight a minute later just as a familiar beat up blue mustang pulls to a stop in front of you and sends a few trash cans flying.

“Ahhhh!” You exclaim as you jump back in fear,”What the fuck?!” You shout as you see the familiar guy step out.

“You know, I don’t like the way our conversation ended back there.” He says as he begins to walk around the car, causing you to step backwards and into the street,”I think I oughta show you manners baby. Maybe you wouldn’t be able to bitch if you had something to occupy that pretty little mouth of yours.” He smirks, his hand grabbing at his bulge.

“Come any closer and I’ll scream.” You warn, taking one more step before you trip and fall on your backside. A moan of pain escaping your lips as you sit up in discomfort, your snacks now thrown about.

“See what happens when you don’t do what I say? You get hurt.” He chuckles just as he reaches you, your about to scream when you hear a all too familiar voice behind you.

“Aye what’s going on out here?!” Sad Eyes shouts as he jogs down his driveway in nothing but his sweats with a gun in hand,”Y/N?” He asks, your best friend running out after him in one of his too long t-shirts.

“Y/N, oh my god are you okay?” She ask as she comes to a stop and kneels down next to you,”Your hands are all cut up.” She says as she puts her arms under yours and lifts you up quickly, Sad Eyes stepping around the two of you with his gun now pointed at the man.

“You know this foo?” He asks

“She’s my friend.” He answers the same time as you do, fear now clear in his eyes as he takes notice of a few neighbors coming outside to see the commotion. Most of them being armed and tattooed with the famous Santo cross.

“No! He fucking followed me from the store.” You say as you wipe your hands clean, the sting causing your eyes to water,”He wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“You messing with my homies girl?” He asks rhetorically as he cocks the gun,”Ima need you to take a seat on the curb. I’m sure he’s going to want to have a chat with you.”

“Look man, I’m gonna just go alright?” He says as he holds his hands up,”I don’t want any trouble. That wasn’t my intention.”

“He’s a liar! He was messing with me in the parking lot, I tried to warn him about what would happened and he didn’t care.” You say as angry tears slip from your eyes,”You should have just left me alone.”

“Hey, I’m sorry. Really, I am.” He says, his head snapping in the direction of Oscar’s commanding whistle as he walks down the street.

“What the fuck is happening on my block?” He booms as he takes in the scene in front of him, his pace quickening as he takes notice of you,”Dime qué está pasando.” He barks out loud to nobody in particular as he reaches you and takes you from Carla,”Calm down bebe, I’m here.” He soothes as he looks over you, his jaw clenching when he takes notice of your injury.

“Seems like this guy was messing with your hyna Spooky. Followed her from the store and shit.” Sad Eyes explains as he puts his gun down and steps to the side,”Made her fall and cut her hands up too.”

“No!” The man interjects,”It wasn’t like that.”

“You fucking with my girl?” Oscar questions as he slowly walks towards him after letting Carla take over you again,”And then you made her bleed?” He adds as he pulls off his chain and tucks it in his pocket.

“I would never mess with your girl man. Come on, we don’t have to make this into a big thing.” He says shakily as Oscar now tugs off his white t-shirt and hands it off to his right hand man.

“Nah it’s too late for that.” Oscar shrugs before he posts up,”It’s square business now, we gonna have to catch a round.”

“I don’t want to fight you. We don’t have to do all that.” He cries, one of the other Santo members coming up behind him and shoving him forward.

“It’s either we fight or my compa here puts a bullet between your eyes. Your choice.” He informs as he holds his stance, the guy looks around before weakly holding his hands up. Oscar taking that action as a final decision and quickly throwing a powerful right hook to his jaw. He falls to the ground, Oscar leaning down and delivering blow after blow to the guys head,”Don’t fuck...with my...girl!” He grunts as his knuckles get covered with blood, the curb sprayed with it as well.

“Oscar! Enough!” You shout out when no one else intervenes, the guy having been knocked out after the first few punches. He looks over at you before using his forearm to wipe his mouth as he nods towards the other side of the street.

“Look over there.” He orders quietly, you take in a shaky breathe before doing as asked and turning around with Carla. The sound of more blows being delivered reach your ears before a final and different kind of hit sounds off.

“Okay, enough...chill out Spooky.” Sad Eyes finally jumps in as he wraps his arms around his best friend and forcibly walks him over to you,”Take her home, I’ll handle this mess.” He reassures Oscar as he hands off his gun to Carla,”Go put that up and stay inside.” He instructs her as you take a peek at the man, his face almost unrecognizable. You look down and cringe when you take notice of your boyfriends once crisp white air forces, no doubt that the last hit you heard was a kick to the guys face.

“I’m sorry.” The man croaks out as you feel yourself being pulled away by Oscar, you let him lead you down the road and into the house after he kicks off his shoes on the porch.

“You okay nena?” He asks as he gently pushes you down on to the toilet to sit after you enter the dim lit bathroom,”He didn’t actually touch you, did he?”

“I’m okay...he’s so stupid, I tried to tell him to leave me alone because I didn’t want you to have to do that.” You say as you watch him wash his hands,”I’m sorry.”

“No. Don’t apologize.” He says with a shake of his head,”He got what he deserved and that’s that. Next time he’ll think twice before approaching any girl, maldito tonto.” He grumbles as he drys his hands before taking yours in his and kneeling down in front of you,”Just a few scrapes.” He informs before flipping them over and placing soft kisses to the back of them,”I love you.” He mumbles against them, his nerves calming down as he closes his eyes.

“I love you.” You smile before wrapping your arms around him,”Thank you for being there, like you always are.”

“You know Ima always be there ma, ain’t no one ever gonna hurt you, or even disrespect you as long as I’m around.” He informs you, the two of you standing up so you could properly hug him,”You go set that movie up, I’m gonna step out real quick and see what’s up.”

“Okay.” You reply as you stand on your tip toes,”Just hurry up, I don’t want to be alone.” You admit before pecking his lips.

“I will.” He sighs, giving you another quick kiss before untangling his body from yours,”Go to my room, I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He urges, he did have to make sure the mess that happened was cleaned up properly after all. You wait until he’s back outside before lazily walking to his bedroom and setting up a movie like he asked, a comedy for sure after everything that just went down. You look out the window after a few minutes go by, the little old lady that lives across the street cleaning off the road with a bucket of soapy water after giving Oscar a reassuring squeeze on the arm. The blue mustang now driving down the street, the window tint to dark to see who was inside. You watch as the neighbors join together to clean up the mess, being pulled from your thoughts as a pair of arms embrace you from behind.

“Don’t worry about that.” He mutters as he turns you around to face him,”He’ll be fine, I know you’re worried about that. He had his Id on him, Jokers gonna go toss him out on his lawn. Think he’s gonna keep the car too.” Oscar says with a dry chuckle.

“Lets just forget about it.” You sigh as you step around him to lay on the bed,”Can you come lay down now?” You ask, Oscar smiling as he slides in next to you before grabbing the remote and pressing play. Your mind now at ease in the comfort of his arms, his lips pressed to the top of head as he mumbles about how he’d always be there to protect you. A promise he’d keep forever.

[fixxofvixx]

POSSESSION - TAEKWOON AU - CHAPTER 15

Hello!!!!!!!!!! Omg I've missed this place so much! I miss all of you even more! I'm so grateful to those of you who have stuck with me! And if you are new here, I welcome you with open arms!!!🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️ (why is there no emoji for offering a hug?)

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this seriously overdue chapter with hopefully more to come!! Let me know what you think!!

🏰🏰🏰🏰🏰🏰🏰

The chain fell from your wrist and you immediately ran to Leo’s side.  You feared that his enchanted weapons stopped working only if Leo was dead.  You fell to the floor at his side and felt for a pulse.  It was there but fading fast.  His chest didn’t rise or fall and his body was turning cold. 

“Leo!  Wake up, please!!  Leo, please!!”  Your heart was tearing in two and you couldn’t stop crying.  Leo was dying right in front of you.  Anger began to replace the sadness you felt.

“You can’t have him!” 

You remembered something your mother had told you about bringing breath back to a dying person.  You had never tried it but knew the process.  You pulled Leo until he was lying flat on the floor.  Your hands went to his chest and began the steps your mother had told you about.  You counted in your head how many times to press down on the heart to help it beat.  After that was finished you moved until your face lingered over his.  You only hesitated for a moment before placing your lips on his.

----------------------

His lips were cold as you breathed into his mouth.   

1….2….3….

You leaned away from his face and repeated the steps once again.  All the while you could hear the others pounding on the doors.  

"It's useless.  He's dead."

You ignored the spirit behind you.  You could feel the cold at your back, her mere presence causing your skin to crawl.  Tiny pinpricks erupted over your skin and caused a cold sweat to envelope your body.  She was trying to distract you.  But you couldn't be bothered with her right now.  All your focus had to be on Leo as you counted the breaths and chest presses.  You never practiced on a real person but your mother had shown you the steps countless times.  It felt like it was taking forever.  Every second he didn't breathe felt like another stab in your heart.  You didn't even take the time to wipe the tears from your eyes and repeated the steps over and over. 

"By rights, he shouldn't be alive….none of them should be.  Least of all him.  An illegitimate abomination in a clan of the purest blood.  If not for the powers he received from his father, he would have died in infancy.  Let nature take its rightful course and forget him.  He is worthless."

Her obvious distaste of Leo and her vicious words only spurred you on further.  You were getting tired, exhaustion and muscle pains were settling in your shoulders.  You couldn't keep this pace up for much longer.  The constant lingering of the spirit behind you was making things worse.   Leo's body was also turning colder.  But her taunts gave you the bit of adrenaline you needed to keep going.  You felt a wave of emotion overtake you and you decided that you would save Leo or die trying.

With a flash of light behind the door, the wood splintered and feet rushed through the opening.  You didn't turn to the commotion, you knew who was coming.   You could hear voices giving out commands to each other to protect you and Leo but also trying to exercise the spirit.  

You were about to collapse when Leo pulled in a sudden breath of air.  The action caused a short fit of coughing but he was breathing.  

He was alive.

His eyes sprang open and he struggled to breath in as best he could.  His grey eyes settled on you and they held confusion as if he could quite grasp the situation.  All of the emotions that you had been holding in came out all at once.  Anger, fear, sadness, panic, and happiness bundled themselves together into one huge lump in your throat.  Tears sprang from your eyes and you all but collapsed onto Leo's chest, crying and exhausted.  You felt his hand in your arm but made no effort to move you.  You didn't have the strength or willpower to move anyway.

You could still hear the others fighting and it urged you to wrap your arms tighter around Leo hoping to protect him.  

"Dammit!  Go that way, cut her off!" 

"Don't let her get past you!  She can disappear at will."

"Block that side! The other room is already sealed, if we can push her back in there we can trap her!"  

Cold air whipped around the room as different things tumbled and crashed to the floor.  You flinched every time something fell to the floor, knowing the next heavy object could very well hit you or Leo.   

"Hongbin, do you see her?!"

"Dammit, hang on!  I'm trying to seal this door!"  You felt the room change temperature but you still felt like you were frozen.  "She's in the other room.  She's trapped for now.  We need another strategy.  She's abnormally strong."

"Are you hurt?"  Leo's voice rumbled through his chest and into your ear.  Although you heard him, your body wouldn't allow you to move.  Your mind was still trapped in trying to revive him and protect him.

"Y/N, you can get up now, she's not in the room anymore."  You heard Hakyeon's voice coming closer and felt hands on your arms trying to pull you from Leo.  You made a sound of refusal and clung to Leo's torso.

Leo wanted to relish the feeling of you holding him but he knew there was a bigger issue at hand.  He looked up at Hakyeon and motioned for him and the others to leave.  Hakyeon nodded and ushered the rest out of the room.  Ravi walked by and gave two thumbs up which earned a glare from Leo. 

Once they were out, he raised himself up on his elbows but you still didn't release him.  If he was honest, he really didn't want you to.  Still, he continued until he was sitting upright and did a quick mental check of any injuries but everything seemed to be fine. 

Leo put his hands on either side of your head and pulled your head away from his chest.

"Y/N."  He only said your name but it caused you to break down in another stream of sobs but he would let you lower your head again.  

"Y/N, take a good, deep breath.  You're going to pass out if you keep crying like that."

"I c-ca….I can't….you….y-you were dead! You st-stopped breathing!  I….I didn't know what….what t-to do!  You can't die!  What do I d-do if you die?!  You--"  You ramblings were cut off by Leo pulling you back to his chest, wrapping both arms around you.  One arm settled around your shoulders while he brought his hand to cradle the back of your head.  

His body temperature was different now.  He was warm and you closed your eyes at the feeling.  Your arms were trapped between your body and his but you didn't care.  Your adrenaline was spent and you sank into his chest, your head resting on his shoulder.  

"Thank you, Y/N."  Leo's voice was soft in your ear and you could feel his breath glide over your skin.  "Thank you for bringing me back to life."

You smiled because he genuinely sounded grateful that he was alive.

"You know, that's quite the ability you have."

"Huh?"

"Bringing life back into a person.  It is a rare skill, I'm sure.  Perhaps you can teach me one day?"

"I ca--"  You stopped yourself after almost readily agreeing.  Your mind processed what it would mean to teach him and in turn you would have to admit that your lips had touched his.  You didn't know why that bothered you so much.  You cleared your throat and tried to save yourself. "Surely….you are aware of the steps.  It is fairly common knowledge.  I'm….not very good at teaching."

You pulled away from him and wiped the remaining tears from your cheeks.  Crimson began tinting your cheeks as your mind began to replay how you had clung to him and acted like a worried lover.  You swallowed hard and tried to stand.  

Of course, your muscles protested.  You had pushed your body to the limit trying to bring Leo back to life.  Your shoulders ached and your legs felt like jelly as you tried to stand normally.  

A loud crash came from your room and you jumped in fright.  The spirit was apparently upset that she was trapped now.  

"Maybe we should put some distance between us and that room.  She seems rather upset."

Leo nodded and reached for your arm to help you but you flinched.  His hand froze and you felt instantly guilty.  You rushed to explain.

"I wasn't…..I mean, I didn't mean that.  I wasn't avoiding you.  I'm sorry.  I just…"

You didn't know how to tell him that you somehow felt that if he touched you right now, you wouldn't want him to let go.

"It's alright."  

Leo's face was solemn as he opened the door and motioned for you to go first.  Mustering up the courage, you waited until he looked at you again.

"I….don't think I can walk on my own."  Your cheeks turned a darker red as you cringed inside at how awful your lie sounded.  You prayed he wouldn't notice.

"I will call for Hakyeon or one of the others."

"No!" You grabbed his arm as he turned to leave.  "I want you!  I mean...I would prefer it if it's you.

