#imagining my character using the weapon almost reluctantly because it's too powerful and useful *not* to use

[death-rebirth-senshi]

Not to gush about my own characters again but I so adore the juxtaposition of the brutal look of the great stars as a weapon and the golden Erdtree armor. Poetic.

And patches is there because this was my first playthrough and I wasn't sure if I should join Volcano Manor immediately. Kind of unfortunate that you miss this encounter with him if you go to Volcano Manor immediately upon reaching Altus Plateau.

[fbfh]

I mean, you did ask - leo x reader

all  characters are aged up to 18+ for smexy subtext

word count: 2k

pairing: leo x gn child of calliope reader

genre: adventure, romance, hints at a lowkey soulmate au

summary: after a bumpy reunion turned interrogation with your friends, you finally prove to Leo that you’re someone worth catching up with

warnings: swearing, friends hold you at knife point (for good reason) memory loss, dimesion/reality travel, the phrase “horrible sexy little goose” not about an actual animal, moderate time difference between worlds, reader is acting like a cocky piece of shit half the time, you call yourself sexy a lot, annabeth slaps reader and reader is unbothered, reader and leo hae very visceral reactions upon seeing each other, piper picks up on this, moderately aggressive face grabbing, discussing personal info with someone somewhat privately, brief mentions of hand holding and hair pulling during sex, you spill tea about the rest of the demisquad, I think that’s it pls tell me if I missed any

song rec: choke - i don’t know how but they found me

a/n: this is from a very vivid daydream I had so er ah if reader seems op coded that’s cause she is uwu

You were excited to reunite with your friends after so long, but being tied up and held hostage at knifepoint by the people you love who don’t even remember you wasn’t the welcome wagon you were hoping for. Then again, as a child of Calliope, you can’t say you’re surprised. 

Apollo has a lot of kids, but demigod children of the muses are exceptionally less common. They’re volatile, really powerful, extremely engrossed in their art, and usually care more about their latest thesis paper or painting or manuscript than going on quests, and more often than not have very specific powers. You, for example, love quests but feel like you never get to go on any, usually because you’re fighting monsters somewhere else. One fun little power you inherited from your mom is - somewhat involuntary - dimension shifting. 

A lot of times you just get summoned somewhere else, with a little inherent background knowledge and your weapon, set free into the new world like a horrible sexy little goose. There’s usually some kind of objective you need to meet; find this person, set something in motion, give someone support in a time of need, deliver a package. After that, you get sent back to your family at camp half blood. The catch, one of them at least, is that a few days Somewhere Else could be no more than a few minutes in your homeverse. 

Another catch is that because of all that, and the fact that you wouldn’t know how to begin explaining, let alone if anyone would believe you, no one knows you can do this yet. Chiron has an idea, but you’ve never told anyone outright. 

You guess now is as good of a time as any to come clean, as Percy holds his sword threateningly close to your neck. You let out a disbelieving laugh, and bite the inside of your cheek.

“Okay, okay… you want the truth?” he starts to back off, and you continue, leaning forward, “I’m not surprised you’d want to know where someone this sexy-” your words cut off as Annabeth’s hand slaps you across the face. You let out a laugh of disbelief, cheek stinging.

“A cheap shot, Annabeth? Wow, I really didn’t take you for the type,” she grabs your face, leaning in close, knife once again against your throat. 

"How do you know my name." She hisses, and behind her, the door opens. Messy dark curls peek over her head in your vision and you know instantly who it is. Your heart starts pounding, loud and hard, and something heavy starts swirling deep in your gut. Your eyes lock as soon as he enters the room and an instinctive smile blooms on your face, knowing what's inevitably on its way. 

"Hey Sparky…" 

Your voice, slow and drawling (and, he'd be lying if he didn't say kind of very sexy) impales him as soon as he enters the room. He watches your pupils expand, eyes locked, immediately swept away by your magnetic aura. A fox like grin decorates your pretty face, and he gets the feeling you know more than you let on. Way more. He's so drawn to you on a guttural level, way more than he's ever been to someone before. His face is hot, and when you slowly wink at him, he feels flames erupt on his cheeks. It takes him a second to put it out, feeling your white hot gaze on him the entire time. 

Piper, who's been helping with your interrogation, looks back and forth between you two as this progresses, taking in a breath and mumbling a shocked, "Oh," as she begins to understand. 

"How are those repairs coming?" Jason asks, oblivious to everything that's happening between you two. 

"Uh… nearly done…" Leo mutters, watching as you hold back an elated giggle at the sound of his voice. You never forget how good it feels to see him again, but the fresh feeling is always better than you can imagine. Jason glances between you two, and walks over to Leo, suspicious of your interest in him. 

"I'll walk you back," Jason says, glaring at you. Your eyes stay locked with Leo's until the door finally closes again. Piper stares at you, bewildered by the tension turned to frantic energy crackling around both you and Leo. She can sense it on him even after he's out of the room. 

Annabeth finally drops your face, pacing and pinching the bridge of her nose. Percy slams him hands down on the table and levels his face with yours. 

"I'm gonna ask you one last time. How do you know us?" 

You stare at the table for a second, still thinking about him. You have to see him again. You’ve waited for too long, you just can’t do it anymore. 

“H- okay. Um,” You blink a few times, facade falling away almost instantly as you look up in a silent prayer that this doesn’t go as badly as you feel like it will. You sigh, looking back up at the other people in the room, a new, deliberate intention in your eyes that they hadn’t seen before. 

“You want to know why I’m here?” 

Their answer is the silence that follows.

“You’re not gonna believe me.” They look around at each other, collectively thinking about everything they’ve been through in the last year alone.

“Try us.” Annabeth replies. You sigh again, and introduce yourself. “...I’m a child of Calliope, muse of epic poetry, and I know you all because we grew up together. One of the fun - quirks, I inherited from my mom is traveling into different stories, or realities, I guess. It’s hard to control, and sometimes happens involuntarily. I adapt to wherever I am, and the universe sort of auto adjusts to follow the rules that stories have to follow. 

The reason you don’t remember me is because I was gone for a really long time, and your story had to keep going. Trying to find me wouldn’t have moved the plot forward, questioning where I went would have been confusing, so it did the simplest thing and edited me out so you could get closer to meeting your objectives.”

Once again, their silence is your answer. 

“Guys, sidebar.” Annabeth says, pulling Percy, Jason, and Piper out of the room for a moment. The come back in a little while later, and she looks you dead in the eye.

“If you really know us as well as you say you do, prove it. Tell us you’d only know if we were as close as you say we were.” 

You sigh yet again, having lost count at how many times that’s happened today alone. You roll your shoulders and bob your head, irritable that you’re still restrained and itching to move. 

“Is there anything we can do before the whole tell me something really personal thing?” 

Percy looks at you, challenging.

“Can you do it or not?”

Another noise of exasperation leaves you, and you agree, resignation all over your face.

“You know what, yeah. Okay, we’re doing this. Someone go get Leo.” An involuntary smile once again launches onto your face at the mention of his name. Jason starts to object. 

“Hey, I’m not going to spill something personal about someone when they’re not in the room.” They agree reluctantly, and Jason leaves, returning again with Leo. You look at him again, enraptured by his presence. He can’t say he doesn’t like the attention - a hottie like you looking at him like that? Yes, please - but something about it feels different, and he gets the feeling there’s a lot more going on than they’re aware of. 

You nod your head once, indicating for him to come closer. He gets a little closer. You widen your eyes, nodding two more times, and he hesitantly gets within whispering distance. 

You turn your head to your left, dangerously close to his face. He can feel his pulse already speeding up. Heat radiates between your faces, your breath fanning over his neck as you whisper slowly,

“You really… really like holding hands, and when I pull your hair during sex.” 

He pulls away from you quickly, beet red, bewildered expression obvious to everyone in the room. “H-how-”

“How do you think?” You reply calmly, loving everything about him, “Okay, to be fair…” you nod once more, eyes flaring, and he leans in once again, equally hesitant and curious. Your words tickle his ear, seeming to light up his entire nervous system like a firecracker.

“I really really like when you bite that spot on my neck, just below my ear.” 

He pulls away again, trying not to literally and figuratively combust. He stares in your eyes intensely, searching for anything besides the truth. He finds absolutely nothing. He turns around, unable to look his friends in the eye. 

“They’re legit, guys.” 

“Wait, what did you say to him?” Piper asks, unsure if she wants to know the answer. 

“Yeah,” Annabeth agrees, “what if it’s some kind of mind control-” Your deep, burning desire to finally hold Leo after god knows how long is starting to beat your better judgement, and you really, really want to be untied from this stupid chair. “Annabeth! Your favorite show was Cyber Chase growing up, you used to come up with plans on how to defeat Hacker, your best was cutting off his food supply - good strategy, I’ve used it before, myself. 

Percy, you feel like you can’t sing because you were forced to participate in an elementary school recital and some kid called you tonedeaf behind your back, it kicked you right in the RSD balls. 

Piper, you’re a closet weeb, you watched Ouran High School Host club obsessively and still do sometimes, you fell for Jason because he had, quote, 'Tamaki's looks and Kyoya's brains, the ideal man'. 

Jason, that scar on your lip is from biting a stapler as a child-"

"Okay, everyone knows that-"

"-and," you continue, showing no signs of stopping, "the reason you ate the stapler is because you were pretending to be a trash compactor because you saw one on TV. 

Nico is totally not right outside the door keeping guard right now, but if he were and you asked him if he likes the diary of a wimpy kid movies he'll ask how the hell you know that - should I continue."

Again, the answers are in the silence hovering in the room. 

“I think it’s about time to catch me up on what I missed.” 

A beat passes.

“Right,” Annabeth says, blinking and readjusting her ponytail as she sits down across from you, Percy already taking the bindings off of your wrists, “so, about the quest…”

She starts to fill you in on the details you missed, bringing you up to speed. After a little while you all decide to call it a night. Piper senses your energy ramping up in spite of the exhaustion settling in. You finally bid them all good night, but Piper’s not sold by your forced yawns. After what feels like another lifetime, you finally leave the room you’ve been in for hours with one objective. 

You can’t stay away from him anymore, you have to find Leo. 

After navigating a maze of hallways and doors, you finally push open the right one to see him looking up at you, and find yourself saying for the second time tonight,

“Hey, Sparky…” 

His heart is racing, and he gets that heavy, full feeling in his chest again, not having fully shaken it from the last time you saw each other. Looking into your eyes makes him nostalgic for something he can’t quite remember, and he knows with full certainty that you have more history than he’s aware of. He wants more than anything in this moment to remember. He sets down the wrench in his hand, taking a step toward you.

“Hey…”

[introvertguide]

15 Badass Movies for a Fun Time at Home or with Friends

There is a buzz in the air as COVID-19 vaccines are rolling out and the hope of having a movie night with friends is again becoming a reality. Watching alone isn’t as fun because I want to talk to somebody about what I have just seen. A full theater does not agree with my introvert nature because somebody screaming or laughing or talking on their phone will ruin it for me. Watching with a fellow cinephile or two is perfect. But what to watch first? People have been stuck inside, so fantasy and alternative worlds have been overly popular. All I do is talk over zoom for a living. I think what I need most right now is a movie about realistic people with realistic skills that go into a situation and just wreck house. I need a badass movie. What is this “badass” movie you might say? Well, here are some basic criteria: 1) There must be a tough lead character who kicks butt while spouting one liners and doesn’t need superhuman powers (high levels of peak skill with speed, aim, or strength is OK if they are plausible in the real world), 2) most of the characters (good and bad) must be likable, admirable or at least memorable, 3) the lead must face and defeat overwhelming odds against them, and 4) extra points for memorable one liners. Also, I am only dealing with human protagonists (sorry Terminator), but slightly superhuman opposition is acceptable. This list is by no means exhaustive, it is just an example of some badass movies. So in no particular order:

1) Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)

To start off the list, I want to mention the most well known American badass. Indiana Jones is a smart guy with a gun and a whip. He is rugged and punches guys in the face. He has weaknesses but works through them to get the job done. Harrison Ford was in his early 40s for this role and had this tough-as-nails and seen the world kind of feel while still being young enough to fight hand to hand. Any of the first three films featuring Indiana Jones would work here, but this is the original and it started the fun. Easy to watch. Easy to cheer for. Great movie. You can’t really go wrong with any age or group with this one. 

2) 13 Assassins (2010)

This movie is extremely badass but not for everyone. This is one of the goriest films I have ever seen as 13 warriors kill off a couple of hundred soldiers and the evil leader that they guard. The movie was directed by Japanese extreme horror icon Takashi Miike if that means anything to you (hey made Audition and Ichi the Killer). The movie has gallons of blood, but also an amazing story of redemption and honor. There are tons of scenes of a single warrior taking on dozens of soldiers and managing to overcome. Not for everyone, but still very much a badass movie.

3) The Raid (2011)

This is an Indonesian action thriller with the word action in bold. The film is directed by Gareth Evans and stars Iko Uwais as part of a small police force that tries to take down an old building that houses a drug lord and his violent gang. It has a lot of what I like in badass movies: one-on-one fights between the lead and almost superhuman villains, long well-choreographed scenes, a banging soundtrack, ridiculous weapons, and ridiculous gore. The fight scenes in tight places and the use of the environment for weaponry is amazing and the sound design makes sure you can feel every punch. The lead character should have no chance, but he makes up for it with skill and being a pure badass. This movie is one of the few that I would describe as having non-stop action.

4) Jon Wick (2014)

When did Keanu Reeves become so cool? I grew up with him being part of the Bill and Ted duo. He decides to learn martial arts and play a god-like being in the Matrix movies and then becomes a one man wrecking crew? I guess he is a badass because he does it so well. Keanu plays a retired hitman who is wronged and decides to go back to work for vengeance. He just won’t stop coming and seems to constantly survive out of pure hatred alone. There are 3 films in the series and any one of them will impress. Pure fun too watch.

5) Casino Royale (2006)

When I was asking around, there were many people who thought that James Bond was the ultimate badass. I disagree in that many of the older films show Bond as overconfident with the assistance of many people. In fact, Q is more of a badass in many ways than James Bond. However, when the series was taken back to its roots with the last book that had not been made into a serious film and made darker, it reached badass levels. From the parkour chase to a poisoning to an extreme torture scene, this was not like any James Bond movie before it. Roger Craig plays a much colder lead who gives no quarter, much more like what the greatest secret agent would have to be. Heavy on violence but light on gore, this film is more for all audiences than other films on this list.

6) Desperado (1995)

What makes this movie is not all about Antonio Banderas and Selma Hayek. It is that every other character is memorable and badass as well. The street standoff with Bucho’s men versus El Mariachi, Quino, and Campo is iconic. El Mariachi murders everyone in a bar with precise skill. The rogue assassin Navajas with all the knives played by Danny Trejo. Nothing but extreme shoot outs and fight scenes with a ridiculous variety of guns and explosives. I think what makes this movie so amazing is that all these amazing assassins are incognito and, when they suddenly produce an arsenal out of nowhere, it is always a pleasant surprise. Quino and Campo are amazing when they bring their guitars. 

7) Pulp Fiction (1994)

Truly the role that made Samuel L. Jackson into the ultimate badass. He and his partner Vincent are hitman that keep running into the worst situations. The thing about the film is that everybody is so cool. The characters are cool, the music is cool, the dialogue is cool, hell even the diner featured in the movie is cool. The movie only spans a couple of days (in completely separate segments shown out of order) but packs in 7 distinct situations that are all berserk. From the mind of Quentin Tarantino, this movie is dripping with the best characters traveling through the best story. Highly recommend.

8) Leon: The Professional (1994)

Also known simply as The Professional in the U.S., this film features the debut of Natalie Portman. It is directed by Luc Besson at his best period, right between La Femme Nakita and The Fifth Element. The lead is actually a quiet hitman who reluctantly takes a little 12-year-old girl on as an apprentice to become a paid assassin. Her parents were killed by a corrupt cop and she wants Leon to help her exact revenge. He is an absolute badass and somewhat of a caring surrogate father to the girl. Unlike a lot of the films on this list, the premise is not simply kicking butt in a bad situation. There is serious character growth. Apparently you can be a caring parent and a cold-blooded murderer...and that is badass.

9) Kill Bill (2003)

Being a badass is not exclusive to men and The Bride is a prime example of this. She survives a shot to the head, kills deadly assassins, slaughters a gang, and takes on a crazy school girl bodyguard. She is tougher then any lead I can think of and she has the bad attitude and sense of vengeance that makes for a badass. Combine this with the soundtrack and beautiful cinematography associated with director Quentin Tarantino and you have a beautifully violent movie in which the hits keep coming. Even on this list, the fight scene between the bride and Gogo Yubari is insane. Also note the nod to Bruce Lee with the bright yellow motorcycle suit. Beautifully badass film.

10) Aliens (1986)

In nature, there are few things more dangerous than a mother protecting their young. A mother will fight you to the death and make sure that, at the very least, you won’t be able to go after her kids. Now imagine an alien planet covered with hostile beings created in the mind of James Cameron and Stan Winston and you have a setting made to create a real badass. In the beginning, Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) is just desperate to survive and barely knows how to use a weapon. She meets a little survivor named Newt and then has a real reason to become aggressive. She and a group of marines fight through a station filled with super destructive xenomorph aliens made straight from nightmares to save this kid. The transformation is truly amazing and culminates in a mech suit versus a giant queen alien and it is extremely badass.

11) Army of Darkness (1992)

Far and away the funniest movie on this list, this is the third film stemming from Evil Dead and again stars Bruce Campbell taking on the deadites that were raised by reading from the Necronomicon. The opposition is the undead evil that faces the world which makes the violence very unrealistic. This was early work from Sam Raimi and features a variety of different shots done to the extreme. What really makes this film stand out is how Bruce Campbell is amazing at delivering a one liner. His classic quips have been used as fun Easter eggs in video games like Duke Nukem and World of Warcraft for decades. The quintessential horror comedy and a perfect example of a badass.

12) Die Hard (1988)

Apparently, I am a big fan of single characters that need to work their way through a building of villains using mostly intelligence and the element of surprise. Throw in some one liners and I am all for it. That is exactly what this is with Bruce Willis crawling barefoot around a 40 story building and fighting off a gang of villains. The movie also has Alan Rickman as the main bad guy and he is chewing the scenery. This is a great example of being a badass, but it is too bad that the follow up sequels were so poor. Definitely stick to the original and let the rest pass by.

13) The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly (1966)

An OG of the badass movie genre, this is some of the best of Sergio Leone and the spaghetti western. Instead of one badass, this movie has three different leads that are all amazing. You have the good, Clint Eastwood, who is an amazing shot and a heart of gold under a rough exterior. You have the bad, Lee Van Cleef, playing an conniving assassin that will kill anyone that he doesn’t have a use for. Finally, you have the ugly, Eli Wallach, as a desert rat that will do anything to survive. They all gain information about a gold stash and need to work together to get it, but this creates a vortex of cheating, undercutting, and straight up murder. Clint Eastwood is more of the classic badass with his cigar, hat, and poncho, It is an iconic look on an iconic character in an iconic movie. That is what I call badass.

14) Ong-Bak (2003)

This less of a badass movie and more houses some of the most amazingly badass fight scenes that can only be described as badass. This movie introduced the great Tony Jaa to the western world and showed the high flying nature of Thai boxing and Muay Thai in general. The main character is entered into a street fighting tournament and the moves include a flying double knee drop and a full splits kick. If the whole movie was the tournament, it would be the best movie that ever existed. The variety of opponents makes the fighting even better and the cinematography is top notch. Tony Jaa is truly badass in this film.

15) Dredd (2012)

Not the crappy version with Stallone, this movie is seriously badass. It features Karl Urban who is helmeted for the entire film (as Dredd would be) taking on a 200 story mega slum filled with residents that want to shoot him dead. There is a drug dealer high up in the building and she locks down the entire compound with instructions to kill Dredd, who only has his rookie partner to help. He takes on random resident mobs, groups of gang members, and even a trio of mini guns that have bullets that can rip through walls. He has a smart gun with a bunch of ammo that he uses judiciously to kill everybody. This movie was seriously underrated since it had not been that long since the garbage Judge Dredd came out in 1995. The 2012 is a far superior movie, being much more violent and dark instead of having Rob Schneider as the comedy relief (not badass).

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I know there will be a lot of opinions about what makes a badass film and what movies i didn’t add. Feel free to add your own movies or critique my choices. I will stand by my choices, however, and recommend any of these films for a night of cheers and badass action.

[always-and-forever-a-killjoy]

Hey y'all! So I wrote a relatively long oneshot (for me) in 24 hours or so (breaking my record for most words written in one day in the process), and I decided to dump it all on you. This is minimally edited and was posted with a cat on my lap, so if you spot any errors, please let me know. 

Also, while it's not technically necessary to read all the smiles that are ever gonna haunt me and all the things that you never ever told me, which are the fics which this is an alternate ending for, it will be really really helpful to understanding this. (All the smiles is here and all the things is here.) Do be careful of the warnings for those two, as they're quite dark fics. But then again, so is this, so...y'know.

Oh and please don’t question why the Cherri POV is present tense and the Newsie POV is past tense, idk either it just felt right.

Title: if i died we’d be together

Wordcount: 5316

Summary: Cherri Cola dies. NewsAGoGo refuses to accept this.

The Phoenix Witch is unhelpful (and an asshole, if you ask Newsie.)

Warnings: major character death, implied/referenced suicide, implied self harm, minor violence, an extraordinary amount of swearing.

Taglist: @wishiwasthemoon-tonight @sleevesareforlosers @stressed-depressed-emo-mess @tasteofamnesia @dagger-queen (message me, send an ask, or reblog/reply to one of my posts if you want to be added or removed)

AO3 Link

(Actual fic under the cut)

In this universe, the Phoenix Witch doesn’t come for Cherri Cola. He lies in the sand, alone and in pain, unable to move himself a single step further. He would get up if he could, he would go home, but he’s helpless. Alone and afraid, truly afraid for the first time in years. He doesn’t want to die alone. He doesn’t want to die knowing the people in his life will never know what happened to him. D, Pony, Newsie…

Cherri doesn’t want to die. Not like this. He was supposed to die helping his friends, not because he decided that life wasn’t worth living and let himself fade away into the heat of the desert. He doesn’t want to leave his friends, he doesn’t want to leave his family. Did they even know he counted them as a family? Does Newsie know he loves them like a sibling?

Cherri Cola dies alone, and the last words on his lips are “I’m sorry, Newsie.”

-

Cherri didn’t come back. Not after the mask discussion, not after Newsie’s talk with the Phoenix Witch, and certainly not any earlier than that. It was another week of silent dinners and endless, hopeless searching before Pony put eir foot down. 

“Cola is dead.”

That was what ey said, breaking the silence of that morning’s breakfast. 

Newsie couldn’t even manage the energy to snap at em. “No.”

“Cola’s gone, Newsie. You know it, just like me.”

“He can’t be fucking dead. I won’t- I won’t let it happen.” She hated that her voice shook. 

“He is, though. Nothing we can do about it.” Pony’s usually cheerful voice was quiet, beaten-down. 

“No!”

“Yes! We gotta accept it!”

“No, we don’t!”

“Maybe-“ eir voice broke on the word. “Maybe it was his time. Or fate or something.”

“Well fuck fate then! Fuck the Phoenix Witch and fuck her ‘plans’! It can’t just be right to fucking take him away, he’s got a fucking family!”

“Well- well- maybe you’re right, but what are we going to do about it?” Pony’s voice had gone quiet again, and ey was staring at the table like it might have the answers somehow.

“We’re going to find the Phoenix Witch and tell her to go fuck herself,” Newsie declared. 

D sighed. “I don’t think that’s possible, Newsie.”

“Why not? Cherri’s met the Phoenix Witch, it can’t be that hard.” She got up from her seat, tossing the empty power pup can into the sink.

“I mean…they’ve got a point,” Pony said as D sighed again. 

“See? Pone knows I’m right.” She made those words as firm as she could, filling them with all the confidence that she didn’t have but wished she did. “I’m going to go find the Phoenix Witch, flip her off, and get Cherri back.”

