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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 1 year

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Aftercare - a Malevolent Fanfic

Arthur wakes up.

Nothing goes quite as expected.

Though... it's obvious Hastur (again) has a plan. He REALLY needs to stop doing that.

(Takes place in the Surrogate series, after Consecrated)

AO3

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The whole palace is abuzz.

Did you hear—

Shouted… Jaws?

I heard it was Bon. Like, French.

French? Why would he shout in French?

The kitchens are muttering.

A double mark? You heard that wrong.

No, my duchess was there. She saw it. Two marks.

Two? Can you get close enough to see?

Ha! Like I have a death-wish.

The training grounds are talking about it, too, and that’s where Faroe picks up a few inappropriate things.

She doesn’t wanna be up this early, delaying breakfast and time with her daddy. Dawn is not her favorite time. Her pouts, however, leave no impression, and daddy says she must.

You will be queen of all someday, he tells her, which sounds like a nice thing, if vague. You must know how to do more than you do now. Magic, arms, debate, intrigue… you will master them all.

She sort of understood what all of that meant?

It had sounded a lot more exciting than being up super early, wearing weird, new clothes made of leather and linen, and holding a bow that wasn’t a harp, but sort of felt like one, except it shot sticks instead of making music.

She much preferred the harp.

It’s so hard to pull back!

It’s so hard to keep the arrow from just… twisting out to the right and away from the string!

It’s so hard to aim!

Faroe is not used to anything being difficult for her to do, and her frustration in the first fifteen minutes leads to a truly rare event: she has a tiny meltdown.

Hastur studied human development and knows children do that, so his instructions were clear: when she tantrums, let her have her cry, and pay her no attention at all. Do not reward the bad behavior. Do not give her what she wants. Let her get it out of her system, then simply resume as though nothing at all occurred.

Well, it works. Zero reaction is not the response Faroe was looking for, and she ends up with hitching breaths, curled against Nibbles’ side in the grass, still calming down while the grownups talk some feet away.

“I still don’t understand,” one of them (the spear-guy, who seems to have no purpose here as she cannot yet lift a spear) says. “Why would he mark the guy he hates?”

“Right?” says her archery instructor (whom, Faroe admits, she likes). “Nobody seems to get it. The ceremony was full of mixed signals.”

Spear-guy sighs and runs his hand through his brown hair. “This place just keeps getting weirder. I dunno. Maybe we should take that offer. Go to Teloth, after all.”

The archer makes such a face that Faroe almost flips out of her misery to giggle, but she doesn’t, and so the archer keeps talking. “Why the hell would you want to go to that place?”

“Safer. I don’t like this, Dis.”

The archer, Dis, shrugs expansively. “We’re not safe anywhere. At least here, it’s interesting; there’s beauty. Banger music. Good food. Friends. Allies.”

Spear-guy counts off on his fingers. “Weird intrigue. An unreliable god who fucks off for ten years at a go. Some kind of… fucked-up bondage situation, or something, with a human? I don’t know. It feels unstable.”

“Go if you want. I like her. I want to see her grow.” Dis indicates Faroe with a nod of her head.

“Yeah, that’s a whole other kettle of worms.”

“Stick around, Thoth. Just a little longer. It’ll all work out.”

Spear-guy Thoth rolls his eyes. “That’s why they gave you the kid to teach. Optimism doesn’t work past the age of ten.”

She laughs, punches his shoulder, and goes to check on Faroe.

Her hitching has mostly stopped now. She peers up from the circle of Nibbles’ legs, a limpid-eyed innocent cradled by horror.

“Are you ready to continue the lesson, Your Highness?” says Dis.

“Okay,” Faroe says, who doesn’t want to, but does want to make her daddy proud (and is just a little embarrassed at the tantrum she threw).

She doesn’t see uncle Arthur anywhere, not today. Daddy says he’s resting.

She doesn’t see him tomorrow, either.

Funny how people keep talking about him, though.

Two days later, Arthur wakes up and takes a moment to see if he’s still himself.

He’d been half sure he’d wake up some kind of drone, mind broken, erased, or… slavishly devoted to Hastur, now, or… something. Something awful.

None of that seemed to have happened.

He feels like himself? Then again, would he know?

“I want Hastur to go to hell,” he says, which he’s pretty sure he couldn’t do if he’d been lobotomized, and exhales in relief.

Only if I get to watch, says John, and paws along his face. It’s a slightly clumsy motion. Welcome back.

“Hey.” Arthur catches John’s wrist and pulls his hand away. His heart pounds, but it seems to still be his own. “I… I’m all right? We did it?”

You are. We did. What do you remember? John sounds the opposite of the way he had before it happened. Happy. Tension-free.

Arthur exhales. “I don’t even know where to start. You were there, though, somehow.”

I sure as fuck was.

John sounds like the cat that got the cream.

Wincing, Arthur sits up. He’s in bed; judging by the scents, he’s been bathed. Someone actually tucked him in. Weird. He feels sore through his chest, physically aching around his heart, but that makes sense. “Are you all right?”

More than. I’m still a little loopy, actually.

“Loopy?”

Magic-drunk. You missed me drunk, Arthur. It’s a shame. I doubt it’ll happen again any time soon.

Arthur is surprised into a small, brief laugh. “You got drunk?”

It was glorious, Arthur. If I knew how to do it on command, I would.

“So that’s what happens when somebody occupied gets marked, I guess.” He’s speaking lightly, but he feels…

He never wants to feel like that again. It was too much. Just… too much. Arthur scratches his scalp vigorously, trying to wake up. “What happened after… after he did it?”

After we did it. He washed the blood off you and put you to bed.

Arthur swallows. “So you… you did do it, too, somehow.”

Yes. You remember?

“Bits and pieces. Not a lot.” Too much. “I don’t… really want to feel that way again.”

John sounds sad. Right. Of course.

“I was afraid it would… do something to me.”

It did. John is less blithe about this. He… we both… have sway over you, if we wish. And we know how you feel, now, if we want to.

So he had even less privacy than he’d had before. Arthur sighs. “Terrific. Can I know what you’re thinking?”

No. This is very much a one-way spell.

Arthur sighs again. “Well, I hope he knows I hate him, then.” He slides out of bed.

The bottom of his feet hurt. He’s discovered that how much they hurt tends to tie directly to how long he was horizontal. “So you really both marked me.”

Yes.

Goodness, that was aggressive. “I thought you said there couldn’t be more than one mark.”

There can’t. Neither of us can explain it. I think, maybe, it’s because we’re… both the King in Yellow.

John says that hesitantly. Afraid, perhaps, of Arthur’s response.

It’s not news. Arthur has neither censure nor reassurance to give right now; whatever else this did, it didn’t seem to have… repaired whatever’s wrong with him. “Does it make a difference?”

John sputters. Yes! To me! To us!

“All right.” The only thing he cares about is that it is over. Arthur heads to the bathroom. “Tell me what you were like when you were drunk.”

And John brightens right up. I think I was funny!

Left again. You keep drifting right today.

Seventy-three steps. Seventy-seven now, because he has to correct again. “Sorry.”

“Uncle Arthur!” And it isn’t the tiny flap of unshod feet this time, but a surprisingly heavy clop of tiny boots.

She’s coming from your right—brace yourself.

Faroe leaps into him full-bore, and Arthur barely manages to stay on his feet.

He doesn’t care.

He kneels and holds her, and knows he shouldn’t, but holds her, and it’s been days, and he laughs because she jumps a little in his arms and bonks his chin with her head.

“I’m learning arrows!” she proclaims.

She’s wearing… that’s clever, John says, grumpily. A simple sheath-dress, but over it is light leather armor—paneled, so it moves with her. She wears an arm-sheath, as well, very scraped… she’s been learning archery.

“Good for you,” says Arthur.

“What’s a catamite?” says Faroe, and Arthur forgets how to breathe.

After Arthur stops choking (and John stops yelling, which required an apology), Faroe is distracted enough that she’s forgotten her question.

Which is good, because Arthur’s head is spinning.

Breakfast is entirely Faroe talking about her new lessons. She’s gotten over her upset of the first day, mostly because she’s able to hit the target; now that she’s having success, it’s all a delight.

“You’re doing so well, my daughter,” says Hastur at him, but the volley misses because Arthur’s head still spins.

Catamite? Catamite? Had somebody—

Had he been—

In front of everybody—

No. No, this had nothing to do with him. It couldn’t have. John would have told him.

“And the spear guy said Teloth might be safe and he wanted to go, and then Captain Dis came back and taught me how to stand better, and—”

Hastur has… tensed slightly, says John, very quietly.

Arthur suspects “spear guy” won’t be teaching Faroe again.

Faroe has eaten all her spiced egg and half an orange. More than she usually does; she must have had quite a morning.

“It is time for your next lesson,” says Hastur.

“Already?”

She is looking at him with huge eyes; I think she’s figured out how to weaponize her cuteness, Arthur.

“Well, we knew that was coming,” Arthur murmurs back.

“But I wanna play with Nibbles,” she says, too used to their muttering to mind it.

“You can do that after your lessons,” Hastur says.

One of his tentacles brushes her face. It is… a gentle, affectionate touch, and she leans into it.

“You make me very proud,” Hastur says.

And somehow, Arthur knows that one wasn’t aimed at him.

Weird. He’s not sure how he knows. Maybe it was the tenderness in Hastur’s voice, or—

“Okay,” she says, because she really is a well-behaved girl, and hops down from her chair.

She’s so small, says John. She’s practically disappeared up to her eyes on the other side of the table. Ah—she’s smiling at you.

“Uncle Arthur?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Will you come play with me later today?”

Everyone goes really damn still.

“I…” What’s safe? “I…” What won’t get him in trouble, or keep him away from her, or—

“I see no reason why not,” says Hastur, absolutely blowing Arthur’s mind.

Arthur turns toward him in shock.

“Yay!” says Faroe, and darts off at full speed, boots clacking quickly along the marble floor.

Arthur stares. Well. He faces. John is the one who stares.

All right, John says. What’s your fucking angle here?

“No angle, Piece. I merely… mean to be more attentive to my court composer’s needs. That is all.”

“Right.” Neither of them believe that.

“Did you sleep well?” says Hastur in warm and syrupy tones that cannot mean anything good.

Was he still being spoken to? “Me?” says Arthur.

“Yes, you. I ask because you feel… unwell.”

Arthur frowns. “I feel fine.” He turns back to his little bowl of garlicky, herbed yogurt and poached egg, and pokes at it with his spoon.

Hastur rumbles. It’s not quite a growl, but it isn’t good.

What are you up to? John snarls.

Hastur ignores that. “I do not appreciate lies, Arthur.”

Arthur stiffens. “I’m fine. I said I was fine.”

“You are not ‘fine.’”

Arthur sighs and rubs his forehead. What was this? What was he doing now? “Sure. Not fine. Whatever you say. I need to get to work on the jubilee.” He stands.

“Sit. Down.”

Arthur grips the back of his chair and does not move.

John inhales. Arthur, you would defy him? He sounds like Christmas came early.

“I see,” says Hastur. “This is your… normal, is what you’re poorly communicating. This is how you feel every day.”

“Yes.” Arthur does not want to sit back down, but he doesn’t dare walk away, either.

“I see. Well: you are correct—you do owe a jubilee.”

“I owe three.”

Hastur’s rumble is so pleased. “You kept track.”

“Of course I kept track. It’s my fucking job. Can I go?”

Oh, Arthur, says John as though Arthur were doing something amazing. (Which is damned confusing, because he’s fairly sure he’s not.)

“Piece.”

What?

And Hastur switches into R’Lyehian. “Mgleth? fahf ah ahf' ymg' gotha?”

Mgleth!

So this was going to be that kind of conversation. Arthur sighs, gives in, and sits back down to poke at his Turkish eggs.

Hastur repeats and continues. [“Truth? This is who you want? This… weak, pitiful creature? I know you feel his mortality. We aren’t even discussing the flaws of his personality now.”]

John growls. [You damn well know the answer is yes.]

[“Have you considered,”] Hastur says without warning, [“that you still get to keep him if you come home to me?”]

John isn’t prepared for that. He chokes. [What?]

“You okay?” Arthur murmurs.

Fine. Shut up.

Arthur rolls his eyes, but does.

[“This whole time, John, you’ve been offered a choice—him or me. I understand. It’s a terrible position. I see now you will never give him up. I didn’t truly grasp your passion for him until… well. The other night.”]

Hastur makes it sound absolutely illicit.

[What’s your damn point?] John snarls.

[“That things have changed, John. You can have both.”]

John makes a choked sound, worse this time.

“Don’t let him get to you,” Arthur murmurs around another bite of egg.

[That’s not… that’s not true,] says John, stumbling over the consonants.

[“Isn’t it? He is here, cared for, through no choice of my own—and that would not change if you came home. Come back, John. End this. And we will still keep him. He stays as he is. Perhaps even… better cared for, as you and I would be working together for his well-being, for once.”]

Silence.

[“It’s not as though you can handle his needs as you are, and I don’t really want to—but together…”]

Arthur. Get up. We’re leaving.

“Must’ve been a hell of a secret loud conversation,” Arthur mutters, standing.

“Think about it, Piece. That’s all I’m saying,” says Hastur.

John wants to do it. Oh, gods, he wants to do it. He’s panicking because he wants to do it. Move. Go. Now.

“All right, shit. Moving.” Arthur heads toward the door as best he can.

Left! Damn it. More left.

“C' ahor h' goka mgn'ghftephai,” Hastur says after them, calm, content, condescending.

John hisses.

“What the hell did he say now?”

We could give him sight.

Nothing. He’s being an ass. He’s pissy he has to share you.

Arthur scoffs. “Has to? You’d think he’d be grateful he doesn’t have to… I don’t know. Bother with me all by himself, or whatever this is.”

We could give him sight.

It’s more complicated than that.

“What else did he say? He said a lot, John.”

John is quiet a moment too long. I don’t want to talk about it.

Arthur frowns. So it really was that kind of conversation. He doesn’t have the emotional energy to push. “Fine.”

Left. You keep drifting today.

“Sorry,” Arthur murmurs.

Oh… to be whole.

And to have Arthur.

John wouldn’t do it, of course. Of course. He’d never. But damn Hastur for saying it.

Damn Hastur for planting the idea.

Damn Hastur for offering something that John wants to believe could… work.

Maybe.

You could have both.

No, I couldn’t, he tells himself, and No, I couldn’t, he reminds himself, and No, I couldn’t, he writes on his heart and repeats in his soul and chants to himself as Arthur works through the next part of the jubilee, playing parts on the piano which are magically transcribed to paper for the instrumentalists he never sees.

You could have both.

No, I couldn’t, John tells himself, because he can never be whole, and fights very hard not to cry.

#malevolent fic #malevolent #malevolent podcast #faroe lester #arthur lester #kiy malevolent #john malevolent #surrogate series

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gobblewanker · 3 years

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A One Time Thing

So, um, I might have made the mistake of writing fanfic on my phone instead of sleeping. Again. I got randomly stuck by the idea of an AU where Sherman takes Stan and Ford away from their parents when they're kids and does his best to take care of them on his own, and I just knew if I didn't write it now I wasn't going to ever.

It had just been supposed to be a one time thing.

When Sherman had still lived at home, it wasn't entirely uncommon for him to be woken up by the timid knock of a small hand at his door, overlayed by the sounds of yelling and crashing from the kitchen downstairs. Somehow - call it practice, maybe - he could sleep through the cacophony of angry sounds. But at the first tiny tap of knuckles on wood, he'd be groggily pulling himself out of bed with a slurred "I'm coming".

Allowing his little brothers to take refuge in his room when mom and dad were at each others throats and the twins were too upset to sleep alone wasn't an uncommon occurrence. He was the big brother, by quite a lot actually, it was his job. He was born first so that he'd be there to protect them when they came after. So he'd already have the experience gained through trial and error. So he could test the waters and let them know where it was safe to step. So he could be there to save them if they started to drown, because if he wasn't, they'd pull each other under instead.

He needed to wade out into the frigid storm and get them back to shore. Even if he was still just a kid too. Even if his brothers were too caught in the current to realize it. Even if the sharks were closing in. Even if there was blood in the water.

Blood.

Stanley's nose bled as Sherman hauled him up bodily, grabbed Ford's hand, and slammed the door to their parents' house with one last string of profanities thrown over his shoulder at their dad.

It was just a one time thing. That was what he told himself as he drove the two eight year olds to his cramped apartment and put them to bed on the couch with an icepack for Ford's black eye and a couple of tissues up Stan's nose. It was just for one night. Just until Pa calmed down enough that Sherman didn't feel violently ill at the idea of leaving the kids with him. Just until Sherman could trust that his brothers would be safe at home. It was just a one time thing.

A day stretched out into a week. A week became a month. A month became a year. Sherman had to leave them in the apartment more than he was comfortable with. He didn't want to, he lived in a crappy area, and there wasn't anything for them to do. He promised he'd try to get more time off, but someone had to pay the bills and no matter how burned out he was, he was not going to take a nine year old up on his offer to "help" by pickpocketing. Stan got himself into trouble enough as it was already. They were decently self sufficient at least. They could keep eachother occupied. Sherman still felt like he was failing them when there where entire days he didn't see them awake. When he had to be out for college classes before they even woke up, and stay out for late night shifts until long after they'd put themselves to sleep. He had to turn down coming to Ford's spelling bees and Stan's sports competitions. He had another job interview.

He hugged them, and promised it was just a one time thing.

Sherman's little brothers didn't complain as much as the other children did. He wondered if that was normal. The few times he could get off early enough to pick them up and walk them back to the apartment, he usually saw the other kids their age whining at their parents about all sorts of things, but the twins rarely ever protested anything. It wasn't like they couldn't. He remembered them both nagging and being stubborn with him when they'd all three lived at home. They were his brothers, they were supposed to be difficult with him. They were supposed to tell him that he couldn't boss them around.

They never did.

It couldn't be normal. He asked if it was, the first time he had to go to a parent teacher conference. Teachers worked with kids the whole day after all, they should know what was normal and what wasn't. All he'd gotten out of it was a lot of questions and sceptical glares. He assured the teacher he was only there because their real parents couldn't make it.

He assured them it was just a one time thing.

Feeding three people on one 20 year old's budget was hard. People his age were supposed to be spending their money on movies, dance halls, and dreams of motorbikes. Not pasta and bread. He was pretty sure Stan shoplifted a few snacks when he allowed the twins to go with him to run errands, but he wasn't about to bring it up. He couldn't bring himself to tell him no. He just wished he could pay for it instead. The fact that he had to stretch their budget to the point where he couldn't even buy his twelve year old brother a few sweets made him feel like a failure. Not nearly as much of a failure as when he looked in the pantry the night before his next paycheck and found nothing but a pack of instant noodles and some random leftover ingredients from the birthday cake he'd managed to squeeze into the budget. He put food colouring on the noodles and joked to the kids that it was worms. They ate it with joyful shrieks and the ultimate preteen-boy accolade of "gross".

Sherman filled the largest glass he had with water and drank, quietly telling himself that it was just a one time thing.

The years continued to creep by, and the twins never complained. So he supposed he was doing something right. What exactly, he wasn't sure. It didn't feel like he was doing anything right. But he supposed he had to be, because his brother's never made a fuss. Then came that one night, one that felt eerily familiar, when there was a knock on his bedroom door. The hands that made the noise were larger, stronger than they'd been, but somehow still just as timid. At the first tiny tap of knuckles on wood, he'd groggily pulled himself out of bed with a slurred "I'm coming".

There'd been a military man at their school that day. Talking to their upperclassmen about war and duty and enlistment. Stan and Ford were still too young, it didn't concern them, and Sherman told them as much as both teens broke down. Sitting together wrapped in blankets and going around and around in aimless circles of attempt reassurance as he tried to assuage their fears. The silent threat that had been looming large but seemingly distant suddenly felt far too close. As if it could be upon them any day.

That didn't matter though. They'd be okay. They'd made it this far, they could keep going. Sherman wasn't going to leave them. Not when doing so would put them back home with Pa. That wasn't going to happen, they'd be fleeing to Canada or Europe or whatever before he let that happen. They wouldn't go back. He wasn't just going to let them go without a fight.

Eventually, he managed to get the two teens calmed down enough to fall asleep. All cramped together uncomfortably on his bed. Cramped, but safe and calm.

He hoped to whatever good was out there that it wasn't just a one time thing.

#gravity falls #fanfic #stanford pines #stanley pines #Sherman pines #not art #late night drabble #tw child abuse #tw poverty #as always let me know if there's any warnings you need me to add #shermie adoption au

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royalsunshinehotel · 3 years

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am I the only one who keeps thinkign about Gawain and a super soft/calm/quiet yn? no?ok ;)

Ladybird

A/N: You sure aren't the only one who keeps thinking about that :))))))

Word Count: 1,119

Gawain knew that he had a reputation for being a cad.

Yet his reputation hadn’t fulfilled him or made him feel like anything more than he was. The green knight had shown him what would happen if he kept up as he was. It wasn’t as if he was upset about this match. He just hadn’t expected his 22nd birthday to come this quickly.