You felt light-headed but your heart was pumping double time.  You never thought you would turn into the bumbling idiot that you had become just now.  

He hesitated at first but eventually nodded.  You took a better grip on his arm and followed him out of the room.  It was no lie that your legs felt like they were made of water but you were sure a week or two ago you would have died trying to make it on your own.   

You made it to the sitting room and sank into the plush cushions on the sofa.  You were immediately surrounded by six sets of worried eyes.  You squirmed under their scrutiny.  Ravi broke away first, wandering over to the side table of alcohol that was ever-present.  He poured a honey-colored liquid into a short glass and handed it to you.  

You accepted it but just stared at him.

"Drink it.  It will help your nerves."

You nodded and took a sip.  You coughed as the liquor burned a path to your stomach.

"Why did you give her the strongest one?"  Leo looked at Ravi with a disapproving look and tried to take your glass.  You held on and tucked the glass close to your chest.  

"See?  She likes it.  She's gonna need that when she hears what Hakyeon has planned."

You looked at Ravi and waited for him to elaborate but he didn't.  So, you turned your gaze on Hakyeon.

"You're going to leave the house."

"Now wait just a damn minute."  Leo advanced on Hakyeon but he just held up his hand.

"And you're going with her."

"What?!  Hakyeon, you can't kick him out!  I'll leave! I promise, you won't see me again."

"Y/N."

"Then all the problems will be solved! You can have all my medicines and I'll write down everything you need to know!"

"Y/N….."

"Ken can--"

"Y/N!"  You jumped and closed your mouth when Hakyeon raised his voice and came towards you.  Leo tried to block his path but Ravi stopped him.  Hakyeon crouched down in front of you and sent you a comforting smile.

"I'm not kicking you out, Y/N.  Neither of you.  I'm only telling you both to stay somewhere else until we can clear the house of the spirit.  She is clearly focused on you both.  So, I believe it's safer if you stay somewhere else for right now."

"Oh."  You bit your bottom lip trying to think of where you could stay.  Nothing came to mind at all.  You couldn't go back to your old house and you had no family.  You also had no money to stay at an inn in any of the towns.

"Y/N…." Ravi spoke up with an amused tone. "Stop worrying that pretty little head of yours.  You'll have a place to stay.  Just ask your knight in shining armor."

You looked at him and then glanced over at Leo.  When you realized what you'd done, you looked quickly down at your hands.

"You're speaking nonsense, Ravi."

"Leo, let us know when you get there.  We'll take care of things here."  Hakyeon turned to leave and you looked up in time to see Leo nodding in agreement.  Leo's grey eyes then settled on you and electricity shot up your spine.

"You can't enter your room so you can borrow some of our clothes.  Gather anything else you will need.  We will need first thing in the morning."  He turned to follow the others but you stopped him.

"Wait!  What do you mean?"

"We're going to my old house for a while.  We'll stay there until they get the spirit sorted out."

"What?!"

[cyhyr]

Bad Things Happen Bingo: "I Have You Now, My Pretty"

Fandom: Naruto

Rating: E

Pairing: Hatake Kakashi/Umino Iruka

WC: 1430

Warnings: Rape/Non-con; Graphic Depictions of Violence

Notes: Oral sex, collars, shock collars, chains, muzzles, bathing, creepy/possessive whumper, female whumper, unnamed whumper, choking, vaginal sex, angsty fluff, whumper death

A/N: @jhatakeumino requested this one! It was tricky to get the creepy whump line and the request to also work in lots of KakaIru, but all in all I think it's pretty solid. J, I hope it's to your liking!

A/N2: Everything is under the Break because it's Bad From The Start.

~

Kakashi would like nothing more than to rip this woman’s throat out with his teeth, or to light up a Raikiri and slice off a hand—or both! Or perhaps her legs, right at the knees! Fuck he’s not picky.

But she’s got Iruka. And Iruka won’t fight back. Not while she also has Kakashi in this fucking metal collar with its spikes biting into his neck, his wrists chained behind his back, and worst of all this horrible leather muzzle around his face complete with a bit between his teeth.

She’s got Iruka kneeling between her thighs, licking at her core like he wants nothing more than to pleasure her, and she coos things to him like, “Oh, honey, you’re so pretty like this,” and, “You like this, don’t lie to yourself; such a wonderful man doing this for me.”

Kakashi knows better; can see the tears Iruka’s holding back while he eats her out. In one of her hands is a remote which controls the collar on Kakashi’s throat. Iruka had tried to tell her no half an hour ago when this started, and she promptly turned the dial on the remote and sent electricity into his neck. Kakashi had been unable to cry out, and held in his pained gasps after the shocks turned off, but when she threatened to switch the dial back on, Iruka begged for her to not hurt him and, well.

“I really should just dispose of him,” she muses. She pulls Iruka away from her cunt by his hair, causing him to whimper and Kakashi to see red and growl. “What do you think, honey? I know I’m ready for us to be alone. I’ve been so patient with you.” She pushes her fingers through the slick Iruka has on his lips and chin, dips them into his mouth and runs her nails over his teeth.

Iruka whimpers, shakes his head.

She snarls, yanks his hair and pulls his head back between her legs. “Someday you’ll thank me for this,” she snaps. “Get back to work.” She sighs as the noises of him slurping at her cunt continues, and she pets his hair. “You’re lucky you’re so pretty,” she hums.

~

Her downfall is that, while she likes hurting Kakashi and humiliating Iruka, she doesn’t like having either of them be dirty for too long; and she won’t clean them herself, or have a bodyguard or someone else do it for her. And so, every morning and every evening Kakashi and Iruka are given free reign of a supposedly safe, breakout-free bathroom.

At the same time.

As if she expects Iruka to remain “faithful” to her???

So Kakashi takes his time with Iruka and reminds him who he is and whose he is and kisses him gently and cleans away her touch with his own. And in return, Iruka treats his wounds and kisses his bruises and washes the taste of her out of his mouth with Kakashi’s own release.

In-between, they plot. They plan. And they hold each other tight and reaffirm that they will make it out of here alive and well.

~

She puts a collar on Iruka a week into their stay, white leather with a silver buckle she says looks “fetching” against his skin. “Like coffee and cream!” she squeals, and Kakashi holds back a smirk because she has no idea what she’s just gotten herself into with that comment. Iruka hates being compared to food.

And he’s just about reached the limit of what he can take with this woman. Kakashi told him this morning not to worry about the shock collar, that they’d finally fiddled with it enough that he’s pretty sure it won’t hurt him should she try and use it. With the shock collar no longer a significant issue, and the woman growing inattentive in her chaining and muzzling, Kakashi waits for Iruka to make the first move.

Because Iruka has to make the first move.

Iruka’s the one in real danger here.

Kakashi’s just getting hurt. Iruka’s being tortured.

She puts her foot on his thigh like she owns him and gods Kakashi is eager for this show to start. Maybe she had Iruka on the way to breaking the first few days here, but Kakashi fixed all that in the bathroom over the last three days. Then she tightens the collar until it bites into his neck, and then pulls it even tighter.

Before Iruka can react beyond reaching instinctively for his neck and tipping his head back so he can breathe, she buckles it and slips a padlock around the fucking thing so it stays that tight, and then kicks Iruka away onto his back. He’s gasping, heaving for breath, turning purple fast.

Kakashi is muffled as he cries out Iruka’s name and struggles against the chains. He pulses his chakra, trying to break through. It doesn’t work—fuck why won’t it work??? She’s been lax! She didn’t chain him nearly as well as she did the first few days. What the fuck—

She stands over Iruka and puts her boot on his stomach. “Get your hands off that collar before I kneecap your boy,” she seethes.

Iruka’s hands fall away, but he still sobs, gasping and tearing up.

“You’re mine,” she says. “I trusted you! And you go and let that thing touch you every day when I’m gracious enough to let you have time to yourself to clean up for me.”

Kakashi stops moving. Shit. He thought they’d been alone. Shitshitshit—

“Oh, but you’re so pretty like this,” she coos. “Don’t worry, I’ll make you feel good. Better than that ever could.” She tugs down her underwear from under her skirt and throws them onto Iruka’s face.

No. No, she hasn’t gone this far before.

Please don’t make me watch this

She reaches down and undoes Iruka’s pants, slips them over his hips. She doesn’t even seem to care that he’s not hard, she just sits herself down astride him and moans anyway. She leans over him and tries to kiss him and he gags, wheezes.

“That’s a fun sound,” she giggles. She starts humping away atop him and Kakashi can’t look away it’s a fucking nightmare and he can’t save Iruka and she’s rolling her hips and Iruka’s gasping for dear life and he can’t look away. “Make it again.” She presses a hand to the center of Iruka’s chest.

“Oh, oh, oh! Oh fuck yes!”

Kakashi watches Iruka turn his eyes to him, struggle for one last breath, and then go still. His lips are blue.

She orgasms.

~

Kakashi holds Iruka’s unconscious body in the bathroom, cleaning him gently. He’s been warned of what will happen if he touches Iruka in any way she doesn’t like. He’s also been warned about loosening the collar—though she did loosen it herself a little after she finished her afterglow.

Iruka wakes slowly as he’s washing her come off his thighs. He shivers in Kakashi’s arms and holds back tears, and when he tries to nuzzle into his neck Kakashi—against every instinct he has—pushes him away.

“It’ll be worse if you do that.”

“I won’t make it through this if I don’t,” Iruka murmurs. “Please, please let me have you.”

“You always have me,” Kakashi whispers. He brings the washcloth up to Iruka’s chest and rests his palm along his heart. “Here.”

Iruka cries silently in his arms and Kakashi can’t offer any more comfort than what he’s giving now.

It won’t stand.

It can’t.

Kakashi doesn’t let her take Iruka again. When she comes for them after their cleansing time, he sets Iruka aside and stands between them. She snarls at him and tells him to sit, like a dog; motioning command and everything. This time, he can’t let her muzzle him, or chain him, and when she desperately turns the dial on the shock collar as high as it goes, he twitches with the shocks but continues his advance.

“I-I’ll kill him!” she screams.

“You love him,” he sneers back. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Then he makes the hand-seals for his raikiri, flashes the meagre distance, and puts his hand through her neck.

See how she likes a shock collar.

~

He takes Iruka home. It takes months of reacclimation to get Iruka to not flinch at the words “pretty” or “honey”.

Kakashi smothers him in kind words and medicinal lotion until Iruka’s his again.

And the day comes, eventually, when Kakashi can stand behind Iruka and wrap his arms around him, and whisper, “I have you now, my pretty,” and Iruka doesn’t flinch.

They get through it. Together.

[mimirexx]

Im super duper late for the jeanpikuweek i feel so bad ;-; but i finally finished this work! I chose the promts AU, saving and alliance and tried to put it into a fic somehow! Since it got a little long i divided it into three chapters and will post one chapter each day 😌

Read it on AO3 or under the cut!

Breakout

An AU where Jean is a shifter and got caught by Zeke and his men. Beside the torture he was receiving, Pieck visits him and the two start to get closer. They want to escape together - but at what costs?

TW: torture, beating, rape (no explicit rape, not between Jean and Pieck!), blood, violence, angst

Chapter one - Chapter two - Chapter three

Deep down in a basement where no sunlight reached sat Jean, a man unfortunate enough to have been captured and imprisoned during a failed mission. He had long forgotten what day it was, spent too much time in the darkness to distinguish between day and night.

Heavy chains hung around his wrists, not allowing him to move more than a few feet away from the wall. There was a thin mattress on the ground where he slept and a shabby piece of cloth that couldn’t be called blanket in any possible way. The cell he was locked up in was small, the stone floor so cold.

They ripped off his clothes before they threw him inside, leaving him in nothing but his underwear, mainly to ensure he had no chance to hide any weapons whatsoever but Jean had a feeling it was also to humiliate him. He was on enemy territory, so of course they would use every opportunity to humiliate and torture him. Nevertheless, he never gave away any information. They could do whatever they wanted, Jean wouldn’t lose a word.

Whether it was beating him up, burning his skin or slicing off his limbs, the shifter remained silent. There was nothing that could make him betray his friends and comrades. Their safety was the top priority, he would be fine as long as they didn’t kill him- which he didn’t think was their intention. At least not until they knew what they wanted to know.

He’d be fine until then.

~

“Why the long face?” A male voice spoke up, standing in front of his cell. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

Jean didn’t answer, instead just stared at the same spot on the wall he was staring at for hours. One would say there was something really interesting on it with how long and intensely Jean already stared at it. He was thinking deeply, thinking of a way to escape that cell.

Though, he had no idea where he was. Even if he made it out, he didn’t know where to go, which made him an easy target to get captured a second time and receive even worse treatment. The smartest move was to stay where he was and try to gain more information. Everything else would be suicide.

The male stepped into Jean’s cell, the sounds of his boots echoing as he approached the brunet. Only when he stood right in front of him did Jean look up and immediately received a kick in the stomach, making him groan.

Jean kept his volume as low as he could because he didn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of hurting him. The man crouched down and turned Jean’s face towards him, his lips curled into a mischievous grin.

“My, my. You’re such a nuisance, you know?” He laughed. “Just tell us where your people are and you’re free. Are they really worth all this? I don’t think so, they aren’t even looking for you.”

The brunet looked up at the person that was Floch Forster, a man who betrayed the Survey Corps along with some others, and furrowed his brows in response. It could’ve been about a month already if Jean counted right and his chances of being rescued were shrinking with each passing day, but Jean wasn’t a person to lose hope. If his comrades didn’t come to help him out, he would find a way out by himself. Either worked fine.

“All of this could end right now,” Floch said while looking into Jean’s eyes. “You’re not who we are after. You don’t need to go through all this. If you tell me where the Commander is, I promise you will never have to see any of us again.”

“Fuck you.” Jean said very simply and spat into Floch’s face. “Different from you, I’m not a traitor.”

The redhead’s expression darkened at Jean’s action and his hand found its way around the other’s neck. “Hah, I just like being on the winning team. And I’ve been nice up until now but spitting at me? That’s intolerable.”

Before Jean had the chance to say much more, he was forcefully pressed down against the stone floor. Floch knelt down behind him and used his free hand to pull Jean’s underwear down.

“That needs to be punished, don’t you think?” He kept Jean pressed down against the ground and rubbed the tip of his member against his entrance.

Jean shivered in discomfort and cringed. That was about the most disgusting thing Floch could do, but not even that was enough to make Jean talk. He was convinced to keep quiet, especially in front of Floch.

“Just do what you have to do and leave me alone.” He muttered and closed his eyes. He wanted this to be over quick because any minute he spent without Floch around him was a minute well spent.