“Newsie-“

They ignored D’s worried voice as they went tromping into the back of the radio station, back to the room that used to be theirs and Cherri’s- and still would be, Newsie vowed. She packed up a messenger bag with a few supplies and located Cherri’s mask and ray gun, picking up the ray gun first. It was pink like hers, but a heavier weight in her hands. If she had been poetic like her brother, she would have said it was the weight of the task she was about to take on.

But they were no Cherri Cola, and they knew the real reason was that Cherri’s ray gun was a nicer one than theirs, taken from an exterminator he had fought back in the Analog Wars. It certainly wasn’t the newest model anymore, but it remained a high-quality weapon. Not that he ever used it anymore. Still, even however long after he had last held it, she thought she could feel the ghost of his hands on it, warm and rough as they guided her hands into place the first time she had ever fired a ray gun.

Newsie slid the ray gun into her spare holster and picked up Cherri’s mask. They debated putting it away into their bag, but that felt too much like they were bringing it to the mailbox for a final goodbye. Instead, they put it around their neck, where it bounced against their collarbone as they donned their own mask. 

“Alright, Cherri. Let’s go bring you back from the dead.”

Show Pony and Dr. Death Defying didn’t try to stop her when she walked back through the main living space. D reached out as if to grab her wrist, but stopped himself in midair. “Newsie.”

“Don’t try to stop me.”

“I won’t, but I want you to take this.” He held out a crow feather, shining a gorgeous glossy black in the sunlight that streamed in from the window. “I met the Witch, once. During the Analog Wars. And she gave me this.”

“So you think it will help?”

D’s smile was dreadfully sad. “Worth a shot.”

Newsie hesitated a moment and took the feather. It was smooth under her fingers as she tucked it into her bag. “Thanks, D.”

“Of course.” He didn’t tell her to come back safe, and Newsie didn’t promise she would.

Pony skated up before she could walk out the door, handing her a packet of what looked vaguely like glitter. “I don’t have a fancy Witch feather like D, but take some glitter for the road. Because sparkles…”

“Make everything better.” Newsie’s throat burned. “Thanks, Pone.”

“Of course, GoGo.” Ey shot her a grin. “Bring back our Cola. Oh, and give him some shit for dying, would ya?”

“Don’t worry, I will,” Newsie muttered. They paused in the doorway, looking back at the other two. “Thanks, Pone. Thanks, D. Love you.”

“We love you too.” D’s face was sad as he watched them go.

Newsie hopped onto their motorcycle, grinning a bit to themself at the familiar noise of the engine. “Come on, baby, we’ve got an idiot brother to retrieve.”

What had once been called Death Valley was silent as Newsie hopped back off the bike, only a few caws of crows to welcome her. It was said that here, the lines between reality and wherever the Phoenix Witch was were even thinner than they were for the rest of the Zones, practically non-existent. No one could quite agree if it was because the Phoenix Witch lived here, or if the Phoenix Witch lived here because the lines were so blurred, but either way, she was said to dwell here in this aptly named valley. It wasn’t a place many people went by choice, not unless they wanted to risk the wrath of the Witch.

Newsie figured the Witch, her wrath, and all the superstition could all go fuck themselves. She was uneasy, yes, but the valley held no great fear for her. Only great fucking heat, given that the sun was blazing down and the air was almost unnaturally still. Couldn’t the Phoenix Witch have picked a nicer home? This was the closest thing you could get to hell on earth, with the exception of possibly whatever was beyond the Zones entirely. Not that Newsie particularly believed in hell, but she imagined it would be something like this. Blazing sun, still air, the faint haze of radiation, and the omnipresent sting of grief.

“Hey, Phoenix Witch lady! Asshole! Where are you?” The words didn’t even echo, absorbed into the stifling heat, and Newsie took another couple of steps. “I know this is your home- and you picked a pretty hellish one, if you ask me- so come on out and fight me!”

There was no reply, and Newsie dug through their bag to see if they had anything useful. Their hands brushed against a smooth…something, and they pulled out the feather D had given them. “Hey! Asshole! This is your feather, so come and get it!”

Once again, there was no reply, but the feather strained against Newsie’s grip, despite there being no wind. She reluctantly let it go, and it hovered above her hand, turning to point further into the valley. 

“Holy shit. I guess I’m supposed to go this way?” She took a few cautious steps, and the feather almost seemed to bob in approval. “Okay, let’s go then.”

They zipped their bag closed again and started walking, following the lead of the feather. It was a longer trek than they really appreciated, across shifting sand through the hazy day. Every so often, the feather changed directions, and Newsie had to turn to follow it. Despite the fact that she guessed she must be out in Zone Seven by now, or possibly even further, the landscape never seemed to change. Rocks and sand and endless, burning heat, matching the burning of her eyes as the sand stung them. She would have been lost in a second if she didn’t have the feather, wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t lost anyways. They certainly didn’t know their way back. 

Newsie shoved that concern to the back of their mind. Right now, all they needed to focus on was finding Cherri. The rest could come later. Still, there was no sign of Cherri- or anyone else for that matter- as they made their way further into the dusty valley. It should have been lonely, but the faint hovering presence of someone or something next to her kept away that particular anguish. She really should have been more alarmed by whatever was in the corner of her eye, vanishing when she looked right at it, but the presence felt safe. Almost familiar. So Newsie kept walking. 

They walked, and walked, and walked and walked and walked until the steps all blurred together under the infinite sun. It seemed like it should be nearly nightfall by now, but the sun didn’t seem to move, no matter how many steps she took. The landscape didn’t seem like it was moving much either, even though they must have walked miles and miles by now. Every step was harder than the last, sand stinging her eyes and nose and throat as her feet ached.

Still, Newsie was too damn stubborn to give up now. She followed the feather until the landscape did start to shift, the feather pointing towards…a tree? On a hill? It wasn’t like the tiny, scraggly trees that clung to existence in the wettest parts of the desert. No, this was what Newsie vaguely thought might have been called an oak, once upon a time, branches stretching towards the sky as the tree stood proud. The leaves were dark green, striking a sharp contrast to the faded blue of the desert sky and the endless beige sand, and the branches were thick and steady, growing in a pattern Newsie hadn’t seen before. It definitely wasn’t a tree that was meant to be in the desert, but...shade was shade. 

She staggered over and flopped down underneath it, every muscle in her body screaming at her. “Hey, Witch, asshole, why do I have to walk so fucking far?”

The only reply she got was the rustling of leaves above her. They didn’t think the Witch was actually watching, but they flipped off the tree anyways, just in case. 

She could have sworn she heard faint laughter at that, but it was probably her mind playing tricks on her. Water, she could really use some fucking water. Thank the Witch, or maybe just Pony’s quick thinking, they found a bottle of water when they reached into their bag. It was warmed by the sun and tasted vaguely of rust, but then again, most water in the desert did. Newsie was used to it.

She only got a few minutes to rest before the silence was shattered by a cry. “Help! Help!” It was a young-sounding voice, and Newsie groaned as they climbed to their feet. Having a moral compass was a real pain in the ass sometimes; they couldn’t just ignore a kid in need.

The presence by their shoulder seemed to have grown stronger as Newsie came around the tree and saw a few dracs holding a struggling killjoy who looked to be maybe thirteen or fourteen. She would have to be very careful in order not to hurt the ‘joy, given their close proximity to the dracs. Their hands shook as they pulled out their ray gun, reconsidered, and took out Cherri’s instead. They were pretty sure it had that gyroscope stabilizer (or whatever it was called) that some of the nicer ones were built with, and she would need every advantage she could get. This time, she was almost certain there were ghostly hands over hers as she took careful aim.

“Steady. Breathe,” a voice murmured in Newsie’s ear as they tilted the ray gun carefully. It would be only seconds before the young killjoy was dragged off, so she had to act now. 

Newsie took a deep breath, releasing it fully before she pulled the trigger and took out one of the dracs holding the ‘joy, who was able to break free from the other one’s grasp as Newsie took that one down too. She might not have been Cherri Cola, but she was by no means a bad shot, and she grinned a bit to herself. Drac down, drac down, and that was the last of them!

“Fuck yeah, NewsAGoGo, you kick ass.” They figured they might as well encourage themself, since there was no one else around to do it.

That was met by what she could have sworn was another faint chuckle, but there wasn’t anyone else around to be laughing. Well, except the younger killjoy, but they were way too far away to have heard her. 

Newsie shrugged and accepted that weird shit was going to happen on a quest in Death Valley. They had to keep moving, they decided, but first they should check on that ‘joy they’d saved. 

“Hey, kid! You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine. Thanks to you, I think.” Their voice was hoarse, and Newsie sighed as she handed them her water bottle. Cherri was getting his ass kicked for this, she decided. It wasn’t technically his fault that she was thirsty, but if he hadn’t up and died, she wouldn’t have had to quest after him and then she wouldn’t have ended up giving her water to some random ‘joy.

“Thanks,” the teen said, handing them back the water bottle.

She shrugged. “No problem. You going somewhere?”

“Yes, but not the same way as you.” Their head was tilted curiously. “You’ll have to go that way. Until you see the building.”

Newsie debated for a second if this kid was trustworthy, but ultimately decided it was no worse than following a fucking feather. “Thanks, kid. Good luck, keep running.”

“Keep running!” They flashed a smile and wandered away.

Newsie sighed and started walking again, this time in the direction the kid had pointed. Again, Cherri was so getting an ass-kicking for this. Their feet hurt. 

Thank the Phoenix Witch- no, thank Destroya, she wasn’t thanking the Phoenix Witch for fucking anything right now- she wasn’t back on her feet for long. Compared to her earlier trek, it was quite a short distance, maybe a mile or so, to what must have been the building that kid was talking about. It was a small shack which looked vaguely familiar, even from a distance, and Newsie sped up a little as they headed towards it. Shade! Maybe even a place to sit that wasn’t sand! Of course, knowing her luck, the Phoenix Witch would show up and demand she go run some errand or walk another hundred fucking miles or something. 

The presence that had been following her this whole time seemed stronger and easier to catch a glimpse of, now, but the was the least of their worries as Newsie approached the building and found it familiar. They could peer in through the window and find D and Pony sitting there in the living room, talking about music (she assumed, given that the only time D gestured so broadly was when he was giving opinions about music).

“D! Pone!”

They didn’t seem to hear her, and Newsie felt her eyes stinging from both sand and grief as she knocked on the door. There was still no reply, no Pony at the door or even sound from inside. But the two carried on their conversation, gesturing and laughing away.

"D, Pony…” If they were back here, that meant they had failed. They hadn’t gotten to the Witch after all. 

Newsie gave up her knocking and turned her back to the door, sliding down to sit on the hard ground. Their feet hurt from standing and their legs hurt from walking and their hands hurt from clutching Cherri’s ray gun so tightly. The sun was still blazing, and their throat was dry and sore. Her collarbones were banged up where Cherri’s mask had been bouncing against them, and her hip was bruised from the bag bouncing against it, and everything fucking hurt. They had promised themself they weren’t going to cry, but now they were breaking that promise because their goddamn brother was dead and they couldn’t fucking do anything about it. 

“I’m sorry, Cherri,” they choked.

“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” The words were only a whisper, but the voice was familiar. 

Newsie’s heart skipped a beat. “Cherri?”

“I’m here,” the air next to her whispered, right where that presence had been hovering. “Not exactly, but close enough.” If they squinted, they could make out an outline of a familiar killjoy, smiling a soft, sad smile as he pushed his hair out of his face.

“Fucking bastard! Fuck! Fucking hell! You just fucking died on me and do you know how far I fucking walked?”

“Technically, you didn’t walk at all.” That was a different voice, belonging to the cloaked figured who was suddenly in front of Newsie. They could have sworn the person hadn’t been there just a second ago, which was damn inconvenient. Right as she was trying to catch up with her fucking brother? Really?

“Who the fuck are you?” They demanded.

“The deity you came to find, NewsAGoGo.”

Newsie hopped to her feet so she could stand on level with the bird creature, ignoring the ache in every part of their body. “Fuck you! Fuck you, Witch lady! Fuck you and your fate and your cryptic ways! What the fuck do you mean I didn’t walk?”

The Witch seemed faintly amused by her swearing. “I mean that in real-world distance, you went nowhere. You’re on the border, the boundary between this world and the next. Which is how your lovely brother is here, by the way. He belongs to the spirit world, and you belong to the ordinary one, but on this border and this border only, you can see and hear each other.”

“Great, now I’m taking him back to the real world.”

The Phoenix Witch tsked disapprovingly. “I’m afraid you can’t do that, NewsAGoGo. You see, Cherri Cola is dead. He belongs to my domain now.”

“Well fuck that! I’m not letting him go.” Newsie hadn’t walked however many fucking miles to give up now.

“Fine, fine, you can have him.” Newsie’s heart soared. “For a price,” The Witch added. 

“And what’s the price?”

“The price is the people in that house behind you.”

“What?”

“Well, technically they aren’t there, per se. That’s not Dr. Death Defying and Show Pony, although it seems that way to you.” The Witch’s voice was annoyingly calm. “But my point being, if you can give up one of them, you can have your Cherri back.”

“Newsie, no,” Cherri whispered from beside her.

“Can you do it?” The Witch was still smiling. “Can you sacrifice one friend to save another? Could you live with yourself if you killed your friend to save your brother? And could you live with yourself if you left him here to save the others?”

“No, I can’t do it.” They knew their voice must sound very small and very tired as they leaned a little against the radio shack that wasn’t the radio shack. “I can’t choose the life of one of my friends over another. I won’t make that choice. I refuse.”

“So do you choose to leave him here? I’ll take good care of him, you know.”

“No. I choose to not choose. I refuse to choose.” She had no idea what she was doing, only that she wasn’t leaving without the lives of all of her family. “I won’t put Cherri’s life over D’s, or Pony’s. I won’t put D or Pony’s life over Cherri’s. They all deserve to live.”

“Oh, hon, it doesn’t work that way.”

“Well I’ll make it work that way!” A thought niggled Newsie’s brain. “What if…What if I gave you something else?”

“Like what?”

“Like my life.”

“No!” That was Cherri again, his spirit form flickering fiercely. “No! Newsie, just leave without me. Please.”

The Phoenix Witch was smirking, but she shook her head. “Sorry, NewsAGoGo. I can’t accept that offer, selfless as it might be. You’ve got things ahead of you, I can’t just mess up my plans like that.”

“Fine, then something else.” Newsie rooted around in her bag, desperately trying to find something to trade with the Witch. Empty water bottle, no. Can of power pup that she never touched, no. Their hand collided with a small, slightly squished packet of something, which they pulled out triumphantly. “Glitter. I’ll give you glitter for my brother’s life.” Newsie knew she sounded ridiculous, but it really was all she had to offer.

The Phoenix Witch threw her head back and cackled; it was almost more of a caw than a laugh but clearly a sound of amusement nonetheless. “Glitter! Glitter! I haven’t laughed so hard in years.”

Their hand was shaking. “Pony gave it to me. Because sparkles- because sparkles-“ Their voice wobbled and they couldn’t finish that sentence.

“Sparkles make everything better,” Cherri whispered softly from next to her. Newsie nodded, trying not to cry.

The mirth on the Witch’s face was gone, replaced by true, genuine pity. “You care so much.”

“Yeah, of course I fucking do. He’s my brother, asshole.”

Cherri’s form was flickering again, and Newsie wished she knew what that meant as the Witch smiled softly. It was a bit of a sad, pitying smile, which they really didn’t appreciate, but they guessed they did make for a pitiful sight. Sandy and dusty, tear tracks on their face as they leaned against a wall and offered a pitiful little pack of glitter in exchange for the person they loved most in the world. 

“So…are you going to take the glitter?” Maybe it was dumb, maybe she should know the Witch would never accept glitter, but she had to try. 

“Yes.” 

Newsie gaped at her. 

“Yes, I’ll take the glitter. Not as a reward, but as a symbol. You, NewsAGoGo, traveled uncountable miles of unreality, fought a squad of dracs, and dared defy me, a literal deity, for your brother. I am not a cruel goddess, I do not need to be. The world is cruel enough for me. And your Cherri did not deserve to die. Oh, he was asking for it, he was taunting me into swooping down to take that bracelet you gave him off his wrist and taking his soul on with me just the same, but he still didn’t deserve to die.”  

The Witch flicked Cherri on the nose, or where Newsie thought his nose ought to be. “We’ve had some conversations about it, haven’t we? Because you didn’t want to die, Cherri Cola. You wanted to not be in pain. Something everyone wants. And your sister cares so much, so I’ll give you one more chance. This is your last one, lovely.”

“I understand.”

“Of course you do, hon.” The Witch turned back to Newsie. “Keep an eye on this one. He’s a bit prone to wandering off, but he’s yours again. He belongs to the land of the living. I’ll be keeping this, though.” She tapped the bracelet on her wrist, which Newsie recognized as the one they had given Cherri. “And the glitter, just for the hell of it. Tell your friend Pony they have good taste in décor, will you?”

And just like that, she was gone. Newsie was standing alone at the entrance to Death Valley, her faithful motorcycle next to her. At first, she thought the Witch had lied, since she did seem to be utterly alone, but before long, footsteps sounded from within the valley. 

Newsie turned as a figure approached, her breath catching at the familiar face. Cherri Cola was exactly how he had been the day Newsie had left him at the radio station, not knowing she would come back to find him gone. His battered green jacket was just as ripped and dusty as ever, and there was a small scar across his right cheek, as always. The only immediately visible difference between Cherri of a few weeks ago and this Cherri was the pure white streak in his hair, white like bones and death and the salt crusted on some parts of the desert. Yet when she looked closer, she could also see a tiny spark of determination in his eyes that had been missing for a very long time.

Cherri came to a stop in front of her, smiling cautiously. “Hey.” 

Newsie didn’t know if they should cry, yell at him, or hug him. They settled for a mixture of all three, sprinting over to hug him tightly as they unleashed all the bottled swear words and tears of the past few weeks. “Fuck you, Cherri! Dipshit! Bitch boy! Fucking rat bastard, you left me! You left me alone and I- and I was scared.” Their voice dropped on the last few words.

“I know, I’m sorry.” Cherri’s voice was very soft. “I should never have left.”

A bit of her fierceness came back at that, with another couple of swear words to unleash. “No, you fucking shouldn’t have! Asshole. Little shit! You died, you fucker! You died and I had to walk so fucking far to get you back, fuckface!”

“I’m sorry, Newsie. I’m so sorry.” 

She sniffled, unable to stay mad for long. “Just never do that again. Ever. I’m not fighting a squad of dracs to save some child so I can get directions to a fucking fake radio shack and talk to a cryptic deity next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” Cherri said softly. “I promise.”

“Cross your heart and hope to die?”

He crossed his heart, giving her a very serious look. “I swear on my best poetry and Show Pony’s glitter stash.”

They let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “Now you can never break it, Pone would never forgive you if something happened to their glitter stash.”

“Exactly.” His eyes were glimmering with tears as well, but he was smiling as Newsie led him back to her motorcycle with a “Hop on, fuckface.”

It felt safe to have Cherri’s arms wrapped around her again, his head leaning on her shoulder as she revved the engine. He was a warm, safe presence, just as he had been in the unreality-reality place, but this time he was a solid one. A real one.

They might have been tired as all fuck, but that didn’t stop them from grinning as Cherri muttered something about it probably not being safe for her to drive while this tired. “Hang on, fucker. We’re going home.” 

Home was, as it had been for quite a while now, a (mostly) structurally sound radio station in the middle of the desert. It was almost nightfall by the time they pulled up in front of the radio shack, and Newsie was yawning as she climbed off the bike with another huge yawn. Cherri practically had to carry her to the door, but in her defense, he wasn’t the one who had walked however many miles, got in a firefight, and argued with a deity today. So they felt no guilt in leaning against him as he paused on the porch, using his free hand to knock gently on the door.

They were met by an exhausted-looking Show Pony, eyes red-rimmed and blood-shot as ey opened the door. “I’m sorry, no visitors today- Newsie?! Cherri?!?”

Cherri waved with his free hand. “Hey.”

“Am I just seeing things?” Pony’s voice was as shocked as eir face, which was very.

“Not seeing things, bastard,” Newsie yawned. “I said I was getting Cherri, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but you’ve been missing a month, Gogo! D and I thought you were ghosted like your bro!”

It probably was not an appropriate reaction, but the first thing out of her mouth was “No wonder I’m so thirsty.”

Cherri started laughing at that, and after a second so did Pony, half-hysterically. “Well, we’ve got water, that’s for sure. D’ll give you plenty, he’ll be so glad you’re alive!” Ey led them inside, still laughing in a somewhat hysterical way. “D, we’ve got some rat bastards alive and back on our hands!”

“Fuck you, Pone.” 

“She’s kidding, we love you,” Cherri yawned.

“And I love you too, but you can’t just- just up and disappear! The lot of you, honestly.” 

D’s face was only slightly less shocked than Pony’s when he rolled into the living room, and Newsie had a feeling that was only because he was even more exhausted than em. 

“Hey,” Cherri said again. 

“Cherri- Newsie- Witch, you both, we thought you were dead!”

“Well we’re not, deal with it.” She was too tired for this shit. Shouldn’t arguing with a deity give you a pass? “Also, sorry, Pone, I traded your glitter away to the Witch.”

Ey only looked shocked for a second before eir usual grin returned. “Well, it was meant to be used somehow! Plus, sparkles…”

“Make everything better!” Newsie, Pony, and Cherri all chorused. 

D sighed. “Welcome home, you two. Never scare us like that again, alright, Newsie?”

“I wasn’t the one who wandered off and died!”

“To be fair, you kinda threatened to fight the Phoenix Witch and then vanished, sugar,” Pony put in.

Newsie flipped em off, flopping down on the sofa. “My point was, give Cherri shit instead. I’m too tired for this.”

“Oh, I plan on it.” D’s voice was vaguely threatening, but his face cracked into a smile as he turned to Cherri. “You scared the hell out of all of us.”

Cherri stared at the ground. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“And we love you so much,” D added.

Newsie grinned at her brother’s shocked face. “Uh-huh, fuckface. We love you, even if you’re a rat bastard. Now I’m going to sleep for a week, see you all later.”

“Goodnight, Newsie,” Cherri said with a smile. If anyone else said anything after that, Newsie didn’t hear it. They were out like a light within seconds.

-

In this universe, the radio station is peaceful that evening, the family reunited at long last. Cherri Cola smiles to himself as he lifts Newsie off the sofa, giving D and Pony a thumbs up as he wanders into the back of the radio station. Their room is quiet, and Newsie barely shifts when he sets her down gently on the mattress.  They do move, however, when Cherri tries to pull away, reaching out to snatch his wrist. Trapped, he has no choice but to lay down next to Newsie, earning a sleepy noise that sounds vaguely happy.

Cherri grins softly, even if she can’t see it, running his hand along the new set of scars on his arm. There will be time to think about those later, time for the conversations that have to come with that, but for now all they are is a reminder. A reminder that he’s a survivor, a reminder of what matters. 

Cherri Cola falls asleep with Newsie by his side, and the last words on his lips that night are “I love you, Newsie.”

[retroateez]

bandit king - s.mingi

hello!!! literally nobody wanted this but i’ve written it anyway and actually?? i quite enjoyed writing a character like this. i hope you enjoy! if you do, please like or any other way of letting me know!

// Apocalypse!AU  Borderlands x Ateez AU Bandit King!Mingi x Vault Hunter!Reader I guess this is kind of??? angst // I’ve tried my best to write a gender neutral reader, but if i’ve slipped up anywhere please tell me and i’ll change it ASAP. Warnings; mentions of blood, death (murder), guns, graphic descriptions of violence and explicit language. if i’ve missed anything that may potentially be triggering, please message me and i will add it to this list. wc;4642

// 

“Strip the flesh! Salt the wound!” 

You aim your radiated Maliwan shotgun at the psycho who was hurtling towards you, screeching nonsense at the top of his lungs. Without blinking an eye, you pull the trigger and watch the shell plunge into his chest, knocking him to the floor in an instant. You lower your gun, and stand frozen in your position.