But there you were, a vision in a soft pink gown, and two gold bracelets on each wrists. You smiled at him, and it felt as if everything was exactly as it should be.

“Good morning,” you breathed out, a calm tone making your words float out of your mouth.

“Hello,” greeted the young knight, “How are you this fine morning?” What a stupid thing to say? Was that really all he had for his betrothed? His future queen?

“Quite well, thank you sir.” You replied, trying to ignore the fact that you had yet to meet his eyes.

He was a lot more handsome than he was ten years prior, when you had last seen him. He had all of his teeth now. His skin looked soft and his hair wasn’t taking over his head as it was when he was a child.

“Do you still like worms?” You stutter out, trying your best to come across as confident. Your efforts had failed failed, but he didn't mind

Gawain laughed, and it felt as if the sun had just come out in England.

“I do appreciate them, but I don’t threaten to eat them as I used to.” A moment flashes in your mind of Gawain dangling a poor, wriggling worm above his teeth, snarling like a dog. In retrospect, it was unlikely the worm would even die as he had half of his teeth, but it was still quite distressing.

“Good, I can’t imagine they would taste good cold anyway.” Gawain smiled, seeming shocked on some level.

‘No they don’t.”

“Sir!” You reached over and pinched Gawain’s arm, intending to be soft, but the feel of his muscle under your hand was nearly too much.

Gawain laughed again, and your knees suddenly felt weak. No one had ever made you feel this way, even when you were both children.

“I’m only joking my lady, I swear it.” Your face twists into a small smirk, of course. “Shall we take a walk?” He suggested, offering you his arm.

“I’d like that.” You replied, ignoring how Gawain twitched under the feel of your hand on his. You were so warm, it made him see stars. But he couldn’t allow himself to feel this deeply now, or after all this time. Today was the one day he had to catch up with you, and he intended to make the most of it.

The two of you made your way through the hallways of what was set to be your new home, and Gawain would occasionally squeeze your hand whenever you started to look concerned.

The castle was large, you were likely to need a map. But he would help you. With every squeeze the doubts felt farther and farther away.

“So, when I last left you,” Gawain starts, looking at your face as the sun hits it. “Your favorite animal was a horse. Does that remain true?” You can’t help but giggle at your fascination with the four-legged creatures. You decide to be honest.

“It does, though the fascination is now with their minds, and less their aesthetic.”

“And you were also trying your best to learn the harp, how has that gone?” You scoffed, as the last time he heard you play, you’d had a string snap, leaving you with a sizeable mark on your hand.

“I am still something of a novice, but I simply enjoy it. You’ll have to get used to that when we are wed.”

“I look forward to it.” He did it again, you thought as he looked down. When you dared to meet his gaze, it felt as if he was looking right into your soul. The air seemed to be laced with energy that one would find before a storm. Like beams of light were about to crack across the sky.

“And you sir? What’s your favorite color?” You asked lamely, breaking from his large, dark eyes.

“It’s not yellow anymore, it’s gold.” You face cracked into a smile,

“Then I suppose kingship is a practical position for loving such a color.”

“Not like gold jewels, my admiration lies in the gold found in a sunrise. Though I do like how it looks on your wrists, my lady.”

“An engagement gift from your Uncle, sir.” You give him your hands, and the sparks crawl across your skin again. Gawain was so delicate with his contact, lightly running his hand over the intricate carvings in the gold bracelets.

But once again, the moment ends.

“Oh, hello there!” You say, feeling something, you glance up at Gawain as he stepped closer to you, rummaging through your thick hair to find a ladybird crawling on you.

Gawain’s face flickered with an expression that could have cut you in half from the sheer density.

You want to know what he’s thinking. You want to know if he’s been thinking about you as much as you have him.

“A ladybird.”

“Just like…” You started. Just like the last day the two of you had spent together. You parted with him asking "what do married couples do", and you simply grabbed his face and pulled it to yours.

Oh, to have a twelve year old's confidence.

“That day you broke my nose.” You gasp in shock and for a half-second Gawain thought he might have overstepped, but your face quickly breaks into a sweet smile.

“I still think you’d make an excellent knight, my lady.” He complimented you so effortlessly, you wanted to be skeptical, but you weren’t.

“In another life, perhaps.” Your tone is soft, almost unreadable if he hadn’t been standing as close as he was.

Gawain could feel your chaperone out of the corner of his eye. He wanted to put his lips on yours and take what he’d been waiting 10 years for. He would have married you right then, but he was deemed “too young”.

Oh well. He could wait a few more days. But the weight of unsaid words hung heavy over the two of you. You realized right then that Gawain likely had curbed his manner to match yours, as your mother had said your father did before their wedding. The thought of someone being that considerate made something deep inside you grow hot. He didn’t want to scare you.

Your breath caught as Gawain slowly brought your hand to his lips, and you did everything you could not to think of how good his beard felt on your skin.

Your knees shook once more, just from the explicit thoughts running through your head. Gawain would have never guessed until you told him later.

“Until we meet again.”

#idk if this is soft enough sorry #sir gawain #sir gawain x reader #dev patel #dev patel imagine #the green knight #the green knight imagine

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zevlors-tail · 4 years

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Okay but hear me out

Dad villain Izuku.

( I mean dadzuku for the won but still!)

Like, him having his precious little boy/girl?

Fierce protective dad?

Huh...kinda sounds like the start of a Mob AU.

Idk i just like dad izuku so I thought you might too!

You have just opened a can of worms you cannot close!!! Haha but really, here's some pregnancy/baby headcanons because a lot of people tend to enjoy that. Not really my cup of tea, but I'll make an exception here. To your credit, you've got me really thinking on this. 😳

“Not really my cup of tea”, I say, as I make the world’s longest headcanons about Vil!Deku being a dad.

TW: Pregnancy, children, cursing. :)

Dad Villain!Deku HC's

-Look, Vil!Deku is already possessive as fuck. The second he finds out you're pregnant? He will literally be attached to you at the hip. Can't go anywhere without this man. Can you say coddling?

-He's so thrilled and nervous at the same time. Not about being a bad parent or anything, more about you or your child getting injured, threatened, or put in danger.

-It started with some symptoms that looked like the run of the mill flu. You probably got pretty bad morning sickness, and he fussed over you the whole time; held your hair back for you, rubbed your back, made you tea, the whole nine yards.

-Both of you just thought it was a stomach bug. But you just kept getting sick, and Deku actually took some time off work to stay with you and make sure you were okay (what a gentleman).

-After a week of being sick, this man is so concerned about you and your health that he calls a doctor to your place to take a look at you. God help that poor doctor because if he even looks at you the wrong way, Deku will obliterate him.

-Doctor asks if you could be pregnant, and both of you just kind of go quiet.

-Deku had thought of that possibility but refused to acknowledge it because something that good? Happening to an outcast like him? A criminal? To someone who was never worthy enough to be a hero? No. Way.

-But it did! You can probably see Deku's eyes visibly sparkle when the doc asks that question. The doctor leaves with the theory that you're pregnant and tells you to take a test.

-Congratulations! You're both going to be parents!

-Everything is so different after that. Deku has always been soft on you because you're his Sweet, but he's extra soft and caring now. Also extremely protective and possessive?

-"It's just the grocery store. I can do it myself, it's alright!" You're out of groceries? He's going with you. You can't argue it. "I'll go with you." "What if someone recognizes you?" "They won't say a word about it. I’ll make sure of it." You know what that means...

-Pregnancy cravings are wild, but he's miraculously got it covered. Never forgets a single craving you've had. Always has your favorite foods on hand, including the odd ones. Pickles? There's three whole jars in the fridge. Certain flavor of chips? Always a bag in the pantry. And if there's ever an instance where you crave something he doesn't have on hand, he makes his lackeys go get it while he stays at home with you. But if he absolutely had to, he would get it himself.

-Nobody is allowed to touch you, especially not now that you're carrying his child. If anyone so much as breathes too close to you, they're toast.

-Keeps tabs on you 24/7. Has to know where you're at and that you're okay or he's worrying 25/8.

-Somehow he's even more crazy about you? Just the fact that you're pregnant with his child is enough to stir him up any day, any time. You've definitely caught him staring at your stomach obsessively several times.

-Takes THEE best care of you. You are your child's lifeline and the love of his life, so you have to stay healthy and happy. Once again...can you say coddling? Makes sure you've eaten throughout the day, brings you water, makes you rest, runs you hot baths, generally just keeps an eye on you to make sure you're okay. Oh, and if you're working? Say goodbye to that job for now. No way you're doing anything strenuous while he can help it.

-If you for some reason insist on keeping the 9-5 job and you manage to convince him otherwise, he visits you on your lunch break whenever he can and hacks into the security cameras way too often for his own good. Literally will be in the middle of a meeting watching live feed from your store.

-Whenever the kid is due, he’s gonna have a bit of a rough time during the whole process. It’s hard for him, because he doesn’t trust the doctors and nurses at the hospital to give you top notch care when he’s not there, and he can’t really take you there anyways because of his villain status (do you think maybe villains have hospitals and resources for each other?? That would be kind of cool...). He ends up pulling some strings with a fellow vigilante/former villain connection who works in the hospital, and they work out some sort of undercover deal probably?

-Don’t question, just accept. He’s got it all covered. He gets to stay with you through everything and he’s got the best doctors and nurses on your case, top notch, extremely professional and comforting for you. They don’t bat an eye at a villain and his s/o and child, they just do their job and keep quiet about it (how does some extra cash sound?).

-Super tense right up until it’s all done. If looks could kill, everyone in that room besides you and the baby would be dead. But he softens right up once he gets to hold the baby. Despite you being extremely tired, you’re glad you stayed awake to see this, because there’s a certain look on his face. For a second, it almost seems like he’s back to how he was before...almost as if he was never a villain in the first place. The hope in his eyes is reminiscent of something old and nostalgic; it reminds you of when he aspired to be a hero. But still it’s not quite right.

-He is immediately mesmerized by your child. “They look like you...” He’s never held something so vulnerable before and felt so...warm, other than the times he’s held you.

-He would kill for both you and your child. If anyone ever threatened you or put the both of you in a dangerous situation, he would drop everything without a second thought to come running to save you. Pray for anyone who comes between the two of you; Deku will make sure they meet a fate worse than death.

-You both take turns taking care of the baby when they wake you up at night, but Deku will be willing to get up before you do nine out of ten times. He loves his child, he really does. It gives him something to take care of and nurture and it makes him feel hopeful again. That kid is his pride and joy.

-There was one time (but only one, because you absolutely ripped into him for it) where you heard the baby cry, and Deku offered to get up and take care of it, so you rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. But he never came back to bed, and the baby had been silent for a long time, so you got up to check on them to make sure they were alright, and what did you find? Deku, wide awake at his work desk with his laptop open, baby sitting comfortably on his lap with a bottle, and some surveillance footage and grotesque crime scene pictures pulled up. You were livid.

-”You better not be doing what I think you’re doing. You’re going to traumatize our child.” He looks like a deer caught in headlights when you interrupt his work. The baby just coos and gurgles, and you are absolutely mortified. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you cut him off before he can answer. “Whatever you’re going to say better be a damn good apology, Deku.” Oh, he’s in trouble all right. He just slowly shuts his laptop and brings the baby over to you. Kisses can fix everything, right? ;) He better hope so.

-Even though he’s a villain, the baby always goes quiet when he holds them. It’s like magic, almost. Sometimes you can’t get them to stop crying, and Deku will just come up and look at him with those soft eyes he reserves for only the two of you, and the baby just starts cooing and reaching out for him. Gee, favorites much?

-Never was there ever a moment more peaceful and serene than the time you came home to Deku asleep on the couch with his arms cradled around your child, face soft from sleep and the baby breathing lightly. You feel so lucky to have this in your life. It’s not easy being villains, but this was something you never expected to have, and it’s changed both of you for the better.

Bonus:

-If Deku still has a relationship with his mom, you can bet he gets her to babysit when you decide to go back to work (if you do at all, because he really wants you to stay at home with him and the baby).

-If your mother wasn’t the best or isn’t around, congrats, Mama Midoriya is now your mother, and there is nothing you can do about it. And honestly? Deku loves seeing the way you bond with her. He’s made himself a tiny family that loves him for who he is. There’s no greater feeling in the world than that.

#villain deku #villain!deku #villain deku x reader #villain!deku x reader #villain deku headcanons #bnha headcanons #bnha hcs #mha #bnha #mha hcs

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onecanonlife · 3 years

Text

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 7,998

Chapter Warnings: swearing, blood, violence, injury, threatened death, sui.cidal ideation, mind control, manipulation, victim blaming

Chapter Summary: In which Wilbur makes a desperate choice.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Twenty: dark into the heat

No. No, no, no, he needs to ignore it. He knows better than to listen, knows better than—

He can feel it. He can feel it poking around in his mind. He can feel it again. And it knows he can feel it. It knows, and it’s smug about it. It’s smug because it knows he hates the sensation, feels violated by it, and it likes that, likes the power it has over him. His stomach lurches, and he staggers. Purpled watches him, advancing slowly.

But no. No, he can’t give in, can’t let it distract him. He can’t.

“What’s it offering you?” he gasps out. He tries to stand straighter, but the world around him wavers and ripples, and not just in the heat. He can feel it, feel it still, though it has not yet spoken again. It is going to. It is going to, going to speak to him with honeyed words and dripping promises, going to coax and persuade and worm its way inside, and knowing that it’s coming doesn’t make it any easier to bear.

Only time will tell whether it makes it easier to resist.

Purpled shrugs, still approaching. Once he attacks again, he’s done for. He can’t fight off Purpled on a good day, much less now.

“Money,” Purpled says. “I mean, what else? It’s a job.”

And the way he says it is as if—

“It’s not controlling you,” he says, and wonders how he didn’t realize it before. Purpled looks completely unchanged. No part of him has faded to white or deepened to red, and his voice holds none of the fanatic edge that the Egg’s followers possess. “It’s just paying you.”

“I don’t like the thought of being mind controlled,” Purpled agrees. “But I do like being paid. So, like I said, sorry. But I’ve taken the job.”

“I’ll double whatever they’re paying you to switch sides,” he says. “Or not even switch sides, if you don’t want. Just stay out of it. Don’t attack me and mine. Leave.”

Purpled tilts his head. He’s listening. Good. His grip on his sword does not relax, but he pauses in his approach.

“How do I know you’re good for it?” he asks.

“I’m good for it because my brother is Technoblade,” he says. “You know, the Blood God? Nigh on impossible to defeat in combat, one of the richest people on the server? He honors the agreements he makes, and I, as his brother, can make one for him. You’ll get your money.”

“So the money’s not even yours,” Purpled says. “But—Technoblade, you say? And you just want me to stay out of it?” He pauses. “Triple it and you’ve got a deal.”

“Done.”

And just like that, Purpled nods. There may be some measure of relief in his face; Wilbur isn’t sure. But perhaps Purpled was never all that comfortable taking orders from the thing, money or no. But Purpled nods, and Purpled moves toward the exit, and Jack, at least, notices, and shouts, “Traitor!” Some of the vines spring to life, attempting to stop him from leaving. But Purpled slices through them easily enough, with a practiced and steady hand, and then he’s vanishing up the corridor.

He didn’t expect it to be that easy.

(but at the end of the day, mercenary or not, isn’t Purpled still a child, too? a teenager caught up in forces beyond his control, just trying to make it through to another day? perhaps he was looking for an out all along, and if that is the case, he is more than happy to give him one, and not just for his own sake)

You have always been clever, the Egg says, always been quick with your words and quick to spin a deal in your favor, quick to have them all dancing to your tune, so very quick to use whatever power you have, so very quick, but you know better than to thank yourself for it, know better than to believe that it lends you superiority, and you know better than to believe that this is a victory at all, know better than to believe you have accomplished anything. What is your plan, Wilbur Soot? What blow do you seek to strike against me?

He shakes his head. It’s digging deeper, like a swarm of stinging hornets crawling in his skull. He takes a few clumsy steps forward, begging his blurry vision to resolve. It doesn’t, not quite, but he can see well enough to know what’s happening, to see that Jack and Niki are concentrated on their attack, that Tubbo is vicious in his counters and Tommy is halfhearted, and Fundy—where is Fundy—?

There, a few feet away, crouched on the ground, hands on his ears. The whites of his eyes are visible, and he rocks back and forth slightly. “Shut up,” he says, barely audible, “shut up, no, no, I’m not listening to you, leave me alone—”

He sees red for a different reason.

“Stop it,” he rasps. “Stop it. Leave him be, leave them all be.”

They are with me because I give them everything they want, everything they dream, and if your little wonder, your little champion joins my ranks then it is because you have failed him, because you cannot give him the love he deserves, and that is no one’s fault but yours, ash child, the Egg says, and he nearly doubles over with the force of it, with the truth of it.

(no, no, not truth, not truth, because here before you is a true monster the true villain the true enemy and it lies and manipulates as part of its nature and you can feel its claws in you and you should not think that just because it agrees with your own warped perception of yourself that it is right because you are just beginning to learn that perhaps you are not right yourself not right about yourself and remember what Phil told you, about healing and deserving)

But then, the Egg keeps on, isn’t that better to think about, isn’t that nicer than to imagine his blood spilling across my roots, for I am hungry and I will be fed, and if not with your boy’s blood then with that of someone else but is it not better to imagine him becoming one with me and mine, for is it not better to offer him up to me than to lose him?

(no)

“I’d lose him either way,” he says. “Don’t fuck with me, I’d lose—I’d be losing him just as surely.”

And perhaps he’s already lost him. Perhaps his son no longer wants a father at all. But even if that is the case, he will be damned before he allows the Egg to take him. So he lurches forward again. Draws his bow from his inventory. Fires off a shot. He’s not even thinking about it, really, but he fires off a shot, and he aims it for Jack Manifold

(and he can’t remember the last time he saw Jack Manifold, but he vaguely thinks that he may have taken one of his lives as well, maybe, in the heat and the rush of things, and he can’t remember whether it was a mistake or on purpose but neither matters right now)

and it flies wide. He doesn’t see where it lands. He nocks another arrow to the string. His hands shake. Niki drives Tubbo back with a ferocious flurry of attacks, and Jack is on Tommy, and if he doesn’t do something about this, there will be blood spilled here. Blood watering the roots.

You know you could stop this, the Egg says, you know that it is within your power, for I have offered you everything, everything you desire, and I shall give you fire and I shall give you rest and I shall give you your brother’s safety assured and he will not be harmed by me and mine and we shall look after him, for now and for always, he shall be mine as all creatures must be or perish but he shall be safe, and you can rest knowing you have done everything and have everything you want in the end, and it can all be yours and you know this.

“Shut up,” he says. “Shut up.” Just a few more steps. Why does he feel so far from them when he’s only a few steps away? Just a few more steps and he can join the battle, can drive them back and away from those he’s sworn to protect,

(but these were his countrymen and he swore to protect them too and now look at them all children in a war that spiraled out of their control and never ended the soldiers never coming home because there was no home to return to and so the soldiers keep on marching on and they cannot learn to put their weapons down because there is no place to let them rest and no assurance of safety and the war continues whether seen or unseen and the soldiers keep on marching on)

and he can draw his sword even though his swordplay has never been his strongest suit.

Except, no, he needs to use the sword for something else, needs to—the Egg has to be the priority, because if he destroys the Egg, then this will all come to a close, and—

Then you have a choice to make, child of flames and of destruction, the Egg says, and it sounds terribly, horribly amused, and he can’t help but clutch the side of his head as it seems to laugh at him, awful and grating, like his skull has fractured and the shards are being driven into his brain. You have a choice to make, and shall you try to save the ones you hold dear and shall your efforts be fruitless, or shall you raise your hand against me, shall you defy that which you know you seek, that which you know you love, shall you raise a hand against me and fail again, shall you call yourself child of failure and lay your impotency bare.

And then, the Egg stops.

I see, it says. You have a sword.

He inhales sharply.

(it’s in your head and it knows it knows it knows your mind is its for the taking and now it knows)

Niki draws back from Tubbo, face twisting. Tubbo comes to stand beside Tommy again, protectiveness screaming in every line of his stance. Even Jack pauses, and Fundy looks up at him, tears in his eyes, shoulders shaking.

Tommy is staring at him, on his face a dawning dismay.

A sword blessed by the universe and granted by the shell of what was once a god, the Egg says, and suddenly, Wilbur can feel—something else. Something through the Egg, something else looking at him, aware of him. Something that feels like the Egg, but isn’t quite, and he thinks—it’s Dream. Dream is watching, though Dream is blocks away, fighting a battle of his own. A sword meant to destroy the void stuff, the darkness, the corruption, a sword you believe will avail you.

It speaks, and the whole room can hear it. Its voice reverberates in more minds than just his.

You are a thing of dust and ash and soot, and the name you chose for yourself was a prophesy, the Egg says, and you may pretend to have the strength to raise your steel high and drive it against me, you may pretend, but I know you better than you know yourself and I know that even if you had the strength, you would fail, because you have a choice to make and there is only one correct path, only one way out for you, only one way, and you will see it, and you will take it, and what use will your sword be, then?