Floch didn’t need to be told twice.

Jean was left alone afterwards again and decided to lay on the mattress to spend the rest of the time there until he would fall asleep. It didn’t take long for him to do so and give his body and mind some rest.

~

When he woke up a few hours later, he was surprised to see that his blanket was draped over him. He blinked a couple of times before shrugging it off and looking around.

The second surprise was a person standing in his cell. After squinting a little, he saw that it was a very short person. The black hair gave it away and Jean slowly sat up. He winced a little, feeling sore, but managed to sit anyway.

“You look awful,” the ravenette hung up the torch on the wall and sat down in front of Jean.

“I’m sorry for not getting ready and greeting you properly,” Jean rolled his eyes.

Pieck giggled. “I forgive you, but only this once. Here, I brought you some stew. It’s still warm.” She carefully placed a tray in front of Jean as she said that.

He stared at the bowl of steaming stew and looked away. “I don’t want it,” he lied. The only things he got to eat were bread and sometimes an apple if he was lucky enough. Not that it affected him much, his titan powers allowed his endurance to grow stronger. He could stay weeks without food and would be fine if he wanted to. Not to mention that Pieck was the enemy.

A gorgeous, kind and caring enemy who brought him a little food whenever she came.

She was the only one who hadn’t made a wrong move on him yet. That didn’t earn her his full trust, however, he enjoyed her company. It was a nice change.

“It’s not poisoned or anything, look.” She scooped a spoonful of the stew and ate it, showing her empty mouth afterwards to prove her point. “It’s safe to eat and you need to eat something proper before you pass out or anything.”

“I’ll be fine,” he denied anyway and leaned his back against the wall. “Shifter and all.”

“I don’t care.” She lifted the bowl and filled the spoon with stew before holding it out for him. “Just eat it.”

“Will you tell me where we are if I eat it?”

“You know I can’t,” Pieck moved the spoon a little closer, “now open your mouth.”

Jean narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t deny that the stew smelled really good, and Pieck ate from it, it had to be safe. So he eventually opened his mouth and ate the spoonful, chewing it slowly while savoring the taste. It had vegetables and potatoes and even some meat. It’s been a while since he last had meat.

“...I can eat by myself.” He insisted and took the bowl and spoon from Pieck. It was a little embarrassing to be fed like a child.

Pieck let him and rested her hands on her lap. Her expression turned a little more serious, her brows furrowing. “What did Floch do?”

“The usual.” Jean replied nonchalantly.

“Can’t be, I don’t see any injuries…”

He paused to look up at her for a moment. “Healed. Not important.”

Pieck was quiet and lowered her gaze slightly. It seemed she put one and one together and didn’t need any further explanation.

As the cell fell into silence, Jean ate more of the stew, eating rather quickly so he would finish soon and avoid getting any of them in danger. But one question was on his mind.

“Why are you doing this?”

Pieck tilted her head. “Doing what?”

“Bringing me extra food and all… Is that your way of coaxing me to get information?” He raised a brow.

“Ouch, that’s not nice to hear. Although I understand why you think this way.” She shrugged and gave him a little smile, “that’s not my intention nor my job. I know we’re at war and that information is very precious but I do not like the way you’re being treated... You’re a human being just like the rest of us and I wouldn’t want one of my comrades to be treated like that if they were in a similar situation… So I’m trying to make it a little easier for you.”

Jean stared for a moment before he gave a nod and continued to eat. He wasn’t sure if Pieck’s words were genuine. She did sound like she meant what she said so, for the time being, he left it at that.

“Don’t you get in trouble for being here anyway? What if they find out you’re bringing me food?” Jean questioned next. Up until now, that was Pieck’s fourth or maybe fifth visit. She always brought him something small to eat. He did not want to draw any unnecessary attention.

“They won’t, it’s my turn to watch over the prisoners so I need to be here anyway.” She crossed her legs and leaned back against her palms. “And don’t worry about the food. I know what I’m doing.”

Jean was a little hesitant but nodded anyway. Nobody noticed that he was getting extra food or a chance to have a decent conversation with another person and he would rather keep it that way. “I see… I hope for you that this isn’t any kind of trick.”

“No way,” Pieck shook her head, “you’re too smart to play any tricks on. And I’m starting to like your company, so this is a win-win for both of us.”

“Mhm..”

The brunet was quick to finish the bowl and set it back down on the tray. “Thank you for the meal.”

Pieck smiled and leaned forward again. “You’re more than welcome. You know, talking with you is way more fun than talking with the others.”

“What, because I’m half naked?” He joked, making Pieck giggle.

“Of course not! Although I have to admit, that’s definitely a sight to behold,” she wiggled her eyebrows playfully.

Jean rolled his eyes and leaned back against the wall again. He couldn’t help the little smile from forming on his lips.

“What I meant,” she said, “talking with you, it feels so different. Makes me feel careless. It’s like talking to a good friend.”

“A friend, huh…” Jean repeated before shrugging. He missed his friends, they were all precious to him. What he would give to see one of them now... It’s been so long.

“Is there anything else I can get you for today?” Pieck spoke while taking the tray and standing up.

“How about the keys for these?” He lifted one hand, making the chains rattle. “And a map?”

Pieck smiled with sympathy and grabbed the torch. “Dummy. You have the keys and map to my heart, that’s the only ones I can give you. You know that.” She hummed and walked out of the cell, making sure to lock it behind herself before waving. “See ya.” And she disappeared in the dark.

Jean watched her leave and exhaled deeply. He already knew Pieck wouldn’t give him any of these but it was still worth a try. Even if only to humor himself.

It was after Pieck’s visits that Jean felt a little better. It was like she was restoring his energy so he could make it through another day or week. Talking with her was so calm and without any pressure, it was so easy.

He might not fully trust her but he still looked forward to the next time he would be able to have a chat with Pieck.

~

A few days or so later, Jean didn’t know how long it was, Zeke personally came down to his cell. He was in charge of these people and the whole mission, Jean learned. He was the one who suggested kidnapping one of the shifters to turn the tables. This far, it didn’t appear to benefit him much since Jean didn’t give away any information and the Survey Corps had yet to make a move towards them.

The brunet glanced up when the door of his cell was unlocked and the tall blond walked inside. Behind him stood a few other soldiers with rifles pointed at him. He stared at them before shifting his gaze up at Zeke.

“Jean Kirstein, am I right? I gotta say I’m quite impressed.” The blond stopped right in front of Jean and rubbed over his beard.

Jean just stared, the indifference obvious on his expression.

“You’ve been here for more than two weeks and haven’t lost a word. That’s quite exceptional.”

Just two weeks? It felt so much longer. But then again, Jean lost every sense of time he had. He couldn’t even tell if it was day or night at the moment.

Zeke hummed and tilted his head. “Aren’t you a smart man? You should know that your friends will not find you here, never. And you should also know that we will not stop searching for them. We’re at advantage. If you tell us where they are, we will let you leave. I will even prepare you a lunch bag for the way, how does that sound?”

“You don’t think I believe you would really let me go, do you?” Jean raised a brow before a sly grin came to his lips. “Kick and punch me all you want, tell your men to rape me as many times as your sick brain feels like. Do whatever pleases you. You’re not getting anything out of me.”

It was Zeke’s turn to stare. His eye twitched a little. He cleared his throat and nodded, “I see. Then we just need to continue trying out new things until we find something that works. Or until I’m sick of it and just feed you to someone.”

He waved two fingers, making one of the soldiers at the door enter the cell with something in his hands. Once he was close enough, Jean could see that it was some kind of bottle with a colorless liquid inside. At first glance, it looked like a bottle of water.

But Zeke wasn’t that innocent.

“Have you ever touched sulfuric acid?” He took the bottle and opened it, crouching down in front of Jean.

Well, that made him a little tense.

“Curious to know what this does to the skin?” Zeke’s glasses reflected the light of the nearby torch. The grin on his face didn’t make the situation any better.

Jean clenched his teeth and glared. “Tsk…”

“Where is your base?” Zeke questioned.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you climb some trees and search for it, Monkey?” Jean spat, unintimidated.

And that was when Zeke splashed a generous amount of the acid over Jean. It hit his face, stomach, arms and legs, causing Jean to cry out loudly. Every single drop of the acid burned in such a cruel way, turning his skin into a bright red mess with many blisters. It burned mercilessly through his flesh and Jean felt every drop of it having its effect on him.

He groaned and panted heavily, biting his lower lip in an attempt to stifle his noises. His body naturally began regenerating and steam rose to the ceiling. Jean looked at Zeke, shot him a look of disgust.

“Did that help your memory?” Zeke questioned with a dark expression. “Will you tell me now?”

Jean took a few deep breaths. Then he smirked. “H-hah? That only tick-tickled a bit... You-you gotta try better.”

The blond snarled and grabbed Jean’s face with one hand, shoving the bottle into his mouth with the other. “Then I’m sure you won’t mind this!” He tilted Jean’s head up so the liquid would run down his throat.

Jean tried moving his face away somehow while he tried to scream and felt how the acid burned his insides. From his air pipe down to his lung and guts. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling at all. In fact, that was the worst kind of pain he had ever experienced. It was a hundred times worse than just getting the acid on his skin.

It felt like he was melting from the inside, like he was decomposing while the acid devoured his organs and bones. He wanted to cough and throw up and breathe at the same time, wanted to get the acid out again. But chained up and held in place, he had no chance to defend himself. And for a split second, he was considering Zeke’s offer. The pain messed with his mind.

When Zeke finally pulled the bottle away because it was empty, Jean fell back and began wheezing. Breathing was almost impossible now and Jean was on the brink of passing out. Even though his body was regenerating itself, it would surely take a while and the pain was unbearable.

Zeke said something Jean didn’t hear. A few moments later, he did pass out and laid sprawled out across the floor. His mouth hung open, steam passing his lips with his body’s desperate attempt to heal itself.

This was rough. This Zeke was insane, a maniac, and he was sure he would get to experience even more of these psychotic torture methods in the next days.

But as crazy as Zeke might be, Jean was stubborn and strong. He just needed to hold on. And maybe he needed to find a way to escape earlier before all of this could cost him his life and pain wasn’t a pleasant feeling.

~

Jean groaned in discomfort and reached up a trembling hand to press it against his stomach. It already was much better from when the acid burned him but the soreness and irritation was still there. His body already healed most of the damage, Jean could tell, but it wasn’t fully done just yet.

His eyes blinked open tiredly to get a view of his surroundings. Still in the cell, still chained up. The only difference from the last time he was awake was that he was now laying on the mattress with the blanket over his body. There was something strange under his head too.

“Jean? Can you hear me?” He heard a tender voice by his side and turned his head slightly to look up at the person.

Upon seeing the worried expression on her face, Jean’s lips tugged into a tiny smile. “Your voice is… is soft like an angel’s... Not sure i-if I’m already dead…” He murmured and closed his eyes again.

“Oh, God… I’m so glad you finally woke up…” Pieck whispered, her hand coming up to run through Jean’s long hair.

“Don’t tell me... you were worried about the enemy. That’s.. That’s not how it works, Pieck.” He let out a small chuckle which ended in heavy coughing.

“Jean!” She exclaimed and turned him onto his side quickly, patting his back to help him ride out the cough. “Stop talking, you’re not in the condition to talk now. You need to rest so your body can focus on healing.”

Jean laid back once he got a grip of himself and let out a weak sigh. He glanced up at Pieck again and looked into her eyes. He wasn’t sure if he saw tears in them because he couldn’t focus too hard but it was easy to see that she was very sad.

“‘M fine,” he assured her and lifted his hand which Pieck took into her own. Her much smaller hands embraced his big one, squeezed him.

Pieck looked into his eyes and this time he saw rage in them, something he had never seen before. She always wore a smile on her face, so Jean never imagined how it’d look like if Pieck got angry. It was scary, in a way, to see her enraged, out of all people.

“You were unconscious for two days… Zeke went too far this time. He’s gotten so gruesome ever since all of this started, he’s not the person I once trusted anymore. I can’t trust someone who would go this far only for dumb information.” She stated, her voice loud enough for Jean to hear but still kept quiet.

“Jean.” She gave his hand another squeeze, “I’ll help you out of here. I thought Zeke was a good person- he’s clearly not. And I’m not gonna sit and watch how his actions will get worse from here on.”

Jean was silent for a moment, letting Pieck’s words process in his head. Surely, hearing that she would help him wasn’t what he expected, and he couldn’t tell if this was a trap or not. After what Zeke did, he had to be much more careful now.

“You just couldn’t resist my charm, could you?” He joked.

“Maybe that’s true too.” She reached one hand down and smoothed out Jean’s hair. “But I’m serious. You don’t deserve such treatment only because you're the ‘enemy’. I’ve made my decision.”

The brunet closed his eyes when he felt Pieck’s hand on his head. It’s been a while since he last received a tender touch and with Pieck it felt so right. He knew that it could be a trap but it was the most gorgeous and kindest trap ever.

For a moment, he wanted to believe Pieck’s words. Just for one moment.

When it was only him and her, Jean felt like everything was right. She always sounded so sincere and genuine and honest… always treated him as equal and even almost like a friend. Maybe that was how Pieck was and maybe she was honest about wanting to help him. This was a tough decision.

“Can you tell me where we are exactly?” He opened his eyes to look up at the ravenette, awaiting an answer from her.

Pieck gave a small nod. “We’re in an open area, about ten miles away from the nearest forest. They’ve spent weeks building this place to hold someone - preferably a shifter - captive. Right now, we’re underground. So if you planned to transform to leave, you’d have to get to the surface first or else you’ll be stuck in the ground. It’s too small.”

Her fingers entangled in his locks, giving him a few more strokes before she held Jean’s hand on her lap using both hands. “We’re pretty far away from any kind of civilization, so just running away won’t help, they’ll capture you again.” She explained, rubbing a thumb over Jean’s knuckles. “I would suggest going southwest, that’s where you can find the most people and hide until you know where to go.”

“I see.” He muttered and stared up at the ceiling in thought. If that was the case, he needed a plan to get out of the building and leave without anyone noticing to buy time. And he needed to be fully healed to be able to run that distance.

“I can sneak out the keys of your cuffs but I haven’t seen any kind of map here apart from the big one in Zeke’s room. I can’t give it to you but I will try to make a sketch of it for you from my memory.”

“Why?” Jean questioned, moving his gaze to her eyes. “Why are you doing all this for me? It can’t be only because Zeke poured acid over me. What’s the real reason behind all this?”

“...I don’t want Zeke to win. Not anymore. He’s my friend but his motives aren’t something I can agree on. If I can stop him or at least manipulate his plan somehow, I will.”