Wait for it…

His skinny frame is launched thirty meters into the air with an explosion that leaves your ears ringing. A toxic, mustard-coloured cloud trails after him as he flies upwards, then rolls over his corpse when he lands with a dull thump.

You had always favoured Maliwan’s range of elemental shotguns. 

With a sigh, you sling the gun into its holster on your back, and step over the dead psycho with a small smirk.

One down, plenty more to go.

-----

Tracking the Bandit King had proven much more of a challenge than your contractor had initially let on. Bringing you from your home planet to the run-down, wasteland named Pandora, you’d travelled far and wide looking for them. Rife with rival gun manufacturers, various bandit clans and ‘ordinary’ civilians just trying to survive, your particular maniac could be anywhere. You didn’t know much about him except for his name; Inferno. It was a stupid name, for an equally stupid leader of a stupid bandit gang, but you were promised a substantial amount of pay for his murder, so he could call himself whatever he wanted; he would be dead soon.

However, the night was quickly approaching, and you’d been driving through the dusty Pandoran plains for far too long, so you pull up to the next bar you come across. You park your sandy brown Outrunner to the left of the tavern and walk towards the entrance.

‘The Blood Bucket’ flickers in a blinding, neon purple above the crimson stained double doors. A fine establishment for some fine patronage, you presume. 

With a kick of your steel-toed boot, the doors swing open and a hush falls over the customers almost immediately; it’s not everyday they witness a vault hunter so out in the open.

“Ain’t no vault here, you scumbag!” a hoarse voice calls out from the crowd of drunks, and the rest of them break out into laughter.

You reach down and slightly withdraw your Vladof pistol from your hip, the crowd falling silent once more as you inch it out of it’s holster and clutch it in your hand. All eyes are on you as you approach the bar, and although you’re used to the staring and scowling from random people, it’ll always make you nervous. Not that you would ever show weakness, as a vault hunter, you’d sooner die than let anyone believe they had an advantage over you. 

“A bed for the night?” You ask the bartender, although it comes out more as a demand than a question.

You can see by the way his lip curls up in disgust that he isn’t best pleased about having you, a murderer, thief and all-round terrible person who galivants across the galaxy facading as a hero, standing before him in his bar. But he knows how ruthless vault hunters are, how cold-hearted they can be and he’s aware that you can put a bullet between his eyes quicker than he can say “skin pizza”. 

So he reluctantly points to his right, indicating to a set of rickety looking stairs, to which you assume the rooms are. You nod in thanks and make your way over to the steps, ignoring the glares from everyone else in the bar. Hurrying up them, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and unclench your fists from their stiff positions by your side. The tensest parts of these contracts were never committing the murder itself, it was always the journey getting there that made you anxious to your core.

Admittedly, you’d grown accustomed to your lifestyle, even if you had no choice. It was a dog-eat-dog universe, and you’d built yourself into a powerful lone wolf. Yet there were always bigger beasts out there, no matter how hard you trained or how many people you killed. It would probably never be enough, but for the time being, you had no other choice; you had to slaughter, or run the risk of being slaughtered yourself.

-----

The next morning, you wake early and wash the dried blood out of your hair from the day before. You sit on the (surprisingly comfortable) bed and pull out the contractor’s instructions from your bag. Skimming over the pages for the millionth time, you study Inferno’s face one more time. 

You’d been hired to take out countless enemies for countless rich idiots, but there was something different about him, and you hated to admit it; but he was ridiculously handsome. One of the documents given to you was an old, faded ‘wanted’ poster, featuring a photograph of the bandit king himself. Judging by the photo’s setup, you guessed it was a mugshot of sorts, as Inferno is standing, facing the camera and holding a sign. Typically, there would be a name written on the board that the criminals hold, but this one has been scratched out, presumably to hide his identity. Whoever crossed that name out, wants Inferno’s real name kept quiet. You can relate though; you don’t go by your real name either. Nicknames are so much safer to use, especially on this wasteland of a planet. 

You stare down into his hooded eyes in the photograph, responding to his stagnant smirk with a frown of your own. The height markers behind him indicate a healthy six feet and you wonder how somebody so good-looking managed to become the crazed ruler of a bunch of lunatics. You imagine his wildly curly hair is an obnoxious red, the blood spatters on your documents covering the sepia tones of the photo and giving him quite a nice hair colour. 

The longer you inspect his face, the more and more you start to feel for him. It’s a foreign feeling, sympathy. You don’t like it. You hate that you think he could’ve become more, become something better than a murderous clan leader. Because this mugshot is clearly old, from a time before he was totally corrupted by blood-lust and greed. From before he could solve anything and everything with the pull of a trigger. And you realise it’s because this young, up-and-coming bandit king in the photograph reminds you of yourself. Before you were forced into fending for yourself and transforming into somebody deep down you were ashamed of, but realistically you had no choice. And it was likely that your next victim had no choice either. Nobody did. Not on Pandora. Not anywhere.

Abruptly, you stuff the documents deep inside your backpack and then haul it over your shoulders. Grabbing your shotgun and pistol and hiding them inside their holsters, you feel that same rush flood over you as it does everytime you pick up a gun. It’s similar to an unwavering calmness, a complete opposite to how any other ordinary person would be if they were to clutch a huge Maliwan shotgun to their chest.  You pick up the new, DAHL SMG that’s leaning by the door and twist it around in your hands. Aptly named ‘Night Hawkin’, it switches from shooting pyro bullets to cryo (ice) bullets depending on the time of day, and you figure that Inferno is the perfect test-subject for your new toy.

Once you’ve gathered your few belongings, you march downstairs to pay the innkeeper. 

“Five Eridium bars?!” you snap. “You didn’t say anything about Eridium fees.”

The innkeeper raises his smug little face at you and you resist all urges to pistol whip him across the room. 

“I figured a vault hunter like you would have no trouble paying up,” he spits. “After all, you like to gloat about how much you rob from those vaults, right?”

“Two bars.” you bargain. He’s right, truthfully. You do have the money, more than enough actually, to pay him the full five, but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“Four bars,” he pauses for a second and eyes you from his side of the bar. “Four, and I’ll tell you where your bandit lover-boy is.”

You freeze. How did he know-

“You don’t think I check on the people who stay here?” his smirk grows and you realise he’s got you in the palm of his hand. He has information that, providing he was telling you the truth, could be extremely helpful. You’re also pretty bewildered that he went through your things while you were sleeping too, but now is not the time to unravel all of that.

“Fine.” you grumble. “But information first, payment second.”

The barkeep fixes his gaze on you for a few moments before crossing his arms and leaning forwards. He lowers his voice, despite the bar being relatively empty.

“You’ll find him at The Devil’s Footstool,” he mumbles. “Just north of The Salt Flats.”

“I thought that was Hyperion territory?” you question. Hyperion, one of the most influential weapon manufacturers and businesses this side of the galaxy had reign over the majority of Pandora. Naturally, you despised Hyperion and everything they stood for; a corrupt, power-driven company who stopped at nothing to get what they wanted. Butchering thousands of innocent lives for their own benefit. You loathed Hyperion.

The innkeeper shrugs.

“Inferno and his bandit followers waltzed in not so long ago like they owned the place,” he explained. “Not Hyperion anymore.”

You nodded, opting not to say anything else. Reaching into your bag, you pull out the four violet bars and hand them over to the innkeeper, unimpressed at having to fork out such a ridiculous amount.

It didn’t matter though, because the information he had just given you could save you days, even weeks in completing the contract. Even if it turned out he was lying out of his ass, you might still be able to find something at The Devil’s Footstool regardless. If not, you knew where he lived, and there was a brand-new shotgun with his name on it that you were just itching to try out.

You sling the backpack over your shoulder again, mumble a ‘thank you’ to the barkeep and make your exit. Jumping into the driver’s seat of your vehicle, and heaving the bag into the passenger seat, you prepare yourself for the endless journey through the boiling heat and dust. You hated it here.

-----

Five hours later, you finally arrive at your destination; The Salt Flats. Stocking up before embarking on tracking Inferno down for the final time was a very good idea, so you pulled into a small town just on the outskirts of The Salt Flats. You’d be in luck if the inhabitants (if there were any) weren’t hostile, but you weren’t planning on staying long. Luckily, you manage to find a nearby ammunitions vending machine, so you spend a good fifteen minutes buying shells, bullets, grenades, anything you think you might need to send Inferno’s cult of weirdos sprawling. 

 Also, what kind of dumbass name was Inferno?

There were so many crazy individuals spread across the planet but you’d never get over some of the stupid names they chose for themselves. One of the most absurd characters being King Wee Wee, a bandit lord in New Haven. You’d yet to find anyone dumber than him. But on Pandora, you’d probably find them soon enough.

Shaking your head and double-checking your bag is tightly secured, you throw it into the back of the Outrunner. But before you can jump into the driver’s seat, you freeze.

You squint into the distance, almost as if blinding yourself momentarily will make your hearing clearer. And somehow it works, the faint sound of rushing footsteps nearing closer and closer. The grunting and wheezy breaths immediately signal out to you; there’s a psycho nearby. And he’s not happy that you’re here. 

The slim, weirdly ripped frame whips around the corner, bolting out from behind an abandoned car. His mask covers his entire face, and you’ve dealt with psychos millions of times before, but the blank, expressionless masks always chilled you to the bone.

“You’re gonna be my new meat bicycle!” he screeches at you, before hurling himself over the hood of the car and sprinting full-speed towards you, waving some sort of nailed bat above his head. 

Instinctively, you withdraw your pistol and before you can even blink, there’s a deafening bang! and the hideous screaming stops, leaving the psycho as nothing more than a bloody, crumpled heap on the dirty ground. Catchihg your breath, you watch the pool of crimson seep across the earth below your feet, and put the pistol back by your hip. No matter how quick your reflexes were, psychos would always manage to scare the living shit out of you. It was their odd, unsettling catchphrases more than anything. They stuck to wild, close-range combat, so anybody with a gun would easily defeat one. But when they threaten to turn your face into pepperoni? That’s when you’re caught off guard.

You hop into your car, turning the engine and pressing on the gas as hard as you can. Eager to get out of this town in fear of what else might come barreling around corners and out of alleyways.

Yet it’s in your haste that you fail to see the tattoo inked onto the psycho’s body. You overlook the dark outline of the bursting flames on his torso, something you’ll end up wishing you hadn’t  missed.

-----

Crouching behind a semi-blown up road-block, you’re just outside of Inferno’s compound. After scouting the area, you were certain that nobody was patrolling the areas outside. You wondered how Inferno had managed to seize The Devil’s Footstool from Hyperion. The central focus of the area was a massive arena, where you assumed Hyperion personnel would train. What did Inferno want with a fighting arena?

It was suspicious too, how there was not another living soul out here with you. You supposed that maybe there was a meeting going on inside the building attached to the stadium, one where literally everybody had to present for? Although psychos could barely tell apart their own limbs from hotdogs, so if there was an important gathering, it’s unlikely they’d be invited.

Still, you keep your guard up, head down and make your way towards the building. As you gain on the entrance, you hear the roaring of engines rise up into the air; there must be a race in the arena. But the track is behind the main building, and you can’t see or access it from here. So the only option is to go through the building. 

With one hand clutching your pistol, you slope around the left of the building, deciding that going through the front doors would be stupidly reckless, instead looking for a side door. Alternatively, you locate a window, which conveniently is already open. You peer inside, scanning what appears to be a study or an office, with nothing but a wooden desk and a chair in the middle. 

You should’ve sensed that something was off because of how empty the room was; offices should have shelves, plants, bits of paper everywhere, right? 

However, you think nothing of it, continuing to hoist the window up and combat roll into the room. You stand up immediately, about to reach behind you and grab the shotgun slung across your back but suddenly, an arm flies in front of you, wrapping around your throat with your chin buried in the crevice of their elbow. You dig your nails into their forearm, your vision firmly planted onto the tattoo shaped like a burst of flames on his arm. Caught off guard, you don’t make the connection in your head between the tattoo and the obvious.

“Hello,” a deep voice purrs into your ear, causing goosebumps across your entire body. “I’ve been expecting you.”

-----

The barrel of his assault rifle presses painfully against your spine, and his bicep is squeezing against your jugular so hard you think you might pass out. You bite your bottom lip harshly to stay quiet, and to ground yourself. Panicking now is the last thing you want.

“It’s not everyday a vault hunter comes tumbling through my office window.” you feel him smirk against your ear and you curse yourself for not checking the room properly.

“Where’s Inferno?” you demand. “I have business with him.”

“Business?” he echoes, easing his grip on your neck a little, but still restricting almost all of your movement. “Are you sure? I don’t recall him having any business to attend to today.”

You attempt to twist your head around to look at him, but he catches your chin in his hand which thankfully, removes the pressure from your neck. But now he’s tightly gripping your face and you can feel his fingers press against your teeth through your cheek.

“Tsk tsk,” he reprimands you, tutting into your hair. “Face forward. If you agree to behave, I’ll take you to Inferno and you can handle this so-called ‘business’”. 

Nodding, (or at least, as best as you can with his vice-grip on your jaw), you agree. The gun is still prodding into your spine, and with the way he’s towering over you, there’s no way you could possibly escape from this. 

So you allow him to march you through the building, reverting back to having his forearm basically crush your windpipe, causing you both to shuffle awkwardly through the hallways. He leads you up three flights of stairs, multiple twists and turns, (the building definitely didn’t look this big from the outside), until he bustles you into a random room at the end of another, identical hallway. 

Only when you’re inside and he’s checked the door is locked, does he retract his grip and move away.

You swivel around the second he lets go, retrieving the pistol and aiming it out in front of you. The sight before you shocks you to your stomach, and you almost drop the small firearm.

Inferno himself is standing right there, the smuggest grin on his stupid face. His eyes are hooded, yet still sparkling mischievously with his gaze fixed directly on you. Taller than you thought he was too, you have to look up a fair amount to meet his stare. He has a sharp, narrow nose that suits the rest of his face and a few, prominent freckles splattered over his cheeks like blood. What strikes you the most is his hair. Curly, wild, and obnoxiously red. So the blood on the paper was right.

“Hi, darling.” he drawls. “Expecting somebody else?”

He’s rolling the Night Hawkin submachine gun in his hands, inspecting it from the stock to the magazine with an impressed pout. He flicks the manual switch between pyro ammunition and cryo, and chuckles shortly at the icy bullets.

“Nice weapon,” he compliments you. “Let me guess, DAHL? Those bastards love to make guns that make my life difficult.”

His playful tone irks you, and you scowl angrily at him. Not only has he stolen your brand-new weapon, he’s playing mind games with you. It’s just a shame that you’re  playing yourself right into his hands. Inferno raises an eyebrow at your silence.

“Cat got your tongue?” he teases. “That’s okay, I’ll do the talking.”

Making no reply, you keep your pistol aimed at him, thanking the gods that your arms aren’t trembling the same way your breath is. 

He paces around the room, slowly making a circle around you and you’re forced to spin on the spot to keep your gun aimed at his head. He’s still smirking, even as he begins to speak.

“You’re here to kill me, correct?” he nods in acknowledgment as you confirm that yes, you are in fact here to murder him. “I thought so.”

“You see, I have a slight problem with that,” he continues, strolling over to the window and glancing at the blazing sun outside. “It’s beautiful weather outside today, and I’d really prefer not to die and miss out on topping up my tan.”

What?

You don’t even know how to reply to that, but he doesn’t give you the opportunity to do so.

“Not only would you be murdering me on a wonderfully hot afternoon, you’d be committing yet another crime against me. And what have I done to you, vault hunter?” he fake pouts, and you catch yourself before you feel sympathy creep back in.

But what did he mean ‘another’ crime? You haven’t met him before now. Murder contracts are nothing personal; you’re simply the messenger.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already?” he’s in front of you before you can even register his fingers curled underneath your chin, tilting your head up to glare dead into his eyes. The tip of your pistol is pressing into his chest, just right of his heart. Yet he doesn’t appear fazed at all. 

“Let me jog your memory.” he murmurs, fanning hot air all over your face. 

In an instant, he’s seized your pistol, wrenching it from your hold and spun you around so your back is leaning against his chest. You can feel his jaw resting on the top of your head, and the way he moves round to your right, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear like before.

“Not so long ago, I believe you had an encounter with a very good friend of mine.” husky voice eerily calm, you hate to admit that you’re terrified.

You’re used to dealing with the most insane individuals the planet has to offer, but there’s something human in him. Something so raw that it’s thrown you completely off balance. There was absolutely nothing in the universe that could have prepared you for a bandit king who wasn’t completely crazy. For someone who reminded you of yourself, somebody who was trying to survive in this barren, apocalyptic wasteland, albeit through entirely immoral means. 

“My friend is dead now, thanks to you.” there’s no bitterness or even anger lacing his words, and you’re conflicted on whether he’s furious or grateful.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” you exhale, finding your voice eventually. 

“Oh? The vault hunter speaks!” he feigns surprise, but the arm you hadn’t even noticed wrapped around your waist squeezes you closer into him.

You truly had no idea what he was on about though. You’d killed a lot of people, although you’d spent the majority of the day driving, so unless you’d accidentally fallen asleep at the wheel and taken part of an unconscious hit and run, you were clueless.

“The town just outside of The Salt Flats,” he snaps, losing his temper with you. You feel his chest rise and fall as he recollects himself, and you wonder how short his fuse must be. “Steve only wanted to show you his new bicycle.”

Bicycle?

“That psycho was your friend?” you blurt out.

“Steve was my second-in-command,” Inferno mumbles into your ear. “And you put a bullet in his head. I don’t appreciate that one little bit, vault hunter.” as he finishes his sentence, he raises his free arm and plants the barrel of your pistol to your forehead, the cold metal a cool change to your burning skin. 

“I don’t like it when people mess with my things.” he growls lowly. “I also don’t like having to find new second-in-commands.”

“You’ve got plenty of lunatics to choose from.” you whisper.

“No. I don’t think any of them are fit for the job, you see.” he retorts immediately, barely waiting for you to finish your own sentence. 

“Yet how convenient it is,” he carries on. “That there is a new vacancy, just as you break into my office.”

“No, I don’t thi-”

“You don’t think anything, vault hunter,” he interrupts you, his tone getting aggressive and rougher. “I regret to inform you, but you don’t have a fucking choice.” You can tell from the pistol digging into your skin that he isn’t sorry at all, and that he might be right; do you really have much of a choice?

“What do you want from me?” you ask, voice just above a whisper. 

His clutches weaken ever so slightly, finally allowing oxygen properly into your lungs. It was looking more likely for you to die from lack of breath rather than a bullet to the brain.

“I just told you,” he says. “I want you to be my second-in-command, seeing as you killed my previous one. Think of it as an exchange.”

“An exchange? For what?”

He leans over your shoulder, his cheek pressing against your own as you try to look him in the face.

“Put it this way, you join us, or you die. Does that make sense, Y/N?” he examines your reaction with an ecstatic grin, watching as your face drops and your breach catches in your throat.

How did he know your name?

The panic that shoots through you is immeasurable; nobody is supposed to know your real name. Nobody should know your real name. So how the fuck does this stupid, mind-game playing bandit king who you’ve never met before, know?

Satisfied with your response and knowing you’re putty in his hands, he completely lets go of you, even removing the pistol from between your eyes. You sense him moving away, the space around you turning empty and cold. Part of you wishes, hopes that he’ll put his arms back around you and make you warm again, and the other half of you wants to yank the small ice pick out from your sock and jab it into his eye socket over and over and over again.

You stand in the center of the room, motionless for what seems like an eternity, just thinking. Inferno waits behind you patiently, and you secretly commend him for being the sanest psycho you’ve ever met.

But clearly his patience begins to wear thin, as he comes round to stand in front of you. He bends down to match your height and uses his fingertip to lift your chin up a little, the same way he did previously. His touch is uncharacteristically gentle, a polar opposite to the way he was choking you and harshly grasping you not even five minutes ago. 

“So?” he hums. “What do you say?”

Inferno searches your eyes as you mull over your answer. Although, there isn’t much thinking left for you to do; he’s metaphorically backed you into a corner and realistically, you have no escape.

“Fine, I’ll join you,” you rasp, the pressure of his gaze weighing down heavily on you and making you tenfold more nervous.

“Excellent!” he beams, standing up straight and clapping his hands together. “You’ll make a much better second-in-command than a vault hunter-”

“On one condition, I’ll join you.” you interrupt him, and his excited demeanour drops.

His dark eyes bore in yours, and he raises an eyebrow, indicating for you to name the stipulation. 

“Tell me your name.” you request. “Your real one.”

“I don’t think you quite understand the power dynamic here, darling.” he scoffs.

“No, I understand perfectly,” you quip. “I just don’t think it’s fair that you know mine, but I don’t know yours.”

You hold your palm out in a mock handshake pose.

“Say the name, and I’m yours.”

“Say my name?” he snorts, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue and turning his head away from you.

Suddenly, his large palm slaps into yours, his long fingers curling around your hand and he performs a strong, steady handshake.

“Mingi.” he says quietly. “You can call me Mingi.”

You smirk, reciprocating the formal shake.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Mingi.”

// if people like this then i already have ideas for a part two... hehe

[theonetheycallhannah]

A Mage’s Blood

Summary: Anathema of Velena and Geralt of Rivia meet their match in the center of a city torn apart by a deadly threat.

Pairing: Geralt/OFC (Anathema of Velena)

Word Count: 7k

Rating/Warnings: M for language, and violence. A bit of fluff No smut for now, but stay tuned. Also, warning that it’s stupid long AGAIN! Like why am I so inspired to write about these characters and this story when I can’t work on my own book?! Not fair!

Inspiration: See previous inspo note-nothing has changed!

Author’s Note: Gosh, this story has been so fun for me to write. I’ve loved playing with Geralt, even if some of this maybe isn’t strictly canon for him. I adore the new characters I’ve created, too, as short lived as some of them are. As far as the fight scene at the end, I didn’t go into a lot of detail, so if you have a clear idea of how the monsters in question would look fighting Geralt, I’d be open to a collaboration and a rewrite. For now, reader, please use your imagination. also, she’s not beta’d because, of my three friends who would beta my work, one is too busy, one doesn’t give a fuck about this fandom, and the other thinks I’m cheating on Richard Madden and refuses to contribute to this “dalliance” with Mr. Cavill. lol! so...i read it two or three times and i pray. lol! 

Tags: @fcgrizi @sunflowersstan @mylittlepartofthegalaxy @mstgsmy@lareinedususpense @geekycanuck @lunedelorient and @littlefreya Please let me know if you want to be tagged or if you want me not to tag you in things! I will not be offended!

There was cold light hitting the canvas overhead. It was just after dawn. Her internal clock could tell, too. Could feel it in the air pressure and in its chill. Last night the tent had taken on the orange hues of firelight. A passionate, warm light. This was so different. The scent of their union had faded with the starlight, but Anathema could still feel the burn of Geralt inside her. The abrasion of his whiskers where he'd made a meal of her body. All over, really. The evidence of him was everywhere. Everywhere but her bed. She rolled over to see him gone. She sunk deeper into the downy mattress and pillows. So much for the meaning of it all he'd touted before he'd ravaged her, she thought, suddenly bitter. Until she saw his belongings in the corner. She felt the space where he'd laid beside her all night. It was still very warm.

At that point, she heard a kettle whistle across the tent in the makeshift kitchen. She whipped her head around just as the flap in the tent fluttered open, admitting one witcher, holding a bristle brush in one hand, and a bundle of herbs in the other.

"Morning." he greeted, a warm, and very content smile on his face.

"Morning." she was shy, and somewhat awkward. She couldn't figure why. This man had lain her bare. What had she to be embarrassed about around him? She made herself continue with confidence, even if it was forced and sounded less than authentic. "Did you sleep well?"

"I, uh, suppose so, yes." she looked confused. "Witchers don't really sleep in the traditional sense that often. It hadn't been that long since I slept, so last night, I rested and recuperated my body by meditation. I mixed up a few potions, which always require some meditation to set. And just before dawn, I came out to feed and water the horses. I walked them around the water a bit so they could drink and get some of the tasty clover that tends to grow there. And I found some fool's parsley." He held up the bundle in his hand to show her." When we got back I put the kettle on for some tea and was brushing them when I heard it singing." He indicated the kettle with the brush in his dominant hand.