“You talk a big game for something that the universe itself has sided against,” he says, rather proud of himself for stringing such a coherent sentence together, even while he desperately searches for what the Egg means, what it’s talking about. Because this is a trap, he knows. Likely intended for him. But what the Egg means by a choice, he has no clue, unless it means the choice it’s been trying to get him to make all along, but—

And then, as one, Niki and Jack move. Jack dives for Tubbo, catching him off guard, and there is a terrible snap as Tubbo hits the ground, and Tubbo screams. Tommy shouts, and Wilbur curses, trying to aim for Jack, but there’s too much movement, too much that could go wrong if he misses, because Jack has got Tubbo pinned down, still screaming, each scream interspersed with curses, and Jack doesn’t look like his weight could possible keep Tubbo there, but somehow, all his struggles accomplish nothing. And even as he and Tommy both move forward to help, and even as Fundy seems to be shaking himself out of his stupor, Niki launches herself forward and puts her blade to Tommy’s throat.

And everything goes still.

A choice, the Egg repeats. And Wilbur understands.

“I want to kill him now,” Niki says, her eyes locked on the Egg. And then she scowls, whatever the Egg tells her not for the ears of anyone else, but while she presses the blade further against Tommy’s bare throat, drawing a thin line of blood, she does not cut down. “A choice, then,” she repeats, shifting her gaze to him, and her expression is something like anger and something like defeat. “I wonder if you even know how to make the right one.”

“Let me go,” Tubbo is saying, between sobs. Something is surely broken, but Wilbur can’t get a good enough look to see what. And moving closer may very well spell Tommy’s demise. “Fuck you, let me go, let him go.”

“Just, fuck, just settle down, would you?” Jack demands. “This’ll all be over soon.”

Niki is still watching him.

You have no control here, no power, and here is the choice.

“Wilbur,” Tommy says. His voice trembles. He swallows, and the action pushes his skin just slightly closer to the blade’s edge. More blood trickles down. “Wilbur, you—what is it asking you?”

But he says it like someone who already knows.

(and his brother has a sword to his throat and still seems more concerned for him than for himself and it breaks his heart just as it always does again and again and again)

You may strike your blow, you may take your shot, and no one here will impede your path, and if that is your choice then so be it, the Egg says, but know that should that be, your brother will fall and his blood will sustain me, and behind you his life will fade away even as you toss him aside to strike at me, but it does not have to be this way, void seeker. It does not have to be this way, and you can make the right choice, and the peace you want will be yours, and your brother will live.

He draws in a breath. The beginnings of a plan hatch in his mind. Desperate, crazy—but then, what up to this point hasn’t been? He’s out of options, has let himself be outplayed, and he can’t even let himself think about this too hard, or else it will pluck the idea straight from his mind and it will all be for naught. But he has to try.

There really is only one choice to make.

Tommy’s expression changes.

“No,” he says, “no, no, no, whatever you’re thinking, don’t you fucking do it, don’t you—it’ll be alright, it’ll be alright, I swear, just kill the thing, just kill it, don’t, don’t worry about me, don’t” —He takes in a shuddering, gasping breath, and when he continues, he’s no longer talking to Wilbur— “don’t hurt them, please, you can have me, you can, but don’t hurt them, you can’t, and, and Tubbo, Tubbo, it’s gonna be okay, ‘cause, ‘cause you’re still yourself without me too, and it’s gonna be, it’s gonna be, just, please, Wil, please don’t—”

“Tommy,” he says, and Tommy falls silent. Tubbo does too. They’re all looking at him, and he can’t look at any of their faces for too long, Tubbo’s scrunched up in pain and anger and Fundy’s open wide, almost childlike in his—disbelief, perhaps. He can’t look at their faces, because that makes it hurt worse.

The Egg doesn’t say anything. Nothing he can hear, at least. But it’s waiting. And it feels victorious.

“Tommy,” he says again, “Tubbo. Fundy.”

He breathes in. And out.

“Sometimes things are never meant to be,” he says, and he doesn’t know where the words are coming from, but he lets them flow. “Sometimes things are destined to end even from the very beginning.”

“Wilbur, please—”

“But not this. Not us.” He pauses. “Do you trust me?”

Tommy’s face crumples. He doesn’t respond. Fundy takes in a long, shaky breath, and for a moment, that’s all he can hear. No one really answers him, and he supposes that in the end, that’s an answer in and of itself.

But that’s alright.

He turns to the Egg.

“Our deal,” he says. “The one you offered me. I want it extended. I want everyone in this room alive and safe.”

Everyone in this room. That includes Niki. That includes Jack. Because they were his countrymen, and he owes them this much. Owes them his best effort, even when his best effort once meant their destruction.

(because they were once his countrymen and they were once his friends, and what a picture they make now, and what a picture they made then, back in the summer heat with the walls high and proud around them, as they messed with a camera in their military uniforms, smiling and laughing and free, and it is easy for him to forget that L’Manberg was something beautiful once but it was, it was, it was, and they were beautiful too, and the world was laid at their feet, and they took that photo and he wonders where all the copies went, whether any still exist or whether they all went up in flames, and they were six then and they are six now, the same six, and how bitter and twisted they have all become, how far from that hazy memory of peace they all are)

(and how fitting, perhaps, that it should be the six of them here and only these six, here where it all will come to a close one way or the other, ending just as it began on that sunny summer’s day)

“Wilbur, stop—”

It is nothing to me, the Egg says, and he can feel it, still, can feel it pressing in around him, ready to swamp him, ready to pull him under, and he can hear the whispers, too, just the same as they have always been, whispering fire, whispering death, and he can feel himself begin to lean into them already, can feel himself tempted, can feel his own longing.

And he can still feel, beyond the Egg, Dream watching. Waiting. Considering.

“Fine, then,” he says, and traps his last apology under his tongue. “A deal.”

And he lets the static claim him.

It rushes in around him, and the red dives in eagerly, filling out all the corners of his mind, all the spaces and all the cracks, and he remembers this, remembers this sensation from before, remembers how the Egg coaxed him, persistent and careful, and this is not quite like that, because then, it was like a siren singing a victim to a willing drowning, and now, it as if the entire ocean has opened over his head, a red sea.

There you are, and it is a homecoming, isn’t it, the Egg croons, and his breath stutters in his chest, and I know what you want, I know you long for the fire’s murmurs and the explosion that you once caused and the end of your symphony, forever unfinished, and you were wrested back to this world so cruelly and without your permission, and you do not want to be here, you long for the darkness and the rest of the void, you wish for it with every fiber of your being and you only need listen to me and you can have it.

Yes. He’s having a hard time remembering why he spent so much effort on resisting. Why he resisted the drumbeats that now ring out in his head, a rhythm of war, of blood and of fire, a rhythm that will send him to sleep, if he lets it, and he wants to let it, because the Egg says it is so, and he has let it in, has let it take him over, and the Egg is right. The Egg is right.

(the Egg says it is so, and the Egg must be right, feels right, right like nothing he has ever felt before, but so then why does he)

Come forward, then, and let me grant to you what is yours, the Egg commands, and his feet step forward, once, twice, three times, taking him closer. Behind him, someone is sobbing.

“Wil,” someone whispers, and it sounds like his son. He doesn’t turn around.

Your mind is laid bare to me, and all that you are is mine, the Egg says. I can read your plan, and you thought you could fool me, could take yourself close with none the wiser and break free of my guidance, break free of me and strike before harm could befall your brother, but you cannot be free, because you do not want to be free, because I am giving you everything you want. Did you think you could do as you did before and claw yourself away from me using thoughts of your brother? There is nothing there to use, for I have assured his safety, and you know that.

He does know that. He’s pretty sure that was indeed his plan,

(was it?)

but why shouldn’t the Egg know it now? The Egg is going to give him everything, is going to give him what he could have had before if he was not taken from the room as he was, and now that he is with it again, beating in his mind, a consistent pounding pulse, he feels that jubilation fill him, a hot, heady joy, settling sickly sweet in his gut.

This is right. This is how it was always going to happen. This was meant to be. And the Egg is right; it will be a homecoming, in more ways than one. The void awaits him, and with the Egg curling around him, almost smothering him, he remembers how badly he wants to answer the void’s call, how badly he wants to be dead again, because he made himself an ending and never asked for the story to restart, and it’s unfair that more has been demanded of him.

You played your part, and they were fools to think that you could ever be anything better than what you were, the Egg whispers. You have not changed from the bitter thing you became, and they could not have expected more from you, should not have thought that this would end in any other way, because the void hums like a siren and you want to go, and I will take you there, and you will bleed out before me and feel peace at last and nothing more will be wanted of you. Drop your totem.

Ah, yes, his totem. The one that Techno gave him. He summons it from his inventory, feels its weight against his palm, cold and solid. Its emerald eyes gleam up at him. And then, he goes to drop it, as the Egg says. Somehow, he ends up tossing it over his shoulder instead, rather hard. He’s not sure where it lands. He doesn’t look.

Dream watches. Dream feels—smug. He ignores him. The Egg is what matters.

People are still talking to him. Crying, maybe, but it’s all fallen away, become white noise. There is him, and the Egg, and what the Egg will give him, as long as he does exactly as it commands him. It is as a god, and he is as its vassal, and that is what he’s always striven for.

You love to be useful, the Egg agrees, will abase yourself to anyone to earn your worthiness to live.

(Phil’s voice, steady, sure, and loved: you don’t need to do anything to be worthy of love, you don’t need to do anything to deserve to take care of yourself)

And I know you, the Egg continues, better than you have known yourself. You wanted the fire, wanted to see it all burn around you, and the glee that filled you when you pressed that button was like none you had ever felt.

(no, that’s wrong)

And that same glee again, when you had your father run your sword through your chest, and how eager you were to die, and how eager you are now, how eager, how eager, and you are the same creature you were then, at your core.

(wrong, something about what it’s saying is wrong because these are thoughts he’s had himself so very often but)

A few steps more, and he’s standing next to the Egg. Close enough to touch it. He almost wants to, but doesn’t, something holding him back.

His head pounds. Throbs. Each breath comes as a struggle, though why he’s trying so hard, he doesn’t know.

And you are mine, the Egg croons, my creature now, and I can do with you as I will, but I will give you what you seek so desperately, can you feel it?

He can. He can feel it, the red, soothing as it always has been, and every inch of him cries out for it, cries out for what he

(but does he?)

wants.

And you shall have it, the Egg says. You shall have it.

They’re all calling to him. All of them, but Tommy most of all, calling his name, begging him to stop. He doesn’t turn, even now. Part of him wants to, but when he thinks about it, the Egg pulses in his mind, burning him, expressing displeasure, and he won’t go against what the Egg wants, not when it is about to gift him everything, not when it understands him so well. So he does not turn, and—distantly, he thinks that this was the idea. To use Tommy to pull himself out again, just as he did before. But it won’t work this time, because Tommy is going to be safe. The Egg has sworn that he will be unharmed.

You never had a hope of resisting me, the Egg says, as I know you as no one else does, and I know what you want, and you shall have it now.

Vines creep around his ankles, slide around his legs, his arms. And one rests around his neck, lightly, but he can feel the thorns. They’re a caress, an embrace,

(but you know what an embrace is like and this is not that you know that this is not that because en embrace is Phil’s wings or Tommy’s face in your shoulder or Techno gripping your shoulders and pulling you in and you know better you know better)

a promise.

(but something isn’t right and your mind stirs and there is disquiet hesitation that even the red cannot drown out)

You wanted fire and to let it all burn down around you, and you wanted it all to end, and if you cannot have the fire again, your fire you so love, if you cannot dance victorious on the wreckage then you will have the dark.

The vines tighten. And through the red, Wilbur realizes what’s wrong.

(because here is a secret you keep locked away: you love the fire not for what it is, but for what it granted you, for the ending so desired, but the fear has never left you, the fear instilled in your veins the first time your country went up in a blaze and your people fell around you and it was no game, and here is the second secret: you fear the fire, and at the last, you decided you deserved to die afraid)

(it all comes down to deserving)

It’s difficult to think. Difficult to wade through the red haze, but this—this is important, because the Egg is going—is going to give him what he wants, so why does it—it’s supposed to understand him, so why—

(it all comes down to deserving, and what he thinks he deserves, and the Egg is in his head, and what is the Egg drawing from if not his own thoughts, but the thing about his thoughts is that they might be)

“That’s not what I wanted,” he whispers. “It’s not what I want.”

The Egg presses in further, and he can feel it in his head, pulling at his thoughts, at his emotions, telling him that he is wrong, that this is what he wants, but he stands his ground, because—his head’s a mess, but he—he doesn’t—

(Phil’s voice again, careful and sad and gentle and kind, because for all his father’s faults he has never doubted that he loves him, and Phil’s voice says, remember that you do deserve better things, and there’s an implication in there that Phil thinks that what he believes he deserves is wrong, and he hasn’t really had time to think that over, but)

The vine tightens around his throat. The thorns dig into his skin. Not breaking it, not yet.

“You’re offering me what I think I deserve,” he says, and it’s like coming up for air, if only for a moment, and finding that the sky is still blue. For a second, he exists outside of himself, outside of the hooks the Egg has dug into him, and he can experience its presence for the horror that it is. And then the red takes him again, and he’s drowning, suffocating, his lungs full of syrup, and the Egg is unhappy, and part of him wants to grovel and apologize and do anything to be sure that he receives his due, and the Egg speaks again and rakes its voice across his body, and he shudders violently.

Then what is it that you think you want? it asks, and it is angry and it is patronizing, and it is pushing up against him, twisting him, forcing him to agree with it, to believe its words, and half of him does and the other half comes up for air again, bobbing in the open ocean, sharks circling, and that gives him just enough room to consider the question, to truly consider it.

What does he want?

(freedom, once, freedom and choice and a place to call his, a place where he and his loved ones would be safe, and he built the walls as both practicality and symbol, and he wanted to protect, wanted to lead, wanted a land that was good and a land that was free)

If he could have anything, anything at all, what would he—

You want rest, the Egg hisses, and you know it, know that you are the villain and you deserve death, and you want rest and you want peace, to be released from this world that is cruel and corrupt and full of darkness, to be released from your responsibilities, you want rest and I will give it to you—

Yes, perhaps, but

(Tommy smiles at him with sunlight in his hair and in his eyes and Tubbo grins sharp and sure and Fundy is with him and no longer regards him with hatred and Techno has a book in his hand and his voices are quiet and Phil stares on and his posture is straight and not bent with guilt and with pain)

(and he is with them, and he has so far to go, but he is happy)

(and if he puts all of himself aside, puts aside his self-loathing and his fears, puts aside all the harm he knows he has done and all of the punishment he knows he still deserves, then that is what he’s always wanted, isn’t it? his family with him, the days stretching on, and here is a realization, breaking like the dawn itself: he hasn’t ever thought that he deserves to be happy, but he wants it, he wants it, he wants it, just as he wants to be a better man, he wants to be happy again, he wants, even if he doesn’t deserve he wants)

he has always wanted rest. Since coming back, he has wanted rest. But he is still here.

He decided to be better, and perhaps he’s not doing a very good job of it in any sense of the word, but he decided, and he’s sticking to it, and that is what he wants. More than death, he wants another chance.

He wants to stay. Not only for other people, but for himself, too. He wants to stay, and he wants to stay more than he wants to die.

Admitting as much lifts a weight from his chest, one that he hadn’t known was there at all.

Then I shall give you that, as well, the Egg says, and for the first time, he hears it: desperation. Slowly, surely, the red begins to clear, leaving him with shaking limbs and a headache that makes it difficult to focus, but the Egg’s voice is no longer so welcoming, the red no longer so appealing, and he hurts, and he hears Tommy’s broken protests, Tubbo’s sobs, Fundy’s whimpering, he can hear them, and they tug at his heartstrings where only a moment before, he ignored them, so sure of his course as he was, so sure of his course as it made him.

He’s pulled himself out. He pulled himself out, and he did it himself, with shaking, bloody fingers, and he hasn’t climbed back over the top of the cliff yet, but he’s hanging on. He’s hanging on. He’s stopped his fall.

(and he doesn’t know what healing is doesn’t know what it is to be better but perhaps here, now, he can admit to himself that being better includes being better to himself, too, and he has never allowed himself to think as much before but perhaps it is truth, and perhaps he can let himself hope, and what a time it is to finally come to this conclusion but something of truth rings in it and he knows that this is right)

They will be happy, the Egg says, and they will be alive, and I will keep them safe, and you will be happy as well, and you will have what you desire.

The words are like hands, pulling on him. But he can recognize as much. Recognize the sensation, slimy and insidious, of something else trying to change his thoughts, trying to reach in and change him. The ground beneath his feet feels more stable now, his footing found at last. He almost let himself slip. Almost, but he’s found footholds, handholds, and he did it himself, and that feels important.

“You and Dream are the same,” he murmurs, and he can feel it paying attention, feel it wanting to know what he’s about to say. And beyond it, somewhere further away, he thinks he can still sense Dream looking, too, Dream watching him, listening to them. “You’re always so eager to talk. So certain that you’re right. But you’re too prideful, and that’s the end of you.” He summons his best glare. Plants his feet. Playing his hand like this is not wise, but somehow, he knows that the Egg will let him finish, will let him get to the end of his speech before trying anything. It wants to know. Even now, it is prideful, sure it can contain him, that he will not be able to harm it. “Even knowing what my plan was, you let me get close. You assumed you could overwhelm me. You thought I’d be yours. And for a minute, you did. I was. But do you want to know what your biggest mistake was?”

The vine around his neck tightens.

“Even when you knew you were losing me, you still let me talk,” he finishes, and in one movement, drops the sword into his hand

(and he can hear the universe again, can hear it humming, vibrating against his skin, and he burns with it)

and slices through the vine before it can strangle him. In the next second, he drives it forward, putting all his weight behind it, and shoves it into the Egg.

It slides in like a knife through butter, and several things happen at once.

Behind him: chaos. Chaos that he can only hear and not see, but several people shout, and then Jack Manifold cries out, and there is another clash of metal, and then Tommy shouts, not in pain but rather a loud, wordless denial, and there is a great cracking sound, like the air tearing itself apart, and the golden flash reflects off even the Egg’s surface, and the room crackles like ozone, like a bend in reality, and it is the activation of a totem, and he can only hope that it will be enough.

And the Egg screams.

It is like a thousand voices crying out in a thousand discordant notes, like several hundred orchestras all out of tune in different ways, like a shriek of violins and a moan of tubas and the drums stutter and falter and tap out infinitely different rhythms until it’s all a clanging, howling mess of static and white noise and still, something screaming, something old and powerful and terrible in its death throes.

He screams too, he thinks. He can’t hear himself anymore. Can barely feel himself, though he tries to tighten his fingers on the hilt of the sword.

At the edge of his perception, the universe encroaches. Humming, humming, and for a second, they harmonize with him, and in that second, the universe says,

(you did well, and now look, look upon your adversary and know what they are, know the darkness and the corruption and the rot and the sickness)

And he does look, and he sees

(the Egg indeed is not an Egg and for this second, for this one moment in time and out of time, he sees it for what it is, something incomprehensible, something existing against all the laws of the world, all things natural, a blight, a bug, a twist in the code that makes up all things, a virus, and even despite that, it was not done growing, not done gathering strength, and one more sacrifice would have done it, glutted as it was on Dream’s shared power and the blood of the Blood God, one more meal would have done it, and he was close to being that meal, inches away from dying and giving it what it needed to hatch, and perhaps it would have kept its promise, perhaps it would have allowed his loved ones to live, but it would have been no life, no life at all, under the control of a thing that at its core sought to devour worlds)

But the universe says,

(but it is well, it is well, for your strength was enough and you are stronger than you know, and you are worthy and you have come to the beginnings of understanding, and you realize now that you are deserving of the world, that you deserve to live, and you want to live and to make yourself better, and you are deserving of time, and we are with you, and you are not alone, and you have freedom now to make it all right)

A million stars twinkle in his vision, and then, he comes back to himself. There is no more screaming. No more whispering. His head is quiet.

He still holds the sword. But the Egg itself is shriveling, blackening, twisting, collapsing in on itself, and as he watches, it and all its vines become husks, dark and small. He draws the sword out, and the area around it crumbles to dust.

It seems so small. So small, so impotent. But it is a corpse now, he supposes, so that is only right. Relief floods him.

It’s over. At last, it is over. The Egg is gone.

The sword no longer shimmers, no longer shines. The runes are only shapes, now, not glowing, not humming. It has served its purpose; it’s just a sword, now, like any other sword, and he’s tired of holding swords. He never was much good with them anyway. So he puts it back in his inventory, and turns

(and as he does, he catches a glimpse of something in the husk, in the shriveled shell, something impossibly blue, but that can wait)

around, and in that motion, his heart stops beating.

Only for a moment before it starts up again, but its rhythm is stuttering, weak, too quick and too slow by turns. He wonders if that’s something he should be concerned about. He feels no pain, though his body seems rather numb, now that he’s thinking about it. What’s important now, though, is the scene in front of him, because they’re all alive. All of them, alive. Tommy is hugging Tubbo, tightly, like he thinks he’ll disappear, and Tubbo himself glitters with gold, shimmering all around him. He had to use the totem, then.