“What are his motives?” Jean was the one to squeeze her hand this time.

“...He wants to turn all subjects of Ymir infertile. He thinks that it’s better, that those who can turn into titans should no longer exist. He wants to rot them out and that’s wrong… but he won’t listen to anyone.”

“I see.” Jean said again and furrowed his brows a little. He didn’t only need to escape, they had to do something about Zeke and stop him. If his plan succeeded, it would be the worst outcome.

The brunet began pushing himself up into a sitting position, wincing a little when a particular move hurt too much. He exhaled carefully once he sat and glanced around the cell quietly.

While he looked around, he noticed that Pieck used her coat as a makeshift pillow for his head and couldn’t help but smile. Maybe she spoke the truth about wanting to help him out.

“Alright,” he looked up at Pieck, “will you be able to get me a sketch or something similar of the surroundings and this place by tomorrow? I’ll think of something to do against Zeke and his men.”

Pieck nodded. “I’ll do my best. And you don’t move around too much, your body needs to rest and heal.”

The brunet stared, a little deadpanned. He gave a short glance around the small cell, down to his cuffs and back up at Pieck. “Not like I have a choice?” He raised a brow in amusement.

“I meant it as in ‘don’t strain your body’.” She corrected.

Jean nodded quickly and held back a grin. “Oh, sure! I’ll just tell them not to beat me up too bad next time. Mhm, understood.”

“Jean!” Pieck pouted and gently slapped his arm. “You know what I meant, you big dummy.”

He let out a short chuckle. “I know, I’m just teasing you. By the way…” His voice became a bit more serious again, “what about you? I guess you will stay here?”

The ravenette gave a small shrug and looked around, scratching her head. “Not like I have a choice,” she repeated his words.

“Listen, if you really help me out of here and you really aren’t on Zeke’s side anymore…” he trailed off. “My people will understand. We can figure out something for you to stay with us, we could need someone intelligent and strong like you.”

“You expect your friends to welcome me with open arms after what I’ve done?” She tilted her head, brows furrowing.

“You were following orders.” Jean emphasized. “If what you’re saying about turning your back on Zeke is true, then I can talk with my people about this and we will figure out something. Whatever happens, I can assure you that you will not get this kind of treatment, even as one of Zeke’s soldiers.”

“Ah…” The ravenette looked down and scratched the back of her neck.

Jean reached out to touch her shoulder gently, making Pieck face him again. “I’m not telling you to make a decision right now. Zeke aside, I know you probably have close friends here. Just.. think about it and let me know once you made up your mind.” He offered.

Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy to just take her back with him, Jean knew that, but this place - and especially Zeke - were awful and someone this kindhearted like Pieck had nothing to do here. They could become really good friends if the circumstances were different, so Jean wanted her to go with him.

Not to mention that someone like Pieck would benefit them greatly. She was strong, she was smart. If Zeke lost her so suddenly, it’d be a big shock and a big disadvantage, that much was for sure.

Then again, only if what Pieck said was true.

Though, Pieck didn’t seem like the person who needed to lie to get what she wanted. Jean had a good feeling about it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, try to get enough rest.” She reached up to take the hand that was on her shoulder and pulled it down. Giving his hand a few gentle pats, she soon stood up and grabbed her coat as well.

Jean watched her stand up and gave a firm nod. “Be careful.”

After she left, Jean carefully laid down again and closed his eyes, both to let his body do the work of regenerating and to think deeply. He needed to concentrate and think of a plan.

[sovonight]

(sith exile au)

recruit

potential

approval

rejection

truth (end)

✧ — ✧

"The academy has felt your absence for too long," Sion says. "As have I."

"I have had other business, Darth Sio—"

"No need for formalities, Cela," Sion says. "We're alone."

Jaq can barely conceal his look of disgust. Sure, they're alone—if Jaq and the soldiers stationed in the landing bay don't count as people. Cela doesn't look like she approves of what Sion said either, but she also looks like she's been through this dance with him before.

"Revan is waiting for us," Cela says, choosing not to acknowledge Sion's words. "Shall we—"

"I've brought you a gift," Sion says. "It waits for you in the hold of the ship."

"I'll receive it later—"

"You'll receive it now, before it perishes," Sion says. He stalks around her, observing her. "Revan was right… you've allowed yourself to grow weak. How unlike you."

Cela's lips are thin with annoyance, but she doesn't say another word. She leaves for Sion's ship. Jaq follows, itching to insult Sion with her behind the guy's back, but Cela stops him with a hand on his chest.

"I'll go alone," Cela says. Her hand lingers on his chest for just a moment, before she pulls away. "Show him in. Revan will grow impatient."

"He can show himself in," Jaq says, but Cela gives him a minute shake of her head: this is an order. Reluctantly, Jaq watches her go, clinging to the sight of her form until she disappears into the depths of the ship.

"So eager to chase after your master," Sion comments, from closer than he had been. "Your devotion marks you more slave than apprentice."

Jaq grimaces. He had felt Sion's presence creeping up behind him—he just hadn't wanted to acknowledge it.

"It's called loyalty," Jaq says. "And at least I chose my master. I doubt you even know what chains you."

He's shooting blindly, here, but his words find their target when Sion growls.

"You know nothing, fool," Sion says, his cracked lips twisting into a snarl, "Least of all your master. She barred you from following her; that should tell you as much."

"I respect her boundaries," Jaq says, "Unlike some."

"And so you remain ignorant," Sion says. "I have fought to know her. I have proven my strength. And when the time comes, I will be the one to claim her—to save her."

Save her? Jaq has to laugh—and he does.

"All she needs saving from is your attention," Jaq says. "Do yourself a favor, and—"

"You're still here," says Cela, coming up beside them. Jaq turns to address her, as does Sion, but Jaq beats him to the punch.

"Lord Sion here wanted to wait for you," Jaq says. "I said Revan wouldn't like it, but he insisted on it."

He expects the growl before he even hears it. "You—"

"I see," Cela says, interjecting before Sion can respond. "How considerate."

Jaq watches out of the corner of his eye as Sion quickly bites the rest of his words back. Predictable.

✧ — ✧

Hours after Sion has left the base once more, Jaq finds himself with Cela in the quiet of her quarters at dusk.

"He was fun," Jaq says. "I can see why you keep him around."

Cela sighs.

"Revan sees a use for him, and I know better than to question her."

She's rearranging her folded robes for the fourth time. Sion must really bother her.

"That gift," Jaq says, "Did it at least make up for the visit?"

He expects a simple answer, one to dismiss Sion's shadow from their day, but Cela turns away, the edge of her expression gone cold.

"No," she says. "…I refused it."

✧ — ✧

Cela's late.

Jaq has never known her to be late, not without prior warning. He checks his comm: on, and still functional. He checks the corridor outside the training room: occupied, but lacking her presence.

He takes the turbolift, passing every floor above, until at last he arrives at hers, and enters her quarters. He calls her name, only to find the edge of her familiar robes spilled from the dark shadow of her room, in which she has—

"No!" Jaq cries, rushing to her side. He can see no marks upon her, or signs of struggle around her, but she's collapsed, crumpled to the floor like a discarded cloak. Beyond her outstretched hand lays a fallen holocron, only partially activated; he tears his eyes away from it, frustrated that in such a moment he would notice something so useless.

Her face is too pale, and her body too cold, but he holds her in his arms, pressing his fingers to her neck to feel her pulse. He stills his breath, waits, and—

—Nothing. Or he isn't sure. He has never not been sure.

"Don't die on me now, Cela." His voice trembles; he hates it.

He just needs to find her pulse. He'd do anything for it. Anything, to hear her voice, to have her look upon him again, to see her give him that secretive smile once more—

A pull, light and almost inquisitive, acts at the edge of his awareness. And he understands.

"Go ahead," Jaq says. "I can take it."

✧ — ✧

Cela exists in the most pleasant dream.

She's held close to the beat of a steady heart, with kisses gifted upon her hair as she rests her head, quietly, in the crook between a familiar neck and shoulder. When he rests his head against hers, swaying them closer, she melts, nestling in and losing herself in his familiar scent.

"Jaq....” But as soon as she voices his name, he fades away.

She wakes, to the cold familiarity of her quarters. His scent is gone, his touch, his low chuckle, until she can find an excuse to seek them out once more.

But then, when she sits up, she finds the object of her dreams at her bedside.

Jaq's head and shoulders slump over her blankets, one of his arms folded under his cheek, and the other reaching out beyond it, so that his hand may hold hers. She looks over the edge of the bed—he's on his knees, and had likely fallen asleep that way.

She can't remember why he's here.

"Jaq?" She says.

"Mmph," Jaq says. "Five more minutes." He adjusts his makeshift arm pillow, shifts, and finds the softness of her thigh. Her face goes hot.

"Jaq," she says, nudging his shoulder. "Wake up."

A furrow forms in his brow, deepening with each shake she gives him until—

"What? What's so important that I—!" He opens his eyes complaining—but when he sees her, all such words fall away. "Cela. You're back with me."

"Yes, I'm here—ah!" He embraces her, gathering her in close in his arms as he squeezes her tight. It's more stifling than her dream, but not altogether unpleasant. The relief radiating from him washes over her, warming her from within.

Never before did she think that dreams could cross into reality. "What warrants this?"

"I was hoping you could tell me that," Jaq says. She tries not to miss his warmth too obviously as he turns away, picking something hitherto concealed by his form up from the floor. He shows it to her: a holocron.

Yes, Cela remembers—she'd gone access it, a typically trivial task, but seeing as its only partially activated, she must have failed. If she had to guess, she'd overestimated her remaining strength, and she'd pushed forth more Force energy than she had left.

But that means she shouldn't feel better now than she did the day before. She looks to Jaq; he's waiting patiently for her answer, but also not particularly waiting at all, just relieved to see her. She must have passed out. And in that desperate state, only one thing would have revived her.

"…Cela?" Jaq prompts. As her silence stretches on, Jaq's expression only grows puzzled. She doesn't want that—she wants him to say that he's figured it out. That he'd managed to deduce her secret, one kept so well that only a select few Sith Lords know it. She wants him to tell her that, he had to work quickly, but he brought her a straggler from the force cages where they hold their Jedi prisoner.

But there are no Jedi left, and her secret is yet kept. There is only him.

"Oh," Jaq says, as she stays silent longer still, "I get it. I know you prefer healing, but there wasn't enough time. I'd never been on the other end of it, but I—"

"You have to go," Cela says.

"What? No!" Jaq lets the holocron drop to the side, where it rocks once upon her bed and hits the wall by her blankets. She'd scold him, but he has eyes for nothing but her, and a concern she hadn't noticed earlier etched deep into his features. "You've been out for too long—I'm not leaving you on your own."

For a moment, she imagines it: letting him stay, and care for her, as she recovers. But she cannot trust the emptiness at her core to act as her heart does and spare him.

"If you value your life, you will," Cela says. She closes shut her heart; it will only lead them to ruin. "This is an order: leave me, now."

"I won't. I'm here to help you. You might not like it, but you can't always save yourself," Jaq says, his emotion building with every word, into a storm she no longer recognizes. "I don't know what's eating away at you, Cela, but I want to! I can't help if you don't let me in. I'd almost lost—you'd nearly died before you'd let me—"

Cela pushes him away, and though Jaq fights it, she uses the very Force energy she'd stolen from him to hold him by the throat. She staggers out of bed, still weak, but determined.

"Let you save me? You were always meant to be an instrument of my will, nothing more. Did you think that I returned your feelings? Your dreams, your desires? You are nothing to me but a failure of an apprentice. Leave."

She throws him out of her quarters, but she’s too weak to make it any more than a push that sends him stumbling out of her doorway. Before she can command the doors to close shut on his image, Jaq catches his breath, and she hears the last of his words.

“Fine,” Jaq says. "Then I'm no longer yours."

[infinites-chaser]

watch the universe expand | mlqc | lucien/mc | a character study disguised as fic

spoilers for ch.13 and random stuff from following chapters

warning for non-graphic discussion of violence and some themes that may be disturbing/triggering re:human experimentation

The call comes as it always does, not quite like  clockwork, in the small hours of the night, when he imagines the stars  have reached their zenith in the sky, done with their rise, ready for  their coming fall.

"Lucien?"

"What is it? Can't sleep?"

"Can you tell me a story?"

The call comes as it always does, not quite like clockwork, in the small hours of the night, when he imagines the stars have reached their zenith in the sky, done with their rise, ready for their coming fall.

"Lucien?"

He chuckles, colors only she can bring out of him warming his tone.

(He thinks her voice at this time of night is what violet would look like, at least as the poets describe it, a light in the dark, the first soft edge of dawn as night gives way to day.)

"What is it? Can't sleep?"

(He wonders sometimes what color his voice is to her. Black, perhaps. Possibly grey.

He can't imagine his voice having any real color, not even to her.

He'd be surprised at the truth. To her, he's more than color, he's light.)

"Lucien?" she repeats instead of a straight answer. "Can you tell me a story?"

It's a routine they've fallen into ever since the first unfinished  one, what he'd told her about the artist and the butterfly that felt too  true to be called a bedtime story but he'd been loath to admit to  himself that it was more.

Every sleepless night, she asks for another story and manages to fall asleep before the finish.

Every night they spend on opposite sides of a shared wall, he  questions a little more of his soul, the feelings that lie within, and  finds he doesn't have any answers.

Perhaps he doesn't want to find them.

Eventually her reactions— quiet oohs and ahhs and gasps and the occasional question— always fade into nothing but quiet,  even breathing, and it's like he's been let off the hook but he never  hangs up, or at least, not for a long moment more.

"Lucien," she'd mumbled once, when the first rays of light had just cleared the horizon. "Is the story over?"

Somewhere between exams and sips of white tea, lulled into a  temporary peace by the gentle rhythm to her breaths, he'd nearly  forgotten she'd been on the line.

Still, he'd managed to keep the surprise from his reply.

"You just missed the ending."

There'd been a long silence, nearly long enough that he'd thought she'd fallen asleep again, and he could hang up, off the hook, but—

"Was it a happy ending? It's okay if I missed it, just as long as it was happy."

"...It was."

She'd made a noise of satisfied incoherence in response, and he'd  taken the opportunity to wish her a good morning, prescribe her a few  hours more of sleep, apologize, then hang up.

(He still wonders about that fuzzy morning, that long night.

If she would've questioned him more if she weren't so tired. About the story’s ending. About the length of the call.

If he would've answered. If he would've lied.)

"A story?" He repeats now, settling in the corner of his living room he knows will be closest to her.

Scientifically, he knows it isn't possible, humans simply don't have the body temperature— but he fancies he can feel her warmth, even through the wall.