He was leaving something out. His space on the mattress wouldn't be so warm if he'd been gone that long.

"Your place in the bed is still warm, Geralt." she raised a brow at him.

"Ah," he said pouring the boiling water over the gauzy pouches in the cups he'd set out, "yes, well…I wanted to be next to you for a while before you woke. Your breathing when you sleep is a bit hypnotic. Did you know? You have a tendency to…moan." She blushed furiously. She hadn't really known, but had her suspicions something was…off about her…snore, as her mother called it. Her friends, such as she had, were never allowed to sleepover, nor was she allowed to visit them for such frivolity. She had thought at first her mother was just being cruel, because her sisters got to go to their friends homes all the time for overnight visits. But she sometimes awoke from light sleeps to a moaning sound that could only have been herself, as she was alone in her room. This made her think that perhaps her mother did her one small mercy in avoiding public scorn, no matter her motives, which were probably self-serving on some level.

"Oh, uh…I didn't think to warn you." She muttered apologetically. He sat his wares down and walked to her, knowing that she needed comfort, but confused as to why.  He caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers, raking each knuckle along her petal-soft skin.

"You sound ashamed, Ana."

"I guess it's in my blood." she looked down. Laying into the feeling. He took her chin in his hand and wouldn't let her.

"No." he protested roughly. "It's in your past." He leveled his ember gaze at her, stealing her breath, but not for any salacious reasons. This was poignancy at its most rarefied from Geralt of Rivia. "Just because we bear the scars of our pasts doesn't mean we must also carry the weapons that cut them into our flesh." he wiped a tear from her cheek. "Once we stop carrying them, those scars they made can heal so much more easily. And they can't hurt us anymore." He smiled at her. "Mind you, I'm still working on this, and have yet to master it."

"It's still good advice. It's the right advice. And I needed to hear it." she pulled him close and leaned her head on his firm stomach. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and cradled her head in his massive hand.

"I think we all do from time to time." he paused, she felt him take a few breaths in and out. "Whether we heed it or not. It's…filed away somewhere. And we can take it out and live by it when we're ready."

They stayed like that for some time. Their tea chilling on the table. Neither of them terribly interested any longer in anything but the warmth of the other. Eventually they broke apart realizing that they had a purpose here on the outskirts of this now obliterated kingdom. Deeply sighing, they looked at one another.

"I should dress." she heard his chest make a deep rumble in mild protest. "Come, now, we have a monster to find, Geralt. Trust me, though, the sentiment is shared and reciprocated." She stood up on the mattress so she was about a head above him, and kissed his forehead, then proceeded to hop down, nude as a bird, pretending that his eyes on her didn't make her want to haul the blankets over her head and walk around like a ghoul until she decided what she would wear today. But she refrained, allowing herself to be bare and to try to just be comfortable with it. He turned, reluctantly going back to the duty of preparing the horses to break camp.

She twisted her hair into it's standard coil high on her head after donning one of the new outfits Giltine had conjured up for her. She felt almost unstoppable in the two piece crimson number. The neck was wide, showing off her shoulders and neckline. The sleeves would have been generous even had they not been slit open on top and held together at the shoulders, elbows, and wrists by jeweled buttons to match and coordinate. Red, black, and brown gems sparkled in the small settings as she tested the flow of the majestic sleeves. It fastened fitted in a wrap around her midriff. The slacks were of the same fabric and color and could have passed for a skirt. They were high waisted, almost meeting the blouse, ankle length, and flowing like an evening gown as she walked. Knowing there was also an element of danger possible, Giltine had fashioned her a simple, but elegant leather jerkin to wear over her torso. It featured several long and wide strips of deep brown leather running from the top hem to the bottom and lacing at the side running through bronze grommets. The one embellishment he’d made was a small sunburst embroidered on her left hip. “Warriors always have their crests or symbols embroidered on their dominant sides. I thought I’d give you an edge and confuse them. Make anyone who might attack you go for your strong side.” He’d explained. She truly appreciated the thoughtful gesture. Overall, the body armor was ideal. It curved where she did, and didn't pinch or poke where it shouldn't. It wasn't meant to hold anything in. It was meant to keep things out.

She swathed on a touch of color to her face, minimal at best, tied up her weathered brown riding boots and went out to see how close to ready Geralt was.

He was brushing Clove now, Roach gleaming in the morning light with his own freshly brushed coat. Both horses were nibbling contently on the grass below them as Geralt explained about the different varieties of vampiric nemesis.

"While the fleders can stun ya good, alps and bruxae will downright get into your head before they drain you. They're just more powerful. And I…" he trailed off when his eyes met her, appraising the new look with clear, if subtle approval. Her arrival ceased his grooming motions, as well, which Clove vehemently protested in the form of a petulant whinny.

"I don't think she appreciated you stopping. And I'll have to admit, knowing the power of both your touch and your voice, I don't blame her in the least. By all means, continue your lecture…professor." she half teased, as she stepped up to her horse to scratch her chin as she liked. That calmed her down considerably.

"Ah," he replied, "I tend to…think out loud…around horses…and it sounds like…okay, I fucking talk to my horse."

"I'm the same. Clove here was an excellent listener on the ride from Aretuza. I'm sure she won't tell anyone my secrets." she smiled up into the mahogany orbs, patting the mare's cheek affectionately.

"So the horse knows you better than I?" Geralt raised an eyebrow and tilted his head in accusation.

"Now, Geralt, you mustn't be cross. We just met. I've been riding Clove for almost a week now."

"So how long will you have to ride me before I know all of your secrets?" he teased, she scoffed in shocked amusement.

"I have never!" she was speechless. Not expecting him to twist her words like that. "I…I need to finish breaking this campsite down. It's approaching mid morning. We have so much still to do!" she hurried about, blushing furiously, taking up the tent stakes and checking for lost or abandoned items. She heard Geralt laugh behind her. And shout "You look beautiful, by the way." to which she squinted back a very satisfied smile, and shouted at him "thank you," while her back was still to him. She also thought she heard him ask "Is she always like this?" and she was certain a very affirmative whinny came from Clove. Traitor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In less than a half an hour, they were saddled up and mounted with all of their supplies. Geralt had donned his sturdy and studded leather armor today. The sun caught the steel studs in the leather, as well as the silver wolf medallion on his neck. He had never taken it off, and her spell last night to doff his clothes hadn't affected it. It normally worked on jewelry.

"That medallion you wear?" she began. "What magic does it poses?" she asked as they road nearer the fallen city.

He worried it in his hand for a moment, then put it down, and tried his best to answer her.

"I can't really say. It was imbued by the magicians of Kaer Morhen. All I do is tune it to whatever frequency I want it to pick up for me. Magic or monster." He looked at her, his eyebrows raised to her look of dissatisfied confusion, but he did not go on. She continued her questions.

“So…it senses magic and monsters?”

“Yes, that’s why I was able to come to your aid last night, actually. As we were riding by your camp, I felt it start to…sort of shiver. It knew the drowners were close. When I looked around and saw you there ready to face them on your own, apparently with just your dagger…I couldn’t let you die. And at the time, I was sure that would be your fate.”

She relived the event, which she should have found terrifying, she guessed, but either she was too confident in her abilities, or her adrenaline had won out.

“Lucky for me you were riding by and had it tuned to monsters.” She smiled.

“I usually do unless I’m in a safe area and actively searching for something magical. And lucky for me you noticed I’d grabbed the wrong sword!” He grinned back at her.

They rode along through the streets of the deserted city for a while in amiable if not comfortable silence. But the question pressed against Anathema's mind, trying to escape like pressure in your ears on a deep dive into water.

"So, it's probably no business of mine, so you're not obligated to tell me, but I do have to ask…last night you mentioned having your reservations about mages and travelling companions. Why is that?"

"Hmm. You're correct. It is no business of yours." She felt a sting at his coarseness until he continued. "And while you're right, I'm not obligated to share that with you, there are a few reasons that I'm going to give you a little background."

"Are you going to tell me the reasons, or just, start with the exposition?" she teased. He shot her a playful scowl.

"I think the reasons will become apparent as I explain, but feel free to ask at the end."

"Proceed."

"I should probably start many years ago when I first met the mage in question. Her name may be familiar to you. Yennefer of Vengerberg."

"You…you know…Yennefer? THE Yennefer of Vengerberg? She's the most powerful sorceress to come from Aretuza since the Lady de Vries herself!" Ana was shocked. To her core.

"I know her. I know her well, Ana." he looked at her pointedly, implying the sort of carnal knowledge with which she was only recently familiar. Oh.

"I see." she nodded. Coolly, but silently simmering with questions and a sort of confusing jealousy that pulled her in many directions. He continued.

"So, I met Yen when my former travelling companion became cursed by a Djinn. I needed a mage's help to break the enchantment or he would die. It's a long story, but…the general point was that she wanted the djinn's power for herself, which would not have worked. Through the whole process, Yen and I became…sort of, bound by fate…destiny…some might say."

She tried to process the fact that he called her Yen. He had pet names for the woman she so idolized.

"Our paths crossed several times since then, lastly on a mission that Jaskier, my companion--and friend, although I've been reluctant to call him that because of how ill the term suits me--was very keen to take until he learned of her involvement, knowing the…effect she had on me." this piqued her curiosity, but she filed it away for later inquiry.

"The campaign went fairly well until its very end, when, through a string of unhappy circumstances, Yennefer found out that the reason for our constantly being thrown across one another's paths was something less than destiny, after all." he paused for effect, which worked, and then continued.

"Back when we'd first met, and she was trying to imprison the djinn within her, she had no idea that I was the one to whom the creature was bound to grant it's three requests. She'd thought it was Jaskier. I had too, until I found out the contrary, in rather spectacular fashion." he reminisced, another question she would queue for later. "So for my last wish, I asked for her life to be bound to mine. When she found out…she was…well, she was pissed. And she stormed off, assuring me that I'd lost her, as I was unwilling to do." he looked down to Roach's black mane and scratched it to soothe his huffing that had began. Horses were so perceptive to the moods of their riders.

"Her leaving had left me…particularly surly." she raised her eyebrows. Surly was his default, she had gathered already, so for him to be even more surly than his normal self was actually a bit frightening. "Jaskier had sensed I was…cross. And as a bard, talking about things helped him. Despite years of riding with me, he never quite managed to grasp that I was not built that way. I wanted to be left the fuck alone. And when he tried to engage with me, I snapped. I blamed him for all my misfortunes. When in fact, a great many of them, he tried to steer me away from. I fear I may have broken his heart."

There were a few moments of silence for Ana to process Geralt's confession and for Geralt to recover himself from finally talking about this difficult event which, she gathered he really hadn't relived much, save for discussing with Roach, perhaps.

"So that's why I've been reluctant recently to associate with mages or take another companion. And why one combined, you may be able to tell could be a very complex idea for me."

She nodded. Geralt was, perhaps in love, for lack of a better word, with Yennefer, and she had left him because of this…misunderstanding. Which, yes, she could see where she was justified, and where Geralt should have mentioned this fact as it affected both of them much sooner. Being in Yennefer's shoes, she may have done the same.

Regarding his companion and bard, Jaskier, who he clearly felt a kinship and affection for, and maybe even an actual love, she was heartbroken for him. Saying goodbye to Codrick had been the hardest thing she'd ever done. He was the only real family she'd ever had. And her feelings for him were so complex. But she was sure if she'd hurt him like Geralt had hurt Jaskier, she would feel a regret of similar intensity.

"What are you thinking, little mage?" he coaxed after several moments of only muddy clops, skittering rodents, and shrieking crows.

"I was thinking about how I'd feel in your situation." she answered truthfully and thoughtfully. "I've mentioned my friend Codrick before, I know, and I think I had similar feelings for him as you had for both Jaskier and Yennefer. He was my closest confidant and he cared more for me than anyone else, including my family. And…for lack of a better way to describe it, I was in love with him. Or I felt like I was. It would never have worked. He was promised to Claretta, the fishmonger's daughter. Even though she could never give him what I could. Or that's what I told myself. I utterly worshipped him. I couldn't have had my fill of him had I spent my every waking hour with him. He was just so pleasant and kind. Easy. And just the man I thought I wanted. But my father wasn't interested in arranging a marriage for the family rat, anymore than Codrick's father saw me as a proper match for his future blacksmith son."

She let that sink in. The idea that she was the only one who could have pictured a future for her and Codrick and let the grief pass. Let something die that had never lived. And moved on.

"Had I lost him in the way that you lost either Yen or Jaskier, Geralt…well, I'd probably be about ready to give up on the idea of love and friendship, myself. Hell, even now, I'm aching just remembering the last time I saw Codrick, and thinking about how long it may be before I see him again. It may be forever. In all probability, it will be. But at least I don't have your regret. I said all I needed to say to him. I told him how I felt, even though it didn't change anything about our futures. I would have regretted those unspoken words."

"Well, aren't you a comfort. You're really making me glad I agreed to this partnership." he bit at her with sarcastic cheer in his gruff voice.

"Oh, Geralt, don't take it like that. I didn't mean--"

"Shh." he held up a hand to stop her talking.

"Don't think you'll get the last word just because--"

"Shhhhh!" he repeated more vehemently and drew his silver sword. "Silver." he whispered, and she drew her silver dagger from it's scabbard at her hip and her steel sword still coated in silver oil. The horses then began sensing something in the air. Something sinister. They began to buck and whinny, especially Clove, who was not used to monsters like Roach was.

"I think we should go on foot a while. Roach will always find me, so there's no need to tie him up. What about Clove?" Geralt rasped.

"Got it covered." Ana whispered before muttering an unintelligible incantation with a hand outstretched toward each of their mounts. They took their leave of them with loving pats, and looked after them fondly for a moment.

"What did you do?" Geralt asked, curious.

"Quick protection spell for them both. And I bound them to one another. So when Roach comes back to you, Clove will come back to me." She worried telling him might bring up his past with Yennefer again, but…he asked. He grunted. But thanked her.

"Don't worry. I'm not judging you at all for the way you behaved to…the people you…lost." she tried to comfort. He was not interested at the moment.

"Just now, I'm a bit more concerned about us getting drained by a Bruxa. Maybe we can continue that discussion later, Ana." he growled at her. They drew closer to one another and advanced in a natural tandem maneuver toward the city's center. Geralt watched where they were going, Ana where they had been, and they each took in as much of their periphery as they could. Birds took flight from long-held nests and rodents retreated to safer dens as the witcher and the mage slowly worked their way inward. To the danger. And Ana hoped not to their death.

A blood curdling scream came from one of the hovels just outside the palace walls. Ana turned to look at Geralt who paused to smell the air, grasped his medallion to check for monsters, and raced off toward the obvious peril. Great. Now she had to, as well. She wondered if being on journeys with Geralt meant running toward danger more often than not and if perhaps Yennefer and Jaskier weren't a tad better off outside his company.

But then she found him in the small shack. One pitiful room that was all things to a family of gods knew how many. Now held one small, filthy little girl, who couldn't have been aged more than eight. The hovel was covered in the evidence of a bloody attack, but no corpses. This little child was all that was left. And she looked like she'd just awoken from the grandfather of all nightmares. Her eyes were wider than coins, and dark with fear, pupils dominating the hazel irises ringing them. Eyes bloodshot. The poor thing had scarcely slept, probably in days. Geralt held her to his chest, kneeling to her height to do so. Her hair was dark, by the look, although it had clearly been a very long time since her last bath, if she'd ever even had a proper one in such a place.

Geralt shushed and soothed her. Petting her filthy hair and holding her tight, as if she were his own, which she knew to be impossible.

"There there, shhh. It's alright, girl. Everything is going to be alright. You're safe with us. Don't cry. I've got you. Hush now, child. Sh-sh-sh." perhaps the skill with horses had transferred to children. Perhaps witchers learned this sort of thing in their training. She just knew she did not. But he was terribly good at it.

"There, now, that's better, isn't it?" she nodded, still whimpering a bit. "What's your name, child?" he asked, kindly. More kindly than Ana had ever heard anyone ask anything. Let alone Geralt speak, save for some choice moments last night…

"Geeta." she said, shyly.

"Geeta. What a pretty name. Pretty name for a pretty girl." he smiled and pinched her chin. She blushed furiously. "Tell me Geeta, do you know anything about what happened in the town? Why isn't there anyone here?"

"They…the women…came!" terror flooded Geeta's big eyes along with the fearful tears of the haunted.

"What women, Geeta?" he asked her, a knowing concern in his deep voice. They both knew. But still hoped they were wrong.

"They came, in the night, they didn't have clothes, their eyes were red, and their hair was dark…and…the singing!" she bellowed in tears, reliving the night that the Bruxae laid waste to her city.

"There, there, child. They're gone now. You're safe. Nothing is going to hurt you now." Geralt soothed her. "Where did you see them, child?"

"First, out there," she pointed out the window. "Then…" she looked tearfully around the room at the walls, which were spattered with something that, although now was brown, had once been deep red. Her family, however many of them there had been, had met their doom right here and she had somehow survived. What a strong little thing she was.

"Oh, little one." Geralt cradled the girl against him as if he was the one who needed comfort, and not she. Ana had given up holding back her own tears and let them fall freely down her lovely face. What would become of this poor waif, orphaned by monsters, her entire community wiped out by a blood-thirsty coven of Bruxae, and rescued by two of the least equipped and prepared people possible to care for her. Well, she shouldn't speak for Geralt. He was clearly killing the parenting thing. Regardless, if she came with them, she would be in perpetual danger. But then again, she'd come away from her last encounter with the she-beasts physically unscathed. Geeta may fit in swimmingly with the emotionally unstable duo.

Geralt looked up, hearing something with his mutant ears that the other two could not. Both of the females could, however, pick up on his spike in adrenaline and blood pressure at the sound, and his complete change in demeanor.

He held Geeta firmly by her shoulders and commanded her fullest attention.

"Now, Geeta, I need you to tell me, how have you kept yourself hidden from the monsters since…since that night? Is there somewhere safe in here?"

She pointed to the corner of the kitchen area where there was a cupboard, small, but well large enough for a seven-year-old child. And it soon became evident why she'd been safe there. A silver tray hung decoratively on the outside, apparently a family heirloom and not used daily.

"That's very good, sweetheart. Now, this is my friend Ana. And she and I are going to be out here practicing some fighting so we're good and ready for when we need to fight the monsters. It's very important so that we don't hit you by accident that you stay in there no matter what you hear. Don't come out until one us comes to get you. Do you understand?" she nodded. "Tell me what you're going to do for me."

"I'm going to stay in my cupboard while you and Ana practice fight, and I won't come out no matter what until you get me.

"There's a good girl. Now, get in there, and shut the door, nice and tight. And try to be quiet too, so you don't distract us. And here, I bet you're hungry." He winked at her, handing her an apple, a loaf of bread, and a small wedge of cheese he'd had in his satchel. Such a sweet moment when something so scary was afoot.

Once the child was safe and secure, the adults could properly panic.

"Geralt…what the fuck…are we going to do? How are we supposed to fight off a whole coven of Bruxae?! I've never even seen ONE!"

"I know," he said, grumbling in agitated fear, but holding on, she thought, for her, perhaps. "Bruxae are very rare, which, we should see as a mercy, but also, we are never as prepared for them as we could be if they were as common as bloedzuigers."

“So how do we do this?” Ana asked, stifling her own fear and apprehension about this battle.

“Well, we have a couple of options. We could leave. I can have Roach and Clove here in five minutes, we could abandon this quest, which almost seems doomed from the outset, forget the reasons we came here and just live for…” there was a pregnant pause where he said so much while saying absolutely nothing . “For the moment, I guess.” And she was ready to hear “themselves” or “each other.” But he couldn’t say it, apparently.

“And our other options?”

“You could take Geeta and run."

"Huh…I know we've only known each other a short time, Geralt, but I didn't have you pegged as a jester." Ana replied to his suggestion, entirely non-plussed and unamused.

"I'm not joking, Anathema. You two have a shot now while the Bruxae are far enough away that you can't hear them, but once you can, it will be unlike anything you have encountered before. It will hurt, physically and emotionally."

"It's not happening; I'm not leaving you to tend with gods know how many Bruxae on your own! You'd never survive, Geralt! THAT is what would hurt me physically and emotionally!"

"And if you're hurt during the fight?" he countered. "What of me? Hmm?" he stood there, panting at her in a panicked rage, eyes wide, nostrils flared. "If I get you killed--"

"Stop right there. You are not responsible for me. I insisted on being here in the first place, and it is by my own agency and accord I remain. If I die, you are to feel no guilt or responsibility. Understand?"

"Hmph." he assented, back to non-verbal replies. At least it was something. "I still don't have a plan of attack."