He tries not to think about what would have happened if he hadn’t thrown it behind him. He’s pretty sure that he was trying to give them a failsafe, even under the Egg’s thrall as he was, but he can’t be sure. Can’t trust his memories of only a few minutes ago, probably.

Niki and Jack are both on the ground, surrounded with dust from the crumbling vines. Their eyes are closed, but their chests rise and fall. They’ll be fine, then, and relief mixes with sorrow; they’re not under the Egg’s control any longer, but he knows better than to think that means all is fixed. Fundy has staggered to his feet, is hovering by Tommy and Tubbo, face still tear-stained.

But he’s fine. He’s okay. They’re all okay.

He lets out a breath, and takes a step forward. It’s more difficult than it should be. Pain flares in his—flares everywhere, actually, his abdomen and chest and limbs, and his head is still killing him, though that much, at least, doesn’t surprise him. But then, it dies down, replaced by the numbness again.

Tommy pulls back from Tubbo. “You ever do something like that again, I’m killing you myself, Tubbo, fuck,” he says, and Tubbo laughs, a little tearfully. And then, Tommy rounds on him. “And you, what the fuck did you think you were doing? How stupid are you?”

“A bit stupid,” he agrees. The words come out slurred. He frowns, and so does Tommy. Or at least, he thinks that he frowns. He can’t feel his face. Tommy is definitely frowning, though, and then Tommy is walking toward him, or stumbling, more like, and then all three of them are.

“Are you good?” Tommy asks. “You’re making weird faces.”

“That was a good throw, with the totem,” Tubbo says, almost at the same time. Where Tommy stands right in front of him, Tubbo goes around to stand at his side, looking him up and down with narrowed eyes, narrowed eyes that flicker with golden light. He’ll crash once the magic burns itself out, though it shouldn’t be nearly as bad as what Techno went through. He keeps rolling his shoulder, flexing his arm, as if shaking out a wound that is no longer there. “Saved my skin, there. But man, that was a risky play.”

“I can’t believe it worked,” Fundy says quietly. “I thought the Egg could read thoughts. I mean, I felt it in my head, man. It was awful. But how come it didn’t know you were pretending?”

“Pretty sure he wasn’t pretending,” Tommy says, and—he wishes he didn’t say that, because now still doesn’t feel like the time to talk to Fundy about any of this, even though he probably should, at one point, because if he’s going to be a better father, he ought to start by telling him things that he wants to know, despite the part of him that still screams to shelter him, screams that he’s not ready to learn about such terrible things, but—he’s grown. Fundy is grown. He needs to work on keeping that in mind.

“I just can’t believe it’s over,” Tommy continues. “Just like that? After the days we’ve had? Feels anti-climatic—”

“Anti-climactic,” Tubbo supplies.

“Oh, piss off. Anti-whatever, it feels all sudden, doesn’t it? Though I suppose there’s still Dream.” Tommy’s face darkens. “Guess we need to go see about everyone else.”

“Uh, Wilbur?” Fundy breaks in, hesitant, but not angry. Not too upset. Perhaps concerned? Is Fundy concerned for him? “Your, um, your nose is bleeding.”

Tommy and Tubbo go silent, and he blinks. Is it? He can’t feel it, can’t feel any blood dripping down, but he can’t seem to move his arm to check. He can’t seem to move anything, actually, and when he opens his mouth, intending to say something—though what, he has no idea—he finds his airway obstructed by something. He coughs, and their faces all go very alarmed.

“Oh, shit, he’s bleeding from his mouth,” Tubbo says, and at the same time, Tommy steps in closer, right up against him, and grabs his shoulders, peering into his face.

“Wil?” he says, and Wilbur would try to respond, he really would, but Tommy’s touch has chased away the numbness, starting at the points of contact and radiating outward and in its wake is—is too much, too much to think about, too much to describe, too much to handle, and he’s been stabbed and he’s been shot and none of that felt anything like this, because this feels like lava’s been poured down his throat and he’s burning alive from this inside out, and his lungs are having severe difficulty inhaling, and his chest is tight and he can’t feel his heartbeat so he thinks that maybe—

“Get him on the ground, get him down, get him down, oh, fuck—”

The world tips, and he’s lying down. The ceiling above is red, and dust drifts into his eyes. Dust from the vine husks, breaking apart as he watches them, crumbling into nothingness. It’s like watching ash fall. Like watching soot fall.

His chest constricts further, and he gasps for air. Air that doesn’t come. Air that doesn’t come, because, because—

They’re all talking over each other. He can barely follow the conversation. Dimly, he realizes that he’s quite panicked, though that fact itself has taken a backseat to the fact that he can’t breathe properly. Can’t breathe properly, because—

He thinks he might be dying, actually. He’d forgotten, how the Egg strikes back at those who strike it. He’d forgotten. He wonders if the universe did, too.

The vines aren’t burning, so there’s no ash falling. Not really. But there would be a twisted kind of poetry in it if they were, if it was flakes of soot tumbling down. Soot falling.

Soot falling.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #wilbur soot #tommyinnit #tubbo #fundy #purpled #nihachu #jack manifold #/rp #cat writes fic #long post #*jazz hands*

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nightowlwriting · 3 years

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summary: nott is not very kind to herself. you love her, but you know that she has someone that she sends package after package to. you won't get in the way of that but you will be kind to her in a way that she understands. (part 7/13 of the kindness series, a thematically connected series of c2/exu imagines)

word count: 1.7k

warnings: mentions of discrimination because nott is a goblin, insecurity

masterlist - request - support my work? - ao3

Loving Nott takes a special kind of person. You are that kind of person.

When Mighty Nein first formed, you had kept yourself back and just observed everyone. The ways they acted, how they spoke, different intergroup interactions. You like to know who you’re traveling with and, somewhere along the way of getting to know everyone, Nott wormed her way into your heart. You don’t care that she’s a goblin, don’t care that she’s threatened to kill everyone except Caleb several times over seriously at least half of those times. You don’t care what she could have done to be thrown in jail. (Half because you know she’s a good person, and half because you know that it’s most likely just because she’s a goblin.)

Mostly, you don’t care for the way that Fjord looks down on her for stealing. You’d watched her seal everything she stole up once, and mail it away, so you know it’s not for you. She’s stealing for someone else until she has enough to justify spending the mailing cost to ship it to them. The night you realized this, you cried yourself to sleep. The force of her love for this unknown person had hit you fully in the chest, and you cried for hours. Over the months of getting to know the Mighty Nein, you’d also come to know how they loved.

It was at that moment, crying yourself to sleep, that you realized that Nott loved with her entire body and soul but didn’t know how to show it any other way than stealing things, baring her teeth, and sinking into her flask. Most of that probably came from being a goblin in a place that looked down upon them, like they were vermin rather than people. How long had she gone without kindness? How many times had she flinched away from casual touch since you’d known her? Your heart aches for her because you know that she hates herself, hates the body that she’s stuck in, and hates the way the world sees her.

By the Gods, you realize one day, she’s not even kind to herself. The Mighty Nein might be the first group of people that were wholly nice to her, and even then there was still tension because of her habits. You wonder if Caleb was the first person to be kind to her ever and have to turn your head away from your friends at breakfast to hide the way that you’re beginning to cry at the thought. But you’re lucky because it’s a shopping day. Shopping days were becoming more and more common the more money you guys got for your mercenary work - more coin to spend, more upgrades to your weapons.

For you, today, it meant more time alone. That’s exactly what you needed to put your plan into place. After breakfast you take off on your own, fumbling with your bag so that Caleb and Nott don’t notice that you’re following them to the shops they go to. The plan is last minute, a way to show Nott kindness and appreciation in a way that she’ll not only understand but hopefully appreciate.

You hum a jaunty tune as you follow them, staying about a shop back, and watch Nott as she flitters around Caleb while he shops. Every now and then, she’ll pick something up and observe it. A jar of mismatched buttons, a children’s book, a doll that is missing one arm but has a funny little top hat. You know she thinks about taking each of them and, every time Caleb stops her from doing so, she counts out her coin to see if she can afford it. Nott cannot afford any of them - last night she’d been determined to buy everyone a round in the bar and had burnt through most of the last payment you all had received. You had watched her do that, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to buy anything.

That’s why the plan had fallen into place as well as it could for a plan made over breakfast in your head while you were juggling conversations.

Nott deserves nice things. She deserves kindness - she deserves kindness in a way that she will understand and not be able to misinterpret. Her life has been so hard and she has been so unhappy in the past. You just want to make her happy. Want to be the one to give her that kindness, the ability to send her packages filled with love without burning through all of her cash. You want to love her without telling her how you love her because you’re definitely not ready to tell her that.

Besides, who’s to say the packages aren’t going to a lover?

So instead of pulling her into your arms, instead of telling her all of these things and being upfront with her, you use your shopping day to inadvertently show her and tell her all of these things.

Once Caleb and Nott leave the shop they’re in, you duck into it. You snatch up the buttons, the children’s book, the doll with the funny little hat and you buy them. They’re pricey for a consignment shop, but you hand over most of your coin and put your treasures into your bag before heading back to the street. You’re not too worried about being essentially out of money because, well, it takes a certain kind of person to love Nott. You are that kind of person. It doesn’t matter if you don’t have money, because you’re not above stealing to make her happy. You would do anything to make her happy.

The day continues and you amass a lot of things to give to Nott. When you get back to the tavern and retire to your room, you’re still on the fence about whether or not you want to give them to her in person or in secret. When you think about the pressure receiving so many gifts will put on her, you decide to give them to her in secret. Of course, it’ll be too obvious if you stretch out the gifts over weeks or months. She’ll eventually be able to figure out that it’s someone in the group and, eventually, she’ll figure out that it’s you. Nott is very smart., no matter how much she would like to pretend she is not. You empty your bag and pack everything into it, another plan falling into place as the sun goes down.

Jester comes to announce that they are going to go downtown for dinner and you brush her off. “I have a headache,” You say, scrunching up your face to make it believable as you stand by the door, “I think I’m going to take a nap and eat something here before bed.”

She worries for you, offers a spell to make you feel better, but you brush her off. “Not when you’re going downtown,” Is your excuse, “I want you guys to be prepared always. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you wasted a spell on me and then something happened.”

“Makes sense,” Jester nods. Her eyes are wide and trusting and, honestly, you almost feel bad for lying to her. “I will come and check in on you when we arrive home!” She kisses your cheek and is off. You stand at the door for a minute more, turning to shut yourself back into your room when Caleb and Nott pass you. The bag heavy on your hip burns like she’s going to be able to look at you and see what you have for her.

“Are you not joining us?” Caleb asks, brows furrowing. Nott looks up at you with almost the same expression and you almost give in. Almost join them for dinner, just so the worry on Nott’s face goes away. You hold your ground.

“No, I have a headache,” You repeat your lie, “I’m just going to bunk down for the night after I get a snack downstairs.”

Nott reaches for your hand. “Well, Jester can heal you.” She says, “So that you’re not in any pain.” You smile at Nott and hope you’re not blushing at her care for you.

“Ja, or perhaps I could try.” Caleb shrugs. “Healing magic is complicated, sicher, but I can figure it out.”

“I’m okay,” You squeeze Nott’s hand, and she squeezes back. “It’s nothing big and, besides, we wouldn’t want to make our little cleric jealous when you learn how to heal, ja?”

“But you are hurting,” Nott shakes her head, “You shouldn’t just let yourself hurt when there’s a way to fix it.” Her words carry more weight than maybe she intends them to and you find yourself almost crying again.

“Nott, I promise you it’s not that bad,” You smile and squeeze her hand again, hoping that your hand isn’t becoming clammy, “I’ll get something small and then sleep it off.”

“I will come check on you when we get home.” She says, finally taking her hand back only to wring it nervously in front of her. “And Caleb didn’t put the string spell on our room, so if you want to go lay down in there, you can. We’re sharing with each other and I’m sure that Beau is going to challenge Fjord to another drinking contest. She’ll be loud when she comes back to your room.” Caleb sniffs and you know that she hasn’t run that past him.

“Thank you, Nott,” Your throat is clogged with emotion but you decline. “I hope that by the time you come back I’ll be better.” You feel sort of bad lying to your friends, but it’s for a good cause. (Also you reason with yourself that if you don’t feel bad about stealing those things for Nott, you shouldn’t feel bad about lying so that you can sneak into her room and hide the treasures amongst her things for her to find.) So you lie. You let them leave. You sneak to Caleb and Nott’s room and hide the trinkets and treasures among their things for them to find in a few minutes, a few hours. a few days, a few weeks.

Hopefully, it won’t make her suspicious. Hopefully, you’ve hidden them well enough. Hopefully, they are kind enough and they make her feel loved.

#critical role imagine #c2 imagine #cr imagine #nott the brave x reader #nott x reader #nott the brave / reader #nott / reader #nott the brave #nott #campaign 2 imagine #critfic

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zelenacat · 3 years

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When We Were Young- An Obitine Story- Chapter 19

Representative Jaira Deere of the Trade Federation was more than she seemed. After their morning session, which broke for lunch, the Representative was dragged unconscious into the dining room.

“Your Grace-”

Ambassador Dee stood, “Jaira, what happened?”

“We found her by Count Vizsla’s cell, talking to the prisoner,” Gorg explained, “she mentioned something about corruption, but hit her head against the cell before she could be questioned.”

The Ambassador looked deeply saddened, betrayed, almost. Satine knew the feeling.

“Put her next to the Count,” the Duchess ordered, “make sure she gets any medical attention she needs.”

Gorg bowed and went to follow Satine’s orders.

“I must apologize, Your Highness,” Trai Dee bent his knees, “I did not know this would happen.”

“I do not blame you, Ambassador,” Satine said kindly, “we all have been decided in this business.”

After lunch, the trade discussion was finalized. Certain safe trade routes between Mandalore and Coruscant could not be found, so Mandalorian cargo ships were granted access into both Seperatist and Republic space. Of course, this was only allowed when on duty and transporting goods, offending this statute was punishable by imprisonment. To further limit misbehavior, Mandalorian trade ships were only allowed to take off after an inspection and on certain days of the week. Any Mandalorian cargo ship flying on Saturday or Sunday would have its contents thoroughly examined. The Duchess would personally speak with the Dock Managers in the next few days to help smooth the transition.

“I would like to apologize again, Your Grace,” Ambassador Dee frowned, “I can’t believe about Jaira.”

“No need to apologize,” Satine frowned, “war breeds betrayal.”

After a moment of silence, Trai Dee spoke quietly.

“She’s my niece.”

“My sister leads the Death Watch with her childhood friend.”

“We are in a similar position, then.”

Satine looked down, “It is a terrible place to be.”

“If I may, Your Grace,” Ambassador Dee turned, “I would make friends with both the Separatists and the Republic, this war is going to last a long time.”

“I want to stay out of this war.” Satine countered.

“It is impossible,” Dee shook his head, “as the head of the Council of Neutral Systems that would be moral, but you need to protect your people.”

Satine nodded, “And my friendship with the senator offends some.”

“Yes.”

The Duchess swallowed, “I will take your advice, Ambassador, but for now let’s see to your niece.”

Jaira Deere and Tarrei Vizsla had already been questioned and the Duchess and the Ambassador were given sheets with all the information the guards had gleaned.

“Representative Deere was paid on Coruscant by a Seperatist contact to cause a disruption,” Gorg frowned, “it appears that Count Dooku is invested in taking Mandalore.”

“Why?” Satine growled.

“Many people are trying to bring down Senator Amidala,” Jaym slapped a sheet on the table, “reports of new assasination attempts have just come in.”

“They want to shake her and take out your influence,” Ambassador Dee stood, “I would suggest political maneuverings. I am going to see my niece.”

Satine’s mind whirled. Count Dooku, what did she know about Count Dooku? Death Watch didn’t like him, perhaps she should contact her sister.

“An emergency meeting with my private council,” the Duchess stood, “I need the Prime Minister.”

It took five minutes to assemble everyone and inform them of the situation.

“You must contact your Jedi friends too,” the Prime Minister suggested, “get all the info on Count Dooku.”

A plan wormed into Satine’s head.

“We can give Count Dooku to the Jedi,” she grinned, “we invite him here on friendly premise, and get Death Watch to capture him and send him to the Jedi.”

“That is an ambitious plan.” an advisor sighed.

“It does hinge on many things,” Satine agreed, “but the Count has many enemies.”

While one of Satine’s aides filed to meet with the Jedi Council, Satine discussed the new trading plan with her advisors.

“I shall accompany you when Your Grace visits the docks,” Jaru Djarin decided, “we need to send a message to our people.”

“I agree.”

Satine’s comm dinged, it was Obi-Wan. The Duchess didn’t know if she was furious or enamoured.

“Your Grace, are you alright?”

“Excuse me.”

Satine hid the fresher and commed her Jedi.

“You filed a petition?” were his first words.

“We’ve a plan to capture Count Dooku.”

Obi-Wan sighed.

“It’s possible, he wants to capture Mandalore.”

“How will allying with him help that?”

“Bo will capture him before it comes to that.”

Satine could hear Obi-Wan arguing with himself mentally.

“Be careful with my children.” he rasped.

“We’ll be fine.” Satine assured, slightly surprised.

When Satine returned, her staff informed her that the Jedi Council would hear her plan.

“Good,” the Duchess nodded, steeling herself, “when?”

“This afternoon,” the Prime Minister answered, “we have much to do.”

After bidding adieu to the Ambassador, Satine contacted Padme for anything and everything that she knew about the Sith Lord. Next, Satine prepared a formal invitation to Mandalore with her ruling council.

“Inviting a Sith Lord to Mandalore?” Countess Barlor gasped.

“Friendly premises,” Governor Eldar added, “what friendly premises?”

“A celebration of our dealings with both the Separatists and the Republic.” Satine answered.

The Prime Minister shook her head, “Not good enough.”

Satine stiffened, she did, of course, have a backup plan, but she hated the idea, and she hadn’t told Obi-Wan about it.

“Duchess?”

“I will ask him if he’s interested in assuming the title of Duke Consort.”

“No!” Countess Bralor gasped.

Silence descended over the council.

“I will invite him to court me,” Satine swallowed, “that is what the visit is for.”

Governor Eldar was gaping.

“That could work.” Prime Minister Djarin said quietly.

In the silence that followed, Satine stood.

“I must speak with my sister.”

In her private parlor, Satine commed a number she hadn’t called since it was given to her.

“Sister?” “Bo,” Satine gasped, “I’m going to ask Count Dooku to court me.”

Bo-Katan Kryze muttered a string of curses that Satine hadn’t heard since they were girls.

“I need you to rally your troops and help me capture him when he comes.”

“Oh,” Bo breathed a sigh of relief, “that’s better.”

“We’re going to hand him over to the Jedi.”

Bo-Katan was silent for a moment, “That’s ambitious.”

“I won’t underestimate him.”

“Satine,” her sister groaned, “have you thought about this?”

“Yes, Bo.”

Bo-Katan was silent for a moment.

“Let me know when he’ll arrive in Sundari.”

“Thank you.”

Now, the Duchess realized, she was at the hardest part.

“Should I send him a letter first?” Satine asked Jaru.

“Send him a hologram through our Separatist Diplomat, ask to speak with him privately.” suggested the Prime Minister.

Satine recorded the hologram in her personal parlor. Running over what she would say as Parna tightened her corset, Satine found herself exceedingly nervous.

“You won’t actually marry him,” Khaami assured, “it’ll be alright.”

“Still,” Satine stiffened, “a Sith Lord?”

Khaami raised an eyebrow. Fortunately, the Duchess’ comm rang.

“He-”

“Satine, tell me it’s not true!”

“Padme, I-”

“Your meeting with the Jedi Council about a Seperatist problem,” the Senator read, “do tell me what that problem is and how Count Dooku relates to it.”

Satine sighed, “We’re going to trick him and send him into Republic custody.”

“Why is that any of your business?”

“I need connections to both sides.”

“Satine, no-”

“Padme, it’s the only way to save my people,” the Duchess argued, “we need friends, not enemies.”

“Satine, this will only make you enemies.” countered Senator Amidala.

“Padme,” Satine swallowed, “I’m going to ask if he will court me.”

Silence.

“What the actual, kriffing-”

“Shut up, Anakin,” Padme called, “Satine’s not serious.”

“I am,” the Duchess reiterated, “if he courts me, I will contract the Death Watch to fight for him.”

“Oh, Satine-”

“I also intend to show my support for the Jedi.”

“How?” Anakin spat.

“Ani-”

“Satine, really?”

“Korkie will accompany our ambassador to the Republic Senate to allow the Jedi free reign of Mandalorian space and ask if Master Vos and his Padawan would appreciate an extended stay on Mandalore.”

“Satine,” Padme’s voice was shaky, “this is very dangerous.”

“I know.”

“Then why?” Padme whispered.

“Count Dooku is invested in taking Mandalore, we captured his players,” Satine explained, “and if we’re neutral, we’re in more danger than if we are tied to both sides.”

“Satine,” Anakin spoke up, “if you invite him to meet you, he might sense the twins.”

The Duchess grew cold, “What?”

“Force users can sense other force users,” Anakin swallowed, “even if they aren’t born yet.”

Satine cursed, something she almost never did.