Perhaps it's a trait of the Queen's gene, previously unexplored. And, well, he wouldn't be opposed to testing that hypothesis, but we digress.

It's clear as day, or, at least, as clear as a monochrome day can ever be: there's something more.

Something that catches on a corner of his heart when she makes a quiet 'un' of assent and clears her throat, the sound, tinny as it is through the  phone speaker, vivid enough for him to picture. Her hand pressed to her  mouth. Her smile, after. The crescent moons of her eyes.

"Not any story, though. Tell me about Evol again?"

Then, at his silence: "Please?"

(Irrational thoughts rise, unbidden. He'd do anything for that word from her lips. Fight an army. Raze a city.

He'd live by it,

die by it,

and at the end of the day, he still wouldn't deserve it.)

"What do you want to know?" He asks, but to his ears, it sounds like I'd tell you anything.

She hums in thought, a butterfly floating light in the breeze.

"Why do people have the Evol they have? I don't want the science, not really."

Her voice trails off, comes back stronger,

"I want your honest opinion, Lucien. Tell me why?"

and it sounds less like a question, but not quite yet a command.

He chuckles, then obliges.

Time crawls by, soft and slow, a steady seamstress stitching together  unexpected, lingering thoughts. At his words, quiet intense musings  picking at open seams and pulling at loose threads, the universe between them unspools.

Why do people have particular Evols? To answer that question, we have to first understand why people have any form of differing traits.

Biology says, at first glance, chance. A freak gene mutation on a  chromosome of interest: deep within relevant coils of DNA, an A-T  pairing shifts to an A-G. Maybe it’s deleted altogether.

('That's not very romantic,' she comments with a barely stifled yawn.

He chuckles, soft, indulgent.

'You're right. I'm sorry. You did ask for a story, after all.'

He continues.)

But. That’s not all, not when evolution’s taken into account. The  idea of natural selection has been radically transformed by its  representation in popular media to be some strange justification for the  hierarchy of society (in a quite underhanded fashion, he thinks,  keeping the poor down and beaten as if it were their natural place,  allowing the rich to get only richer as if nature and not trust funds  had secured their positions on the top of the pyramid of life. Only life  isn’t a pyramid. Not a tree, either. Not quite. More like a story,  perhaps. But he digresses.) In reality, in biology and in nature, it's  much less simple.

The theory of natural selection, at its most bare bones, is, yes, survival of the fittest. Just that ‘fittest’ doesn’t mean strongest, most cruel or most cunning, doesn’t even mean  kindest or most caring. It means nothing, really, outside of context.

Very biologically speaking, ‘fittest’ implies the organism  reproduces with the most success when compared to others in its given  environment. Traits caused by random mutations that help an organism  survive in a particular environment long enough for it to have offspring  are passed on. And if the environment stays the same, the same traits  will be favored and passed on, over and over again across and through  generations, coming to define a species and the role that species plays in the world.

Clearly, it doesn’t mean much in that sense for humans anymore. What is our ‘fit’? Perhaps we've broken free of the chain of evolution, and now lounge atop the dogpile, above the fray. Triumphant. Stagnant.

Because even though maybe we've been running as fast as we can,  evolution's never more than one step behind. What's a generation of  progress in a millennium? No more than the barest breath caught in the  endless march of time.

No, evolution still very much has us in its clutches and these days,  he wonders what it would take for humanity to realize it, as complacent  as we are— there are certain traits favored, personality and looks, but  beyond that, beyond the biology, even, isn't there more? Something we  want most in the world we live in, our given environment. What a person needs  most, forever strives for, what'll allow them to flourish in their  environment enough to have a legacy and know some part of them continues  to live on.

To meet that need would be to finally surpass evolution, unlock a new  humanity, create a new world. The Red Queen, running rampant, running  free.

(But first, Evol. The key.)

There are three theories on the nature of Evol. This is the first.

The Theory of Superhumans had been put forward by a scientist over a  century ago, through a series of research studies, his articles full of academic terms like intensive accelerated artificial selection, induced heritable genetic variation, changes in gene expression in an adverse environment, followed by the thesis, spelt out in plain words: under the right conditions, a human can develop superhuman abilities.

It had been heralded as a theory for the ages, for the books, sure to  stay with and shape the course of humanity's advancement for centuries to come— only, we know the rest.

Each term, carefully clinical, couched the horror of the truth: the  scientist, name now scrubbed from history, willfully lost in time, had  thought to try to create superhumans— the Evolved, he'd dubbed them— by  gathering unsuspecting participants, then putting them through several  trials meant to push the limits of humankind, to unlock some secret  extra ability, to finish our ode to survival of the fittest, its beginnings scrawled in the letters of our genes.

'The right conditions' had meant mortal peril. The trials had been worse than torture. Almost all the participants had died.

The surviving four (out of over nine hundred, making the success rate  of the experiment less than half of a tenth of a percent) had been sworn to secrecy while the scientist (the madman) had been  sentenced to an execution, his underlings thrown in jail, his research condemned, labelled a crime against humanity and a failure, his papers all burned.

Only, if the research had been a failure, one might wonder, why the burning of the papers? A message? Don't try this again. It was a failure. Why, then the secrecy?

The rumors, the whispers, the festering that spreads under the bandage of a wound left otherwise untreated—the experiment hadn't been a failure, it was a success.

(And maybe a young woman who survived put her hand up to the sky and  let it fade. Maybe a young man who survived let his emotions spill out  and take physical form.  Maybe one of the survivors had placed a hand on  a lost love's chest and willed their heart alive again. But they all  kept their silence, true to their vows.)

His voice trails off. Some part of him wonders if he's bored her, the rest concerned with if he's said too much.

Words he's said to her come to mind now, flashing bright and blinding in the darkest hours of the night.

'Trust your instincts.’  

‘Don’t you ever think maybe I’m the danger?’  

‘Run away while you still can.’  

He can't think of a time where they all apply as fittingly as now.

Perhaps, from afar, they'd seemed like fireworks, dark, mysterious,  alluring in a world with no other light. But this close, they're a  warning, perhaps even a lure— he's tempting her to come closer despite  the danger, he the ravenous firefly cloaked in a bright, warm glow.

Surely she can see the truth of him, as close to him as she is.  Surely, and yet, she stays, takes another step closer.

"You said there were three theories," she says, still awake, still listening. Still seeking out more. "What's the next?"

"I've told you this one before," he replies, and he means to meet  her, to challenge her to press up against the other side of their wall.  "Do you remember?'

There are three theories on the nature of Evol. This is the next. (familiar ground)

(Once, humanity built a tower and would've reached the heavens—

Once, Icarus flew too close to the sun—  

It fell. He fell.

The world goes on.)

Twenty-five years ago, a British PhD student found a book. (Let's call it The Black Swan.)

He read it cover-to-cover, then read it twice. Three times. A fourth.  Again and again, until the book's story, half legend, half truth, took seed in his mind, where it grew anew.

Twenty-four years ago, he tracked down the experiment's remaining  survivor, the woman who could bend light and shadow and fade into the  palest streaks of day.

('Have you come to kill me?' She asked, wry smile  twisting over her age-lined face. She saw his lab coat, his notes, his  eager, hungry smile. She knew them all.

He opened his mouth. She stopped him.

'Apologies. I misspoke. You came here to learn.'

He nodded, too-quickly, still eager. Still young.

'For science,' he said, the same tired argument, old words, old justifications and cover-ups reflected in new eyes. She shook her head.

'Don't say that,' she said, weary amusement lighting her distant gaze. 'It's for humanity. For a new world.'

She held out her hand. He took it.

No one ever saw her again.)

Twenty-two years ago, a hypothesis, not quite yet a theory, was formed. In it, the newly minted scientist put forth a potential genetic  basis for superpowers in humans: one gene with the power to transcend human ability, once activated and expressed. The gene was Evol, the individuals possessing it Evolvers.

In his notes he attributed the name Evolver to the term Evolved used in a decades-old unpublished paper— a single pile of ashes left of rumors and whispers and burned research papers, given new life, reformed.

(The reality is this: the woman and her body on the verge of vanishing on her deathbed, her wrinkled hands thin, wan, shades of grey, beckoning the watching scientist over.

'Let me tell you a story,' she'd said, her voice carrying and strong. 'Once Icarus flew too close to the sun. He fell. But what don't we remember? Daedalus— he flew.'

'Is this another one of your lessons?' The scientist had asked and he was still every inch as greedy, but he'd lost his eager tone. 'I assume I'm Icarus, aren't I, experimenting on and dissecting Evolvers, flying too close to God, growing too arrogant for the unforgiving sun?'

'No.' she'd said. 'Listen.'

But he didn't.

He heard only half a story. But now, the rest of the tale. The truth.

'Let me tell you about Daedalus. Let me tell you about a man like  you who thought he was special. Who thought he had what it took to  change the world.'

Icarus fell, but Daedalus flew. Human progress, but at the cost of what? At the cost of who?

Hundreds of thousands of participants of failed experiments and twisted studies greet her when she goes beyond death's door.

'It's never been for science,' she'd have said if he'd cared to listen, words burning one last time, vibrant and alive, on her tongue. 'This is for our humanity. Our dignity. Not in spite of humanity's love but because of it.'

And love is evol backwards, isn't it? Two sides of the same coin.)

Twenty years ago, the scientist published his research. The study  had been innovative, the findings thorough: each Evolver had in them a  sequence of DNA, a bare few codons that transcended evolution, pairs of A-Ts and C-Gs he dubbed the Evol gene. Its expression varied from person to person, just as one might have brown eyes, and another blue, though  he'd noted there were cases of similarity in awakened Evol in family  lines, within communities, between lovers and sometimes close friends.

These findings suggest a correlation between Evol expression and environment, he wrote. Shared experiences shape an Evol's final awakened form as much as genetics, if not more.

The only question is, what makes an Evolver, if not just genetics? Who gets the gene? Who awakens it?

Then, messier, more frenzied writing. More bold. What if we could create Evolvers?

The reading between the lines: what if we took apart Evolvers so that we could build one of our own?

Six months later, and he'd been stripped of all his accolades and funding, the remaining Evolvers he'd taken in released when they were found.

Crimes against humanity, they'd called it. He'd laughed, said it was for science. For humanity. For humanity's progress. (despite  our humanity. for anything but our love.)

"Lucien," she says, soft but insistent— she's been trying to get his attention for a while now, bringing him back out of his reverie. "You've been silent for a long time now. Are you still there?"

He blinks. Attempts a closed-eye smile, then remembers she can't see him, and covers it with another gentle laugh.

"Just thinking," he replies. "It was a good story. You told it well— better than I would've. I'm impressed."

"I just added on the ending with whatever felt right in the moment!" She protests, making the smallest noise of embarrassment. Then, even softer:

"I liked it when you first told it to me. Just, it didn't sound complete. It didn't have a lesson, really, or any sort of answer."

(Implicit in her words: Your stories never do.)

Silence. Again, she speaks, reaching across their shared void.

"I just wanted to understand it better— the story, I mean." She  pauses, and he can feel his heart pound, just a beat faster than normal.  At her next words, he can practically feel her blush.

"I want to understand you better."

He laughs again, quiet and gentle. With his heart loud in his ears, it's all he can manage to do.

"I don't know if you should."

Another warning. Another barrier, another wall thrown up. Still, she presses on.

"Tell me the last theory," she says instead of answering. "Tell me the theory that's yours."

(He does.)

There are three theories on Evol. Two official, as official as they could be, and the last is his— a pet theory, really, the kind full of conjecture and personal accounts that’d never make it off the drawing  board, much less to the first peer review.

Awakening his Evol had been easy. What came after was what had been  hard. They hadn’t told him what they’d done to him, what monstrous power they’d given, what he’d gotten— but maybe it hadn’t ever been theirs to  give, it’d only ever been his to have.

A thought experiment:

You think your ability is super speed. You take the hand of someone—  say, an old lady, crossing the street— and suddenly that ability is gone. You're shocked. Terrified, even. Maybe all your life you'd thought you were special, and didn't think specialness vanished, it was your trait, your birthright, not a thing as fleeting as an amusement park ride. Later, you pat a friend on the back, and their thoughts come to  your mind, loud and clear. You're shocked again. Almost terrified again. But then you realize: your ability was never one thing. It was  everything. (It was nothing.)

But what does specialness reliant on the existence of other special  people mean in terms of you and your existence? Logically, nothing. Your  genes are random. There's nothing like fate written into them, you have  this ability by sheer chance. Still. You are everything and nothing.  (You’re different from all the others. There’s no one else like you.)

You're a reflection of others, but in the end, what are you? What's a  genius, what’s being special or different or extraordinary, if at the  end of the day, it’s all just a single breath (a pained eternity) away from normal?

Copycat, echo, mirror. Imposter.

(You paradox, you.)

He tries to embrace the power of his Evol. Push it, examine it, test its limits, its potential.

He learns he can copy multiple Evols at the same time. He collapses  the first time he tries invisibility and telepathy together, experimenting with invisibility's time limit, telepathy's reach, ending  up in a sweaty, trembling heap on his apartment floor. For a blinding moment, a moment of stupidity (helpless humanity), he wants to share his  results— but it's just him in his apartment, him and the sound of his  racing pulse.

He strains. He trains. He learns to manage three.

When he feels the pressure in his head build to a point beyond mere discomfort, he releases the one— a forcefield he's grown fond of, the silent glow surrounding him fading to pale unadorned apartment wall. This time, his breaths are even, measured, controlled. He does not turn to share his accomplishment with anyone who might be there. He knows nobody's beside him. He knows he's all alone.

Instead, he stares down at his open palms, then closes them, the  second Evol, x-ray vision, vanishing. Then follows the last, a simple heightened perception, and the rest of his senses bleed back into grey.

(There's one power he tries to copy, one simple talent even his genius can never master. A want more desperate than any other—

He searches. He use any excuse to be around strangers, meet new people, see new faces, shake others' hands.

(Somewhere in the sea of introductions and small talk and conversation, a new personality— the beginnings of what would become ‘Professor Lucien’, polished, calm, smooth— emerges.)

He never finds it. Instead, he finds he can copy countless others, craft dreams, weave miracles, do anything and everything— all except for this one mundane ability, taken forcibly from him.

Seeing color.  

He doesn't know if he just hasn't yet found the Evol or if he has,  unknowingly, and passed it without a second thought, the Evol itself  incapable of being replicated, echoed, or worn like a glove.

He isn't sure which one's worse. He isn't sure which one's true.)

They come back to him in this purgatory— his demons, his saviors, those monsters. Black Swan.

They tell him he's special (he's learned long ago the word means  worse than nothing) that they're like him, together they'll make a  better world.