"Well, I may have some thoughts on that. I don't think we SHOULD attack them."

~~~~~~~~~

Ana had been marginally familiar with Bruxae prior to today, but had never encountered one. In theory, though, she knew their weaknesses from a mage's standpoint and what she could do to give Geralt an advantage. Geralt had a few signs in his arsenal that would be effective on them, as well as his silver sword. He didn't have time to mix any extra potions, but he had a small vial of Black Blood, which would make him toxic to any Bruxa who bit him, and a few extra vials of Kiss, Swallow, Tawny Owl, and some others. She knew a detoxifying spell that would help him recover from taking extra potions, and as an extra precaution, although it wouldn't be as effective as pure silver, he used some of her silver oil on his steel sword. He would be able to fight with both hands, at least for a while, this way, and do more damage. She re-oiled her steel sword, and had her silver dagger at the ready. She also rubbed a bit of the oil around the door handles and window latches and frames, in case they tried the house, where she would be providing ranged support under cover. She'd fortified the hovel with her enchantments, just as she had the campsite and tent the previous evening, as well as a few extras that she hadn't thought of then that might help today.

She could hear them now, faint and distant, but still began to feel a twist in the pit of her stomach. She also wanted to cry, but she didn't know why.

"They're getting closer. Here. This will help." he pulled out a large bundle of cotton tinder from his satchel, tore it in half, and gave it to her. "Roll a bit up and pack it into your ears. It won't get rid of the symptoms entirely, but if you keep your mind on something that makes you happy, the pain shouldn't steal your focus from the fighting." she looked at him, smirking.

"What?" he asked, the shadow of what could have been a darling grin if it just tried a bit harder passed his face.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Just…wondering what makes a witcher happy enough to drown out the song of the Bruxa?" she smirked at him as he ran a whetstone over his silver sword.

"Oh, plenty, little mage." he allowed himself to show the faintest smile as he sharpened his blade with that satisfying sllllllank. "We witchers live for bloodshed, you know. Once the fighting starts, I may not even need this cotton. I'll be in such a splendid mood, I'll be able to take the Bruxa song undiluted." He had found his sense of humour. Thank the gods.

"What about you? Thinking about stealing your blacksmith away from his fishmonger's daughter, little mage? Is that going to be your happy place?" he asked, checking the blade he'd just sharpened, finding it satisfactory, and asking wordlessly for Ana's silver dagger to do next.

She let out a huge sigh indicating her thoughtfulness on the matter as she handed him her weapon. If you'd asked her the same question last week, she would have said yes in a heartbeat. But now…after last night…even though it was foolish, perhaps, her happy place was sitting across from her in the desecrated hovel sharpening her dagger for battle. She didn't even have the heart to tell him that she could do it with magic so much more quickly. But he'd kind of stolen her heart, this big, grumpy oaf with a heart of gold.

"Well, Ana? Are you going to ride back into Velena, turn your rival into a trout and take that boy for your own, or aren't you?"

"Hahaha, well, it's most tempting, and if we make it out of this alive, I'll call it an option. But, umm, no, I don't think that's my happy place." she looked at him, squaring off with his gaze, unable to look away, but unable to speak her truth now. It would hold too much weight now, with a battle so near with such an uncertain outcome, that speaking her peace seemed…both overly sentimental and a bad omen.

Speaking of bad omens, the Bruxae were getting closer, their sickening song getting louder.

"I'm going to get into position. Are you ready?" they both stood, nerves causing them both as much unease as the Bruxa song, and for which no amount of cotton would ever help.

"I'm ready." she responded. Ready for it to be over, she thought.

"Good. One more thing." he added. He stood before her and pulled her to him in the most warm and filling hug he could have managed, armor or not, and then kissed her so deeply, thoroughly, and lovingly that she saw stars.

"Remember, don't give yourself away too early. Try to pick off the outliers and portal them away so the body count doesn't draw attention. And be safe."

"Don't forget to give the signal when you need me to detox you. And don't be a hero and wait until you're on the verge. Let's keep your toxicity low and manageable. I'd rather cast my spell a dozen times when you're more or less okay than have to worry about you passing out because you've only asked me twice. And you be safe, too."

“Be safe” seemed to translate into something more meaningful. He picked up his swords and headed out the door.

She held it together well as he left her. Fought back the tears with a valiant effort until she turned to the small crate on which he’d lain her dagger…and his wolf medallion. How did she miss him taking it off? She’d hardly had her eyes off him the whole time they were strategizing. Her eyes filled with tears now. She picked up a small note that was tucked under the hilt of the dagger. It read:

“Don’t get any ideas. I’m going to want this back after the fight. -G”

As messy as the scrawl was, the G was rather elegant and ornate, by comparison. She pressed the note to her lips and tucked it into her jerkin, near her heart. She slipped the medallion over her neck and chuckled. The wolf, which normally rested high between Geralt’s meaty pecs, now hung halfway to her belly button. He was so thick and broad. She'd barely noticed last night. There was hardly time. She regretted it now, not memorizing everything about him. The very shape of him. Every curve and ripple. Every plane and divot. If they got out of here, she'd be sure to do that. They'd make love at least once more before they parted ways and she'd see to it to document every perfect inch of him.

She was stunned out of her reverie by a shiver emanating from Geralt's medallion. The Bruxae were getting closer, but weren't singing. At least not loudly. She felt bad for wearing the medallion, which she felt was one of Geralt's best advantages over them. It helped maintain the element of surprise. But he must have had his reasons. Maybe he thought she needed the silver more than he did. It hardly mattered now, as the decision was long made and unchangeable.

He stood in the middle of the city street, eyes closed, listening, breathing in the crisp chill of the dusk. A Bruxa could function in the light of day, but they preferred the night. They were stronger outside the reach of the sun. Geralt thrust his steel sword into the dirt in front of him, downed the vial of Black Blood potion, and took a knee, casting Quen around him to protect himself from their imminent descent. He held his silver sword in line with his spine, hoping to deflect a few of the more timid creatures and make them easier for Ana to pick off. As they entered the street from above, floating in as if they were spores on a breeze, they began to test the shield around Geralt. It was the gold of pure sunlight, but didn't seem to cause them discomfort. Only curiosity. There came about 14 in total, Ana counted.

Their skin was almost like looking straight at the moon and each had hair so black, it was barely visible against the night sky. Their eyes were like rubies, and blood red, as were the tips of their fingers, if that’s what they could be called. It was as though talons, sharp and pointed as knitting needles grew from their hands. As Geeta had reported, they were completely nude, and had they not been so terrifying, Ana thought they may have been beautiful. Perhaps they were, once.

She started to portal them out of the hot zone as Geralt's shield weakened, and to the rooftops across the street…the top halves to one building, and the bottom halves to another. She'd been able to take out no less than five when the dwindling numbers were noticed by the others. They began to shriek in earnest and the Quen shield began to flicker, giving out under Geralt's new stress from the song, only partially blocked by the cotton tinder he'd packed into his ears.

He spun into motion now, drawing the steel from the ground and thrashing with both swords at the she-beasts as they advanced on him. He caught limbs on some, and drew blood on others, but it was not enough to take them down. He took a moment to cast Quen again so that he could safely take some more potions. Ana would later deduce that he took Kiss to rejuvenate him and Blizzard to increase his reaction time. He also signaled Ana to hit him with her detox spell. A good plan, and almost too late, three potions in. She'd have to watch him more closely if he was going to hold out like that.

Ana continued to pick off the Bruxa outliers, as Geralt cut down the ones that he could until they were down to just two.

They were clearly the strongest ones and Ana couldn't get to them before one was sinking her teeth into Geralt's neck. Ana felt her stomach drop. She didn't want the Black Blood to come into play…even if it would be effective. She heard him mutter a "fuck" as he struggled to staunched the bleeding wound. The dying Bruxa had also dropped him on his ample arse as she was gasping for breath through inky, sputtering lips. She had gotten a heroic measure of Geralt's tainted lifeforce, and was now paying the price. Ana smirked. Served the monster right, she thought. Until she heard the most chilling cry of all.

"SISTEEEEEEEEEEEER!" The last surviving Bruxa rushed to the one clinging for life in the dirty streets of the city they had eviscerated, red tears streaming from red eyes down a chalk pale face. "Shay! Shay, my sister! Do not leave me!" Ana almost felt pity. She'd had sisters, after all. And she loved them. As they did her, in their way.

"Meena…Meena, I'm cold." Shay, the dying Bruxa uttered and breathed her last.

"You MONSTER!" Meena, the last Bruxa of the coven spat at Geralt.

"You're one to talk." he chided her, having none of it.

"All we desired was the girl. But we couldn't find her. She hid from us. She hides still. Her blood is the cure."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Geralt was confused. Good. Ana was certainly confused, as well.

"We were cursed and a Mage's blood is the only cure. The little girl who lives in this hovel was the only conduit for leagues that my sisters and I could find. We needed her blood. But these…humans…wouldn't give her up."

Ana was piecing it all together now. That silver platter was no accident. Geeta was like her, and her parents were protecting her…in a cupboard…the irony was so rich, Ana could scarcely process it. And now, this Bruxa wanted to drink her blood to…what, become normal again? Would any mage's blood do? She was guessing. Ana was about to do something very heroic…or very stupid…the two, she knew, were often only distinguished by purpose and outcome.

"What about me?" Ana asked as she stepped out into the street from the small home.

"Ana! NO!" Geralt shouted at her.

Meena hissed in Ana's direction, startled by the appearance of a new adversary. "Who are you?"

"I'm Anathema of Velena. I'm a mage. And much better equipped to sustain a bite than the poor little girl you've been hunting." she stood her ground with a proud strength, unafraid of the demoness before her.

"I don't see why it would hurt to try." Meena laughed cruelly in her throat and darted toward her.

The rest, was a very dark, cold, and rather bumpy blur.

Parts 2 and 3 coming soon!

[alexanderlightweight]

what doesn’t kill me makes me want you more

for @signoraviolettavalery 

technically it started out as a part of whumptober no.4 (human shield) but it gained life because of a discussion a while back

warning: violence, injury, minor character death

ao3 link

Antar reigned supreme and Earth had finally relented, not a complete surrender but close enough to one that Antar had been appropriately gracious.  Still, some rebellion remained and as leader of Antar’s armies, Michael was the primary target for discontent and revenge. What had begun as a routine security check had turned to politics and now, he was being forced to consider a human bodyguard.  For some it would be an insult, others an annoyance and for Michael, he’d been prepared to find as much amusement as possible in it, until he’d seen who Isobel wanted as his bodyguard.

The son of one of Earth’s greatest rebels, the child of a terrorist who had supported genocide and the love of Michael’s life.  

“You want him , to protect me?”  Michael asked, derision dripping from his tone and he ignored the flash of hurt in Alex’s eyes.  A decade of cat and mouse, of always being in the wrong place at the wrong time, of having the wrong parents and now this?  He would hurt Alex as much as he needed to if it meant sending him away from this mess.

“Micheal, Alex Manes is one of Earth’s most prominent warriors?”  Isobel asked in confusion, “his military accomplishments speak for himself even if his skill on the battlefield didn’t.  I thought you were willing to have a human bodyguard as a show of trust?”

“Yes, well not him.  Wasn’t it his father who nearly killed my mother?  And you expect me to trust him to protect me? This is probably what they want.”  Michael said and he crossed his arms over his chest, raising his chin just a little and making the room rattle, as if he were losing control at the very prospect of Alex Manes protecting him.  The reality was vastly different and yet so dangerously close to the truth.

“That is why it’s important you let him protect you,” Isobel hissed quietly, looking around as if to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard.  “If you’re that worried about it, I’ll look into his mind.”

“No!”  Michael swallowed down the second protest, licking his lips nervously.  “No, if you do that and they find out, it’ll make this whole thing pointless.  Better for me to handle it.”  

“So you’ll accept him?”  Isobel was still worried about his outburst but he could tell she was relieved.

“I won’t accept him,” he said, louder than before and if the room shook, no one needed to know that it was because he definitely saw Alex’s flinch.  “But he’ll do until I can replace him.”

“Good,” Isobel said and her eyes flashed with victory.  “Manes, you’ll report to Michael’s head of security, understood?”

Michael bit back a curse as he watched Alex agree, this was one of his worst nightmares and he couldn’t even wake up from it.  

Michael knew that if the assassins didn’t kill him, then being this close to Alex and having to ignore him would.

It was a torture that he bore with far less dignity than he should have but it was a torment designed to drive him mad.

How was he supposed to stay sane when protocol dictated that Alex enter any room first?  Michael had to watch Alex stalk with a predators gait before him without being able to outwardly admire it.  Had to imagine how it would feel, if Alex were shot. Would he stagger first? Or rally and go for the weapon that Michael had personally built and insisted that he use? 

Michael had given it to him, claiming that he was worried about Earth’s inferior technology rather than admit he just wanted Alex to have something that Michael had created.  They were almost never alone, surveillance or Michael’s own guards or Isobel’s spies and every time he thought they would get a chance to speak, to clear the air- they were interrupted.  

At night, Michael would wake up thrashing and in the throes of nightmares.  He’d lie there panting, the dream of Alex’s face paling from bloodless haunting his sleep and as much as he hated it, he would demand Alex’s presence.  Force him to check the windows that were sealed with Michael’s powers, just to see him safe and alive and breathing.

If the worry of Alex being hurt was painful, then the dreams of him dying were the cruelest torment. 

Michael faltered only once, half asleep by the time Alex had finally turned to go and Michael had reached out.  Grabbed desperately at him with his powers, pulling him to the bed and wanting nothing more than to tuck Alex in next to him, to hold him in his arms and shelter him from the world.

He hadn’t been able to do any of that.

Alex had gone limp in his hold, head lolling back as he surrendered to what he thought was an act of self-defense on Michael's part and for one terrifying moment, Michael had thought he’d killed him.  He’d been furious with himself and with Alex for that image.  

In the nights that followed the incident, sleep did not come easily and when it did oh, how the nightmares followed.

Now, when Michael dreamt of Alex’s death, he dreamt of snapped bones and a brittle body.  Of vacant, glassy eyes and the cracked and bleeding smile forming the words  “as you wish. ”  He dreamt that the grave he wailed over was one of his own making. 

If Alex died, there would be no grave.  Michael would bring him back to life if he had to use an entire city to do so and if Alex protested that, well, what was one more hurt between them at this point?

-

It was days after and Michael had refrained from calling Alex to his room, no matter how bad the nightmares got and how reassuring it would be to see him.  Instead he soaked up Alex’s presence during the day, watched him without caring who noticed and of course, someone did.

“I thought you were trying to protect me, not kill me.”  Michael muttered, rubbing furiously at his shoulder from where he’d walked into the doorway.

“Who said I can’t do both?”  Isobel asked teasingly, “besides, I’ve seen the way you look at him.  Consider this a gift from me, you get to enjoy some eye-candy before karma catches up with him.”

Michael swallowed and reluctantly turned to look at Alex.  Alex who was wearing a new uniform that consisted of a black leather jacket and tight leather pants that had been specially modified to adjust for his prosthetic while still doing the utmost at framing his ass.

Michael wasn’t going to survive this and every time he turned around, he was reminded that no one expected Alex to either, they just happened to be for very different reasons.

-

The dart hit Alex first, he went down with it and Michael froze, watching his body hit the ground felt like a thousand fears coming true at once.  It was only the beginning. 

He and his men were targeted next, sharp needles piercing through armor and skin and Michael could feel the instant disconnect from his power, the nearly overwhelming wrongness of his skin.

He ached and Alex was too far away for him to hold.

“Sir!”  One of his men called and Michael grit his teeth, gathering his balance as he remained standing even as others fell around him.  He was stronger than them, stronger than his enemies and he would prove that.

There was a drop, a mere taste of his power still at his disposal and he readied it.  He knew the darts were only the first part of the attack, a rare but effective way of subduing Antarans.  Bullets were easier to apprehend but darts, those led the way for further destruction and brought death in their wake.

Just a few feet away, Alex got back to his feet and Michael heaved a sigh of relief even as Alex turned towards him.

Michael tasted it first, warm droplets of salty iron on his lips, even before he saw Alex stagger.  His name fell like a desperate warning, a plea from Alex’s lips as he staggered. Michael caught him before he could fall, cradling him closer than he’d been allowed to for what felt like years.  Alex’s body, so warm and so close and bleeding out in his arm. More shots rang out but he could only focus on Alex who was once again leaving him behind.

“We have the sniper,” one of his soldiers said, “but the area is still unsecured.  Sir, we need to get you to the ship. Now!”

Michael ignored him, sinking to his knees as he gently lowered Alex’s body to the violet ground.  “Alex,” he whispered softly and pressed his hands down on his chest, feeling the delicate creak of human bones protest beneath his palms.  “Alex please, not like this. Not ever.”

“Michael, you need to go.  I’ll be okay, but you need to go.”  Alex said and Michael shook his head in protest.  He felt numb, empty of everything but desperate fear and his breath hitched when a warm, wet palm pressed against his cheek.  

It was a sick, twisted mimicry of a lovers embrace.  How Alex used to cradle his jaw before gently tangling his hand through Michael’s curls to pull him down for ardent, adoring kisses.

“Michael, please.  Go .”  

He could feel Alex’s bloody handprint on his cheek like a brand to his soul, memorized the brush of his fingers through a few stray curls and could imagine how he must look.  Hair stained crimson and face claimed by a dying lover, a cruel imitation of a promise he’d always craved.

“Get him to safety,” Alex said.  A final command and they listened, Michael’s own warriors disobeying their leader, their ruler as they pulled him away.  

“Alex,” Michael called and he fought the arms on him, “ Alex !”  

Michael let out a litany of curses, his voice heralding threats of violence on both them and their families and vowing to destroy all that they represented but still they wouldn’t listen.  

Betrayal.

“Someone will retrieve the body,” a soldier informed him, “as soon as you’re safely secured, Sir.”

Michael went limp, let himself be dragged just long enough for them to think that he’d listened as he reached deep within himself.  It was a place he rarely dared go. That hallowed, hollow place inside where Rath resided.

They could contain Michael but Rath would never allow himself to be subdued.  It was why Michael buried that part of him so far down that it was forgotten, even by himself at times.  One should always have a contingency plan and Rath was Michael’s. Michael couldn’t be sure how this would end but if Alex lived then it would all be worth it.

Rath awoke from Michael as a swimmer surfaced from the deep, born anew and greedy for air. 

Rath was not Michael or his men, to be so limited by something as fickle as a pollen filled dart.  No, Rath was power and it could not be stripped from him.  

The soldiers were pushed aside, batted away as easily as a child discards a useless toy.  Across the divide his powers found Jesse Manes and they broke him, an afterthought that Rath barely took note of.  There were things of far more importance than the death of an enemy.  

Normally, Rath demanded his lovers to come to him but for Alex, always and only for Alex he would set aside his pride.  Rath’s feet barely brushed the ground, power practically begging to be put to use as he finally reached the man he loved and oh, how beautiful but broken could one man be.

Where Michael would have asked and pleaded for Alex to stay, cajoled and sweetly begged him, Rath demanded.  It took but one move for him to kneel and around him his soldiers followed, by no will of their own but by Rath’s command.  For Alex, he might kneel but the world would crumble before he bent the knee for anyone else. Max sat on a throne not by his merit alone but by the grace Rath showed in allowing him to rule.

“You will not leave me,” he told Alex, “or the blood of a thousand worlds will water your grave.”

Alex laughed, blood bubbling against his lips and dyeing them the sacred red of life.  Michael would have wiped it gently away but Rath claimed it for his own with a demanding kiss.  Alex’s breath was too precious to be lost to the atmosphere. If they were to be his last than Rath would hoard them away, a treasure far too valuable to be wasted.

“You’re safe,” Alex told him, promised him.  “Safe from my family, from my father and safe from me.”

“You tore my heart apart once,” Rath reminded him, “and it never healed the same.  How could I ever be safe from you when everything I do is because of you?”

“Michael.” 

“If you’re are lost to me, what reason is there to spare the living?  If death takes you from me, why should the universe be allowed to thrive?”  Rath and Michael asked both in agreement and both tragic in love.

“You always were overdramatic,” Alex said and he coughed, weaker still than before.  

“You always did think too little of yourself.”  Rath told him, “one of the many things I am going to change.  No more pretending, no more hiding away from the truth.”  

“What truth?”  Alex asked and his eyes widened in alarm when Rath began to unbutton his shirt, pulling aside his armor.  “You can’t heal,” he said desperately. But a dying man’s desperation was no match for a living god’s determination, “that’s not one of your powers.  Michael, it could kill you. Stop, please.”

“One of my powers?”  Rath asked almost thoughtlessly as he pressed his hand to Alex’s marred skin, “you don’t know the extent of my power, Alex.  No one does. They will though, if it means keeping you then I’ll tear this galaxy apart and move on to the next. Once, the records named me a star killer.  For you, I’ll let them remember why.”  

Alex mouth, lovely and stained, opened to no doubt utter a protest and when Rath pressed down, he screamed instead.

It was a beautiful sound, full of pain and life and strength and it belonged to Rath.  Every precious moment of it was a promise, a vow that Alex would not be taken from him, that he could not be taken from him.  Rath was born to defy fate, he had conquered life and he had martyred death and he would not let the mortal downfall of compassion change that now.  

It was Rath’s powers that brought Alex back to life but it was their arms that carried Alex to the ship, to safety and to their bed.  Where he was placed with gentle reverence where he belonged and where he could be kept safe.  Even healed Alex’s body was too still for his liking but he knew, from the handprint that connected them that he was still alive.  He could feel every beat of Alex’s heart like an echo of his own.

From the moment Rath had connected them, he had felt everything that Alex had tried to hide.  All this time Alex had pretended that his heart had hardened and that the love he felt for Michael had calcified and decayed but Rath knew now that the bitter, beautiful truth was that he loved Michael.  That Alex’s heart beat for him alone, that he adored Michael with such a devout fervor that it had Rath’s own heart aflutter in aching, twinned sympathy. He’d never doubted Alex’s emotions but to feel them, what a balm to the soul it was.

-

“Michael!”  Isobel called and she ran to him, a sister relieved to find her kin alive and well.  It pinged something in him, a softening of his outward stoicism and he allowed her to embrace him.  Wrapped his arms around her in return and held her close, knowing that things would change between them very soon.

“You’re alright?”  She asked worriedly and stepped back, hand on his shoulder, “did Manes threaten you?  They said you wouldn’t leave his body, someone even said you tried to heal him? Are you okay?”

“The enemy was dealt with.  Jesse Manes is dead and retrieving Alex Manes body was simply a show of goodwill,” he said and tried to match his voice to hers.  It was a little stiff, but he knew that it would be attributed to shock, “Earth can’t claim us callous with their warriors.”

“So he is dead?”

“It’s simply incredible what a skilled hand can do.”  Rath said with a smirk and then smoothly added, “the armor he wore was well made.”   

“That’s a relief,” Isobel said, “apparently he’s friends with Liz.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I didn’t want to alarm you but gods, can you imagine how annoying Max would be if Liz lost a friend.”  Isobel gave a deliberate shudder, “the amount of consoling I’d have to pretend to be capable of.”  

“You are capable of it,” he reminded her.

“Yes, but I’d have to pretend to be sad about her friend.”

Rath clenched his hand, the one that had given life back to Alex and pasted a roguish grin on his face, “you wouldn’t be?”

“For Alex Manes?  Half the reason I let him be picked as your bodyguard is because I knew he’d do anything to prove he wasn’t like his father.”  Isobel’s smirk was tinged with cruelty, “fair is fair after all. Mara and I both agreed that if he died to save your life, it would be

“My mother was part of this scheme?”

“I wasn’t about to let her find out from the rumor mill that the son of the man who tried to kill her was protecting her only child.  She agreed that his death would be a fitting punishment for his families crimes.”

“And now?”

Isobel shrugged, “he’s proven himself but he’s still a Manes.  Once the rebellion is crushed for good he’ll be discreetly sent away.  I doubt Mara will have him killed, not after he successfully protected you.  However there won’t be a place for him, not on Antar.” 

“How tragic,” Rath mused, “that’s practically ruthless, Vilandra .”

Isobel turned, eyes sparking and defiant, “we’re not them, Michael .  I have no need of that name.  This was to protect you, to have justice that otherwise would never have happened.”

“Of course. As you say, it was merely justice.”  He kept his tone light and even gave a gentle, playful tug on her hair.  

Isobel relaxed and looked relieved, he knew that her abilities, the history that she could claim, it scared her.  She ran from her legacy as did Max. Michael however had never truly ran from the truth, only hidden it until it was of need and now, if he was going to have Alex by his side and keep him safe, Rath would always be needed.  

They both would.