“Another reason why this is a bad idea.” Padme added.

“He might not respond right away,” Satine stated, “he could wait.”

“Satine, I have to go,” Padme frowned, “but know I don’t like this.”

“Good luck with the Council.” Anakin added.

The Duchess sighed, “Thanks.”

Satine looked up, Khaami took back the comm.

“We’re ready.” Parna announced, stepping out of the frame.

The Duchess straightened, Khaami nodded, “Good evening, Count Dooku, I trust you know I am Duchess Satine of Mandalore. I have a proposition with for you-”

Here, she took a breath.

“My people need allies that can provide security, and I would like assistance on that matter from the Seperatist Alliance,” Satine continued, “my advisors and I were very disappointed with Jaira Deere, but we are willing to look past this and offer you the title of Duke of Mandalore.”

“Should you accept, an agreement will need to be reached and the public informed,” Satine smiled pleasantly, “I hope you consider my proposal with seniority.”

Khaami turned off the hologram, Parna heaved a sigh of relief.

“I will have this transferred to our Seperatist Ambassador,” Khaami stood, “I wish you the best of luck with the Jedi Council.”

“Thank you, Khaami,” Satine nodded, “it will be quite the day.”

Downstairs in the meeting room, Satine’s personal advisors were waiting along with Jaru. Satine sat at the head of the table and signaled to the Prime Minister she was ready.

“Duchess Satine,” a blue form of Master Windu greeted, “we have been told you wish to discuss the Separatists and Count Dooku.”

“Yes,” Satine nodded, “our recent capture of a Seperatsist informant has led us to conclude Count Dooku wants to take Mandalore-”

“Certain, are you?”

“Yes,” Satine straightened, “and we’ve sent him a hologram inviting him to visit Sundari.”

“Are you going to ally with the Separatists?” asked a familiar voice.

“No,” Satine turned to Obi-Wan, “we intend to capture him using Death Watch and turn him into you.”

“Death Watch,” Master Windu frowned, “your enemies?”

“My sister,” Satine began, “the leader of the resistance movement against me, has already agreed to the plan. Death Watch despises Count Dooku.”

There came a moment of silence.

“Sure he will come, are you?”

“The Count is an ambitious man,” Satine frowned, “we have offered him a much sought after title that would give him more power in the galaxy.”

Master Kenobi frowned, “What exactly is that title?”

Satine looked to Jaru, who nodded.

“Duke Consort of Mandalore.”

Master Windu stiffened, “If you are capable of such a plan, how do we know you are not deceiving us?”

“In a few hours,” Satine continued, “I will step down as Head of the Council of Neutral systems, my main goal is to protect my people, Master Jedi, and Death Watch and all the betrayal this war has caused my system proved that peace is not the best tactic.”

In the quiet that followed, Satine shifted. One of the twins got her father’s devious genes and was kicking her bladder. Nasty. Speaking of Obi-Wan Kenobi, his face was a mask, but the Duchess learned how to read him a long time ago. He was mad, worried, and needed time to think.

“Court you, Count Dooku will, hm?”

“Yes.” Satine nodded.

“Consider your options you must,” Master Yoda stated, “help protect your people, the Republic can.”

“That is also why, while the Count is courting me, I am willing to open up Mandalorian space to Jedi spacecraft.”

Master Yoda considered this.

“Thin line, you are walking.”

“The Duchess is more than capable of doing her duty,” Prime Minister Djarin spoke up, “I am certain she will protect Mandalore.”

“How long will it take you to get Dooku in custody?” Master Ti asked.

“It will depend on how quickly he comes to Mandalore.” Satine responded.

“I suggest we send a Jedi to Mandalore,” Master Mundi suggested after a silence, “to help Her Grace and serve as an extra guard.”

“I volunteer my services if they are needed.”

Satine looked to Obi-Wan’s blue figure, he was staring at her.

“Thank you, master Kenobi,” Master Windu frowned, “but you’ve not yet returned from the Outer Rim and even then we have a job for you.”

“Anakin, then?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Need him too, we do.” Master Yoda dissented.

“Master Vos, perhaps,” Satine offered, “I believe he’s not integrally involved in the war effort.”

Master Mundi looked to Master Yoda.

“You’ve met Master Vos?” Master Ti asked.

“I’ve had the pleasure.” Satine responded dryly.

Obi-Wan smirked, and the Duchess found herself smiling too.

“Master Vos then,” Master Windu nodded, “and I believe his Padawan is Mandalorian.”

“Yes,” Master Yoda looked to Satine, “Mandalorian, she is.”

“Then she’s not an off-worlder,” an advisor of the Duchess’ added, “so she may carry her weapon.”

Satine shifted, Baby A, who had kicked earlier, still seemed to want to wrestle.

“Thank you for your initiative, Your Highness,” Master Windu smiled to the best of his ability, “we shall send Master Vos and his Padawan once Count Dooku has made his intentions clear.”

“You are very kind, Master Jedi, thank you.”

The comm ended, Satine breathed a sigh of relief and sank in her chair.

“Who shall you nominate in your place as Head of the council of Neutral systems?” asked Jaru.

“Senator Kin Robb,” the Duchess answered without hesitation, “her help has been invaluable to me and her planet is in the process of leaving both the Republic and the Seperatist Alliance.”

“Shall I schedule a call for you, Your Grace?” asked an advisor.

“Yes, thank you,” Satine stood, “I want to make my intentions known as soon as possible.”

The Duchess took the elevator up to her floor and would’ve collapsed if Jaym had not been there to catch her.

“Your Grace?”

“I’m alright,” Satine huffed, “help me to my room, Jaym.”

The guard did as he was told.

“Bring me Nurse Hera,” Satine ordered, climbing onto her bed, “and see if you can find my ladies.”

In the meantime, the Duchess struggled to undo her corset. Fortunately, when she was about half way through, her ladies appeared with Hera in tow.

Parna rushed to help her lady with her corset strings, “Oh, Satine.”

“What are your symptoms?” Hera asked, opening her bag.

“They’re just active,” Satine sighed, “and it really hurts when they kick.”

“You're about six months and two weeks, correct?” Hera questioned.

“Yes.”

Satine groaned and fell backward as the pressure on her stomach released. She had a significant bump now, and the Duchess ran her hands along the hump that her twins had made.

“Alright,” Hera began, hands clean, “I’m going to check their placement and movement.”

Hera did, while Khaami answered Satine’s comm for her.

“This is Lady Khaami.”

“Hello, Lady Khaami, this is the Prime Minister,” Jaru’s voice crackled, “please tell Her Grace that I scheduled a dinnertime call with the Council of Neutral systems.”

“I will, thank you.”

Satine whined as Hera hit a pressure point.

“I think you need some time away from the corset,” Hera advised, “the girls need space to grow.”

With a sigh, Satine argued that she couldn’t do that.

“Perhaps you could call in from your room,” Parna suggested, “just your upper body on camera and we could tell the palace staff you’re feeling quite tired.”

“Hm,” Satine took a second to respond, “that could work.”

“More than a few hours would be beneficial,” Hera frowned, “are there any holes in your schedule tomorrow?”

“I think we’ll just be waiting for Count Dooku’s response,” Satine confessed, “but we also have to implement the new trade guidelines.”

“Stay in as long as you can.” Hera advised. “The Prime Minister and the Ruling Council can help with that,” Khaami offered, “I think you should rest.”

Satine sighed, “So do I.”

Parna stood, “I’ll prepare a comfortable outfit for this evening.”

Suddenly, Hera frowned.

“Satine, when was the last time you ate?”

The Duchess blushed, “Breakfast.”

Hera looked to Khaami.

She stood, “I suppose that’s my cue.”

Hera laughed, nodding.

Satine sighed, “This is quite the mess I’m getting myself into.”

“Now you see it.” Parna agreed, returning with a dress.

“Parna,” Satine suddenly spoke up, “will you ask the PR Department to run a poll?”

“What do you want to ask?” questioned the lady.

“Whether or not people feel safe on Mandalore,” Satine stated, “whether or not they have confidence in the government, and what they think of the war and their Duchess.”

Parna raised an eyebrow, “Heavy questions.”

“Still.” Satine frowned.

With a sigh, Parna agreed.

“I checked on that droid you have,” Hera spoke up, “it should be able to help assist in the delivery.”

“The battery is fixed?”

Hera grinned, “We had an extra one in the med bay.”

Satine considered herself pleased.

“And Khaami showed me the birthing chamber,” Hera hesitated, “it’s primal yet functional.”

Satine laughed, “This isn’t my first experience with birth.”

Hera’s eyes went wide, but raised her hands as the Duchess went to explain.

“I already know the father’s name is Ben,” the nurse stated, “and the less I know the better.”

Satine smiled softly, “Thank you.”

Khaami came in with a huge tray then, and Satine squealed in delight.

“I know,” the lady smiled, “I asked for your favorite tea too.”

Satine took the tray on her lap, which was harder to balance than it should’ve been.

“How have the pills been going?” Hera questioned.

The Duchess blushed, “Parna has to remind me most nights.”

Hera sighed.

“But I take them.” Satine added, hopeful. “That’s good.”

The Duchess ate and Hera bid goodbye. When Parna returned and Satine had finished, she changed into a silk nightgown and wrapped elegant furs over her chest and laced shoulders.

“Let me fix your hair.” Parna offered.

While she did this, Khaami fetched Satine’s favorite silver circlet with an emerald embedded in the center. Next, she set up the call zone.

“And,” Parna put the circlet on Satine’s head, “done.”

“Thank you,” Satine stood, “let’s hope this goes down easy.”

Khaami and Parna took their ceremonial places behind Satine after the lighting in her parlor was fixed.

“We’re ready now.” Khaami whispered.

Satine pressed a button.

“Duchess Satine,” Representative Uru nodded politely, “your Prime Minister said you wished to speak with us.”

“Yes,” Satine breathed, “it is my wish to step down from my position as Head of the Council of Neutral Systems.”

A beat of silence followed.

“I am not joining the war,” Satine clarified, “but our neutral stance has been jeopardizing the safety of my people, and I have decided to remove myself from a position where Mandalore can be manipulated for malintent.”

Representative Uru spoke first, “It is a noble cause, to protect one’s people, and I believe this Council is understanding of your situation.”

“Thank you.” Satine inclined her head.

“Who do you intend to nominate as your successor?” asked a fellow Council member.

“I would like to nominate the Honorable Kin Robb,” Satine stated, looking to the former Senator, “as my understudy, I believe she knows the ins and outs of the job and will perform them to the best of her ability.”

The woman smiled at the Satine, grateful for her words.

“If there are no objections in the quorum,” Representative Uru spoke up, “then we shall begin the process of transition for you, Duchess.”

No one spoke up.

Satine placed a hand to her chest, “You have my gratitude, esteemed members of the Council.”

“You will still be a member of this body?” the farmer Senator asked.

“I shall,” Satine nodded, “but I shall take a less public role.”

After the video call, Satine had a strange craving for celery.

“Not surprising.” Khaami snorted, “I’ll go get some.”

“Thank you.” Satine grinned.

#chapter19 #fanfic #fanfic.net #fanfiction #satine x obiwan #obitine #obiwan #obi wan kenobi #korkie kenobi #korkie kryze #satine kryze #Duchess Satine #starwars #clonewars

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bluebellwriting · 4 years

Text

Mom-Friend Looking For A Dad-Friend - Part 1

Summary: Saru x chubby!reader in which you are Sylvia Tilly’s older sister, (Y/N) Tilly. You are a therapist on the USS Discovery and the ship’s resident mom-friend. Your little sister thinks it’s about time her Starfleet parents finally hooked up. (Title is based off of my Hinge profile)

(Y/N)’s POV

You were settling into your office on the USS Discovery, situated just down the hall from the med bay. It was small but cozy and would only get cozier once you unpacked your plants and little trinkets from home. Once the doors were closed behind you, you set your box of mementos down and took a moment to take in the room. Making sure that the doors are closed, you take a moment to squeal and pump your fists in the air. It’s quite unprofessional for a lieutenant commander, but you’ve never had a whole office to yourself before.

Apparently the ship’s former captain, Gabriel Lorca, never felt the need for counselors or therapists, which you thought was horrible and inconsiderate. But when your own captain, Captain Pike, announced that he was transferring temporarily to head the Discovery, he had requested you accompany him to be the ship’s temporary counselor. He didn’t go into much detail for “security reasons,” but he felt that the crew would benefit from your services and your motherly nature.

It also helped that your baby sister was an ensign on the ship.

Your little celebratory moment was ruined by the sound of your doors opening. You froze, imagining the captain or some high-ranking commander walking in on your moment of unprofessionalism. Honestly, this was not a reflection of your normally responsible self and as you turned slowly around, you were running through in your mind exactly how you would defend yourself. Until you saw the familiar red and wild hair of your sister.

You run forward and envelop her in a hug, relishing the feel of a familiar body pressed against yours. You have been so worried for her while you were away on the Enterprise and she was off fighting a war. Not a day went by that you didn’t dread the idea of getting the message from your mother that she was gone. But now she’s here, safe and sound in your arms where you can protect her, like you always have. You were so wrapped up in fussing over your sister that you didn’t even notice the incredibly tall man watching you both fondly from the doorway until he cleared his throat.

“Oh! Oh right.” Sylvia steps to the side with her arm stretched, literally presenting the tallest and... cutest man you had ever seen. Immediately you were entranced by the ridges of his face and his eyes. Oh dear Lord those eyes.

“Commander, this is my sister, (Y/N). (Y/N), this is Commander Saru. He was my sponsor to the command program and was--”

“Previously acting Captain, yes. Captain Pike filled me in.” You step forward and extend your hand to him. You try really, really hard not to shiver when his fingers engulf your palm and hold it securely. You feel so small in front of him -- which is rare for you, your past boyfriends made it a point to constantly bring up your largeness -- but your hand fits perfectly in his like two puzzle pieces finding each other. It’s as thrilling as it is frightening.

“I’m Doctor (Y/N) Tilly. It’s very nice to meet you, Commander.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, as well, Doctor.” Oh he was such a gentleman.

Saru’s POV

Saru was expecting another Sylvia Tilly, when said ensign insisted that he come meet her sister. And because he was so fond of the tenacious girl, he allowed her to all but pull him through the halls towards an office just off of the med bay.

“I just have a feeling that you two will really like each other,” she was telling him as they approached the doors. “She’s so kind and sweet. She was basically the mom I always wanted which was nice considering the mom we did have was--” As she rambled, Saru just nodded his head and mentally prepared himself to engage in some pleasantries and then a quick return to the bridge for a meeting with Captain Pike. He was honestly in a somewhat sour mood after having the captaincy stolen from him, even if he knew it was going to be temporary anyway. Hey, a Kelpien can dream.

What he was not expecting was the sight of quite literally the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. But there she was, hugging her sister tightly and soundly in a very cramped office filled with boxes of plants and flowers. And when you took his hand and grinned up at him, he felt his heart soar and a tingling in his limbic system. He could stand in the glow of your smile for hours and so desperately wanted to know what a hug from you felt like. Probably like being home. He had to restrain his arm from reaching out for you after you had pulled away from the handshake. He was completely and utterly hooked on you.

Sylvia seemed to notice, because she shot him a devious grin at the sight of what he was now realizing was his own love sick smile. Really, you have to be more professional, he scolded. But you’re chatting happily away with your sister while unloading your plants, cradling each adorable pot like a mother carries her child. Alright, professionalism be damned, he knew he needed to be next to you every moment for the rest of your lives.

On Kaminar, Kelpien life expectancies were uncertain but undeniably short, which meant that when decisions about family, friends, children had to be instinctual. And while Saru knew that he was safe from that life, that he was far more secure than anyone from back home could have ever hoped for, he still felt those same instincts. He felt them for Michael and Captain Georgiou and Sylvia and now here you were, the sight of you creating a piercing, knowing feeling deep in his gut.

You struggled to hang one of your plants on the highest shelf behind your desk. Just as you were about to pull out your spinny chair and use it as a stool, Saru quickly made his way over so he could hover over you.

“May I?” He was genuinely nervous that you would say no and he’s not quite sure why. But this was important, this offering of help and for care. You gave him a toothy grin and carefully transferred the plant from your hands into his large, awaiting ones.

“Thank you, Commander. This is my String of Hearts and she likes to be up high.” Saru didn’t bat an eye at the fondness you held for the plant, rather he was quite familiar with the love you felt for them.

“It’s really no trouble. I too have quite the collection back in my quarters.”

“Really?”

“Yes, they are mostly plants from my home world, although I have collected quite a few species from visits to other planets.”

“Maybe you could show my sister some time, Commander!” Sylvia’s voice, really it’s more like a yelp, interrupts you both. You were eyeing her strangely while Saru tried his best to signal her with his widened eyes, stop, please with a hint of what are you planning. Sylvia just grinned widely and devilishly at them both.

“If, um, you don’t mind Commander, I would be happy to have lunch with you sometime to discuss our plant babies,” you offered slowly, your voice soft and hopeful. Oh, oh, he definitely wanted to have lunch with you. Was today too soon? Probably. Okay, calm down Saru, she’s not going to disappear.

Third Person POV

Four Months Later

Sylvia was just absolutely ecstatic that her plan was working. When she had started getting closer to Saru during the way, started seeing his paternal nature and his unmeasured empathy towards others, her mind had immediately thought of her darling sister. How you were just as nurturing as him and cared about everyone, how you were so caught up with loving others that you very rarely had time to meet anyone who loved you just as deeply. How the only two boyfriends you had ever had were complete assholes who took your tenderness for granted and only gave you criticism for return. How you were so hesitant to fall in love again and how she was absolutely sure that Saru was made for you and vice versa. So as soon as you stepped onto the ship, Sylvia begged and bothered Saru to come welcome you until he finally agreed. And oh is he glad he agreed.

From that day on you and Saru became practically inseparable. Saru made it his mission to be near you every second possible and you found yourself quite taken with the impossibly sweet man. Which was unusual, you had built this thick wall around your heart after your last relationship ended. But Saru just wormed his way past your guard with his gentle smiles and thoughtfulness. You would spend every meal together, talking about your plants, your favorite books and music. He had even started teaching you some basics in some of the many languages he knew. You don’t know why, but knowing about his profound knowledge of languages made you fall even harder for him.

Everyone on the ship seemed to realize that you were made for each other, too. There were bets made about when you would get together, whispers about ships through the halls. The drama over when Discovery’s mom-friend and dad-friend would make it official was a welcomed respite from the stresses of their mission to find the Red Angel.

But the turning point for you was one night when you were completely swamped with patient notes and analysis. You had just messaged Saru letting him know that you had to skip your dinner plans to finish your work. You were quite disappointed, you hadn’t missed a dinner with him in the four months of your friendship and you lived for your conversations with him. It was just so comfortable and he made you feel so heard. But tonight you were looking at a sad, late night meal in your quarters after you were exhausted from staring at PADDs all day. At least, you thought so, until your door opened mere minutes after you had messaged Saru. In walked this precious man, carrying your favorite soup and a cup of coffee on a tray, along with some tea and salad for himself.

“Just because we can’t have dinner in the cafeteria, doesn’t mean we can’t have dinner together.” He gave you a shy look as he set the tray down in front of you and took a seat on the other side of your desk. Honestly your heart felt like it was about to burst from your chest. He was a dream, a lovely and beautiful dream.

“Saru I... Thank you.” You set your PADD down and decided that maybe a short break couldn’t hurt.

“You are most welcome, (Y/N). I couldn’t bear the thought of you not eating a proper meal.”

“Is this potato leak soup?” Saru nodded, pleased with himself.

The two of you ate silently for a while as you continued your work. Saru was quite content in watching you. It was quiet moments like this where he would take in everything he loved about you besides your mind and wit. The soft curl of your hair, the way your eyebrows creased as you read, or the bright (e/c) of your eyes. His eyes very slowly trail down, when you aren’t flashing the occasional smile at him, to take in his other favorite part about you. Saru -- and he gets incredibly embarrassed when he thinks of you like this because he is a gentleman through and through -- just really loves your body. In a totally not creepy way, he is obsessed with how small and soft you are compared to him. He still has dreams about the first time you hugged him and the feeling of his arms around your plush waist holding you close.

“All done,” you announce with a sigh. Saru snaps his eyes from where they were lingering on your collar bone back up to you. He throws on his most innocent smile, trying to pretend he wasn’t just fantasizing about wrapping his body around your own.

“Thank you again. I’m sure this is not how you wanted to spend your evening, sitting in silence while I just work away.”

“Nonesense.” He pauses, debating his next words. “Any time spent with you is time well spent.”

You bite your tongue for a moment, wondering if you should let slip the words you so desperately wanted to bestow upon him. Would he think you’re being too forward? Would he think you were flirting with him? I mean, you did want to flirt with him, and hug him and kiss him and rub your hands down his-- woah, calm down, (Y/N), he’s right there.

“Still,” you start, deciding to take a big risk. “It was incredibly sweet of you. I’ve never had anyone bring me dinner before.” Saru beams and fills his heart swell at the praise, but his joy stalls at that one offhand comment.

“Never?” Honestly, he was curious. You had never mentioned past relationships before and he was secretly dying to know if he was even someone you would consider for a romantic relationship.