He accepts their lie. (It feels better, after all, to be somebody's weapon than nobody's anything at all.)

He plays being a killer. Dons the name Ares. Throws coldness up  between him and all the others like one of his forcefields, like a wall.

They speak of the potential of human evolution. They speak of a new  race of superhuman Evolvers taking charge of and ruling the world. All  in impassioned, hateful, dangerous words— they color his world black and  he embraces it.

Anything is better than grey, he thinks early on, perhaps foolishly, over yet another still-warm mangled body.

'Normie,' one of the other men on the mission spits, aiming a  kick at the body, low and vicious, his voice like a bloody oath. He  turns to Ares with a grin. 'We did good. Wanna grab a drink?'

Ares doesn't smile. He thinks, 'What's one more corpse?'

He returns to headquarters alone.

(They don't send him out on team missions, after.)

And now—

her.

His color. His reckoning. His proof.

(In her eyes— her strong righteous savior's gaze— he imagines the  artist's jar shattering, the butterfly soaring high, soaring free.)

"Lucien," she says, calling out to him, voice hovering, trembling on  the edge of a sob. His heart clenches, and he clutches it, wondering how  he should respond.

"Lucien."

He takes a breath, then another.

"I'm sorry— what is it? I'm still here."

Lines like "Are you okay?" or "Talk to me, please." go unspoken. Instead, she says, soft and gentle:

"Have you seen the stars tonight? They're beautiful."

"I haven't."

"Then...come to the balcony with me?"

An almost-eternity passes. But then, he agrees.

(first, a brief tangent.)

There are four men. He's one of them. But what about the other three?

The boy trapped in his past by the memory of the one he couldn't protect, his Evol and him both frozen in time.

The boy who wanted freedom from the rumors, the fighting, most of  all, from his dad, who grew wings to escape them and become one with the  breeze.

The boy who'd never been loved unconditionally and now surrounded himself with it, a part of him rearing its head to demand it.

(all other stories. for other times, other worlds.)

"You know, sometimes I think the stars must be lonely," she says, and though he doesn't dare look at her, he hears her both in real life and through the phone speaker cradled close to his ear. He feels rather than sees her move closer to his side of the balcony, closing the distance,  coming to the edge.

"They're thousands of light years away from each other," she continues. "Maybe they wonder if they're all alone, sometimes, if  they're the only light for miles in an empty, endless dark sea."

"It makes me sad, to think about it. We spend our lives looking up at the stars and casting lines, drawing constellations between them, but in reality, they're just as lonely as we are. Maybe even more."

"I'm rambling, aren't I? Sorry— it's been a long day, and it's just  this time of night, it always makes me melancholy for some reason. I can't remember why."

She laughs a little, self-deprecating. In the night's stillness, he hears the shuddering in her next breath. It takes hold deep within him, her fisherman's hook, line, and sinker, gone straight to his heart.

"Don't say that," he says, the words freed from that same place deep within him, and what he means is 'You're not alone.'

"MC."

He's at his edge of the balcony before he knows it— for the first time, it's him reaching back across the ocean between them, it's his question, his unspoken plea.  

His eyes seek hers in the darkness.

She finds him.

(His color.

Her light.)

There's a knock from the doorway, echoed over the phone. He laughs softly into the speaker, then moves in from the balcony and crosses his room to open the door. It's her.

“Lucien,” she says, and his name on her lips holds all the secrets of the universe, stars and galaxies swirling in the space between each of her breaths.

She holds her hands out to him, she, his lifeline, his compass, the one bright color of his life.

He hesitates for a moment, then takes then, gets pulled by them into her, into the warmest embrace.

(he can hear her heartbeats, echoes of songs of legend of stories, intertwined with his)

"Lucien," she murmurs into his chest. "Tell me a story? Tell me yours."

This time, he hears her as he's meant to, the words were never a  command, they were a question. A plea. Another step in his direction,  just like the knock on his door.

(he lets her in.

she stays awake for the rest of the story, stays on the line for the rest of the call.

together, they create their own ending.)

[pomegranates-and-blood]

νοσταλγία (Chapter 33)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: The usual

A/N: Yeah I don’t know what to say really, so...hope you like this one!!

“If you move the covers, I will divorce you.” You grumble, refusing to open your eyes.

“Hm, you’ve taken a liking for threatening me.” Ivar complains, voice roughened by sleep. Still, he stops whatever foolish plan he had about getting out of bed.

Biting back words that you’ve taken a liking for it because it very clearly works, you reach blindly for him, seeking his warmth. Your head finds a home somewhere on his chest, and you settle in your place with a content hum.

But it doesn’t seem to be close enough, and Ivar puts strong and confident hands on your sides, and moves you closer, leaving you draped over his chest.

Inevitable, and he knew it when he made the choice to move you, that your legs would intertwine with his. Your left thigh drapes over his as your arm does the same over his waist.

It feels cold and frailly thin under you, but you didn’t expect any different, and though the passing thought of fearing hurting him crosses through your mind, you remain where you are.

Of course you notice the tension that takes a hold of him, the instinct to pull back that makes his arms stiffen at your sides, the immediate reaction of wanting to push you away that stutters his breath; but more importantly than those, you notice the release of that tension, the arm that settles over your back as the most comfortable of weights, the breath leaving his lips and the way his breathing seems to grow more calm even with your weight over his chest.

“How much longer?” You ask quietly, already able to hear the characteristic sounds of Kattegat waking up.

Ivar turns slightly to take a look at the sun that peers shyly into the room, before settling back against the pillows.

“A while.”

____

It is almost wordlessly that you set to get ready for the day, for the departure of your husband and his men to Strepshire. Ivar sits on the edge of your bed and motions for you to get closer, which you do, turning your back to him and offering the laces of your dress.

A shiver runs down your spine when the backs of his fingers run up your bare skin, not even caring about the laces he is supposed to be working on. You offer a low call of his name, a warning, btu Ivar only huffs a breath, free hand bringing you closer.

He presses a few kisses on the curve of your spine, burning currents of electricity left behind by every touch of his lips. Your breath stutters its way past your parted lips, and seemingly pleased with your reaction, he leans back, and finally laces up your dress.

Oh, you hate him, you truly do.

Turning around, your hand absently running through his loose hair and gently tilting his head back, you meet his smug and satisfied gaze, and resist the urge to take revenge in the little game he chose to play.

Instead, because the cold sun shines over your back and reminds you time is scarce now, you take a small breath to take him in, the armor that now covers him, the slight tension that accompanies him, the hard lines of his face that tell you a part of him is already on that battlefield.

“Your braids, I…I can do them.” You offer after a moment of hesitation.

I want to.

Ivar considers you with a tilt of his head, but eventually shrugs and motions for you to find a place at his back on the bed.

You lean up on your knees, and recalling the braids you saw him wearing so long ago, when he sat on that chariot, saw you kill, and offered you nothing but bloodthirsty smile.

Your fingers start making quick work of his hair, and Ivar hums, dropping his head forward a little.

There’s nothing that could keep the delighted laugh from leaving your lips at the way you seem to affect him with your touch, and Ivar grunts at your happiness.

“Not a word.” He warns you, but you still bear a wide and foolish smile.

Because you can, because there’s nothing stopping you, you lean forward and press a kiss to the side of his jaw, and rest your chin on his shoulder.

“Your secrets are safe with me, husband.”

You return to your work, and before long you are done. And you are proud of the result, you dare say.

“I want a truth.”

“What?”

Ivar turns slightly towards you, eyebrows lifted, “In exchange for the braids. Isn’t that the deal you proposed, wife?”

“Fine,” You concede even though he is bending the rules, “Ask away.”

But the levity of the moment dies with the silence that follows your prompt.

Ivar’s eyes search yours, an urgent edge in the way he studies you that makes you anxious.

He breathes deeply before starting, “If Stithulf were to die today-…”

Dread drops on your stomach like a stone, and you have to resist the urge to move away from him.

“Ivar…”

But he remains unyielding, jaw set tight and in his eyes a mix of desperation and fury that breaks at something within you.

With an angry breath, he insists, “If Stithulf were to die today, what would you choose?”

“Don’t ask me to choose, please.”

Your words tremble past your lips, and you hold his gaze, noticing there’s in his expression the threat of softening, the pull to give in to what you ask out of him.

Three times you’ve pleaded with Ivar. Past everything he did to you, past every chain that threatened to break you, past every moment where you were lost and scared and desperate; only three times you’ve begged him for something.

You asked the mad man that took you captive and forced you to be his wife to let you see the Völva, to let you talk to someone that can understand, to let you ask the Gods -his, yours- for answers.

You asked the man you married to tell you a truth, to honor your promise to be bound to him before the Gods themselves by granting you honesty about what he wanted out of you, what you meant to him.

And now.

But Ivar curls his lips into a snarl, brings cold fury to his eyes.

Stubbornly, petulantly, he insists, “I want an answer.”

“I gave you one. The answer is I-I can’t choose.”

But Ivar presses, gesturing with his arm, “You’re going to have to choose eventually!”

“I know!” You yell back, before stopping yourself with a sigh, and dropping your head to your hands. “I know. But not today.”

“So we are supposed to live with this? Like this?” He insists, shaking his head, “I don’t know whether you’ll leave me, you don’t know it either. What kind of life is that, hm?”

You shrug, “The kind we are living.”

“Oh, stop trying to sound wise.” Ivar grunts, rolling his eyes. It still manages to draw a smile out of you.

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you, love.”

“That you’ll choose me.” His answer is unwavering, easy, simple. And yet it doesn’t fail to make your heart threaten to shatter.

“I can’t…I can’t choose yet,” You insist, searching his gaze, begging silently for the distance to fade, for the coldness to give in. “Try to understand, I…I am Greek, I am Hiereia, I am Attica’s Anassa. I was all that before I became Queen of Kattegat, before I became your wife.”

They loved me and I loved them, long before I learned to love you.

“And you leave me with no choice, again.”

You sigh, “You were always able to choose, Ivar.”

“No, no I am not!” His voice raises again, and when he returns his eyes to yours, anger and restlessness and resentment, you hear memories as if they were spilling from his lips now, you forget you’ve chained me as much as you say I’ve chained you. His brow trembles as he frowns, the mask threatens to fall and the armor to turn to dust, and you can only stare back at him with wide eyes, “You took my choice from me, from the beginning.”

There’s no answer you can give to that, no words with which you can speak of the way your heart both soars and breaks. And so, you don’t try to.

“You have a war to fight on,” You remind him, eyes searching his, “Focus on that, focus on making sure you and our people return safe. The rest…the rest doesn’t matter.”

It surprises you, how true your words are.

“And if we capture Sitithulf?”

You chase off the bitter taste of guilt with the press of your lips against his, softly, lovingly. You quieten the voices of the ghosts that remind you of failure with the soft breath you draw out of him.

Because at the tip of your tongue there are words you do not utter. A dare, a command, a plea.

Don’t.

____

You say goodbye at the docks, but the kiss you will remember is the one you shared before you had to face the world that existed beyond the doors to your room.

Ivar’s hand is rough and demanding on the back of your head as he makes you tilt your head back to meet his kiss. He steals your breath and the steadiness of your stance with his kiss, and when your lips part, your hand gripping at the neckline of his armor keeps him leaning towards you, his brow against yours.

Your eyes meet, and all you offer is a smile before you once again test his Greek.

“You better return to me, Varangian.”

“It’s been a while since you called me that.” He replies, his Greek accented and rough but still good, and filling you with pride and a foolish joy.

“Husband.” You correct with a tilt of your eyebrow, and he nods.

“Wife.”

“Good,” You praise in his tongue, before switching to your own again, “My love.”

Confusion shines in pale blue eyes, but you don’t tell him the meaning of your words just yet, motioning with your head to the boats at his back and only smiling wider at his affront.

You watch him discard the crutches and board the ship, and you nod your goodbye to the warriors that pass you by as they too prepare to depart.

A part of you resents being left behind, resents the choices that made you who you are and so made you unable to join him.

“Shieldmaiden. You fight like…like men do,” You start one night, startling the Varangian, who lifts cautious green eyes to you. “My mother never did.”

“She fought in her own way.”

“She wasn’t there when my father died,” You point out, and the shieldmaiden blows a heavy breath as she straightens in her seat. “Is that why you learned to fight? To be there when the people you love die? To…protect them?”

“No, little one, I learned because…” She stops herself, and grabs the sheathed sword she kept by her side, handle pointed towards you in a familiar gesture. “I offered you this earlier today, and you refused it, told me you wanted to be a healer. Like you, long ago I made a choice, and my choice was to be a shieldmaiden. You chose a path, no worse or better than mine or your mother’s. No different either.”

You frown, and after a few moments press, “What are you saying, Sieghild?”

She smiles, in that crooked way of hers, “I’m saying you don’t need a sword to fight, and you don’t need a shield to be able to protect the people you love.”

When you go back to your room to fetch a cloak to go on with your day, you find on the bed a small golden piece you didn’t leave there.

You lift with a wide smile on your lips a comb headpiece made up of small gold leaves, and recall an old conversation, when you told Ivar of your mother’s old tradition of buying something while she waited for your father to return from war, be it a dress or a piece of jewelry.

Who would have thought the mighty Ivar the Boneless was capable of a soft heart?

Maybe it is just a result of how utterly he has stolen yours.

____

For all the time you spent thinking about his departure, and worrying about his return; you never let yourself truly think about how he would be gone.

About how past the worry for his safety, past the thrill of expecting his return, there would be so much longing. About how you miss him, about how true it is that your life without him in it is not the same.

Time goes on regardless, and more than once during your days you find your eyes searching hopelessly at that horizon, and on more than one night you wake up cold not understanding why. But time goes on.

On your stroll through the market, you run into Freydis, and she greets you warmly before falling to an easy walk beside you.

Silence is comfortable and easy, reminding you of the days spent in Eleusis’ forests haunting with Galla, in those short months after you abandoned the Silk Roads before you were to lose it all in flames.

That is, until Freydis gets this glint in her eye, and turns to you with a smile as sweet as it is poisonous, a smile that speaks of the Goddess whose favor you see when you look at her: Melinöe, dual Goddess of viciousness and comfort.

“If I didn’t know better, I would say the King truly is bewitched, my friend.”

You still breathe out a laugh, even if a pit of something uncomfortable and wary sits at your stomach.

“But you do know better,” You correct lowly, “I am no witch.”

She laughs lightly, daintily. It still speaks of poison, it always does. You don’t think you could care for her the way you do if she didn’t have her own share of darkness.

Keeping a small smirk on her lips, she argues, “All women are.”

You offer her a small shrug of your shoulders, but stay silent, because even if you know where she is going with this conversation, you refuse to give her an easy time.