For Alex, Rath would destroy the world and for Alex, Michael would rebuild it.

Michael had never been able to leave a mark anywhere on Alex but Rath’s, his would never fade.

-

“I should be dead.”

Rath scoffed as he shook his head, ignoring Alex’s absurd statement, “I don’t appreciate blasphemy being spoken in my own bed.”  

Alex ignored him, narrowing his eyes in reprimand, “Michael.”  

Rath ignored him, reaching to press his hand to match the print on Alex’s chest.  

“Fine, Rath .”  

Rath’s lips curled into a smirk, the victorious pleasure of his name being said blossoming between them, a fruitful garden of triumph.  

“ Alexander ,” his fingers danced against their glowing match, “my ardent defender.  Protector of my heart.” Alex gasped, low and soft and for his ears alone, just as this admittance was for Alex only.

“After all this time, why now?”

“If there were ever a reason for me to destroy the world, it would be you.”  Rath promised and leaned forward, pressed a kiss to Alex’s brow and then resting his cheek against Alex’s jaw.  “Will you deny the same?”

“How can I,” Alex asked as his hand joined Rath’s over their connection, “how can I lie to your face knowing you feel the truth.”  

Rath kissed him then, a reward and a consolation.

“What about your family?  Your duties? The politics of you being with a human are complicated enough but me, how will it even work?”  

“We’ll worry about that later,” Rath promised, “first though, first we’re going away.  Just the two of us. Everything else can wait, this time is ours.”  

-

The ship was small and the stars before them seemingly endless as Alex stood on the observation deck.  

“How are you feeling?”  Rath asked, pressing a kiss to Alex’s bare shoulder.  The wound he’d borne in defense of Michael had left no scar, but the handprint would remain.  A stark reminder that he had almost died, almost been taken away and that by Rath’s power he’d lived.

“Good, healthy.”  Alex said and turned, tilting his head and allowing himself to be wrapped in a tight embrace.  “How are you?”  

“Ready to show you the stars.”

“How do you know I haven’t seen them?”  Alex asked, “we spent years apart. I could have seen all of this without you.”

Rath scoffed even as Michael’s petulant irritation welled, “then I’ll discover new ones.”

“You’re going to compete with the universe then?” 

“I’m going to win against the universe,” Michael said and Rath settled, going nowhere but pleased and just as excited as he was.  “I already have, after all I have you.” 

[anghraine]

“the jedi and the sith lord” - chapter twelve

It’s short, but ends where I wanted it to!

Last chapter:

“Is it true?” she demanded. “Is Darth Vader my father?”

As quickly as it had come, Obi-Wan’s shock faded. He walked over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder and looking down at her in his quietly kind way.

“This is unexpected,” he said.

This chapter:

“I’ve accepted the truth,” said Lucy, “that you were once Anakin Skywalker, my father.”

“That name no longer has any meaning for me,” Vader told her.

Oh, clearly.

chapters: chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight, chapter nine, chapter ten, chapter eleven

-

Lucy practiced her exercises under Ellex’s unimpressed sensors, acutely aware of Tuvié’s absence. 

She climbed up the rungs on the wall, relieved at how much easier it seemed after the cliff, and leapt onto the nearest platform, then launched herself onto more and more distant ones until the Force thrummed in her. Apart from her own breaths and the sound of her feet, she heard nothing—certainly no polite claps or fretful cries. Ellex seemed entirely unconcerned and entirely unimpressed, until Lucy took up her stick and shifted to the handful of lightsaber forms she knew.

Ellex stalked over. 

“What are you doing?”

“Practicing,” said Lucy, trying not to look like she intended any threat or mischief. 

“Practicing what?”

Lucy knew that Ellex must consider her a dubious character already, so maybe the truth wouldn’t matter. And she’d already told Tuvié, anyway, though that was different.

“The stances for using a lightsaber,” said Lucy. 

“You do not possess a lightsaber,” Ellex replied.

Lucy knew that. The one she’d considered hers—well, she couldn’t really be angry at Vader any more for taking his own lightsaber back.

“I know that,” Lucy said. “I told you, I’m just practicing. I don’t want to forget what I’ve learned.”

Ellex stood still and regarded her with her flashing optical sensors. “Hand me the item.” 

Reluctantly, Lucy handed it over, half-expecting that Ellex would immediately snap it in two. Instead, the droid held it with a careful grip and lifted it up to her optics, closely examining the thing.

“This object makes for a very inferior weapon,” she said at last. “You could not harm Lord Vader or myself with it.”

“I wasn’t planning on trying,” said Lucy.

Ellex tucked the stick under her arm. “My faculties are extensive, but cannot determine that. I will consult with Lord Vader.”

Lucy scowled. She couldn’t think that he’d be particularly impressed by a stick, and she had no idea what he’d think of her attempting to continue her training on her own. She didn’t even know what she wanted him to think—if anything.

“Fine,” she said to Ellex, then moved away to try the forms with just a closed fist.

It wasn’t at all the same. Sighing, she dropped her hand and went to stretch. 

Thinking of Vader, she still couldn’t quite understand why he’d rescued her. Well, she could—he needed her for his plots—but not why he’d done it in that way. He could have damaged himself, and to go by the life support panel on his suit and the knowledge that he’d been left to die in lava, she didn’t imagine he could take much damage. Maybe he just hadn’t thought it through; recovering her body without bothering to use his force field might have been the impulse of the moment.

She had trouble imagining Vader as impulsive, though. Owen and Yoda both said Anakin had been, when they mentioned him at all, but she still struggled to fuse Anakin and Vader together in her mind. They were one person and she knew they were one person; it was just hard.

Other people suffered worse things, she told herself. Other people had suffered worse things at Vader’s hands, at that. And here she sat, dressed in velvet and feeling sorry for herself because her father cared enough, in his way, to risk his life saving hers.

Lucy tightened her hands on her knees and squeezed her eyes shut. 

Force, it was hard.

-

Several days passed with monotonous regularity. Lucy slept, exercised, and ate, and otherwise got shut up in her room. Dutifully, she tried to ignore Ellex’s blasters and meditate. The Light Side seemed to flow more strongly than before, but remained slippery, sometimes responding to her efforts to reach it, but just as often sliding away.

All the while, Lucy shifted between frustration with her weaknesses and failures, anxiety over her friends and the Rebellion, curiosity about what her father was up to, and sheer boredom. She hadn’t felt as restless since her days on the moisture farm. At least then, she’d had her uncle and aunt, and things to do. Now she really was the prisoner she’d imagined herself.

When she felt the shift in the Force that heralded Vader’s arrival, she almost welcomed it as much as she dreaded it. She didn’t look forward to the conversation that she knew would happen—that had to happen—but it would at least be different. And if she could get through it, it’d be over. She just had to be strong.

Normally, she looked to Leia’s or Han’s examples for that. But this required a different sort of strength, one she couldn’t borrow. She could do it, though. She had to.

Lucy took a steadying breath. She needed all the peace she could get. And there was no point in working herself up, anyway. It might be hours before Vader decided to harangue her or drop some new terrible revelation. Instead, she counted backwards in Alsaraic until her nerves settled and the Force coursed through her.

Anger did, too—yet, oddly, the Light Side and its comforting warmth stayed with her. She didn’t even know what she was angry about. There were a lot of options, but usually something brought it on. Lucy sat there, puzzled even as her teeth clenched with frustration. She wasn’t frustrated, not really, with the Force wrapped around her, connecting her to everything from the fresher’s mirror to the droids outside her door to Vader himself—

Vader. Cautiously, Lucy let her attention drift to the riotous tangle of power and emotions that accompanied him. As she did, her anger escalated, her heart racing, and some instinct urging her to throw herself at Ellex and damn the consequences. She just had to break free of this nonsense and make them obey. They’d learn—

She shook her head free of it. What? Who did she want obeying her, anyway? Ellex and the droids? The idea was laughable. 

Lucy shifted her attention again, back to herself and her room, and the burst of outrage dwindled back to frustration. She wanted to do something, but there were obstacles in her path, ones she couldn’t see her way past. Like fully armed droids at her door? 

No, she thought. It wasn’t her path at all. It was—Vader’s? He was angry. He hadn’t achieved whatever it was he’d meant to do. He meant to teach them to obey him, whoever “they” were. 

But was that good news for her or bad? She had no idea. She didn’t even know if picking up on Vader’s seething emotions was good or bad. Maybe a little of both.

Regardless, his rage soon cooled to icy displeasure. After that, she felt nothing at all beyond his distant presence. Lucy breathed a sigh of relief.

Ellex, on the other hand, twitched, one metal hand going to the side of her head. 

“Yes, sir,” she said. “The situation is under control. No, sir—none.” After a pause, she said, “Very well.”

“What is it?” said Lucy.

“Get up,” snapped Ellex. “Lord Vader has returned.”

“He wants to see me already?” Lucy asked.

At least he’d waited until he wasn’t in a fury. Or he’d had more important things to do. Who knew?

“I will stun and carry you if you resist,” said Ellex.

Lucy scrambled off the bed and lifted her hands. “I’m not resisting. I was just surprised. Let’s go.”

Ellex all but pushed her out of the door. If Lucy hadn’t eagerly ducked out as soon as the door was unsealed, before it’d even opened all the way, she suspected Ellex would have actually done it. As it was, the droid clanged forward with a brusque,

“Keep up.”

Tone aside, she maintained a pace that Lucy could match without running, even if she wouldn’t have exactly called it comfortable. She didn’t trouble herself with talking; over the last few days, they’d long since subsided into silence. Lucy had nothing more to say, and Ellex presumably no interest, since Lucy didn’t fool herself into thinking she was anything to the droid but the object of an appointed task. Probably one she didn’t care for, at that.

Ellex rapped at the usual door, which immediately opened, though nobody seemed to be inside. Lucy, a little confused, followed her into the room, avoiding the patch of green light and sitting down. She even folded her hands on her lap, doing her best to look particularly accommodating; she didn’t fancy getting knocked unconscious after avoiding it for five days.

Ellex stared down at her as if she might make a run for it at any moment.

They’d only waited a few minutes when Darth Vader swept through the door. Without a word, he looked from Ellex to Lucy and back again.

“LX-3. Remain outside the door,” he said at last.

“Yes, sir.”

Once she’d marched out, he returned his unsettling red-black gaze to Lucy. Refusing to put herself at more disadvantage than she was already, Lucy jumped to her feet.

She straightened herself to her full five feet of height, feeling even smaller than she had before.

“I trust you have had time to reconsider your actions,” he said.

She thought about lying, or giving a flippant answer that would do nothing for his temper but make her feel better. But he hadn’t lied to her, even when everyone else seemed to be deceptive or ignorant. 

“I’m not sure there’s enough time in the galaxy for that,” said Lucy. “Maybe I should have made sure it was really a Rebel fleet before I used up the force field’s charge. And I am sorry about Tuvié—I just didn’t think.”

“Hopefully,” said Vader, “you will think in the future.”

He didn’t sound convinced. Lucy had to admit that she wouldn’t have been, either.

“You didn’t,” she said.

“What are you talking about?” demanded Vader.

“I heard that you didn’t use a force-field out there,” said Lucy. “You could have died, just like that.” She snapped her fingers.

With barely a twitch of movement, he managed to loom over her even more.

“However much you may wish otherwise, I was in no danger. My equipment protects me.”

“Not from everything,” Lucy insisted. “You heard Doctor Izahay. She said we both might have died.”

“She usually overstates matters,” said Vader. “There is no comparison between your actions and mine.”

Lucy hesitated. It’d been easier to think it through when he wasn’t there, so much Darth Vader that she could almost deny the truth again. But she couldn’t.

“Maybe not,” she allowed. “I ran into poison fumes on purpose. You were just trying to save my life.”

Without quite knowing how, she could tell he was surprised. He tilted his helmet down to look at her directly, otherwise motionless, and silent but for his respirator. After several seconds of mechanized breaths, he said,

“Then what point do you think you are making?” 

“You did save my life,” said Lucy. Her pulse was beating a quick rhythm in her chest and head. To him, she knew she must seem tiny and weak, something to be trapped or rescued as suited the occasion. But she had to do this. She squared her shoulders, doing her best to meet his unseen gaze. “Thank you, Father.”

He didn’t react in any visible way.

“So,” he said, “you have accepted the truth.”

“I’ve accepted the truth,” said Lucy, “that you were once Anakin Skywalker, my father.”

“That name no longer has any meaning for me,” Vader told her.

Oh, clearly.

“It is the name of your true self!” she said indignantly.

Beru had once told her about how they met Anakin. When Lucy’s grandmother was abducted by the Tusken Raiders and tortured to death, Anakin had rushed ahead to go find them and recover the body. He’d returned without a scratch, and Shmi’s corpse in his arms. He’d done that, and now chose an empty title over the name and personhood his mother had given him? 

“And if it isn’t,” she went on, “then my father is truly dead.”

Real anger was running through her, her own anger, and all the more as he said nothing.

“Did you need anything else, Lord Vader?” said Lucy.

Vader kept looking down at her. Then he said,

“No.”

-

Darth Vader spent much of his life in a towering rage. It fed the power of the Dark Side in him, and he certainly had found himself surrounded by causes for it. On this particular day, he had more than usual. 

For one, Jerjerrod—whom he felt almost certain must be involved in that ridiculous, but traitorous, attack on Bast Castle—had been moved to a different project, one so secret that Vader himself only knew the vaguest details. That made him virtually inaccessible. 

And Varti, Jerjerrod’s companion in scheming, was a favourite of the Emperor’s: just the sort of slick, self-interested bootlicker that Palpatine preferred. Vader couldn’t risk everything he’d planned on a direct threat to someone as useless as Varti, all the more as it turned out Varti was currently stationed on the Emperor’s home planet as some sort of honour—a planet that Vader had no intention of visiting.

In addition to that, the crucial ingredient to his plans, Lucy, had shown herself more than recalcitrant in her latest escapade. He’d immediately moved to secure her, of course, but that didn’t make her any more reliable. While he had won some time to turn her to the Dark Side and prove her value, that time was not indefinite, and he knew exactly who would be called upon to … to resolve the situation if she could not be turned. 

Valì?

He nearly recoiled. Even as he’d pronounced himself her father, he never quite envisioned Lucy saying it, until she had. Even then, he wouldn’t have imagined hearing it at any point when she was conscious and coherent, much less what she’d said.

Sorinen, Valì.

Lucy, thanking him for anything? A day ago, the idea would have beggared belief. Part of him thought, vaguely, that it seemed an important step, and he should make some use of it. The rest of him felt too startled to think anything at all, except that she no longer denied the truth. For a moment, his residual anger had converted to relief. Then, of course, she had to speak of Anakin Skywalker—not some other man, whatever anyone said, but another name, the name attached to his weaknesses and failures. It meant nothing.

He should have felt just as much relief at her flash of fury. That was good; it would carry her more swiftly to the Dark Side. But—

Fa valiyat khiris ai-dûru.

He had been considered dead for many years: dead as Anakin Skywalker, and a dead man walking as Darth Vader. He never much cared about that. But he was honest enough, and weak enough, to admit to himself that Lucy relegating him to the dead had made for an unpleasant experience—unpleasant enough that it wiped his mind of any reply. Then she’d switched to Basic, from Valì to Lord Vader, and somehow that seemed more unpleasant still. 

He should have been enraged, of course. He should still be. But he only felt tired—very tired, and very old. 

In a rare moment of reminiscence, Vader let himself think back. His mind flitted from the Darth Vader of this miserable day, to a reckless young Jedi Knight, to a newborn slave beneath Gardulla’s palace. Yes, he’d counted right.

He was forty-three.

[simkaswriting]

Arrangement pt.3-(Kylo Ren)

Characters: Leia Organa, Supreme Leader Snoke, Han Solo, Kylo Ren and (Y/N).

Pairing: Kylo Ren x Queen!Reader

Word Count: 4123

Warnings: some fluff

Summary: Will Kylo let his future wife, the Queen of Nibiri, in on his past and into his future?

A/N- Here’s part 3, it did take longer to write because I was absolutely swamped during the holidays, but I hope this makes up for it! There will be two other parts, maybe three at a push!

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5.

(Y/N) lightly taps her manicured nails on the marble table full of various papers, her brows knitted together as she reads through the list of guests to attend the wedding of the century. Behind her, Kylo lays on their bed, reading the same list and sporting the same expression as his fiancee.

“I know we agreed on a grand wedding, but isn’t 163 people a little… excessive?” Kylo mumbles from his position on the bed. He lazily rolls over onto his side and looks over at (Y/N), who’s wearing one of his shirts which makes him sigh in content.

With two days to the wedding, Kylo’s noticed just how stressed the Queen’s gotten, to the point where he woke up in the middle of the night to her grumbling about flower arrangements from her sleep. The Commander himself has been feeling the weight of all the planning and organising for the wedding, despite not actually having to do much, so just imagining how his fiancee must feel pains him. But hey, at least we only have to sort out this mess of a guest list before everything’s ready, Kylo thinks to himself.

Indeed, the wedding that will surely top all royal weddings has been planned out, from the decorations, to the venue and even various alcoholic drinks that Kylo got to pick were all ready to go, and all that was left to do was to sort out the guests.

(Y/N) runs a hand through her hair in frustration. “It is, I didn’t think there were so many royal families under the First Order. Or so many high-ranking officers. Do you reckon we can pull it off?”

Kylo sets down the list and gets up from the bed, his limbs slightly protesting due to the lack of movement they’ve had lately, and walks over to his fiancee. He squats in front of her and reaches to take her hand. (Y/N) smiles lightly at him, already feeling less of a weight on her shoulders just by that simple contact.

“I know we can pull it off. Stop worrying, you’ll get grey hairs. And we’re both aware that you’re too young for that.” Kylo looks at (Y/N), a smile playing on his lips as a smile of her own appears. Over the last week, the Commander’s become quite fond of the Queen, something he didn’t think would happen when he first got told of the marriage that Supreme Leader Snoke organised. He didn’t think he would learn to love the sight of the woman with messy hair, who’s sporting bags underneath her eyes like it’s the latest fashion trend and wears his oversized shirts like she couldn’t care less for her royal status. The thought of ever liking, or possibly loving, the woman he’s being forced to marry didn’t seem likely to him at first, though now he’s thinking that perhaps he shouldn’t have been so quick to reject it.

“Well, that’s the planning for the wedding officially done. It feels strange, I’ve barely had to time to sit down and relax over the past few days.” (Y/N) shakes her head a little, still not believing the fact that she’s due to marry the man in front of her in less than 48 hours. But to be fair, she’d rather it be him than someone like General Hux.

Kylo stand up and leans against the marble table, still holding onto his fiancee’s hand, and cocks his head to the side. “Why don’t we do something fun?”

The Queen bites her lip in contemplation, an action that makes Kylo stare at her in bewilderment, as she tries to think of something fun that would entertain them both and possibly bring them closer. As she glances down, her eyes catch an object hidden almost out of sight under her marble desk, and with curiosity she bends down to pick it up.

(Y/N)s hand wraps around Kylo’s lightsaber tentatively as she looks at her fiance with a raised brow. A look of worry flashes across Kylo’s at how dangerously close the Queen’s hand is to the activation stud, but if she were to accidentally activate it, at least it’s pointing away from her face.

“Can you teach me how to use this?” (Y/N) suggests with a small smile, knowing exactly how deadly the weapon in her hand is, and just how much she would love to use it at least once. And the immense power that she feels radiating from the lightsaber makes her fingers tingle, because she knows that just by pushing a single button she’ll become deadly.

Kylo’s instinct is to take his weapon and not let her touch it, partially because it’s his but also because he doesn’t want to risk her getting hurt. But when he looks at the hope and excitement in (Y/N)s eyes, he can’t help but feel as if denying her request would be equal to committing the worst crime in the Galaxy. So, reluctantly, he nods.

An enormous smile spreads across (Y/N)s face at his agreement and before she can stop herself, she throws her arms around Kylo’s neck and pulls him into a tight hug. 

For a split second, Kylo freezes. (Y/N)s arms around his neck feel so right, like they were made just for that one purpose. Her subtle perfume penetrates his nose, leaving him crazy and craving more, her body against his feels so good that if he got the choice he would never let her leave. But then as suddenly as the hug came, he realises he’s just standing there like an idiot. So without further thought, he wraps his arms around (Y/N) and rests his head on top of hers.

A warmth that (Y/N)s gotten used to in the recent days floods her system, filling every empty space and filling her to the brim as Kylo wraps his strong arms around her. He brings a sense of security and affection with him, but also threat due to his nature. However, the Queen has gotten used to the fact that Kylo has some evil in him, just as she’s gotten used to calming him down when he’s on the verge of throwing a tantrum. Though (Y/N) can also sense good in him, an unmistakable kindness and love that just needs to be brought up to the surface. And as she stands in his arms, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt, she promises herself that she will do whatever it takes to pry that part of him out,

(Y/N) pulls back from Kylo, quickly turning around and walking into the middle of the room so he can’t see the ridiculously red blush spreading fast across her cheeks. Keep it together, she tells herself desperately. She holds the lightsaber in both hands, something she knows how to do from the datapads she’s read, and waits. Because despite her wanting to learn how to use it, she needs help from the owner of the death stick. And she also needs him to make sure she doesn’t accidentally cut her hand off.

With a small smile, Kylo walks behind (Y/N) and wraps his hands around her ones, their bodies once again so close it leaves him partially breathless and stunned. 

Kylo squeezes his eyes shut, thankful his fiancee can’t see, before kicking (Y/N)s feet apart lightly so her stance is correct.

“Can you feel the little activation button? Lightly tap it.”

(Y/N) nods her head before doing as she’s told. The deadly red glow appears before her out of seemingly nowhere, accompanied by a dull buzz which makes the handle of the lightsaber slightly vibrate. A delightful smile spreads across the Queens face, a similar one appearing on Kylo’s one.

“Great, now can you see that vase in the corner of the room?” Kylo asks (Y/N) in a hushed voice, his lips nearly brushing against her ear, which sends bolts of shivers up her spine. Oh stars, oh stars, oh stars… 

“Yes Kylo, I’m not blind, my eyesight is perfectly fine.” (Y/N) rolls her eyes, her voice almost cracking to reveal just how much of an effect her fiance is having on her. If the Queen could, if she was sure that it wouldn’t make Kylo uncomfortable or turn things awkward, she would kissing his plump lips right about now until they turned a shade of purple.

“You’re feeling awfully feisty today, my Queen. First, you imply that I would be a lousy lover purely because I stole your covers during the night, then you throw your shoe at me for laughing at you smudging your lipstick, and now this.” Kylo chuckles, his mind briefly wandering to earlier in the morning, his seemingly-always present smile widening. If Supreme Leader Snoke told him how amusing his future wife is, and how much he would end up liking just being in her presence, he wouldn’t have been so hesitant.

(Y/N) chuckles along with her fiance, also recalling earlier events with a fond smile. A smile that’s loving the way ‘my Queen’ sounds coming from Kylo’s lips.

“I’m not even sorry.” the Queen says with a cheeky smile. 

Kylo looks down at the woman in his arms, holding his lightsaber, with awe. If it weren’t (Y/N), the Queen whom he shares a Force bond with, she would have been dead by now just for daring to speak to him with that tone of voice. But instead she makes him feel like he has no troubles in the world, like as long as she’s by his side everything will be okay.

“Awe, is the Commander going soft on me?” (Y/N) lowers the lightsaber and turns around to face her fiance with a teasing smile, careful that the death stick in her hands doesn’t cause any harm to either of them.

Kylo’s stomach flares up, white-hot flames of passion and admiration and stars know what else clawing their way up his throat, begging to be released, begging to be said. He feels control slipping from his grip faster than Hux jumps to conclusions, and for a second it terrifies him. 

“I-I’m n-not, what? I’m not going soft.” Kylo scoffs before grabbing a hold of (Y/N)s shoulders suddenly, spinning her around and once again enclosing his hands around hers. It takes her by surprise, to the point where she almost falls over her feet as he abruptly takes a few steps forward. With a quick flick of his wrist, the lightsaber cuts diagonally through the vase. 

(Y/N) stands in shock, mouth agape as she watches the blue vase crash to the floor. The shattered pieces litter the floor, sunlight displaying millions of small rainbows all over the wooden floor. She lightly taps the activator button to switch the lightsaber off and bends down to gently place it on the floor between the shards of glass. 

Without thinking of the consequences, she turns around, places her hands gently on Kylo’s chest and reaches up to press a kiss to his lips.

A warm feeling, almost obsessive, spreads through (Y/N)s stomach. Kylo’s lips, intoxicating like whisky, feel like home to her, so warm and welcoming it makes her heart ache. 

Kylo stands stock still, eyes wide like saucers as he feels the warm lips of the Queen against his own ones. A tingle of electricity passes from his lips to the tips of his fingers, a sensation that makes him almost choke as he realises he needs more. No, Craves more. Despite the nagging feeling at the back of his head, the Dark Side of the Force, telling him to immediately distance himself, he does the exact opposite. Gently, like he’s afraid of breaking (Y/N), he captures her face in his hands and leans down to envelope her lips in a hungry kiss. 

The kiss is full of passion and longing, both of which Kylo’s been trying to suppress ever since he started getting closer to the Queen. The Commander grazes his teeth across (Y/N)s bottom lip, causing the Queen to involuntarily moan in delight. Her arms pull Kylo further down as they wrap around his neck, the Queens fingers tangling themselves in Kylo’s hair. 

A thought that makes (Y/N) grin into the kiss passes through her head. So this is what his hair feels like, she thinks to herself with a feeling of satisfaction.