You take a deep breath, “I mean, I’ve only ever had two boyfriends in the past and neither were that... thoughtful. Well, at first they were. But over time they both ended up being a bit too self-centered, a bit too critical.”

Saru feels like his cup is about to break in his grip. How could anyone be so cruel to you, so unappreciative, so blind?

You bow your head, worried you might have divulged too much but Saru leans forward and takes one of your hands into his. His thumb rubs your knuckles and immediately your past relationships and the sad memories they dredge up vanish. As if there was no one before him, as if there was always just Saru.

“If you don’t mind me being so forward, it is their loss. (Y/N), you are a wonder, anyone who cannot see that or appreciate that is a fool and does not deserve you.” He’s staring at you incredibly intensely, his lovely eyes trying to convey all the adoration he feels for you, his desire to see you cared for as you deserve.

Your eyes shine and you don’t even think. You just stand and round your desk, engulfing Saru in a hug before he can rise to meet you or he can see the tears in your eyes. Your body folds perfectly into his as his arms wrap securely around your waist. In this position your heads are level, and he uses this opportunity to slightly nestle his head against your neck and shoulder. He hopes he’s being inconspicuous. He also hopes you’re getting the message, that he is absolutely smitten with you.

#saru #saru x reader #x chubby reader #x chubby!reader #star trek discovery #they say write the stories you want to see

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guqin-and-flute · 4 years

Text

Holding Me Holding You [Ch. 2]

[Beep beep, are you ready for some 3zun Raise Jingyi AU angst? So. This will be at least a few chapters more, going up through Xichen deciding to keep A-Fu, writing to the rest of 3zun, probably even them meeting A-Fu so...no idea how long that will take. This is significantly more angsty than And A-Fu Makes 4, so just be ~*aware*~]

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Ao3]

Sleep proves to be nothing more than wishful thinking.

He’s startled from a doze by the unknown child coughing, then Lan Fu squirming under his chin, groggily beginning to rouse at the disturbance. Lan Xichen simply takes to walking a slow circuit in the early morning chill of the room, feeling half sunken behind his own eyes as he strokes their backs, letting the rhythm of his own steps suffice as a focus for an imperfect meditation.

His core feels like a bowl scraped empty. His body is stiff, his head dull and full as an old silver teapot covered in patina. Every place his skin had torn or split or blistered in the Battle is pulsing with aching tendrils of pain in time with his heart, healed or not.

It’s alright. There is a space to be made between his mind and his body’s pain--there always has been. The children are quiet and Wangji is breathing. That is all that is necessary in this moment.

The doctor finds him still circling slowly sometime past 5 am, when everyone else is beginning to wake again. The haggard bruising of his eyes tells Xichen that he has also not found sleep for the past 2 nights either--not since the bodies and the wounded had begun to pour into the Cloud Recesses. His quiet examination of Wangji is long and troubling and Lan Xichen must tuck his terrified heart back from his face at the news that he is healing slowly. Very slowly. Xichen leaves him and Wangji’s mystery child in the doctor’s care with the instruction that they are to be kept together.

He doesn’t know exactly who this boy is or what his brother had been thinking--

No. No, that’s not entirely true. He knows what--(who)--Wangji had been thinking about. The only thing. And so he can guess who this boy is. Or at least what he is to Wangji. Xichen will not take anything more from him than he can help. He can give him this. He can do this much for him, pitiably small as it is.

(He had done this. He had let this happen. He had done this to his brother.)

(And Wangji had fought against them.)

The hurt between Xichen and Wangji, what they had done to each other, all those choices they had each made in these past few frantic, blood soaked days is as messy and tangled as anything. But through those knots shines a certainty of what he knows will come--what has always come. What will always come. He loves Wangji and he will do what he must in order to to keep him safe.

Xichen does not know if he himself is a strong enough tether for his brother to want to stay alive, right now.

That’s alright. It can’t be helped.

He takes Lan Fu to the Hanshi to nestle on his unused bed as he changes his own rumpled clothes and performs his daily ablutions mechanically. Then steps out into this new day, misty and cold, inextricably woven into the last by dismally weighty tendrils of dread and lack of sleep. As he does, he is aware, distantly, that it is odd to carry around a child that is not his own while he attends his duties. However, nothing about today is anchored in the same reality that existed before Wei Wuxian’s rampage. The Cloud Recesses smells of blood and death, and every once in a while, low, muted wails break the compulsory quiet that usually reigns. He is sending groups to attempt a cleansing of the Nightless City--to lay to rest any Clan members lingering beyond death and bring them home; writing orders for more medical supplies; compiling lists of the dead. There are even more than last night.

Besides the unreality of it all and the fact that no one even bothers to look askance at the strange sight of the childless young Clan Leader toting a sleeping child, Lan Fu is quiet when he wakes. He blinks around in a daze, absorbing his surroundings with a dull sort of disbelief, but he maintains his silence. Even when a passing outer disciple, a mother with her own toddler helps Xichen to fashion a sort of sling around his back that allows the boy to peep up over his shoulder, he simply stares with glassy eyes, fists like little burrs in Xichen’s hair.

The only noise he had made was when the mother had offered to take him with her, so Xichen wouldn’t have to bother. Xichen hadn’t even moved to take her suggestion and Lan Fu had hidden, burying his face in his shoulder, making distressing whimper-moaning sounds, voice still hoarse. It had made Xichen’s stomach lurch sickeningly--the wounded noises, the knowledge that the boy understood, to a point, what was going on, but not enough to know what was going on. Xichen had smiled and politely thanked her, but declined. The company of his solid warmth on his back was soothing, anyway. If Xichen was wanted, why add another suffering voice to the despair that lay so palpably over everything? If he could be a comfort to at least one person, why would he not give them this? It was alright.

He makes sure to give him little snacks over his shoulder from time to time between meals, little biscuits and carrots, heedless of the crumbs that sneak their way down his collar and into his hair. It even reminds him to eat. Eventually. For efficacies sake if nothing else.

The day remains grey. Wangji and the child remain unconscious. Lan Fu remains silent; through meals, through fumbled changing of underclothes, through meetings and letters and endless walking. Xichen’s head and neck slowly suffuses with a deeper, persistent ache, like slowly rotting wood. Like the dull crush of being far below the surface of the ocean.

He does his best to attend to the wounding he has somehow allowed to befall his already weakened Clan. He knows it’s not enough.

When darkness comes some hours or eternity later, he finds that Lan Fu has fallen asleep in the sling already, little head lolling around over the lip of it, mouth open. It seems needlessly cruel to subject him to waking up with a stranger in a strange place and so he takes him back to the Hanshi. You, too, are a stranger, he reminds himself as he carefully unties the bundle from his shoulders, rolling them to assuage the ache carrying it without rest has settled into the already abused muscles.

A stranger stranger, then. He brushes a little flyaway wisp back from where it sticks to the child’s eyelashes and stares at his sleep-slack face. Alone in this world and he doesn’t even know. Of course, he would be taken care of, he would not be abandoned by his Clan. But it isn’t quite the same. Xichen knows this. Knows the hole parents leave in one’s life, like an organ cut out, a tooth improperly removed. Aching, always. “I’m sorry, little one,” he whispers, thumb stroking over his soft cheek.

Lan Fu sucks in a deep breath, but doesn’t wake.

Xichen slides his bed so it is tucked into the corner of his room, one side flush with the wall and settles the boy in a little well of wadded up blankets nearest to it before wearily sinking in on his other side as a buffer to the edge. Sleep pulls him under with insistent little hands at the edges of his consciousness, but the hyperawareness of the small presence next to him keeps him from completely submerging. Every toss and turn has him surfacing groggily to re-remember. Thin, fractured visions have him surfacing in a muzzy panic--awful things where he loses the child in the folds of the blankets. Or out the window. Or finds him crushed into some sort of horrible jam across the wall. Or--

A quickly cresting wail shatters the night, wordless and lost and immediate, right in his ear. Xichen’s head is pounding like someone is hammering nails into a coffin, and he sways upright in the blackness, gathers Lan Fu up, mumbles tumbling from him blearily. “Shh, shh. ‘S wrong? Lan Fu, shh, shhh….”

“Niaaang!”

Xichen’s stomach drops abruptly at this shattered sob, sick ice creeping through his blood. The room’s darkness is slowly eaten away by the light of the moon through the window screens and Lan Fu’s tears shine silver as he wrenches himself away from Xichen’s chest, face contorted. “Niang? Wanna niang!” Insistent. Pleading. Desperate.

“Listen--” he whispers, voice cracked, dragged deep by exhaustion, the lingering burn of resentful energy and smoke in his lungs, but this seems to panic the child further and he lets out a scream.

Swiftly, Xichen spells the talisman for silence, sends it to the corners of the room, encapsulating this grief as the boy squirms and rolls and flails, kicking his feet as he tries to worm his way off the bed. Xichen catches the back of his shirt and lowers him down to the floor so that he doesn’t hit his head, but this assistance is met with even louder shrieking and furious jackknifing of his whole body.

“Niang!! Niang!!! Niaaang!!”

Is it rage or fear? Sorrow? They nest so closely together, it’s almost impossible to tell.

“I’m sorry--”

Every time he speaks, Lan Fu gets louder.

Every time he tries to lay a hand on him, the edge of his wailing becomes more hysterical and ragged and so Xichen must sit, letting him writhe on the floor in grief and helpless pleading. Wanting his mother. Begging.

I cannot be the one that you want. I cannot be the person who can help you.

He swears he can smell blood, but there is nothing on his face, nothing on the child, he checked, despite his ferocious fighting. The tension in Xichen’s jaw is strung up through his temples and down his neck like some sort of awful instrument, ready for his misery to be plucked like a guqin string.

In the end, he lights a lantern far from dangerously swiping limbs and sits on the edge of the bed next to him, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, simply whispering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” low enough that it doesn’t drive his wailing higher.

There is no sense of time when the world is just cascading screams. Xichen knows this, has learned it again and again in the War and this last Battle and now in the room with this child that he cannot help even a little bit. It could have been half an hour, it could have been the entire night. All he knows is that, eventually, Lan Fu’s throat becomes unable to sustain his screams and he lays panting and whimpering, shaking all over as he stares up at him with huge wet eyes. “Niang,” he croaks. “P’ease.”

At this tired, despairing plea, as though he is somehow willfully keeping her from him, Xichen’s eyes and face grow hot, his nose prickling dangerously and he kneels down beside the child. Your mother died fighting. She died in pain. She was so brave. She can’t come back. He can’t say any of these things. Carefully, he puts a hand out and rests it on Lan Fu’s stomach, heaving with shuddering breaths. “Little love,” he whispers. “I would bring her if I could.”

“Wanna.”

“I know.”

“Wanna,” he insists, face crumpling anew, but only with exhausted tears. No more fight left.

“I’m sorry. I’m here.” Xichen holds out his hands; an offering, a question, and Lan Fu rolls over onto his face, away, and sobs quietly into his rug.

You are not the one they want.

All at once, a winter morning invades his memory. The first snow, fluffy and white and charming. It coated the world like frosting, dotted against the dark trees like little floating stars. Bundling winter cloaks on the bench next to him, gathering of stories and scrolls--carefully hand lettered calligraphy, the painting of a waterbird in the cold pond, a memory he wanted to share. Little sweets he had saved. Waiting by the window, fresh air stinging his nostrils and nibbling his fingertips, watching for A-Zhan’s telltale form trotting back from his class so they could leave together. A-Zhan never ran, but he always hurried on visiting days. Xichen had grinned to himself--had been A-Huan at the time, had helped brush the snow from his shoulders and hair, warming his chilly pink cheeks with his palms.

There had come a heavy hand on his shoulder. The grim line of his Uncle’s mouth. His smile falling away. The excitement and wonder with it. The warmth of being held and known. Words could make holes in you, he found. Could make the snow just snow and the cold just cold.

A-Zhan had been confused but kept silent and nodded at the explanation, because that’s what he did. That’s how he was good.

A-Huan hadn’t been confused. Had been the one to put the cloaks away. Had been the one to lead A-Zhan to his room with numb hands and sit on the bed and woodenly try to explain words like ‘never’ to someone who had only been alive for a few years.

A-Zhan had wanted to go, was frustrated at the time wasting. He never liked change. Liked his schedule, liked the rhythm. He wanted to go see their mother already. A-Huan didn’t know how to make him understand that they were never going to be able to again.

He still doesn’t.

#3zun raise jingyi au #3zun raise jingyi au content #my stuff #my fic #3zun

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littlemisslol-fic · 4 years

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44 (Puppy love) and 20 (Breaking the rules) for Varian and Hugo? I just want dumb boys doing dumb things together,,,, UggHhHH

Hey anon!! Thanks for the ask! I merged both of these into one story, but it’s basically a full fledged oneshot by now so oops. Have some modern-day-au-varigo!!

44 (Puppy love) and 20 (Breaking the rules)

“We’re going to get into so much trouble…”

Hugo looks at him like he’s lost his mind.

“What’s wrong, goggles?” The blond laughs, “Scared?”

Varian bristles at the taunt, scowling. He shifts awkwardly- his shoes scuff the dirt in a way that only accents how stressed out he feels. The forest around them sings with birdsong, the rustle of trees in the wind, and the gentle snip-snip of Hugo’s wire cutters. The moon shines down on them, full and bright, a hole punched in the middle of the sky surrounded with starry shrapnel.

Varian’s hoodie- Hugo’s hoodie that he’d stolen, actually, not that he’d admit it- is soft and warm around him, the green fabric surrounding him like a hug. Hugo grins like an animal, and turns back to the fence in front of them. Varian watches with apprehension as Hugo snips away at it, chopping an ugly, but functional entrance.

“I’m not scared.” Varian finally mutters, shifting his weight again. The late August air is still warm, but starting to cool the closer they get to midnight. “I’m just… concerned.”

“Sure, Var,” Hugo laughs, sticking out his tongue as he snips at the last of the fence. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Varian scowls again, flushing. The woods around them are dark, but Varian isn’t concerned about that- he grew up here in the small town of Old Corona, after all, he knew these woods like the back of his hand- no, what scares him is the idea of getting caught.

“Seriously, Hugo, if we get caught my dad’s gunna-”

“Flip out?” Hugo blows a lock of blond hair out of his face as he snips at the last of the wire. “Yeah, I know. That’s why we’re not going to get caught.”

Varian grits his teeth. Hugo, content with snipping the final chunk of fence, stands back up and shoves the wire cutters in his backpack. With a rough kick- Varian cringes at the noise, blue eyes scanning the treeline frantically- Hugo’s perfectly cut square goes flying away from the fence, leaving a doorway chopped out of the wire.

“See, easy.” Hugo grins. Varian scoffs, but when the blond offers him a hand he takes it. Hugo leads him through the hole in the fence and Varian follows with a grumble; as much as he’s bitching he’s curious about what exactly his boyfriend is up to. Hugo was nothing if not spontaneous, showing up at Varian’s house at nearly eleven at night and dragging him through the woods towards one of the only dangerous places in Old Corona.

The old fairgrounds, while only recently abandoned, had been locked tight for two years. Varian can’t help but look around in awe, seeing the way that the rusting metal and cracked concrete are slowly being overtaken by nature once again. It’s dark, the kind of inky black you can’t see inside the city, the kind that makes the milky way above so vibrant and bright in comparison- like a river of stars snaking across the night sky.

Varian can’t help but stop, just looking up and into the sky. Hugo pauses, grinning and letting him stare. Varian doesn’t get out much- not with his usual obligations as the mayor’s son- and these are the kinds of things he missed while growing up… the kind of things that Hugo is nothing but glad to show him.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Varian hears Hugo ask him. He nods, dumbstruck, but when he looks at his boyfriend- Hugo isn’t looking at the sky. He’s staring Varian dead in the eye. He feels his face grow hot- he must be a shocking colour of red by now- but Hugo doesn’t make mention of it. Instead he holds out an arm, an offering that Varian gladly takes. He worms his way into Hugo’s side, delighting as a strong arm wraps around his shoulders and pulls him close.

The old fairgrounds are the kind of quiet that sinks deep in your chest. Not that they’re silent- Varian can hear the chirping of crickets and the creaky whine of metal swings as they pass a swing ride- a large tower with a round disk at the top, nearly a hundred swings hanging from rusty chains. When the wind blows they swing along in soft, meandering arcs. Out here, nearly in the country, the quiet is something that seems sacred. The kind of silence reserved for graveyards and churches, shrines and memorials. It feels immoral to break it, so they don’t.

Hugo leads Varian up to a large roller coaster, the wooden frame still nearly perfect. Varian looks at it with apprehension, digging the heels of his hightops into the cracked concrete as Hugo begins to tug him forward.

“We’re not going up there.” Varian declares, “I don’t have a deathwish, and neither did you last time I checked.”

“Relax goggles.” Hugo grins, “I was up there earlier this afternoon, checked it myself. It’s sturdy. We gotta hurry though, or we’re going to miss it!”

Hugo spins on his heel and hops the metal turnstile, not looking back. Varian scowls, following despite himself. Hugo knows him too well- knows that Varian would follow him to the ends of the earth if Hugo asked it of him. They draw close to the base of the coaster, shuffling up on top of a series of boxes left behind by previous explorers- or maybe Hugo himself that afternoon, apparently. Varian can’t help but scowl… what did his boyfriend even get up to while Varian wasn’t keeping track of him? Risking life and limb to climb unstable ruins, apparently.

Hugo begins to scale the main hill of the coaster, the path easy as on the left side is a set of metal stairs for maintenance. Varian follows, his hand firmly planted on the railing as they climb higher.

“Are you just leading me up there to murder me?” Varian calls, shuddering as the wind picks up a little as they reach about halfway up. The hill’s nearly five stories high, easily the tallest attraction in the abandoned park. Varian can almost see the tops of the trees from here.

“Why would I take you all the way up here?” Hugo asks, turning around and smirking at him. “If I wanted you dead I would have killed you on ground level.”

“I… that’s not assuring!” Varian gripes, “If anything that makes this worse!”

Hugo, the bastard, laughs.

“You don’t like bullshit.” Hugo says, and Varian can’t help but melt. Hugo turns around and keeps climbing, his boots making little thunk-thunks on the aging metal. Varian scrambles up after him, breathing in the wind as they finally reach the top. Hugo had been telling the truth, it seems, as there’s already a small setup at the very peak of the arch.

Two small camp chairs, a blue cooler in between, all precariously balanced on a small flat space at the very top. Varian assumes it was once for maintenance, like the stairs; a cluster of blankets hanging from two long flagpoles attached to the safety rails make a little roof, and when Hugo hits a little battery back a series of string lights flick on in a rainbow glow. Hugo crawls down into the little fort, looking back and smiling. Not his usual smirk, but an honest-to-god smile.

Varian can’t help but fall a little more in love.

He crawls in after Hugo, laughing as they get tangled up for a second. For a second they become a flailing cluster of arms and legs, giggling like children as they trip over each other. Varian gets an elbow to the gut and grunts- Hugo’s arms are suddenly wrapping around his waist.

“Sorry, sorry,” The blond snickers, “Didn’t account for your stupid legs-”

“What, you just want me to leave them behind next time?” Varian groans, resting up against Hugo’s side with a sigh. Hugo’s warm and solid as Varian leans into him- settles under Hugo’s arm like he belongs there, sinks into the heat of the other’s body, curls into the embrace like he was made for it.

Hugo’s chin settles on his head, and Varian smiles softly to himself.

With Hugo’s back propped up against the pole, they both face out over the forest. In the distance, Old Corona glows with street lamps and houses and cars. Above them, the stars shine just as brightly, if not moreso. Varian smells pine and something distinctly Hugo- breathes it in and lets it settle deep in his chest like a balm.

Hugo’s arms tighten around his waist, the two of them looking out towards the distant light of home. Varian feels at peace, the gentle waves of tranquil silence and soft lights from their little makeshift tent soothing the ails of day.

And then, just as Varian’s getting used to the relaxation-

Pop-pop, pop pop pop-pop-pop-

Fireworks scatter across the sky in a rainbow of light and colour, vivid oranges and blues and purples glowing across the inky sky like a scattering of magic. Varian’s eyes go wide, watching with a childlike glee as they fizzle and spark. Hugo’s hold on him gets a little closer as Varian shifts, as if the blond’s scared he’s going to pull away-

“Did you know about this?” Varian asks him, turning in his arms. He can see the reflection of colour in the lenses of Hugo’s glasses- and in the warm look in those green eyes.

“Sure I did.” Hugo says, “I know a guy who knew a guy.”

Varian snorts, refusing to look away. Hugo’s trying to play this off- of course he is- but Varian knows that he’d probably been planning this for a while. He feels his heart start to thump at the thought, that Hugo had set all this up, had thought of doing all of this for Varian-

He grabs Hugo by the strings of his hoodie and pulls him into a kiss. Hugo smiles into it, leaning into it and pulling Varian close. They kiss for what feels like hours and seconds, Varian can’t tell, before they break. They both breathe a little heavily, gasping for air a mere few inches from another kiss.

“I love you, goggles.” Hugo whispers, like a prayer.