She says nothing else, but when you get to the apothecary, you watch as Freydis, with her back turned to you, takes a deep breath.

There’s something shaky about the way she steels her resolve before turning to you, but the blonde still meets your gaze with unwavering fearlessness.

“I know you seem comfortable at the King’s side, but I still fear for you.”

Your eyebrows lift, “Fear for me?”

“I know how miserable you once were, forced to be at a mad man’s side. A woman like you doesn’t belong with a monster.” She whispers, eyes on yours and fully aware she is giving away her secret.

In your head you hear Ivar’s words of a few days ago: To you I still am the monster that imprisoned you, nothing changed since the first time you saw me. The distinct feeling of having said that before, only not to him.

No. To her.

Leave it to Freydis to admit a betrayal with resolve shining proudly on her blue eyes.

“Freydis,” You call out coldly, straightening in your chair and regarding her with barely narrowed eyes and a slight tilt to your head. When she sets falsely innocent eyes on you, you allow yourself a smile, “You don’t have to be afraid for me.”

There’s a hint of apprehension the moment she understands the meaning behind your words, and you would be lying if you said it didn’t satisfy you. The girl shakes it off quickly enough, and extends a hand over the table, as if attempting to grasp yours.

You stay still, and she whispers, “I was only worried for you, truly. I know firsthand what men in power are capable of. I know what Ivar the Boneless is capable of.”

“Funny way you have of showing your love for me.” You quip with narrowed eyes.

Valdís takes a seat next to you and passes you a cup of scalding hot tea, unwillingly joining the interaction. Her eyes go from Freydis to you, and for a moment you think she will remain silent, but how could you expect that out of the former shieldmaiden.

“What’s going on?” She asks, frown on her face, and you can’t find an answer that doesn’t make the anger and the pain and the shock real, so you don’t give any.

Freydis insists, eyes on you intensely and hand still stretched, “I did it for you, I wanted to help you.”

You remain silent, but her sky-blue eyes still search yours with intensity. Your stupid heart wants to believe her, and your bitter memory reminds you that what you did to Narses is not so different from what she wants you to do to the King, or what she would do to him in your place.

Still, you straighten yourself in your seat and with more softness than your pride wants you to show, you beseech,

“You didn’t lie to my husband to help me, Freydis. Don’t lie, not to me.”

Valdís is already a broad and imposing woman, but when the shieldmaiden straightens her back and looks down at Freydis, even your blood runs cold.

Her voice is barely above a hiss when she states, “I warned you, girl.”

But Freydis doesn’t take her eyes off of you, her hand still stretched before you, her gaze still probing at your mind, “I swear I only wanted to help you.”

“Help her get killed? Like you almost did when you lied to those merchants?” The other woman insists.

Realization dawns on you, and your lips part, your breath leaves you.

Your eyes set firmly on Ivar’s, the death of the Arabs that offered you mercy still heavy on your conscience, “Someone told you. You weren’t close enough to hear. Someone went to you and told you of what that man offered me.”

Your words are horrified, are broken, are hurt, “You’ve betrayed me before. More…more than once. How many times?”

Freydis interrupts you with a frantic shake of her head, and finally leans the distance separating you through the table and grabs your arm. You stay still, eyes on hers.

“I helped you. You now know exactly what you can get away with.” She promises, but you are quick to shake off her hand and her words.

Standing up from the table and shrugging on your cloak, you bite out, “You have no idea what you are talking about.”

But the girl stands up as well, almost chasing after you and keeping her venomous and sweet eyes on you with determination. You remain silent, and she speaks again, this time only for you to hear,

“Ivar didn’t harm you, did he? He could have, he has to others before, you know of his reputation. He could have forced you to break, but he didn’t, and you know why.”

“Freydis, you don’t und-…”

Her hand wraps over your wrist, trapping it and pressing the bracelet Ivar gifted you tight against your skin. “You now know the kind of power you have over him, you c-…”

You offer a snarl, “Get your hand off me, now.”

Freydis lifts her chin, eyes cold.

But her hand lets go of you.

You once noticed that Ivar knows to fight your fire with his own, but that before your coldness he falters. Freydis has faltered when your voice raises, when your temper flares; but, you realize when your might meets hers, that she will meet ice with burning coldness, that she will strike with cruelty against your distance.

“You’re starting to sound like him, witch.” She quips, poisonous. After a breath, in the barely-there widening of her eyes she gives away that she realized she pushed too far.

“It is not a smart thing to attempt to insult the man I love, Freydis,” You tell her, and she meets your gaze fearlessly. Lowering your voice, you lean close and promise her, “You told me the night we met that you’d once escaped death by placing the right words in the right ears. Be careful not to find death by attempting something similar.”

Still, because you know what she is made of, because it is made of something very similar to you, Freydis insists,

“You broke your own rules, you know this. You’ll reg-…”

You don’t let her finish, and even if her words drip with the same ambition, the same guile, the same ruthlessness you once held; you still turn your back to her and walk out of the shop, the door slamming behind you.

____

The next morning you wake up with the break of dawn, and with curt words directed to the man tasked with protecting you, you set off beyond the walls.

A part of you feels restrained when within the walls, in a way you hadn’t felt before, not even while you were kept as barely above a prisoner, bound to follow Ivar’s every whim.

There’s a tension in you when you have to walk those streets now, the heavy realization there’s no one you can trust. Not Freydis and her familiar darkness, Valdís and her easy smiles, not Hvitserk and his warmth, not anyone.

You feel alone, alone and angry and betrayed.

Whitehair accompanies you silently, a shadow at your back, but you almost pay him no mind, excited and filled with energy at the prospect of walking freely through the woods, searching for whatever small, young, or weak plants you can borrow from Mother Gaia to care for yourself when winter comes.

Even if you are aware that Kattegat’s climate is a cold and harsh one compared to the Mediterranean, you can still feel the harshness of winter puncturing the air, drying the ground. Persephone prepares for her descent to her husband, and her mother weeps again.  

You busy yourself with a small marsh violet, trying to get the roots intact and handling the plant as little as possible so you can replant it safely. Too focused on the delicacy needed for the task, you miss the sound of the falcon’s wings and are startled when the bird lands in the soft earth in front of you.

You catch yourself thinking Freyja, but quickly remind yourself these are messengers of Hermes. You look back at the yellow eyes of the predator and tilt your head to the side.

“Why are you not scared of me?” You ask softly, reaching with shaking fingers to find the bird accepts your touch.

“Because he knows you.” Someone says from behind you, in a voice you know so well.

Your hand freezes, your breath catches in your throat, your eyes fill with tears.

A ghost.

“It feels like a summer ago that the Daughter of Eleusis returned triumphant, it feels a moment ago we drove the Saracens away and joked we would wage war against the whole world,” Nostalgia clings to her words even if a smile trembles on her lips, “I can still hear the music we’d dance to during the Thesmophoria, I can still taste that rose wine you made me steal, I can still remember what it was like before the Christians and their God,” For a moment anger curls at her lip, fire burns at her dark eyes, but she returns to the tired rage soon enough. “I pray the years don’t take that from me. If the Gods let me return here one day-…” Her voice falters, and she lowers her face for a moment before she finds resolve again, and once again lifts her gaze to the horizon, “If I am granted another chance to be here again, I wish for nothing other than to have your ghost with me. Sitting at my side, just like this.”

“Galla.” You breathe, and move to turn towards the woods at your back, where you heard her voice, but her sharp warning stops you.

“Don’t turn around. I want to keep the men following you from noticing me.” She says. Once the surprise and relief die off, you find your breathing to be fast and shallow.

“H-How are you alive? Stithulf sa-…”

She stops you with a whisper of your name, and hearing the word with the accent of your people and not the hard consonants and drawled sounds of the Northmen makes you weaker, somehow.

“He ambushed us, but couldn’t kill us all. We have been trying to find passage to Scandinavia.”

“How many did we lose? Wh-…”

“It is not safe to speak here. We can talk later.”

“I cannot return with you, Galla.” You say, even if you are certain your people could travel fast enough in the dead of night to be far away from this cold city before the King hears of your absence.

“I know. But our people still need to hear from their Anassa.”

“Don’t call me that.” You beg, eyes closed.

“If you renounce the title you renounce the right to tell me what to do, my friend.” She teases, reminding you of warm fires and nights under the sky of Eleusis.

The thought of returning to that life, of having friends and elders at your side again, of returning to fertility festivals and harvest celebrations, of your language and your customs surrounding you again; the thought shouldn’t be as bittersweet, it shouldn’t carry this seed of pain or nostalgia.

But it does.

You shake your head to get rid of such thoughts, and instead pet the rapt falcon once again.

“How will I know when to meet you?”

“I will send Zephyr to the skies to fetch you.”

Nodding your assent, you finish plucking the plant from the earth with shaking hands. Putting it softly in your basket, you smile a goodbye to Galla’s pet before he takes to the skies again.

“We will meet again, my friend.”

A part of you that is scared it is all a mirage wants to beg her not to leave you behind, but when you close your hands into fists you feel the cold press of your wedding ring on your finger and you realize there’s something else you cannot leave behind.

“Stay safe, Galla.”

A rustling of leaves, and they are both gone. You have to grab fistfuls of cold dirt to keep yourself from chasing after them.

They’re alive.

____

I bombarded you with revelations this chapter, didn’t I? The hairpiece thingy was inspired by this one, by the way.

Oh, and Zephyr is the name of the Greek deity of west wind, known as the gentler of the winter deities, the bringer of spring. Make of that what you will :)

Next Tuesday I’ll try to post a couple of Ivar’s PoV chapters, one to offer a better explanation to some stuff you now know, and one to give you insight into what’s happening across the sea.

Thank you for reading, I love you!!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​ @heavenly1927​ @toe-vind-ek-jou​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @pieces-by-me​ @angelofthorr​ @samsationalwilson​ @peachyboneless​  @1950schick​ @punkrocknpearls​ @ietss​   @itsmysticalmystery​ @revolution-starter​ @chibisgotovalhalla​ @the-a-word-2214​ @fae-sedai​ @crazybunnyladysworld​  

[thatsparrow]

(read on ao3)

Lapin wakes up in shadow, beaten and broken badly enough that the air is heavy with the sugar-rich smell of his own blood.

In sweetness—, he thinks. But where is my strength now?

His senses return to him slowly, but when they do, the picture they paint is an un-pretty one: a six-by-eight foot cell of hewn stone, matching sets of cinched iron manacles running between his wrists and ankles to bolts in the wall, the feeling of sticky, half-dried chocolate across an aching stretch of his abdomen. His staff is missing, as are his Primogen robes, but there is a small huddle of pink-and-red peppermint near his feet, something with twitching ears and a curlicue tail and sharp button-black eyes.

"So we're alive, then," Lapin says, gingerly lifting himself into a sitting position while the pig—Priscilla? Praline? No, Preston—shuffles forward and nudges at his hand with a soft, damp nose. "Perhaps the Bulb is capable of kindness after all."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, apostate." Walking up on the other side of the bars is the young Commander Grissini, flanked by two fellow Ceresian guards. He looks battle-weary and bloodstained—though, notably, not with his own; blackberry jam, if Lapin had to guess, judging by the smell of sugared fruit. (Heaven knows he'd never respected them, but Lapin will certainly credit the Tartguard for that particular moment of loyalty.)

"Just a joke, Commander." Lapin's mouth narrows in a tight smile. "I know well that the Bulb has no capacity for kindness or mercy. Has your Pontifex told you that, I wonder? Do you know you serve a hollow god?"

"Silence, heretic," one of the guards hisses. "Keep your false words behind your teeth unless you'd like me to cut them from your tongue."

Lapin lets his smile widen but remains quiet; there's surely pain enough in store for him without inviting more of it himself.

"Easy," Grissini says to the guard. "The Pontifex warned us of the lies he would tell. A rabid dog barks loudest when it feels the chain tightening around its neck."

Lapin exhales—not quite a laugh, but not entirely humorless either. A rabid dog. Well, he's been called worse.

"Something funny, apostate?" A line creases Grissini's brow. "I can't imagine what you might find amusing about your situation."

Notting particularly, but Lapin is hardly about to give them the satisfaction of seeing the knotted weight of his concern instead. He'll two-step so long as he has the illusion of stable footing, however rotted and fragile the foundations might really be.

"Tell me," he says after a moment, "Sir Keradin, in the cathedral—he killed me, did he not?"

"He did."

"And yet given that I am here, alive, I must have been revivified, yes?"

"Obviously," Grissini says with a note of impatience.

Interesting, Lapin thinks. And likely inauspicious. He glances between Grissini and the two guards at his side, then lets his eyes alight on the man at Grissini's left, the one who'd threatened to cut out his tongue. He considers the man, makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. "Would you like to know what I saw in the afterlife?" Lapin says to him. "Would you like to know the true form of your Bulb? How many can say they've been blessed enough to behold it themselves?"

The guard looks between him and Grissini, the sharp, irate lines of his expression bent a little by uncertainty. Then to Lapin, voice notably less assured than before, "I would never be so foolish as to trust your falsehoods."

"Understandable," Lapin muses. "But how can you be sure that I'd lie? Even for a man with such conviction in his faith, aren't you the slightest bit curious of what I have to say?" Lapin raises an eyebrow.

The guard hesitates for a moment. Lapin gestures for him to move closer. Slowly, his face warring between anger and doubt, he crouches down to where Lapin sits.

"Ennio—" Grissini says, warning. Lapin leans towards the bars, lowers his voice for Ennio's ears alone.

"It was luminescent and shining," Lapin whispers. "The most beautiful thing for miles, brighter than any that had come before or would follow. To walk closer demands that you shield your eyes, lest your vision be burned away as punishment for your hubris. But I did approach, and I felt its light and its heat and its power, and then I opened my eyes—just for a moment—and do you know what I saw?"

Ennio tilts his head closer, eyes shut, his forehead pressed against the iron as he listens.

"—Nothing." Ennio recoils as if scalded, mouth twisted in a snarl. Lapin raises his voice as he continues, grinning wide. "All that beauty and all that brightness and nothing beneath it!" He feels fingers at his throat as Ennio's hand shoots through the bars, fisting around his collar and yanking him forward. Sharp, bruising pain blooms across his face as he slams into the metal, splitting his lip and the skin above his eye, snapping something in his nose, reopening a healed-over wound on his temple. Lapin can taste chocolate on his teeth and laughs, loud and reckless. "Congratulations, for your faith is akin to a man praying for salvation at the foot of a fucking boulder—"

"Enough!" Grissini shouts as Ennio starts to move again, shouldering him back from the bars, one hand closing around Ennio's wrist until he gives up his hold on Lapin's collar. Lapin falls back against the wall, still smiling as something begins to swell above his eye, blood pooling along his upper lip and against his gums. Grissini shoves Ennio back against the far wall, forearm up under his chin, and says, "Leave—" he jerks his head at the other guard, "—both of you, until you can learn some composure."