All too soon, Kylo forces himself to let go of his Queen and break off the kiss so he can catch his breath. He stares into (Y/N)s crazed eyes, adrenaline coursing through his every vein. His breathing is ragged, like he just finished yelling at Hux, but he doesn’t care much. What he cares about is protecting the woman in front of him, even if it puts his own life at risk. All Kylo cares about is making sure that he will never be apart from his Queen for too long, he cares about her. And when he cares about something, which is extremely rare, he doesn’t give up on it.

“I liked that vase.” (Y/N) smiles, her own breath laboured and her heart beating like crazy from the thrill of the kiss.

Kylo chuckles, a deep throaty sound that makes his fiancee weak at the knees, as he looks down at the glass scattered all over the floor. It was a nice vase, but was simply mundane compared to the beauty of the woman standing in front of him.

“I’m not even sorry.”

(Y/N)s eyes widen as she realises her fiance’s teasing her with one of her own lines, and as a reflex she lightly hits the side of his arm with a shocked expression. But right now, Kylo could murder all of her assistants and she wouldn’t bat an eye, if it meant he would be happy.

“Hey, not fair!” (Y/N) goes to take a step forward, but before she can playfully hit Kylo again, he sweeps her up in his arms effortlessly. The Commander gestures down at the shard of glass that the Queen would have stepped on, before carrying her to their shared bed. 

Kylo gently places the Queen down onto the soft bed, his hands briefly lingering on her waist. As he looks down at his future wife, hair dishevelled and a crazed smile on her lips, he can’t help but feel immensely lucky. How could a man like him deserve to be with a woman like (Y/N)?

“Kylo? What’s wrong?” (Y/N) asks, noticing how quiet the Commander’s gone all of a sudden. She gently takes a hold of his hand and intertwines their fingers, before looking up at the raven-haired man in confusion. Her lips, still tingling from the passionate kiss, already longing after Kylo’s lips.

Kylo stares at the Queen for a few seconds, trying to collect the mess that are his thoughts. The tug of the Light side is more prominent now, more obvious, yet he knows it won’t win him over. Despite Force bonds belonging to the Light side, the Commander is sure that the Dark side only makes his and (Y/N)s Force bond stronger and more resistant. His feelings towards the Queen, albeit at first ones of carelessness and malevolence, are now ones of adoration and benevolence. All his heart seems to desire is to be in the presence of (Y/N), to have his hand in hers and to stand by her. The feelings are all overwhelming, but one stands clear above all others. Love.

“Nothing, (Y/N). Right now, absolutely nothing.” Kylo smiles, before once again leaning down to capture his Queen’s lips in a sweet and loving kiss, reassuring her that in this moment, all that matters is her.

Happiness floods through the Queen’s system as she hears her name come out of Kylo’s mouth, something that he hasn’t yet said. It sounds so heavenly, so nice. 

Kylo pushes himself off the bed, leaving (Y/N) temporarily stunned at the sudden empty feeling that surrounds her. She watches him kick his shoes off and tip-toe around the broken vase with a small smile before he gets back on the bed. 

(Y/N) watches her fiance with curious eyes, wondering what he’s doing and what he’ll do next. I’ll have to clean up the pieces of glass soon, I don’t want it to cause an injury, the Queen thinks to herself. The thought of seeing her future husband hurt makes her blood boil with rage.

Kylo leans back on his heels and bites his bottom lip as he looks at (Y/N), a look of contemplation on his features. 

“Do you mind if I… If I try something?” He asks, hesitant, not knowing whether he’s about to overstep some line with the Queen or perhaps if he’s already overstepped one by kissing her. But his gut feeling, along with the Force, know that’s not the case.

The Queen nods and cocks her head to the side with a small, encouraging smile. 

Kylo takes a small breath before lightly taking a hold of (Y/N)s arm so to not hurt her and bringing her further up the bed. The smile stays present on her lips, as slow realisation of what her fiance is doing dawns on her. He then lays down next to her, chest up, before wrapping his right arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer to him with furrowed brows. As his fiancee sets her head on his chest and intertwines her bare legs with his, the feeling of adoration and love almost makes him choke and tear up.

He has never felt like this before, or had ever done this before. He has never had someone that he felt such strong feelings for, that he harboured a deep connection with. A person he knew would sacrifice their own life if it meant he would be safe, a person who made him think he was the luckiest man in the Galaxy. A person whom he shared a Force bond with.

(Y/N) wraps her arm around Kylo’s clothed stomach and listens to his erratic heartbeat which shows no signs of slowing down. Her fingers absentmindedly trace small circles on his side, which unbeknown to her calms him down immensely. 

For a few minutes, it’s quiet, just their small breaths of content filling up the comfortable silence. But then a question begins to prod at (Y/N), one she’s been meaning to ask for a few days now but wasn’t sure if it would mean stepping over a line that she’s not aware of. Though Kylo’s thumb brushing against her shoulder reassuringly gives her the needed courage to ask anyway.

“Please do tell me if I’m in the wrong for asking, but it’s been driving me insane and I just have to ask. Why haven’t your parents been invited to our wedding? I don’t think I’ve ever even heard you mention them.”

At the sound of his parents, Kylo stiffens and clenches his jaw, a sense of loss and regret, but also anger washing over him. Why doesn’t he invite them? Because Han is dead and Leia is the First Order’s enemy. It’s that simple, isn’t it? But even now as he thinks over how to answer his fiancee’s question, he knows that’s not true. And he is aware that lying to her, or simply brushing the question off isn’t right. It’s not how he was raised.

(Y/N) shifts so she’s looking at Kylo now, a look of worry on her features. Her fingers continue to draw random shapes on his sides, but she’s now propped up on her elbow so she can see the Commander, and the face of the man that’s lived through too much sorrow.

Kylo clears his throat before glancing at the Queen. Slowly, as if approaching a deer which is easily frightened, he leans over to place a small kiss on her cheek. 

“My father is dead, has been for a few years now. His name was Han Solo, a smuggler in his prime. Leia Organa, former Princess of Alderaan, is my mother. She’s with the Resistance, so it wouldn’t be fitting if she were to be invited.”

A look of recognition flashes over (Y/N)s face, one which Kylo picks up on. She has heard of Leia Organa, the daughter of the infamous Darth Vader, though that part is lesser known. The Queen is aware of the extent of her power, and her role in the Resistance, but she never would have thought that General Organa is Kylo’s mother. She’s a true role model for those who favour the Light side of the Force, and even if (Y/N) doesn’t favour it, the sheer determination and fiery attitude of the woman demands respect.

“Well stars, I had no idea General Leia Organa is your mother.” The Queen swears, something Kylo finds extremely appealing. 

The Commander bites his bottom lip in contemplation, wondering whether or not he should tell his future wife more about his parents, even if it does cause a stinging sensation to rack his body, the ever-present guilt for what he did to his father gnawing at him. But in the end, after a minute or so, he decides there’s nothing he wants to hide from the Queen.

“It’s not something I try to hide, but it is not something I boast about either. It’s admirable, what she does, and the grace and amount of effort that go into her actions.” The top of Kylo’s lip twitches, a smile trying to appear but being restrained by the Commander’s sheer will. He hasn’t thought of his mother, Leia, in a fond manner in a long time.

“What about your father? What was he like? I don’t think I’ve heard of a Han Solo.” (Y/N) asks as she once again places her head on Kylo’s chest, immediately being overcome by an odd feeling. A feeling that tells her just how lonely Kylo is, just how desperate he is for love. It’s like it was projected into her heart, but she doesn’t know how. And quite frankly, it sends chills through her very bones.

Kylo runs a soothing hand through the Queens hair, fingers capturing a few stray strands and twisting them a little.

“He was a smuggler, there Is nothing honourable in that. And how my mother fell in love with him I will never understand. But he was driven and he seldom didn’t get what he set out for. So one could say that’s admirable.” 

Kylo considers telling (Y/N) that he was the one who caused his fathers death, that he murdered him with the same lightsaber that she was holding half an hour ago. But that’s a story for another time, one he isn’t willing to share just yet.

“You talk of not understanding their love, but out circumstances are not usual either.” (Y/N) chuckles, causing Kylo to mirror her actions, the vibrations from his chest shaking her head slightly. He mutters a soft ‘true’, one which the Queen would have barely heard if her head wasn’t so close to his.

(Y/N) once again props herself up on her elbows, this time knitting her brows together in deep thought. She knows Kylo’s father is dead, but his mother isn’t, which means that if she could somehow get her to attend the wedding, there may be a chance to mend the disaster of a relationship her and her son seem to have. And not to mention it’s every women’s dream that she will be liked by her husbands mother.

“Would you mind if I sent an invite to General Organa?” The Queen asks slowly, as if testing the waters to see if she’s not provoked a shark within her fiance.

Once again, Kylo’s own face mirrors hers. The idea of seeing his mother attend his wedding seems absurd, like it doesn’t even deserve to be thought about, let alone mentioned out loud. He hasn’t seen his mother in a long time, and since then he’s aware she views him as her greatest disappointment. However, he would be willing to get over the hatred and pain for a few hours if it made his fiancee happy. And in this moment, Kylo realises that he must truly care for (Y/N) if he’s willing to put aside his feud with his mother just to make her happy.

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up high that she would ever accept. But if your heart desires it, then I won’t stop you.” 

Upon hearing those words, (Y/N) swings her leg over Kylo’s waist so she’s straddling him, and begins to place quick kisses all over his face, now full of glee and excitement at the thought of meeting his mother, General Leia Organa. But also as his words register in her mind. ‘if your heart desires it, then I won’t stop you’ keeps running through her mind as she feels his hands on either side of her waist. 

For a few minutes, all the Queen does is litter her fiance’s face with feather-like kisses, thankful for being forced into an arranged marriage with the man. The man she hopes she’ll make happy for the rest of their shared days.

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[ask-the-elders-chosen]

Google-translated from Russian->English version of Chosen just for comparison and laughing purposes (I am dying how the Assassin gets translated into “killer, murdered etc’)

RECEIVING DATA, ADVENT SELECTED "HUNTER"

RECEIVING DATA, ADVENT SELECTED "WOMEN" (wat)

FILE 215903: DATA RECEIVED DURING THE ADVENT NETWORK BREAKDOWN ABOUT THE SUBJECT ADVENT SELECTED "KILLER"

ATTENTION! THE LEVEL OF ACCESS TETA IS NECESSARY

ACCESS CODE "TETA_OKHOTNIK" is REJECTED. FILE IS NOT AVAILABLE AT THIS MOMENT OF TIME.

ACCESS CODE "TETA_CHARODAY" is rejected. FILE NOT AVAILABLE AT THIS TIME-

SECURITY SYSTEM CIRCUIT DIAGNOSES

OBTAINING ACCESS TO THE FILE ...

[15.04.2029] Despite the fact that the accelerated growth rate of the subject ADVENT SELECTED "KILLER" corresponds to the calculated values ​​for the clones in the current methodology, expectations about its final form may turn out to be optimistic, to put it mildly. Within the framework of the existing doctrine, every effort has been made to avoid the characteristic problems that we faced in the subjects ADVENT SELECTED HUNTER and ADVENT SELECTED "CHARENTS", however additional security measures take much longer than in previous cases. However, if we want to achieve absolute respect for the power of the Elders, this should be our first priority.

[06.06.2029] ... so far, it exceeds all expectations with respect to the current goals of the doctrine - subordination and concentration as the first priorities-

Click.

"I'm not sure why we need a younger sister at all."

"Obviously, your skills no longer justify the expectations of our overlords." They are disappointed in you, brother.

- Really? I wonder what can be said about you then. I, too, was the Chosen One. And now she is. Let's unite. You subordinate the Priests, and I'll cut off her head as soon as I fall out of the capsule. We do not need all this. We do not need her.

"For once in all your worthless life, keep yourself in your hands." If the Elders deemed it necessary to bless us with their sister, we will meet her with open arms.

"Hmm, but you're still thinking about it, are not you?"

- To be silent. ________________________________________

Our child. Do you hear us?

…Yes…

Soon you are destined to awaken. You will be an instrument of our will. You will not have either worldly desires or emotions. There will be a place to be just a debt to us. You, among the billions, were elected. Executions of infidels and dissidents without pity. Only our word will be your law. Do not let us down.

... I will not let you down ...

Your brother, the Eldest, will guide you. Your brother, the Elder, will test you. However, you are destined to surpass them, for you are our favorite. Created in our image, you are the embodiment of our ideals.

... I will not let you down ...

Go, wake up from sleep. In due time this world will be yours. This is our promise. ________________________________________

When the Assassin makes his first sigh, he does not look like a mournful cry of a baby in the first seconds of being in this world. She already knows five hundred different tactics on the battlefield. It can appeal to the knowledge of the masters of the sword: both human and extraterrestrial. Its first independent thought is the release from the capsule that holds it, and a detailed analysis of the imperfections of the material from which the glass is made.

However, she does not need to strain: the liquid slowly swells and without her intervention. A distant howl of sirens around dips the room in a red light, which bounces off scientists and dressed in armor figures ... her brothers. At the level of innate instincts, she realizes that they are one flesh and blood. The safety glass exfoliates, allowing the Killer to fall forward. Without the absence of liquid, the cables that were stuck in her suit are pulled out of the nests one by one. Her weight releases from the shackles, and the Killer takes the first step, landing in the perfect somersault.

She does not ask about who she is, nor about where she is: she already knows the answer. Words come to their heads by themselves. Jah-mon-Mont Balladur. Assassin. Infernal harpy. So they called her. And so it will be known to the world.

- The subject shows cognitive functions, there are no signs of surprise or disorientation.

The murderer rises from her knees. It does not need to be taught to walk. A set of skillfully forged blades awaits her, beautifully laid on the stand, and she runs her finger along the blade, checking the sharpness. Picking up both a short sword and its longer version, she makes several swings, estimating the weight before throwing the dagger at lightning speed into her older brother.

The blade pierces the "Dark Spear", passing through the generator of kinetic charges, thereby disabling the rifle. The hunter reacted instantly: either he dies, or his weapon takes a blow at itself. The assassin lashes out in the direction of his Oldest, swinging his long sword and exposing one arm in a protective manner. However, she is not destined to achieve the goal: a powerful charge of psionic energy strikes her right in the chest and tightens her to the floor, only she needs to cross half the room.

"And she's with her character," snarls the Hunter, grasping the hilt of the dagger and pulling it out of his rifle. Frowning, he assesses the damage caused, along the way throwing the killer Weapon on the floor. The Spear was once again hanged on its back, and the pistol drawn more out of principle than necessity. Killer writhes on the floor in pain. Her first attack in her life. She knows that it will not be the last. She knows that she is in for a much worse pain in case of failure. Considering her punishment sufficient, the Old One frees her from psionic shackles. Priests run to her. One on the left. One on the right. She accepts their outstretched hands of help, for if the Elders are favorable to them, then so should she. "We are not your enemy, Sister," says the Wizard. "The gods must be pleased with how zealously you strive to start your service." Come here, greet your brothers. Now you're one of us. The killer straightens up. Priests that stand on each side, barely reach it to the ribs, and when it moves, the air seems to carry it. No sound. Not the slightest rustle. Not even the rustling of the fabric. It combines incredible flexibility and mobility: it is like the wind that slips through thickets of reeds. She approaches her brothers, no longer showing signs of hostility. - Dhag Il Vallinor, - she greets the Elder. He has enough decency to honor her with an almost imperceptible nod of the head. She knows that he sees in her only an empty space. It does not provide a threat to him and, therefore, is nothing. She will prove that he is wrong. She was the favorite offspring of the Elders. Not he. "Dhag Mai Mardon," she greets the Elder. He grins, full of the worst human qualities. She knows that he is not happy about her coming into the world. That it hides the hatred of the essence of three minutes of the people. She did not feel anything for him. She did not care. "I'll kill you myself if you dare interfere with my work." She reveals her sharp teeth, smiling with an empty smile, in which there is not a shadow of love. She passes by their tense figures to bend down, pick up a dagger and insert it into a secret hole on the hilt of the sword. Its purpose is clear as a day: to kill those of the "ADVENT" that gained freedom. What became too self-sufficient. She will become their sword in the darkness. Silent forerunner of an imminent death. To those who will settle them for ever and ever .- I understand that this means "no" to participate in family gatherings? "The hunter is sniveling." She does not see how he instructs the muzzle of the pistol on her leaving figure: on the back of the head, still crowned with scraps of cables and wires. She hears. He's so noisy. It's disgusting, annoyingly noisy and loud. The silent click of the "Dark Claw" fuse is like a thunderclap for her heightened senses. Her blade sang, cutting the air and reflecting the charge of terrible power released from the Dark Claw. The killer decided that the hunted expression on Hunter's face was a symbol of much greater pain than she could have physically caused him. His accuracy was blessed by the Elders, and yet she was the cause of his misfire. She carefully returns the sword to the sheath. She does not offend him. She has no desire to do this. She must hurry to the place of great power, which appeals to her. The murderer looks at the sarcophagus: the container of power that pulses, permeated with the energy of its overlords. She respectfully bows her head, imagining that they can see her. She feels safe in the walls of her own sanctuary, surrounded by a melodic psionic buzz. The killer sits on the floor, crossing his legs like a child in the first school days. However, the posture adopted is not only a symbol of childish obedience. It is like a lotus flower. Relaxed, she opens her mind, allowing the energy flows to fill the body. Breathe in. Exhalation. As long as it is true to Their goals, it will not let it perish. Even if it fails, Their love for her is too strong. She knows it. Intervention from the outside. "Who?" - The killer asks, rising with a sword at the ready and bending like a wild cat, ready to jump. She sees the outlines of the figures - infantrymen. The soldiers of ADVENT, as she believes. Distorted brainchild of genetic modification. No no. Ideal of the crossed DNA of man and the newcomer: a symbol of balance and harmony. One officer. One priest. The officer first gives a voice. "Captain of Defense Fiduchi," he appears, and then, following the example of the priest, he reluctantly kneels before her. The murderer does not care about such respectful gestures addressed to her. She would have preferred to earn the respect of her subordinates, shedding her blood on the battlefield, and not to encounter such benevolence merely because of the status of the offspring of the Gods. "For many years we expected your arrival, Chosen One." Our lords erected this Citadel for you: we were sent as a supplement to monitor order and defense. "This is your refuge," confirms the priest in a soft tone, "and your base for operations." You can use it ... and us on your own. "Do not you dare step over the threshold of this room, unless you're looking for a quick death," she warns, pointing the blade at both soldiers. It fits, but does not feel a shadow of fear in the offenders. They were created fearless, ready to serve and die. Even if death itself looked at them in the face, they would stand until the end, as long as that is the will of the Elders. She already felt more like these soldiers than with her blood brothers. "If you want to contact me, then ... What is your name? "The Mystic of Hecate." Mystic Hecate will call me." You're capable of that, right? Or should I take one of my brother's followers? "I will do as you please." - Acceptable answer, - The killer puts the sheathed in the sheath. Straightening, she gestures for them to rise from their knees. However, even in their full growth, both soldiers were dwarfs compared to it. They respected her. For them, she was a deity. Nothing, soon it will prove its status in practice. And although Jah-Mon did not see herself much in the role of commander, she would try to use that small army that she was given, with intelligence. "The Chosen One, if you will allow ..." The officer waits until she nods, and continues. - Your auxiliary weapons and armor are waiting for you in the armory, and the sooner you give us instructions, the better. There are also several reports about criminals in the ranks of "ADVENTA", which you should pay attention to. The murderer still comes to the conclusion that these soldiers are more to her liking than her brothers. Like her, they speak clearly and in the matter. Neither scathing comments, nor senseless sentimentality. - Your first priority is to maintain the security of this Citadel. You have the right to use all means at your disposal in order to fulfill your duties in the best possible way. In my absence, you are under the control of the base. - The killer steps to the exit, too practical to just stand and give commands. The officer and the Priest follow her. - Hecate, you will be my eyes and ears. You will be mine- The Starpaw. The "Center". Her face looks puzzled. She does not know any people or aliens with callsign "Center". She only knows the "Senior Officer" - a position, but no more. This was not her own independent thought, no, she came from a place in which she learned tactics through countless battles. However, if the Elders gave her that term, she would try to find an application for him. "My old man," she concludes. The priest bows his head in misunderstanding, but obeys unconditionally. Jah-Mon wandered through the sacred corridors of his Citadel, as if she had done it thousands of times before. In its arms were all kinds of weapons that humanity could only dream of: some prototypes in disassembled form lay on workbenches. In this room, she will improve her knowledge of human technologies. "Leave me," she says, and Fiduchi and Hecate leave without any questions. Now in a blissful silence that was not disturbed by every heart beat that she could hear, or with a low sigh, she could appreciate the armor hung in front of her.

The material was light and fit her figure like a second skin: like her, the costume was sewn only in order to fulfill its basic function. No ceremonial decorations or excesses. With the exception of a single symbol on the chest: a Favorite Label. She found this symbolism acceptable enough and did not get rid of it. Armor covered every millimeter of her body, perfectly matching the main costume, except for the face. The absence of any protective mask or helmet was in her eyes a major drawback, and it was incredibly annoying.

The weapon was allocated from the general mass by its unusual design. It remotely resembled the Hunter's "Dark Spear". The more massive barrel allowed to make a wide shot, and although the charge had less power, the recoil was large enough to compensate for this. The weapon was weighed as much as was required in order not to slow down its movements: the shotgun was designed for its composition and combat style. Turning, she noticed a label attached to the trunk on a paper thread. How old-fashioned.

"Arasi" was his name. She brought the label closer, studying the contents of the scratched words. "Sister, you will be the eye of the storm ..."

She tore off the label from the weapon, knowing that it would break during the fight, however, contrary to common sense, she did not get rid of it. Not surprisingly, it was so much like the "Dark Spear" - Hunter made this weapon. For her. The emptiness that she felt for him suddenly began to fill up a little, but in the end the emptiness was empty.

Dressed in armor, with a shotgun on her back, she flexes her fingers and feels like the material pulsates when in contact with her psionically sensitive skin. She can not wait to fight and kill. To fulfill one's purpose, the very cause of her birth. She exits the armory, heading for the control room. At some point, Hecate joins her.

"Do you like brothel?" She tries to ask, but the Assassin interrupts her.

"This shotgun, Arashi." He was created by my brother, the Elder. Does he have access to my Citadel? My only refuge on this earth? I very much doubt that he just left him at the gate in this form.

Hecate does not answer right away, pursing his lips, but not strong enough to break perfect lines with wrinkles, dimples or anything else.

"He's the Chosen One," she replies. - We follow the instructions of the Chosen, regardless of who is in front of us: You, Hunter or Wizard. If you want to visit your brothers, you will be treated in a similar way.

"Then I'll make changes to your directives." From now on, you are allowed to admit only those who have my personal permission. - As you wish.

Silence hangs in the air exactly ninety seconds before the Assassin again gives a voice:

"I find the quality of the armor acceptable." Of all the possible six hundred and thirty-three faults that I could find, this armor has only one single.

If Hecate were allowed to smile, she would undoubtedly have done it.