“I love you too,” Varian murmurs, lost to the moment.

When they meet again, Varian can’t help but smile.

#varigo #varian #tts #asks #fic #these are fun!!!#sorry it took a bit anon #love you!! hope you see this!!

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iwrestlenow · 4 years

Text

Many More To Die - Chapter 2

TITLE: Many More To Die (Chapter 2)

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: Names are powerful things--and after ten years, Logan's has acquired quite a bit. The restoration of his power is something he has to fight viciously to keep secret...But he's not the only necromancer who's in hiding. Above his head, Roman is being introduced to the people of the Kingdom's as his father's successor--but someone in the shadows is coming for the royal house of Sanders, of which Roman is part.And Logan will not stand for someone laying figurative hands on anyone that belongs to him.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), future Moceit (Patton/Janus) and Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: lots of death because necromancy, slash, and more to come as I figure it out ‘cause it’s late and I’m tired. In this particular chapter, CW for angst--I’ll post what kind at the end if you want to avoid spoilers, but I’m warning because for me? It’s a triggery subject. Be safe, you’re all so sweet and ILU.

Also, no betas, we die like men.

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more…hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

1025, A.A.

“Berry?”

Logan was yanked from a sound sleep by the utterance of his name—not the sound, but the feeling of it. Crawling around inside his skull like ants, static electricity shocking his neural pathways and the core of his essence. It was red strings and his first meal after that one stretch in the dungeon's blackout cells after he punched the guard that dislocated his shoulder.

Logan Berry. Logan Berry. The gift from his guardian angel was two years old at this point...and Logan was starting to wonder if it was more than just a small reminder of his personhood, to keep the harsh world around him from breaking his spirit.

Sitting up, Logan rubbed his eyes and reached for his glasses where they sat on the floor beside his pallet. When they had finally given them back to him two weeks after his arrival, the right lens had been all but shattered. The guard who had returned them—the same one who injured him—smiled far too wide for Logan's liking, inciting the attack that had gotten him punished.

“I am awake.” he announced softly, sliding his glasses on and rising from his pallet to approach the bars of his cell. Squinting in the low torchlight, he searched...

A point of bright yellow sunlight, slit down the middle by a reptilian pupil gleamed in the shadows before the body it was attached to came into view. Swiftly, it was joined by another eye, very much human and dark as chocolate. A sweep of hair as black as Logan's own fell across his forehead, and the torchlight gleamed across the burnished surface of the scales that covered half of the young drake's face and neck.

“Of course.” the drake shot back dryly, not quite managing to hide the sibilant accent inherent to his species. “That's why you were snoring.”

“What do you want, Janus?”

The eighteen year old Janus narrowed his mismatched eyes at Logan—but quickly gave up on trying to look intimidating. He hardly needed it, being not only older, but the son of the captain of the guard.

“A favor.” he admitted, sparking enough of Logan's interest to banish the last of the cobwebs lingering in his head. Janus didn't like being indebted to anyone—and, to that end, usually came to Logan for favors, as Logan was always perfectly willing to trade his assistance for some commodity, be it books, food, or the repair of his glasses.

“What is the favor?” Logan asked.

Janus said nothing for a long moment, staring into Logan's face...no, not his face. Squinting, he realized Janus was quite deliberately avoiding direct eye contact by focusing on a point just above Logan's eyes, somewhere around his forehead.

“Janus?...”

Shutting his eyes, Janus ducked his head.

“I...need a name.”

“A...what?”

“A name, all right? Like the one you picked for yourself.”

Logan was startled by that request—he told no one about the boy who came to him, claimed he made up his own surname to replace the Name that was stripped away. Some of the guards disliked it, stirring fresh retellings of the legends of the Lazari: necromancers with the power not merely to raise the dead, but craft true, living souls from sheer force of will.

He even heard some new ones about the Animata: a theoretical balance to the Necromata, magic practitioners that could manipulate life the way necromancers manipulated death. From the stories Logan overheard while pretending to sleep with guards outside his cell, the Animata had been wiped out by the rise of the Animator, the First of the Necromata, leading to his rise and attempted enslavement of the Kingdoms. With the Animata gone and unable to keep the balance in check, the king had been forced to slay the Animator and had outlawed necromancy soon after.

All stories, of course...but over the last two years, as his name wormed through his brain the way the power of the prison mages had, it sometimes made him wonder. After all, mythology and legend served two functions in human history: explaining natural phenomenon that were not yet understood, or hyperbolic retellings of one or many actual events.

So the prison guards talked, wondered if Logan had designs on restoring his own Name through the adoption of a new one—but Janus, for all his trust issues and ilicit dealings, was an intelligent boy with a good head on his shoulders. He wasn't one for fanciful stories—only those that he could tell in the name of manipulating others.

Perhaps that was why he felt some measure of shame or embarrassment for asking Logan this favor? There was clearly some...unidentified emotion behind the request, and Logan wasn't particularly good at coping with emotional issues. He highly suspected that, when he still had a Name, he had been essentially the same.

“...I want to be allowed to keep books in my cell.” He hadn't meant to say anything indicating agreement—but the words fell out of his mouth without any conscious permission.

Janus's head snapped up sharply. This time, he met Logan's gaze with an intensity that was decidedly threatening.

“That's all?” he asked, squinting after a long moment. “No...commentary?”

Logan shrugged. “You know I do not care for sentiment. Your obvious flirtation with it, in this situation, does not interest me so much as what I can gain from the moment of weakness on your part.”

“Are you sure you're only fourteen? You sound way too much like my grandpa sometimes.”

Logan rolled his eyes, declining to rise to the bait. Instead, he gave the matter what he felt was a comically superficial amount of consideration.

“Hart.” he finally decided.

Janus raised an eyebrow at him, mismatched eyes losing focus for a moment before he nodded to himself.

“That...works surprisingly well.” he mumbled, seemingly more to himself than anything. Refocusing on Logan, Janus straightened and once again resumed his attempts at exuding as commanding a presence as he could manage.

“You'll get your books.” Janus assured him. “I always pay my debts.”

“Past performance indicates this is an accurate assessment. Hence my request.”

“Oh...go back to bed.”

“Gladly.”

********** 1033, A.A.

“Ladies, lords, non-binary royalty, and all of my valued subjects!”

By the gods, I'm going to throw up.

Roman stood behind the curtain on the balcony, his heart in his throat. Every part of him was screaming to run, to hide, to sink into the floor and vanish through sheer force of his desire to not be there—to push Remus out to take his place when the king made his proclamation. Already, he could feel the weight of his impending responsibilities threatening to crush him, the world narrowing and the walls closing in...

He couldn't do this. He wasn't ready. He wasn't smart like Remus or as patient as his father, he wasn't commanding enough—he couldn't be king.

But he would be. One day.

Peering through the curtain, he saw his father turn...and though the pride in his face only made the terror worse, at the same time...

He could do this. He had to.

Smiling, King Thomas Sanders IV extended a hand towards him in silent encouragement. It was the same hand he offered to those subjects that knelt before him at court to have their grievances heard, the same hand he offered to both Roman and Remus as children when they felt shy or had fallen down while playing...

...or leading him back into the house when he was out to hunt a Lazari...

“I give you your future king—Prince Roman Sanders!”

A hand fell to his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

“Give 'em hell, Ro Bro!” Remus hissed gleefully in his ear.

It was strange, but some of the weight lifted itself off of Roman's shoulders, with his brother's hand there instead as he stepped out onto the balcony and into the sunlight.

For a moment, it was...magical. The ghost of Remus's fingers pressed into his shoulder, his father's hand curling warm around his nape—the people of the Kingdoms below, smiling and cheering in a symphony that filled his lungs as readily as it filled his ears, turning his heart into pure starlight.

For a moment, basking in his father's pride, his brother's confidence, and his people's love—he didn't just feel like he could do this, he knew that he could.

For a moment—that was all he got before his heart stopped beating.

It happened suddenly, but somehow it felt as natural as breathing. The tension of that missing engine powering the body and soul, the inability to draw breath. It was the peace of sleep, the flow of one step into the next while walking down an evenly paved road—he knew something was wrong, and yet he could not escape the manner in which it felt so normal.

Standing there, dying in front of the very kingdom he was meant to serve with no rhyme or reason for it.

Let it go...it felt so right, it felt proper.

As his vision began to dim, and the hand he'd raised to wave to the crowd started to fall by his side, he felt the urge to fight sliding out of him, eyes already slipping shut...

Easy as existing. Getting dark, time to sleep.

Until he heard a sigh next to him that was chilling.

The king.

Death no longer felt so inevitable, nor did it feel right. It was wrong, but...it was inside him, twisting and warping to form words that echoed inside his head. Something was slipping into the void left behind by the absence of a heartbeat, speaking to him in the Reaper's voice...

The necromancer.

**********

Logan was only aware of it in passing—however, Logan wasn't supposed to be capable of even that, and had to take such painstaking care to make sure that no trace of his magic could be felt anywhere. He had to keep the fact that he had power hidden, had to beat back every trace of it.

So he was aware of his magic, far more than he was aware of the distant stars that were the lives of every creature within the palace and beyond.

And the feel of his power waking, straining towards death? That hit him hard, made him focus on that awareness of what was happening.

“Lo? You okay?”

Logan spun in his seat and stood, stalking up to the bars of his cell. It was little more than a voice in another house, reaching him barely through thin walls and great distances...but it was growing closer, crossing that distance, too close too close too close...

“Logan? You're scaring me.”

Patton was at his side, watching him with wide, fearful eyes.

“Someone is killing the king.” Logan breathed.

“What? How can you possibly know that?” Patton hissed.

Logan opened his mouth...and nothing came.

Until that voice, hollow and honeyed, was suddenly in his house and in his veins and in his...in his.

For the first time, Logan understood why the Necromata were so feared—why he was locked below ground, why he had no Name of his own and why it was so desperately important to make sure no necromancer could ever practice their art.

The moment he sensed that foreign power encroaching on something that belonged to Logan alone, everything was chilling instinct and cold, calculating fury. The power swept up and took over, took action to reclaim what was being stolen.

The king was dying, but so was the Green Man.

Logan's last rational thought before an eerie blue light swallowed up his eyes and the power wiped his mind clean was that, if the Green Man was close enough to the king, he might actually be able to save them both.

********** The necromancer in the dungeons. Roman could feel it, he was certain of it...it felt cold and airy, thick morning fog swirling through his marrow yet rendering his mind strangely clear. It was familiar, not all that different from the way it felt when they touched in Roman's dreams.

The necromancer was there. He was...helping Roman.

You have to get to the king.

He didn't know, even after all these years didn't realize who Roman was, and that was the way it ought to be, and yet...he was warning Roman, he was--

The wrongness of it filled his chest in the space of a blink, filled his lungs, forced breath into his body. The fight squeezed every muscle, including his heart, in a steady rhythm that started his blood moving again. Roman tried to clutch at his chest, but he couldn't.

He felt cold all over, but his body was working, warring with some outside force, struggling to stay alive.

His body was no longer his to control, he realized with a rush of fear. The necromancer...chill fog, thick and light and clear, in his head and his veins and his heart...

Roman's body was turning, his head swiveling around, obeying an order he did not give.

The necromancer was animating him now, manipulating his every move—and all Roman could do was stand there and let it happen--

Go.

...Father!

This time, when he tried to move, his body obeyed him, his will and that of the necromancer uniting as one.

He rushed forward, reaching out...

In just enough time to catch the king as he fell, a corpse gone cold by the time the both of them reached the ground. ((CW: parental death--but this IS a necromancer AU. Just keep that in mind. XD))

#cw: angst #cw: death #sanders sides #ts logan #ts roman #roman sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #ts morality #logince #necromancer au #thomas sanders #ts fanfic #this is all the artist's fault i'm just a hapless writer that stumbled across it #my name is liz and i swear to god i will fic again #no betas we die like men

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otterskin · 3 years

Text

Finnesang - Prologue : Two Birds, One Song

All published chapters on AO3 - but here’s Chapter One, just to hook you.

Blurb: Odin is missing a raven. Without Muninn, Odin isn’t quite who he used to be. The only thing more dangerous than a man with secrets is one who can no longer keep them.

After a near-perfect Coronation years ago, Thor's become exactly the kind of king he believes his father would be proud of - if his father were still the man Thor thought he was (if he ever was).

Loki knows his place - servant of Asgard, advisor to his brother, and caregiver to his ailing father. Important roles, defining ones - and yet he feels forgotten. Sometimes literally.

Being forgotten is fatal when all that you are is someone else’s lie.

PART ONE:

UNMADE

ᚲ ᛟ ᚹ

The RAVENS

Once we were ravens, and that only.

To be ravens is a good thing. Ravens can fly. The Sky belonged to us when we danced in it. At night we'd steal the stars away when our black bodies blotted them out. We did not belong to the Earth or the Sea, though we took the bounties of both. Some would call us thieves for that, but we were ravens only, and accountable to no-one.

And yet we were not content. We wished to have more.

We wished to be more.

When we heard it first, we could put no name to it. It was a sound, many of them, wound together in a tangle - and yet it could be followed.

So follow it we did.

We soared through rain and thunder, through blazing sun and piercing wind. Always, it moved forward, as living things must. We followed. We could not bear to live again in silence.

We beat our wings in time with its tempo and our hearts beat in time with its base. There was nothing but the song and the journey to possess it.

We followed it through forests, through villages, through cities and out into the sky again.

We saw a figure walking through clouds. He looked like one of the people who lived below - he was covered in scales like them, had four purple eyes like them, dressed as they did. But at once we saw that he was not one of them. None of them could walk the skies as easily as we flew in them. None of them sang as he did. He was a new thing, and we wanted to have him.

We danced about him, and he laughed in wonder at us.

He paused in his song to call out to us, as raucous as any lowly crow, “What are your names, then?”

We jeered. Play the sounds, creature.

He took up the thing of sticks and strings from around his neck and strummed it.

We ventured nearer, needing to feel the pulse of the tune. One of us landed on his right shoulder. One of us landed on his left. Through our toes, we could feel the rumble of his flesh, the rumble that became the sounds we would soon learn to call ‘music’.

"Hearing, I ask, from the ho-o-ly races

From Norn’s eyes, watching high and low

I will soon relate, to this tree of faces

Old tales remembered from long, long ago…”

We did not yet know what words were, but still we jittered to encounter them. The scales that disguised the singer as one of the people of below fell away, revealing pale, pinky flesh and worm-like toes where wing feathers should be. His eyes were now only two, and they were very, very blue.

"Have you no names, then? I’m between names myself at the moment. A fair number of them just…did not work out. Perhaps you can help me think of the next one.”

Before we could berate him for stopping, he continued to sing.

"I asked for companions, the Norns sent me birds

I asked them for names, but they gave me none

I suppose since I am the master of words

It falls to me to give them both some!"

He reached out to stroke our chests with a finger. It was warm. We didn’t dislike it.

“I may have made those lyrics for you, but the tune is not mine. I really should not be singing it. Yet lately, I cannot seem to get it out of my head…

“My father was a fine singer himself,

Though only when he sang with my mother.

They sang this for me when I was my first self

When I still had a sister and brother.”

The music ended. We looked at the creature. He stared hollowly out across the green skies as if he did not like the colour of them.

“It seems that no matter where I go or what I call myself, I am burdened with memories and thoughts. Not just of what was, but what could have been. Do you know what that is like, my feathered friends?”

He seemed unhappy. That was no good - his song had brought us joy, and it would not do for him to have none of his own. We called his music to our minds and cawed to it best we could, harsh and throaty.

His eyes brightened. “You are very clever, aren’t you? You’re different from the birds on Asheim. Though not so clever that you’ve yet to realize what sordid company you’re keeping now.” He strummed his instrument with a grin. “I’ve thought of names for you. You shall be Huginn and Muninn - Thought and Memory. But names are not free, my corvid companions. Upon your wings I will settle a burden, so that I might journey lighter…”

He touched a wing-toe to his head. It began to glow, bright and silver. When he withdrew the toe, it came away with a long strand of silver. It broke free from his head, and at once began to wiggle like a worm. We could not help but swallow eagerly in anticipation. He offered the worm to the first of us on his right shoulder. Without hesitation, it was devoured. He put his finger to his head once more, and this time drew out a golden worm. This he offered to the second of us, on his left shoulder. Once again, it was devoured.

He continued in this manner until we were full to bursting. The silver and gold writhed in our guts, hot and cold, filling us with emptiness and sorrow, with warmth and joy, all at once. It was only then that we realized we were no longer only ravens.

Our minds were pulled away from our bodies, away from the green skies of our home. We were taken into another body, under a different sky, in a distant time.

There, we were a boy. There, there was a garden…

It was a beautiful place.

A tall, red-bearded man held hands with a woman. Together they worked the land, pulling and pushing earth and water. Beside them were two children, a boy and girl. The girl coaxed plants from the soil, and the boy called animals to live in them.

The eyes we ravens watched from were distant, hovering far above the scene.

The man looked up at us. He opened his mouth, perhaps to call us down, to join them -

But all that came out was a terrible, wailing scream...

ᚼ

The ravens awoke, groggy with sleep. The baby’s wails echoed down the dark hallway, piercing even the great golden doors meant to shut away the rest of the world.

Thought looked at Memory. Memory looked back at Thought.

“You go,” croaked Thought.

“Muninn went last time,” complained Memory.

The wailing grew louder. It was a noise somewhere between a wolf having their teeth pulled and a crash collision between two speeding metal boats, complete with the two pilots arguing over whose fault it was afterwards. It was the very opposite of music.

“Huginn turn,” insisted Memory.

Huginn huffed, puffing up his feathers and shaking the sleep off of them. He flapped down off his golden perch and onto the bed. There was only one occupant, still slumbering on one side. On the other, the furs were flicked open. Huginn thought to look at the remaining shoes. The slippers were still there, but Frigga's boots were gone. Muninn remembered that she often went to the Garden at night - the only time she really could. She would not be back until sunrise.

Huginn hopped over to the remaining lump of furs. He pulled back the edges of them, revealing Odin’s face. He looked so very different from the creature who had walked the skies of the ravens’ homeworld. The red colour had long leached out of his hair, and his soft face had sprouted a grey beard and moustache to match it. At least his eyes had stayed the same - until a few nights ago when even one of them was taken from him.

Muninn recalled that he’d told them it was a trade of sorts. An eye for a baby. Huginn thought that was a rubbish trade. Odin's right eye had never screamed at them, which made it better by far.

Not wanting to waste any more potential sleep time, Huginn pecked near the newly-empty eye socket. At once the lump of furs erupted with a curse, sending Huginn flying into the air.

Odin attempted to insult his birds again but was drowned out by the baby screaming its boat-crash-wolf-yelp cry. So instead he sighed, beckoning to his birds to follow him as he lumbered out into the hallway.

Muninn tried to hide his beak under his wing and pretend he hadn’t seen the gesture. Huginn circled back and harassed him mercilessly.

“Need both,” Huginn tutted. “Always two ravens.”

Muninn relented, and soon both birds perched on Odin’s shoulders: Huginn on his right, Muninn on his left. As light as they were, Odin still moved slowly. He’d had very little sleep since returning from the final battle. The war itself hadn’t been particularly relaxing either.

Huginn felt the thought bloom in his mind as it occurred to Odin. How easy it seemed when I first took the child. Just seeing a friendly face after being abandoned had been enough to quell its cries.

They entered the nursery. Immediately the cries doubled in volume.

"Shhh-shhh-shh-sh.” Odin attempted, but the child only stopped its tears to hiccough loudly and suck in more breath, ammunition for further cacophony.

Hastily, Odin seized at a bottle waiting in a basket of ice and tried to stopper the babe with the bottle’s teat. Its mouth clamped shut and refused the milk, turning this way and that to escape.

“Still?” Odin asked it wearily.

I thought I saved you. But if you do not eat, all I have done is prolonged your death.

The thought tasted of hopelessness. It was not a favourite flavour of Huginn’s.

The babe reached out, seizing at Odin’s hand even as it ignored the bottle it held. Odin scooped the child into his arms, jostling the ravens as he patted its back. Nothing seemed wrong with it; its changing cloth was clean, its guts clear of gas. It was not even alone anymore - and yet it still would not stop crying.

“Go outside?” suggested Huginn.

“Remind baby of home,” agreed Muninn.

Odin nodded, eye still droopy with sleep.

They stepped onto the balcony. The night was clear and brimming with all the lights of Yggdrasil. As hoped, a chill was in the air.

And yet the baby still cried, digging into Odin’s beard as if trying to crawl away from the cold.

The old god sighed. “What am I to do?” he asked his ravens.

“Always, Odin ask only himself for counsel,” chided Muninn.

“I tried to turn to Frigga,” Odin protested half-heartedly.

Muginn cocked his head in judgement. The raven did not need to remind Odin of what he had done to Frigga. A flicker passed through both their minds: the memories of her face when he’d returned, bearing a strange infant to replace the one she so recently lost. She’d been waiting to share their grief - and Odin had instead asked her to disguise it, much like the false child he’d pressed to her breast.

“Odin did not think that one through,” observed Huginn.

“No. He did not,” agreed Odin, rubbing at the gauze over his socket again. He sighed.