Grissini holds himself in front of Ennio until he relents, then gives a curt nod as he straightens his uniform, adjusts the grip on his spear, and turns to walk back down the hall with his compatriot. Before he goes, he spits on the ground in front of Lapin's cell, muttering something that sounds like filthy fucking heretic.

"Have you always been such a fool?" Grissini asks once they've gone. "Or does being in Comida bring it out in you?"

"I can see very few bright spots from my current vantage, Commander," Lapin says, wiping some of the blood from his nose, his temple, his eyebrow. His smile fades. "Forgive me for having enjoying a moment of levity when the opportunity appeared."

"Your situation can always be made worse." Grissini leans on his spear; it at least seems clean of dried jam or crumbs of shortbread crust. Then again, how much difference does it make that he didn't do any of the killing himself? "I say that not as a threat, but as a reminder. You are only alive because it suits the will of the Pontifex. So long as she believes you are useful, she will take whatever steps necessary to wring out your remaining value."

"If that bloated broccoli bitch thinks I'm helping with anything, then I look forward to enlightening her."

"Bulb above, wake up!" Grissini snaps. "Are you truly so oblivious to the nature of your situation that you need me to spell it out for you? There is no future in which you live to see the outside of this prison. While you are here, the Pontifex will make use of the wide scope of her imagination and the tools at Sir Keradin's disposal until you surrender any and all information you have about House Rocks, your fellow Candians and their political intentions, and the source of your witchcraft." Grissini pauses; Lapin is as weary as he's ever been, his eye nearly swollen closed from the bruising blow of the bars, but he could almost mistake the expression on Grissini's face for something akin to shame. "Undoubtedly the process will be both slow and painful. Once it's done, should you have proved to be compliant and your intelligence reliable, she may be merciful enough to allow you a quick death." He blinks, eyes shifting away from Lapin's stare before meeting it again. "Far likelier, though, that she devises some new punishment to fill your final days, simply for the inconvenience you've caused her thus far."

"You don't seem particularly pleased at that prospect, Commander," Lapin ventures, watching the slight shifts in Grissini's face. "Won't you also be excited to watch the 'false prophet' burn?"

Grissini holds himself carefully still. "I have tremendous respect for the Concorde, for the duties of my station, and for the oaths I have taken to Ceresia and the Emperor," he says after a moment. "That does not mean I take any satisfaction in the outcome awaiting you. From what I witnessed on the Sucrosi Road and in the tournament, as well as in the cathedral, you and your fellow Candians seem a group worth admiring." He exhales, slow. "I am—truly sorry that this is the future we find ourselves in."

"Sorry enough to help me attempt an escape?" Grissini maintains his steady, statue-faced look, and Lapin smiles a little ruefully. "No, I didn't think so. I thank you for your insights, Commander, and for your kind words—however hollow they might be." Grissini winces a little; a cheap barb, but at this particular point, Lapin won't deny himself such pettiness. "Was there anything else? If not, I would ask you to let me enjoy whatever remaining peace and quiet I am permitted."

Grissini works at his jaw, brow still creased. "Save your breath on spellcasting; the cell has been enchanted by the Pontifex herself to prevent any witchcraft. I believe your first—interrogation is scheduled for tomorrow morning, so you should still have some hours to rest." He turns to go, then pauses. "For what it's worth, they haven't been found yet—your king and the princesses, nor Sir Theobald or the Jawbreaker boy. If they've managed to escape Comida, there may still be some hope for them."

And then he's gone.

In the dim light of the cell, Lapin lets out a deep sigh, allowing his face to bear all the weight of the bone-deep exhaustion he's felt since waking; he has no way of seeing his reflection, but he wouldn't be surprised to see new wrinkles dug in around his eyes and bridging his forehead. Heavens, he's so tired. Next to him, Preston makes a soft whuffing noise and clambers half into his lap, circling a few times before settling in a tight peppermint curl, his snout pressed into the crook of Lapin's left elbow.

"Alright, but just this once," Lapin says, petting absently at the soft, peach-fuzz stretch of skin between Preston's ears. "And only because this will stay with us." He scratches under Preston's chin, then notices a clump of something sticky dried into the short bristles of Preston's fur, minty-smelling blood congealed around scarred-over skin, ragged wounds that match the barbed edges of Keradin's mace.

"What a bastard." His hands are gentle around the pale pink stretches of new skin. "Who goes after a pig." He murmurs the incantation for a healing spell—both for poor Preston and himself—but true to Grissini's word, nothing happens. Unfortunate; in addition to Preston's wounds, he can feel at least two cracked ribs in his own chest.

"I should give the Pontifex more credit for her counter-charms," Lapin says after a moment. "That, or you've cut your losses and found a new attendant." He smiles wryly. "Likely one who can serve your interests more effectively than from a cell."

He waits, but there's no answer. Were he a hopeful man, he might attribute the silence to the Pontifex's wards, shielding any divine influence from entering the cell as effectively as they've dampened his own spellcasting ability. Far likelier though that he's been abandoned to his fate.

"I suppose it's just you and I now, Preston." He glances down and takes some small comfort in the continued rise-and-fall of Preston's chest. "For the moment, at least. Admittedly, this isn't how I'd envisioned the end of my particular story, but the dice fall where they may. Heaven knows there are worse companions I might have found myself with."

Preston lets out another contented whuff and resettles himself, eyes gently closed.

"I think you have the right idea there," Lapin says, resting his head on the wall behind him, doing his best to ignore the slight crag of stone jutting into his lower back. "If Commander Grissini is to be trusted—and, in this case, I believe he is—then such moments of peace will be few and far between in the days to come."  

Whuff, whuff.

"Yes, I'm glad to hear they're alright, too, though I'd place little faith in our paths crossing again. My apologies—I know I'm not the companion that young Liam was."

Whuff. Whuff, whuff.

"Very well, I shall endeavor to sleep. Perhaps we'll wake in the morning to find a kinder world."

Whuff.

"No, I don't think so either."

As Lapin closes his eyes and counts the measure of his breathing, he works very hard to rein his wayward thoughts back from dark visions of tomorrow, of windowless rooms and tables with built-in restraints and long trays of metal-mouthed implements. Focuses instead on remembering his study in Castle Candy, flickering firelight against the bound spines of his books, sugar-spun windows opening up to a view of the grounds below, the purple-tipped peaks of the Great Stone Candy Mountains to the north.

Breathe.

A forest of ice cream-frosted evergreens instead of Sir Keradin's blade digging for secrets under his skin. Spring afternoons by the banks of the Cola instead of the sickly yellow light of the Pontifex's magic. Powdered motes of pastel dust in the castle library instead of hands tightening around his throat or firebrands pressed against his feet. Home instead of a cell. Safety instead of this aching pit in his stomach.

Breathe, Lapin. It is all you can do for the moment.

When he finally drifts off, the sleep he finds is a fitful one, punctuated by uneasy, sharp-edged dreams. Slowly, though, his mind drifts towards calmer waters, the soothing rhythm of a lazy current, true rest for his worn-down mind. At one point, Preston shifts in his lap, still half-asleep, nosing the air around them curiously. Almost as if he'd caught the faint smell of sugar plums.

[bluebellhairpin]

Fight or Flight, Rider [8]

Poe Dameron X Pilot!Reader

A/N: This series ain’t dead yet people! And Rider isn’t dead yet either! - Nemo

Summary: Rider becomes commander of the most dangerous ship in the First Order. Poe and company freak out over a thought-loss. And some certain emo boys get a beating. 

Warning(s): Mentions of Blood. There’s a dead body that shows up once too.  

Series Masterlist

Masterlist  

As it turned out, the entire new ship was strategically filled with - what the First Order would call - defective StormTroopers. Much like the Resistance’s beloved Finn, they didn’t want to fight. 

They were waiting for their Poe Dameron to give them a chance to get away. 

And they got you. 

However this situation was much different to Poe’s. Instead of one Trooper, you had a huge ship-full. Instead of a TIE-Fighter you had, well, one huge ship - more like once you disposed of the Officers, you’d have the ship. 

As the two unhelmeted Troopers led you through the ship, other Troopers removed their helmets in tandem, and as that spread, blaster shots and yells could be heard from the halls in the distance. It was a mutiny. Caused by little old you. 

“What do we call you?” the first Trooper - MO-3679 - asked, “I don’t think ‘The Rebel’ would fit anymore.”

“Rider, calling me Rider is fine.” you said. Giving your nickname felt like the better thing to do, no where in any records was there listed a ‘Rider’, however there was a ‘(y/n)’, and you were not about to be tracked or locked up again. 

Walking wasn’t really doing you too well at the moment, since you were clutching your side in an effort to try and stop the pain in your ribs. But MO said that they’d need you at the command. You knew the Resistance best, you’d know how to properly fight and escape the First Order. You reassured MO that she and the other Troopers seemed to have a good handle on the situation as it was, she still diagreed. 

“Attention,” a speaker overhead crackled to life, “First Order personnel have been eradicated. Prepare for the jump to Hyperspace.” 

You looked over at MO, raising an eyebrow. 

“The kriff does that mean?” 

“All the commanding Officers have been ejected out to space.” She said, acting like it was absolutely not something to be worried about. “So now you’re officially in command of this ship.” 

Okay. That’s a touch shocking, if not unexpected. 

“And hyperspace?” you asked, “This ship isn’t completed enough to be able to withstand a jump. Parts would still be exposed.” 

“That’s what we wanted everyone to think,” the other Trooper - KS-6836 - answered as MO started opening the door ahead of you, “This ship isn’t just hyperspace ready. It’s shields are fully operational, as well as it’s weapons system. It’s fully functional. We just needed the First Order to not know that.” 

You decided then and there to just not be surprised at anything anymore. 

The door slid open with a hiss, revealing a large and rather busy-looking bridge. Troopers were manning every station, and over in one corner was a pile of white helmets. An Officer Trooper approached you, their helmet was only tucked under an arm, not on the pile with the rest.

“You’re the Resistance fighter.” They said, nodding at MO and KS, before walking back the way they came. You assumed you were meant to follow, because they kept talking. “The Resistance wasn’t entirely told what this ship was made for, so I’ll tell you now to make up for it. It was meant as a tracker. A Hunting ship. It’s untrackable, and impossible to trace.”

“It was made to destroy the Resistance?” you concluded. 

You’d seen plans for smaller, lighter ships for that purpose on Nephimm. They were to be specifically made for the best pilots you’d have, to be sent out into the galaxy and battles to scope out exactly what was happening without being seen. You piloted one when you went to the rescue back on Criet. 

But how did the First Order get plans so similar to the ones back on your home planet? 

The Officer nodded, pressing their lips together, before breaking out in a grin.

“And now it’s going to destroy the First Order. Ironic, isn’t it?” 

__________

Poe was freaking out.

Much like everyone else in the control room, his emotions had been on a roller coaster from the moment you exited hyperspace at the First Order’s end, and since their connection with Z2 ended, the room was crossed between anxious, sorrowful, and overall hopelessness. 

They’d just lost their best pilot, even though no one would admit it with Poe in the room.

“General, what do we do?” Gareth asked, “We need to do something, right?”

“Of course we need to do something!” Daylen said, stepping forward to stand around the table, “Rider’s gone, so you kriffed up there big time, now we need to fix it. We go in and hit them with everything we’ve got.”

“No, we will not do that,” Leia said, leaning forward, sharing a look with Rey - who had joined them just as their feed cut out minutes ago, “We’ll wait, just a little longer. (y/n)’s strong, she might’ve made a way out.”

“You really think that?” Poe asked, voice cracking ever-so-slightly. “You really think she’s still alive?” Leia smiled knowingly. 

“You don’t?” 

__________

“Ren is on that ship, you know that right?”

“Of course, why did you think I’d give you the order otherwise?” you looked back at the trooper at the controls to your right, smiling. They shrugged.

“Because you’re a sadist?” they offered. You shook your head, smile falling so slightly.

“If Ren is on that ship, then we hit it and we hit it hard, right where it hurts. If we can end things here we will, and if we can’t then we still make sure they know we were here.” 

“I think they’ll know when we aren’t here.” the trooper quipped again, “It’s a big ship you know.” 

You turned to face them fully, wiping away the blood from the cut on your cheek that was, somehow, still bleeding.

“What’s your name?”

“TR-7182.” You quirked up an eyebrow.

“Not gonna rename yourself?” They glanced up at you, smiling widely.

“You wanna do that for me?” 

“Lower the enthusiasm, cheap shot,” you scoffed, “Anyone here could rename you.”

“I can!” MO said, jumping from her place where she was at the door behind KS. You barked out a laugh, nodding at her as she continued to blabber at her new companion. She was actually rather friendly, you’d found. 

“Rider, canons are hot, ready to fire at your leisure.” 

You nodded at the new news, looking out at the two Star-Destroyers, with narrowed eyes.

“Shields up, now.” you said, “Fire!”

__________

“General!” D’Acy said, looking over to the huddle from her screen across the room. “The new ship - the one Rider went to destroy - it’s firing on the other two Destroyers.” 

“What?” 

“What we’re monitoring, it’s -” D’Acy stopped, shaking her head in disbelief.

“- The ship’s gone off radar, but the Destroyers are taking hits.” Cyro clarified, Rose poking her head over the Mirialan’s shoulder. 

“They’re being… Destroyed.” 

Poe went over to the screen, seeing exactly what was described. 

“That makes no sense,” he said, casting a look at Finn, “Why would they fire on each other?” 

“Don’t look at me, I don’t work with them anymore. Remember?” Finn shrugged. “I will say, that is a bit weird though.”

__________

“Our shields are holding well. The Destroyers have taken enough damage to cause a chain reaction.” 

You nodded, talking to the trooper on your left.

“I want to see that chain go off. Fire a few more shots, then we’ll get out of here.” You said, pressing in the Resistance base coordinates into the pad in front of you. Then a thump came from the window above you. “Oh, ew.” 

Groans came from the crew, seeing the frozen body of one of the Officers from before float back away again. They obviously didn’t push him out of an airlock near the back of the ship. It was a bit gross. 

The ship fired again, rocking you a little with the force it sent off, and landing two hits on each Destroyer, and just like the trooper said, a chain went off, explosions of red went off all over the ships.

“Let’s beat it, kids. We’ve done our damage.”

The ship turned a little, before starting off with a slight lurch. 

“Entering hyperspace in three, two, one.” 

__________

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