Even Frigga’s reaction had been a friendlier welcome than he’d gotten from his own son.

I don’t know why I expected a warm welcome on my return - how could he even recognize me? He was but a babe when I left. But to see the boy instead glare at me with such suspicion, to insist on standing between his own mother and father...

But was the boy wrong to try and protect Frigga from me?

The first thing I did on my return was to break her heart.

“I am a wicked man,” Odin sighed.

"You are required to be a good king above being a good man. The two are often mutually exclusive concepts.”

Odin turned his head slightly to frown at Huginn. “That voice…”

The babe kicked him hard in the chest, trying again to squirm free of Odin’s grip.

Without thinking about it, he started to hum, bumping the child up and down as he did so.

Miraculously, the tiny creature quietened. Unscrunching its face, it peered up at him and his ravens. It seemed mesmerized by the tune.

Odin would have been glad of it, had he not recognized just what he was humming.

He stopped.

The babe immediately crumpled up again and began to fuss. Huginn, too, dipped his head in disappointment.

Despite his audience’s clear call for an encore, Odin did not pick up the tune again. Instead, he summoned the milk into his hand and tried again to feed the child. “Come on, boy,” he muttered, trying to turn its face back out from his chest. “I know it’s not as good as giant’s milk but we haven’t had any volunteers.”

His attempts jostled the ravens about on his shoulders, causing them to flap and squawk. Huginn wondered how comical they would appear to anyone walking in on the scene. Odin, King of Asgard, Conqueror, feared throughout the realms, encumbered by clingy ravens and an obstinate baby.

“Eat - the damn - milk,” Odin muttered, accompanying each word with the jab of the bottle.

“Baby liked that song,” Muninn recalled.

“Sing next time,” urged Huginn, a spark of independence clashing against Odin’s clear reticence.

“I don’t know that I can," the man muttered. “I haven’t sung in years,”

“Odin sang for many years before,” Muninn said slowly. “Muninn would know if Odin forgot how.”

“See? So sing now!” demanded Huginn.

The other raven looked away from his brother. “Muninn doesn’t like that song. It hurts.”

Huginn looked over at Muninn, scandalized. “We ravens like the song!"

But Muninn just fluffed his feathers again and wouldn’t meet Huginn’s beady eye.

The babe knocked the glass bottle from Odin’s hands. It hit the stone floor of the balcony and broke open.

Odin nearly cursed again, catching the ugly word with one syllable already hanging out of his mouth. Spending years around soldiers instead of the Court and his family had roughened his vocabulary. That was what he used his voice for, crass words and orders to make war. Not song. That belonged to a version of himself he’d long put behind him.

He would go and get a nursemaid and damn the consequences, he would go and fetch Eir and have her diagnose the child, he would go -

The baby detonated with a keening scream, piercing his eardrums and threatening to further shatter the glass bottle with its ferocity.

He would go mad if he didn’t do something right now.

Well, go madder. He must have been mad already to have taken this child in the first place.

It shouldn’t have come as easily as it did. For one thing, his voice had deepened significantly since he last said these words, and it strained at first, trying to hit the notes that used to be within easy reach. But even before he dropped to the next octave down, his seidr was stirred, flowing outwards with the euphony. In many ways, this had been how he’d first learned magic - how he first learned to speak with the air and sky, and all the intricate veins that threaded the universe together. A thousand strings to be plucked and molded into melody.

“Hearing, I ask, from the ho-o-ly races

From Norn’s eyes, watching high and low

I will soon relate, to this tree of faces

Old tales remembered from long, long ago.

Of old was the age when Ymir yet lived

No sea nor waves, nor sand was yet there

Earth was not yet, nor heavens forgive'd

All that was was the gap to nowhere.”

Muninn shifted uneasily. Memories of millennia were tangled inextricably in every bar. But to the babe, it was merely noise, clean and new and without connotation. Spellbound, it fell still in Odin’s arms.

“Lead me home, my mothers of yester

Lead me to my heart and its way

Free me from a body that festers

Free me from the urge to yet stay.

Take me from this o-ode to slaughter

Take me from Hel, though I may belong

Lead me to my sons and my daughters

Lead me home to the heart of my song.

Shield-time, sword-time, we enter the gold halls

Wind-time, Wolf-time, ere the world falls.”

Muninn thought of Bor, Father of Odin. He once said this was a sad song.

But did it have to be so for everyone who heard it? Odin wondered. Could it not be something else for this babe?

It could mean safety, comfort. It could mean that this child had a home…at least for a little while.

“Little while?” Muninn croaked. “How cruel.”

The All-Father ignored him and continued to sing.

“I remember yet the giants of yore

Who gave me bread in days gone by

Nine worlds I knew, Nine worlds at war

Nine voices became one battle cry…”

There were many ways this story could go. If it weren’t for me, this babe’s tale would have ended shortly after it had begun. What could be less cruel than the gift of possibilities?

“Muninn cannot remember the future, only past,” Muninn scolded. “Odin cannot know if saving baby means good or bad. It just is.”

“Even bad better than nothingness,” Huginn dissented. “This good deed.”

“Deeds have reasons why done,” Muninn muttered. “Were reasons good?”

Huginn turned his back on his brother, disgusted with his treachery. “Odin not parley with ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Odin just is. Muninn play silly games.”

“Only one rose from the sea of blood

Broken were oaths, words not what they seemed

Before the breath of liars, we scud

Shaped, like clouds, by forces unseen..."

“Odin make promise by taking baby,” insisted Muninn.

“Odin makes no promises,” Huginn hissed.

“I know the horn of Heimdall, well-hidden

As lost as the things it’s meant to return

What would I ask, if it were mine to be bidden?

Would I make new or ask to unburn?

Alone I waited when the Old One sought me

The Terror of Gods gazed in mine eyes:

‘What dost thou want? What comest thou to see?’

Dost thou look for something living or died?

‘Before thou ask, be aware there is cost -

An eye for an eye, a thought for a thought

If I am to return that which you lost

Be aware that the price is the same as the bought.

'Would you know yet more?

Knowing that wisdom is weight?

Would you know yet more?

Knowing no knowledge will sate?

Would you know yet more?

If you knew that knowing meant a forever war?’”

The babe was staring at Odin with rapt attention as if there was nothing in the universe more awe-inspiring than an old man mumbling his way through a doom-stricken ditty.

Odin tended to be the most powerful person in any room - or planet - or galaxy, really - that he happened to walk into, and so he was used to rapt attention. But there is nothing quite like being the end-all, be-all centre of existence in the eyes of an infant. For one thing, people tended to get nervous when the most powerful person in the galaxy walked into the room. This babe just wondered. It would have marvelled at him just the same if he were a moderately-successful goatherd.

This child knew so little of the world. So little about Odin. Hardly any different from most grown men, in that respect. How precious that ignorance was. How unfair that after all the world had done to this child in his short life that that innocence should be placed in Odin’s hands.

Moved to pity, Huginn bent down to preen at the babe’s few dark hairs. Muninn took off from the other shoulder, heading back inside.

“Lead me home, my brothers of yester

Lead me to my heart and its way

Free me from a body that festers

Free me from the urge to yet stay…

Take me from this o-ode to slaughter

Take me from Hel, though I may belong

Lead me to my sons and my daughters

Lead me home to the heart of my song.

Shield-time, sword-time, we enter the gold halls

Wind-time, Wolf-time, ere the world falls.”

The song was nearly complete now, and Odin was surprised to find himself slowing down, as if unwilling to let the moment go. Each time he returned to the chorus, there seemed to be some strange reciprocity from the babe. Though it could not sing, its fledgeling magic nonetheless reverberated with the melody, like the threads of a spider’s web plucked by the breeze.

"The serpent is bright, but now I must sink

My father of yester is leading me home

The sky becomes light, no more must I think

of old tales remembered from long, long ago.

It didn’t seem till now...

...so long, long ago."

It was done.

Muninn returned, bearing with him a fresh bottle of milk. He dropped it into Odin’s waiting hand. The babe seemed loose, almost liquid in Odin’s grasp, though its eyes were still bright and alert. It didn’t fight the bottle this time - but neither did it suck at the teat. Odin sighed.

“Did I ever know what was in giant’s milk, Muninn?”

The raven considered, then shook his head.

“Can you think of anything that would convince the child to drink, Huginn?”

The second raven considered, then shook his head.

“Fat lot of good you both turned out to be, eh?” Odin sighed, but there was a smile in it.

The king tried to return the babe to its crib, but its fists had knotted painfully in place in his beard. It was no use; he’d just have to take it to bed and hope it would behave until morning.

When he settled back into his half of the mattress, another pang of guilt crossed his chest.

I should be with her.

Instead, he pulled the blanket back up over himself and carefully tried to lie down without disturbing the infant.

“Give her time,” he said, though the babe was already deep in sleep. “She’s a warm heart and love to spare. She just needs time to say goodbye.”

The babe gurgled. Then, unmistakably, it hummed. Clear as the skies when Thor was in good spirits, it was the song Odin had imprinted on him, already echoing back. He listened to it make its way through the tune. At points it would stop, as if waiting for something; it took Odin a little while to realize that, even in the depths of sleep, it was waiting for a response. He’d hum back to it, sometimes along with it, creating a strange little harmony.

“We’ll make a proper Asgardian out of you yet,” he chuckled, and for a moment he could imagine that Frigga had merely gone to freshen up, that the babe was everything Odin was pretending it was, that his family had been spared their latest tragedy and all was, for that moment, well. He could forget all the inconvenient parts of reality.

The world could just be him and his borrowed boy.

He could stop the crying.

He could make things right.

“Could. What a damning word that is.”

Odin cracked open his eye and saw him in the corner of the room. Wrapped in shadows, and just as immaterial. His beard was a deeper red than it ever had been in life, and the curve of the downward-pointing horns of his helmet outlined his harsh face.

“Could is a word for regrets. Regrets are the stories we wished we lived. You were always too fond of stories. Stories are not real.”

Odin shut his eye. “Neither are you, Father.” He didn’t need to open it again to know that Bor would no longer be there. It was just a passing thought.

But the spell had been broken.

The bed was cold. His wife was still gone to the Garden to mourn over her true son while he coddled a painted imposter in what should have been her sanctuary. And even then, the babe was still sickly, still hungry, and he had nothing to fill him. He had made nothing right, only forgotten that everything was still wrong.

“Huginn - Muninn,” Odin called. “Go to Jötunheim and observe the children there. Learn what they require to suckle and grow, and return soon.”

The ravens bobbed their heads in acceptance of their task. They took flight.

The skies of Asgard roiled with starlight, but the clever birds knew which precise point of light was Jötunheim’s sole sun. Together they flew, side by side, into the ether. Light streaked, sound ceased, space bent around them, and they tore through -

We tore through…

We did, didn’t we? We ravens went to Jötunheim. We did - we saw and learned and we returned…The child lived, thanks to us…So why, why did the light and the sound continue, becoming darker, malevolent, angry? Why did it shout and accuse and become oh so terribly sad even as raging fire swept about us, between us, blackening the blackest of feathers and consuming, consuming, it was in Muninn’s mouth, it was in his stomach, it was devouring him from the inside out and he was in pain, such terrible pain and I, I the raven needed to go to my brother, needed to save him, but the moment we became I it was already too late.

Muninn was gone. A hole where a raven should be. I screamed for him, but a raven’s voice is not music, and it could not call him back.

I flew on.

My thoughts were dark.

Such angry, grieving thoughts.

My blood was dead. Taken from me. Stolen. By an enemy beyond my reach.

But not all my enemies were so.

Where was I going?

Somewhere cold, somewhere far away - and why?

To see the giants, the red eyes in the blizzard.

To Jötunheim, to the giants, to war -

As Asgard had done time and time again.

Yes, to war!

To war!

ᚼ

Huginn awoke with a start. Red light was streaming through the window behind him, courtesy of the sunset. He looked across from his golden perch to the empty one on the other side of the bed. As it had been for decades, it was empty.

So was the bed.

Huginn blinked at it. The sheets had been flung from the bed with force.

The door remained shut, likely still locked. But, as the breeze from the open window reminded the raven, that was not the only way out of this place.

With a flurry of greying feathers, Huginn took flight. He passed out the back of the golden room and felt the wispy touch of shattered spells try to catch at his feathers, to no avail.

The rook circled Asgard, wings straining, searching, searching.

He heard him before he saw him - the whistling of wind around the corners of the city and the low, dull roar of the stars as invisible strings drew from their raging hearts. Footfalls echoed mightily off the golden buildings, and at once Huginn knew they could not be dissuaded from their path.

There was nothing a raven, even one who was not only that, could do.

There was little anyone could do, really, but there were some who would try anyway. Inconveniently, today had to be the day they weren’t on Asgard.

Huginn braced his aching pinions, fixing his beady eyes on a star in the sky the way other ravens fixed on the glimmer of a mussel in the water.

He flew into the sky, following the faintest sounds of a half-remembered melody.

***

This and the rest on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21638704/chapters/51598693

#finnesang #thor fanfiction #loki fanfic #thor fanfic #my fic #loki #thor #odin #huginn and muninn #huginn

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lavenderradionoises · 3 years

Text

Can You Hear the Winds Changing? - Part 4

More Iiaare content! I love this girl so much and cannot wait to write more but for now, enjoy the little snippet of Iiaare’s past because I despise writing strategy meetings

You can find previous parts HERE

Warnings: violence, implied body mutilation, past abuse Iiaare’s eyes flitted between the two siblings in front of her and the many sweets between them, wondering whether the two stole the sweets from the cook. Usta had stormed out of the physician’s chambers moments earlier, threatening to get Captain Nexros to string the twins up by their toes. The two ignored the princess in favor of introducing themselves to Iiaare.

“Now that the Mistress of ticks up royal asses is gone, hi, my name is Alos, I serve in the king’s private guard,” the twin with hair curling under their ear introduced themselves before taking a bite out of a piece of cherry pie.

Iiaare nodded in greeting.

“Be nice. Usta may be haughty, but she’s still a lot better than majority of the nobility,” The twin with elaborate braids chided before turning to Iiaare. “I’m Elos. I also serve in the king’s guard, and as you may have guessed from the princess’s earlier threat, Alos and I are twins.”

Iiaare nodded again, trying to make herself more comfortable on the bed without causing the wound on her side to reopen. As she adjusted the pillow, her head spun, and vision blurred before sharply focusing on the strangers.

“But I’m the better looking twin,” Alos said with a wink.

Iiaare raised an eyebrow, unsure whether this was normal for the short haired twin.

“Ignore them,” Elos sighed before gesturing to the mountain of sweets. “Want one?”

The servant was unsure how to respond. Since the knights held a higher rank than her, she knew that eating with them would be improper. On the other hand, she had not eaten since the previous evening, and the lack of food was certainly not helping the headache that had come and gone since she woke up.

As if sensing her confusion, Elos quickly grabbed the nearest sweet, a honey cake, and handed it to her.

“Don’t worry about rank with us, darling. Eat to your heart’s content. With the way Alos eats, they're a practically a pig already.”

Alos, mouth full of pie, made an indignant noise, spewing crumbs across the bed sheets.

Elos raised an eyebrow at them. “Srr, sweetheart? Abysmal manners.”

Iiaare felt her cheeks and neck begin to burn, still unaccustomed to the casual flirting of the palace. As she took the slice of honey cake from Elos, the servant did not miss the mischievous glint in Alos’s eyes that reminded her too much of Aion’s manservant, Ernaeis, when he decided to dump buckets of worms into visiting noble’s beds.

“So, little one, we told you our names. How about you tell us yours? I bet both your name and your voice are prettier than the haughty yet beautiful princess Usta,” Alos said, leaning on their interlaced fingers, elbows balanced on their knees.

The servant’s gaze snapped from the cake in her hands to the knight as her stomach churned, and knots began to twist in her chest. It was not the first time someone had asked her to talk, but for some reason, the thought of revealing her muteness to these two, having them recoil in disgust as so many others had, terrified her"

Just as Iiaare was about to show that she had no tongue, the door burst open. A boy resembling the twins walked in with shaking hands and frantic eyes that Iiaare swore she met before.

“If you two leave me alone to deal with another war council on my own again, I am going to find every poison in this city and make you both drink it.”

“Hello, brother dear,” Alos greeted the newcomer.

The boy huffed before closing the door and making his way over to where the group was sitting. Iiaare watched him as he sat down. Something was familiar about his brown hair and the way he spoke, but the memory trying to break through the locked rooms of her mind made her head spin even more.

Elos waved her hand in the direction of her brother, “This is our baby brother, Kuxon, the three of us are from a border village near Flatband, so you will have to excuse his accent.”

Kuxon looked at her, and it suddenly clicked: the boy, his face, and the memory that had been tugging at her. Iiaare only managed a tiny gasp before the room spun one final time, and she fell into blackness.

Drums sounded as two children no older than seven were led to a platform raised and ready to be burned. Fire mages stood at the four corners, waiting. Villagers, who had gathered to watch the execution, muttered amongst themselves.

“Filthy street rats finally getting what they deserve.”

“Are you sure it was the boy? Isn’t his family at the capitol?”

“I heard they never wanted a third child, especially after those cursed twins were born.”

“Kolia, the traveling merchant’s wife, also says that one of them decided to become a boy.”

“No wonder they abandoned the son. It’s bad luck to have twins, let alone twins of different genders.”

Iiaare heard all of these as she struggled to make her way to the front. She felt the wrongness in her bones, a child should not be burned at the stake because she needed food to survive, and neither should anyone who helped that child.

The kids were being chained to the platform as Iiaare passed the last row of spectators.

“Stop!” She yelled out. When she was ignored, she ran up onto the platform, pushing mages and guards out of the way with all her ten year old strength.

Iiaare’s mind skipped ahead in the memory to when she was being loaded into a cart in the middle of the night with a man telling her that the village had found her a job as a servant to a noble. Iiaare wanted to protest but couldn’t from the pain in what was left of her tongue. The sizzling sound of a hot knife meeting flesh plagued her mind. When the darkness closed in around her again, it was almost a relief.

The memory was cut off by distant voices calling for Iiaare and a harsh light invading her vision. When she blinked her eyes open, the first thing she saw was Aion, and who she guessed was everyone from the guard in conference at the foot of the bed. The servant’s heart fell ever so slightly at the fact that Usta was not there until she felt a hand running through her hair.

“You’re awake!” Usta’s voice exclaimed from beyond Iiaare’s line of vision, causing everybody to turn to her, “ Are you alright?”

Iiaare nodded before attempting to sit up. With Usta’s help, she was able to maneuver herself to lean against the backboard of the bed relatively comfortably and without jolting the stab wound too much.

Once she was properly sitting, she registered how many more people were in the physician’s office. Along with the royal siblings, two more individuals had joined: a man with a missing arm and a woman that reminded Iiaare of the statues of the goddess of the hunt.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Elos asked, taking Iiaare’s left hand between her own.

Iiaare nodded again. She began drawing a knife and a fire on the sheets with her free hand where Usta could see.

“A knife and fire?” The princess questioned.

Iiaare gave her a nod in confirmation before pointing between Kuxon and herself, then making a fist with her fingers sans her thumb and sliding her thumb across her face.

“A knife, a fire, the boy, and your tongue being cut out?” Usta asked. The twins gasped, and the rest of the guard stopped their discussion, opting to listen to the conversation.

Iiaare tapped her pointer finger a couple times in the princess’s direction to indicate that she was correct.

Elos’s hands tightened around Iiaare’s and Kuxon’s face when white as candle wax.

“Iiaare…cut out…” He mumbled before his eyes grew round, “It was you! You were the girl!”

“What are you talking about?” Elos questioned her brother

“Auriol and I...the day they were going to...were going to….”

“Wait, so you’re saying that Iiaare was the girl who saved you?”

“It sounds crazy, but...look, she knows!” Kuxon moves the wrist guard off his left arm, revealing old scars where handcuffs would have sat, “They told us you’d been taken away...they told us you’d been executed.”

Elos moved her hands from Iiaare’s to the servant’s shoulder and addresses her solemnly, “You saved our brother’s life. Thank you.”

The loud sound of a candle popping five times startled the occupants of the eerily quiet chambers.

“Well, I guess I should head down to the kitchens and ask them to bring up some food for us,” Aion offered before practically fleeing the room. The servant noticed the slight shaking of his hands and knew that it would be a while before the prince returned. Kuxon sat on the bench the prince was previously occupying. The younger boy began replacing his wrist guard but stopped when Iiaare signaled for him to give it to her so she could lace it up for him.

“I suppose this is as good a time as any to introduce the Captain and Lieutenant.” Alos said, turning away from her brother’s scared wrist, before pointing at the man with a missing arm, “This is Captain Nexros. And that over there is Lieutenant Iaastil, the second in command.”

Iiaare waved at Nexros and Iaastil.

The door opened just as the captain was going to say something, revealing Aion and Ernaeis carrying several plates of food. Setting down the plates, Aion turned to address the rest of the occupants of the room with a grim voice.

“Well then, shall we update those who missed the meeting of their next mission?”

#warnings:#abuse #mentions of war #past abuse #tw body mutilation #body mutilation #Can You Hear the Winds Changing

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