The control tower was one of the branches within the Citadel, but it was by no means small. The monitors illuminated the room, in the center of which the world map was adorned, with a soft reddish glow. The system was fully automated: the control panels did not have a single soldier. The killer looked closely at the monitors, concluding that some showed the streets of New Cities, and other key points in the transport network. Her gaze caught the image on the radar screen, flashing red. With a single thought and a smooth swing of her hand, she was able to interact with the interface, which opened her access to the recording from the outskirts of the European metropolis. A group of four defectors "ADVENTA". Her experience, despite the first day of existence, suggested that they wanted to rob the convoy in order to extract resources."Watch this room," the Assassin said to her old man, letting the psionic energy wash it and hide it from prying eyes. ________________________________________ Jah-Mon observed with interest how people interact with each other. Mentally, she chastised herself. How can she, the Chosen One, the embodiment of perfection, afford to be so distracted? But ... how could she not be distracted by them? This race, these people were the object of such admiration and curiosity on the part of its overlords. The creature that she knew only as a Commander was a man, and They admired him. Love. The elders clearly saw only weakness in such emotions, so she could not feel them, right? Right? A black-haired man, a man, embraced with one hand another representative of his own kind. It was a woman with a big belly that she held, one hand on the tumor. No, not a tumor. Pregnancy. The assassin slipped from the eaves on the roof and landed right next to the pair. They were unable to feel or see her, and she walked with them on a par with listening to the conversation. "... And I'll call Paulo, let him know that I can be a little late," the man's face becomes thoughtful. "Are you sure that everything will be all right, Marie?" Maybe I should take another day off? "It's not that I'm going to be alone, Bob," the woman laughs. "Listen, there are peacekeepers around and they are always ready to help. I'm sure one of them will take me home if I politely ask. Do not put yourself under attack because of me. Jah-mon leaves them, living in ignorance of justice, which it is about to accomplish in the near future. It slips between passers-by and peacekeepers, not touching any elbows, despite the pace of running and long limbs. With one single leap, she lands on the roof and runs to the last known location of the free "ADVENT". Her short-term delay will not save them from imminent fate. They no longer discussed the plan of action, apparently waiting for the convoy to arrive with the materials. The explosive was laid on the rails, and the entire guard of this transport point lay dead. The killer bends on the ledge right behind the soldiers with their heads uncovered. One of them holds a detonator in his hands. They were two. Where did the others hide? The fast terrain showed that they were hiding deep in the bushes together with the dead bodies. Most likely lay in anticipation of pulling the containers deeper into the forest thicket. She approaches explosives and studies the design. The bomb was an alien assembly: the charge is most likely from the weaponry to which they were previously assigned, and it was activated not by a satellite or a psionic, but by a detonator. The one she saw in the hand of one of the traitors. Like the spit of death, she arranges a harvest among these sinful, wicked blasphemers that dared to turn away from the Elders, that they dared to discredit Their gifts, Their embraces. The first of them falls from her blade with a deep cut on her throat. Her disguise subsides, and the second is given only a second before his head is in the hands of the Assassin. A deft movement, she turns his neck. Jah-Mont hovers in the air, dodging the return fire of the last two with unprecedented grace and dexterity. "Arashi" slides off the belt in her left hand, as she predicts. After landing, she shoots a narrow sheaf of kinetic fragments in the chest of the third. He is burned, but still survives, spread out on the ground. Each katana stroke reflects the magnetic charges released by the fourth in an attempt to kill her. It is a failure, and it stands over him like Death - no, Judge. She judges him and finds him guilty. The sentence is death. His severed head rolls on the ground, joining the remaining fallen offspring of ADVENTA. The sounds of a dying terrorist, full of agony, prove that her work is not over yet. She comes to the third and thrusts the blade of the sword into his skull, completing the begun. The killer returns to the Citadel as quietly as she left from there to clear her blades and repeat the cleansing the next day: as many times as her lords wish. It finds the results of the first day of its existence acceptable, but not at all ideal.

[tessatechaitea]

Black Condor #2

The Sky Pirate is definitely an incel.

I don't want to shit on incels because people who can't get laid aren't the only jerks who turn into monsters when they can't get their way. I also don't want to make it seem like not getting laid is the worst thing that can happen to a person but have you ever not gotten laid when you really, really wanted to fuck? It's the worst! Now think about not being able to get laid for thirty to forty years. Do you think you're going to give one shit about climate change?! Of course not! That's why Sky Pirate is carbon emitting all over the fucking place on the cover! Sky Pirate doesn't need Black Condor to punch him in the face; he needs him to suck his balls. On the other hand, getting laid isn't that great, I bet.

I don't know why the guy isn't coming in his pants too.

Back in 1992, we didn't have incels. We just had guys who understood they were never going to get laid so they memorized all the stats of Fiend Folio monsters no Dungeon Master would ever use, like the achaierai or the umpleby or the tween or the snyad or the twill or the tabaxi or the qullan or the mantari or the gryph. Those are actual monsters but I probably could have just made up a bunch of nonsense words and nobody would have fucking noticed. Fiend Folio had a lot of shitty monsters. You know who wouldn't know that? Somebody who was getting laid in 1992! Something else somebody getting laid in 1992 wouldn't understand? Jerking off to the caryatid column!

I had to steal this image from the Internet because I've packed away all of my D&D manuals.

We really need legalized prostitution in this country. Also, we need to remove any negative stigma for going to a prostitute. Also we need male prostitutes that are good at sex so that women don't have to hook up with random guys who are probably terrible at sex when they want to bust whatever the female version of nuts are. Inside nuts? It's got to be tough being an incel in that even if you think you might finally get the chance to get laid, you know you're going to be awful at it and probably ruin a second chance of getting laid. Because who wants to fuck a guy whose underwear looks like the aftermath of a visit from your friendly neighborhood Spider-man when you go to pull his dick out? True story (I have to preface this story that way so that people actually think it's true even though they should realize I'm an unreliable narrator): when I finally met a woman who wanted desperately to fuck me, I obviously wasn't going to be any good at sex. I had learned to jerk off quickly in the quiet moments nobody was in the house (often to the scene in Return of the Living Dead (on VHS tape) when the punk girl dances naked on the crypt). So when this lovely and accommodating woman pulled my cock out and began kissing and sucking it, I wanted to explode immediately. But I knew I couldn't do that! I had to hold out! So I held out for like ten or fifteen seconds and, in my head, I thought, "That's good enough, right?!" Then I blew my load in her face and she was all, "Whoa. Um. Hey. What the fuck?" Actually, she wanted to fuck me so badly that she didn't care that I was almost certainly going to prematurely ejaculate every time we fucked until I finally decided I wanted to spend more time replaying Ultima IV than fucking poorly. Our sex actually did get better over time (and by "our," I obviously mean "my") but that was only because I'd come in her almost immediately and then, through pure will force rivaling that of Hal Jordan himself, I would just get hard again while trying not to let my flaccid member slip out of her. Luckily she could orgasm through penetration only because just imagine how bad I was at oral sex too! Um, that wasn't really a true story! I just have a great imagination! But then, you knew that because of all the times I mentioned being a virgin. Which was totally a lie too! I've been laid lots! And I was always great at it. Black Condor's grandfather can't get over his grandson not wanting to be a part of his old man secret society so he's sending an army of "shock troopers" out to capture him.

Has nobody told him about airplanes?

I can't stop staring at the look of pure joy on the woman's face in the panel where Black Condor is rescuing the campers. I'm actually fucking jealous of a fictional character in a drawing because how the fuck does she get to be so fucking happy?! Nearly the entire first half of this issue is dedicated to the origin of The Sky Pirate. My guess that he's an incel wasn't too far off the mark. He was a nerdy college kid working in hypersonic flight who desperately wanted to be part of the free love movement. He was eventually let in on the condition that he do all the work and earn them all the money, like how Brian was only allowed to be part of The Breakfast Club if he wrote everybody else's essays while they all hooked up. In the end, he made them all rich while he was a fugitive from the government. They did the thing all of the fucking asshole Boomers did: they gave up their ideals and convictions for wealth beyond measure at the expense of everybody else. So, twenty years later, he's returned to destroy them.

So this guy's a hero! Why is Black Condor trying to stop him on the cover?!

Black Condor is a good guy so I bet he winds up teaming up with Sky Pirate after the initial Marvel misunderstanding. I'm almost positive he does because I purchased the third issue and there's no way I would have kept reading this series if my president The Sky Pirate was beaten and tossed in jail. Even as a randy twenty-one year old spending nearly every night of the week pretending I was a grey elf named Paladine Greystoke, I was completely sympathetic to the underdogs of our fucked up capitalist society. Sky Pirate plans on stealing as much money from The Merry Men (what the asshole Boomers called themselves because they're so unimaginative they had to steal Kesey's groups' name) as he can. But to do so, he needs to use his hypersonic weapons. Black Condor's new senses are so powerful that every time Sky Pirate uses one of his gadgets, Black Condor is overwhelmed by pain. That must be why he needs to beat the shit out of Sky Pirate. It's less about justice and more about getting him to shut the fuck up. I get it! I once had a neighbor who hung up industrial sized wind chimes outside my bedroom window. And every time I snuck over to take them down, the assholes would just put them back up. They're lucky I didn't go Black Condor all over their asses and swoop in with a flurry of uppercuts! Instead I just cut out off the clapper and made the chimes impotent. Black Condor shows up and asks Sky Pirate what he's doing. Sky Pirate is all, "Fuck you. I don't have to answer to you, you nipple exposing weirdo!" And then he flies off. But Black Condor won't let it drop, albeit reluctantly! He flies after him because he's a nosy jerk. Can't he just let it drop? The noise only happened the one time. I get how terrible noises can be; I'm pretty sensitive to a lot of sounds myself (fuck every guy with an acoustic guitar, by the way). But maybe wait to see if it happens again before really confronting this guy. Also, I'm sure he has a reason for blowing a hole in a building! He told Black Condor it was personal business and it's not like Black Condor has been deputized by anybody except maybe Park Ranger Ned. I'm totally on Sky Pirate's side right now! Judging by the cover of Issue #3, Sky Pirate is going to blast Black Condor with more hypersonics and Black Condor is going to plunge into the river in a scary cliffhanger where the reader thinks Black Condor may have drowned.

Okay, I'm torn. I like Sky Pirates revenge on capitalistic Boomer shitheads. But I also empathize with Black Conder's sensitivity to noise!

Since this issue is definitely going to end how I predicted since, as I said, I'm looking at the cover of Issue #3 right now where Black Condor is emerging from the river, I bet Issue #3 sees Sky Pirate and Black Condor quickly finding common ground and working together to defeat the Merry Men. Also, I hope Sky Pirate becomes an occasional Black Condor teammate. Maybe he'll take up residence with Ned and Eileen in the Pine Barrens! And then the issue ends with Black Condor plummeting into the river. But it also ends with possibly my favorite "Next Issue Blurb" of all time!

No wonder I bought issue #3! I had to see if the sun imploded! Spoiler alert: it didn't.

Black Condor #2 Rating: A-! Holy shit! A comic book with a better than average passing grade! I must really be feeling charitable seeing as how it's my 48th birthday. Yes, that's right, assholes. I'm fucking old! But I'm still cool, right? And totally sexually active, like a mythic beast! Oh, before I go, here's the back cover because, yeesh. Put on some make-up, dudes.

I loved my Grandmother with all my heart. She was possibly the most perfect human being to ever walk this planet. She was Catholic but I'm fairly certain she practiced birth control based on the differences in age of her two (only two!) children. Her wedding picture was of her in a beautiful non-wedding dress and my grandfather in a suit standing on some spiral steps at the courthouse (not a church! She also had a church wedding photograph but mostly due to the pressure of social politics and religion (I like to believe, anyway!)). She distanced herself from the Catholic church because of the way church members treated and talked terribly about Jewish people. She was the greatest. But the only time she ever disappointed me was when Gene Simmons was on Donahue and she said, "My, that's a handsome man!"

[twilight-deviant]

Garcy prompt please. Number 16 from the list “I did a pregnancy test.”

AO3 Link

Listen, I was doing this prompt whether someone requested it or not, so thank you. Bless you.

Apologies for the blatant dialogue rip in the beginning. Not usually my style, but I needed to set the scene.

“I’m not here to fight,” Lucy declared. “I want to help you.”

“Drop it, Flynn,” Wyatt demanded.

“I’m gonna blow this place up with all of us in it, and it’ll be worth it,” Flynn threatened, and despite holding every power in the room, he presented as nothing but a cornered, frightened animal.

“Stop, stop,” Lucy exclaimed. “Both of you just stop it.” Flynn and Wyatt were stayed from violence so long as she stood between them. That was not good enough. A stalemate was not good enough. Lucy looked at Flynn with every pity and mercy she held for the man. “I know that you’re not a bad man.” She had seen his other side too often to believe that anymore. “I know that you’re hurting.” She wanted to help heal him. “I know you don’t want to kill a room full of people upstairs.”

“I don’t want to kill them,” he stressed. His eyes were wet and glistening with hesitation and guilt. “I have to kill them… to put my wife and child back on this earth.” He was a good man, husband, father.

With all the pain of torture, Lucy said, “It won’t work.”

“You don’t know that,” Flynn pitifully opposed, “and both of you would do the same!”

He was right. He was. To save those she cared about, Lucy would defy fate. She would fight. She would beg and plead. She would protect and preserve what mattered, paying whatever was the cost.

“I’m pregnant!” Lucy closed her eyes as dread consumed her, surrounded her like stepping out into icy air. “I’m pregnant,” she said again in a quieter voice. It was a harder thing to repeat. The first was an outburst, but repetition was confirmation. It let confused ears and minds know they heard correct. Slowly, Lucy peeked open her eyes. Flynn was looking at her with an open-mouthed shock he could not care enough to hide. “I’m pregnant,” Lucy uttered one more time, “and- and- and… it’s yours… Flynn. You’re the… It’s yours.”

The room went absolutely silent. The loudest sound in the world was the very distant clatter of shoes upon hardwood: the Rittenhouse meeting above them.

“You slept with Flynn?”

In her haste and desperation to speak, Lucy forgot Wyatt was behind her. “I…”

“It was consensual!” Flynn defended, hastily asserting information which had not been questioned. It was consensual. It was angry, and silent, and swiftly forgotten, but it was consensual. “But that doesn’t mean—”

“I took a pregnancy test,” Lucy interrupted. Her monthly cycle was regular, like clockwork, and any disruption of that was suspicious. “I took—” she laughed and it sounded as desperate and hopeless as she felt— “three of them.”

“When?” Wyatt demanded.

“Last week,” she said.

“No,” he growled, “when the hell did you sleep with… Flynn?” It was difficult for him to say the name. It was difficult for Lucy to confirm the date, to let Wyatt know exactly when it happened.

“1893,” Flynn answered in her stead, “Chicago.” It occurred during the brief few days when he kidnapped her, and upon his character that cast disgusting suspicion. He told the truth, however, which Lucy would confirm if asked. It was a consensual mess which quickly got out of hand. “But she’s lying,” Flynn hissed. He did not appreciate her tactic. It was abhorrent and manipulative.

Lucy laughed again. It lacked humor and accentuated hysteria. “We didn’t exactly have…” She excluded every word she did not want to say aloud. “Not in 1893.” She took countermeasures upon returning to the present, but those were not always a guarantee.

“No,” Flynn objected, refusing to believe her ploy. His hand clenched around the detonator. “You would have told me. Today… you would have told me, this morning.”

“I was… never… going to tell you,” Lucy shamefully confessed. She could not look him in the eye, though the intentions of her secrecy were never cruel. At the time, she considered them a kindness. “You said,” she reminded, “you said that you couldn’t be a father again. I wasn’t going to make you, Flynn. But if you do this, if you kill us now, I’ll never…” She would never be a mother. “It’s not perfect,” she acknowledged. “It’s not how I imagined it.” When Lucy placed motherhood within her eventual future, she always made vague plans around what it looked like. “But maybe we can make it be whatever we want. Maybe we can make it work.” Her eyes were blurry with wet tears that did not fall. “But if you push that button, we’ll- we’ll never know, okay? We’ll never know. Is that worth it?”

“Lucy, leave,” Wyatt commanded. Despite his feelings about it, he believed her claim of pregnancy. “Get out of here while you can.” He looked past her and to Flynn. “You let her go, you son of a bitch. You let her walk out.”

Flynn nodded his head and it was shaky, erratic. “Go,” he permitted. “Leave.” On the chance she was telling the truth, he would not kill her. He did not want to kill her. “Please leave.”

“No,” Lucy said, defying them both, refusing their self-destructive chivalry. She would not leave them to die. “You’ll have to kill me, too.” Flynn was not bluffing. He would blow his planted explosives, with or without her presence. Lucy hoped she could convince him against it.

“Take her,” Flynn ordered Wyatt, or perhaps he was asking, imploring. “Drag her if you have to.”

Wyatt was conflicted. If they left, Flynn completed his plan. “I can’t let you kill those people.”

“Flynn.” Lucy took a small step forward, and Flynn shifted the aim of his gun from Wyatt to her. He would not shoot. They all three knew that. But Lucy did not continue advancing and making him feel threatened. “We are all so caught up in our grief, in our past, in our pain, and we can’t let go.” She was right, and it pained them both for her to say it. “So we just continue to hurt more people.”

Flynn’s eyes were glossy with the low basement light. His lips twitched in a miserable pout. “I prayed to God,” he justified, “for answers.” His breath was stilted. His expression was desperate. “And He led me here, to this.”

Lucy took another step towards him. “What if He led you to me?” Flynn wanted to believe that. He wanted to believe her— about everything. He wanted to believe that it all happened for a reason, maybe even the newest reason she gave: a child. What if everything— every pain— was necessary to lead them there? “I know a way that we can really take out Rittenhouse,” she swore. Lucy came closer still. She was almost upon him. Flynn allowed her all but those last few feet of space. “We have to stop trying to fix the past,” she told him. “It’s time to move on, move forward. We have to focus on the future.” Their consideration could no longer remain trapped in the past. It could not even tarry in the present. That was merely the time in which they needed to work, to ensure a future. “I need you to hear me out,” she asked. “I know what to do now. Please, before it’s too late.” Flynn was on the cusp of falling to her persuasion— about all of it. “The journal,” Lucy said, referencing his most prized possession, “didn’t it say that I was going to help you one day? Well, maybe today is that day.”

Flynn sniffed. His eyes lowered to the floor. His gun wavered. “It never said anything about…”

“It never said anything about a lot of things,” Lucy reasoned, speaking with so much confidence on an assumption. She had no idea what the journal said, but she knew a pregnancy between them was not one of its topics. “We made it all up before,” she said with a desperate chuckle, a pleading smile. “Let’s do it again… together.” She took another step. “Flynn?”

He looked past her and at Wyatt, needing a guarantee of his safety. Lucy urged Wyatt to trust her and lower his gun. He did. Reluctantly, he did. She asked so much of them both, but it was not betrayed. Flynn holstered his weapon. He put away the detonator.

“Help me…” He cleared his throat. “Help me disarm all of this?” Lucy moved towards one of the bombs and Flynn stopped her. “Not you,” he snapped. “These explosives can still be delicate. Wait outside.”

“No,” Lucy refused. She wanted to believe Flynn, but until the bombs were rendered inert and they were all three out of the house, she could not dismiss the possibility of an explosion. She gave him incentive to do the job right. “We leave together.” There was no arguing with her.

“Have it your way,” Flynn relented.

He let Lucy stay, but she was not allowed to help. That was an agreeable compromise because she did not know how to disarm a bomb anyway. She watched Wyatt and Flynn take them all down and pack them away in his duffel. They left.

Ethan was waiting at the car. There was another man who trusted her, a man whom she would make a great-grandfather. It was a surreal concept.

The car ride was gravely silent. Wyatt sat stoically in the driver’s seat beside Lucy. He was fuming to himself but prioritized everything else above how he felt. They would have a long discussion later in private. Flynn sat behind Wyatt, as far away from Lucy as the small cabin space would grant him. No one spoke unless it was absolutely necessary. They certainly did not discuss the implications of Lucy’s confessed secret. It was a long drive.

When they made it to the warehouse and the Lifeboat, Wyatt did not want to leave Lucy with Flynn, but he did. There was no other choice. And perhaps he trusted Flynn would not harm her— could not harm her. Lucy did not worry. She trusted Flynn, who trusted her, believed her.

He was so delicate with Lucy as they made their way home. He was afraid to touch her and moved away if they came close. Flynn had become a creature of destruction and feared what horrors he could inflict, be they intentional or not.

He gave her physical space, but his eyes were on her constantly when he thought she was not looking. Lucy gazed out the car’s window and saw Flynn in its reflection, watching her when he should have been looking at the road. After a few moments, Lucy turned her head forward, and there was no trace that he ever paid her attention. It was another silent car ride. Flynn was almost shy about the situation, and he did not so much as mention her condition until they were leaving the past.

“Are you sure it’s all right?” He looked at the Mothership and back to Lucy. “Traveling while you’re…” He was so nervous over the whole thing that he could not speak it out loud, lest something go wrong simply from addressing it.

Lucy had already done her worrying over that possibility. Even if time travel were ill-advised, “I’ve already, ya know, jumped… a couple of times, so…” Since they slept together, Lucy had traveled in a time machine exactly ten times. She had wanted to abstain from any further trips after she found out about her pregnancy, but with the very next call, Rittenhouse deigned to kill Flynn’s mother and erase him from history. Lucy could not let that happen. She had to go. She had to help Rufus stop Flynn’s assassin. And after that, “If it… If it did something,” she murmured, “it’s already done. So what’s one more trip? Because I am not staying in 1954.” Lucy made herself laugh.

Flynn shuffled on his feet and stared at the ground in shame. He burned five seconds of indecision before stepping forward. He hugged her, held her. Lucy’s arms were flat against her sides as his hand moved like a comforting, blanketing weight against her back. He cradled her head. “It will all be over soon.” What should have been reassuring became ominous when Flynn said it. Lucy chose to hear only the consoling intent.

He helped her into the Mothership.

When they returned to the present, Flynn did not want to let her go, though he knew it was necessary. He did not stop her. He did not even voice his concern over losing everything, again, once it left him. The emotion of concern though, it quivered in him, barely perceivable.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he instructed. Flynn was so accustomed to keeping his secrets close. He trusted no one— no one except her. “They won’t forgive it.” He was right, of course. In a world Lucy wished were cast in shades of gray, her actions with Flynn would be only black. “And maybe, uh, stifle Wyatt,” he suggested.

There was a slight chance that, by virtue of friendship, Wyatt already told Rufus, but Lucy knew it would go no further. “He won’t tell,” she knew. Wyatt was irritated with Lucy and what she did but not to such an extreme. They had all made mistakes. The only difference was Lucy had trouble deciding whether or not to label hers thus. Before yesterday, it undoubtedly was, but now, seeing Flynn handle the news, Lucy somehow felt better about everything. She felt more calm and confident. She was terrified, and that might never go away; however, she no longer felt so alone.

“You should go,” Flynn said.

“I should,” Lucy agreed. Neither of them really wanted her to leave. They had so much to discuss, and if she stayed, one of them might actually find the courage to say it. However, there was terrible danger at hand, and Lucy could not combat it by remaining there with Flynn. That did not mean she left with all necessary haste.

For the past week, it had become Lucy’s unintentional compulsion to rest her hand on her stomach when standing around. She could not take her mind off what was inside, and thought manifested itself through physical actions. It was a tell to her condition, but she never claimed to be a difficult person to read.

Flynn watched her hand. He was envious of its position. His own came forward and hovered a few inches from him like a question. Lucy was on the cusp of giving Flynn permission, but his hand dropped back down against his side and he turned away.

“Keep me updated,” he said.

-

Lucy waited for Flynn. She felt nervous despite knowing he would show. He had to show. She had the information he needed. Lucy closed her hand around the flash drive in her pocket.

“You’re alone?” called that deep, familiar voice, taking her by surprise.

Lucy turned around. Flynn was nicely dressed in a suit with a long jacket. There was no reason to be so formal, but he looked handsome. Lucy could hardly critique his choices. After all, she did not show up in jeans and a t-shirt.

“I said I would be.”

It was decided during an awkward phone call in which they set up a time and location to meet and said nothing else outside of Flynn’s demand for a clandestine encounter. When the important matters were settled, the line went silent. They each waited for the other to say something. They did not. They were not brave enough. After a minute, Flynn hung up.

“Do you have it?” Again, they put business first. Business was easy to discuss. That conversation was almost scripted with its simplicity.

Lucy gave Flynn the memory stick with a promise that his family’s murderers were on it. She told him it would be over, just as he did for her in 1954. They were almost done. After his last mission was finished, Flynn said he never wanted to see the Mothership again. That was good. They were putting the past behind them, where it belonged.

“I, uh…” Flynn stared at the ground. “I thought about you all day yesterday.” He looked up and quickly attempted to correct himself. “Well, I thought about…”

“I know what you mean,” Lucy said. There were many implications that came with the news. She had a great deal of her own to consider before telling Flynn. Letting him know opened a new can of worms. “It’s a lot,” she said. “It’s a lot on top of a lot… on top of a lot.” She could go on forever, thinking of and including further complications in their lives. “Everything has been… so hectic, all of this, all we’ve had to do.” She sighed. “God, I haven’t even told my mom yet.” It was near the top of a to-do list which constantly had other priorities push it down. “I have to find a doctor— I think. I have to…” She trailed off and hid her face behind her hands. It was overwhelming. “I have no idea what I’m doing.” Lucy dropped her hands back down with a self-pitying exhale.

Flynn came closer— no significant measure of distance, just enough to suggest support. “I know what you’re doing,” he said. He had been at this stage before in his life, terrified and unprepared. Now, he knew what to do. He knew everything: pregnancy and birth, babies and children. “I know…” He could not look her in the eye. “I know you won’t—”

“It’s your choice, Flynn,” Lucy interrupted, knowing what he was going to say. “Be a father, don’t be a father, it… it’s always been your choice.” His eyes flickered to her and swiftly dropped again. “You decide.” Flynn wanted to be a father. He did. He simply did not think he was entitled to the chance anymore. His reluctance was assuring. Lucy felt no fear from him. “I know you won’t… You won’t hurt… us.” She was not used to being anything more than a single count, not yet. “I know that. You are not a bad man.” She would say it until he believed her.

Flynn wanted to argue because that was their relationship. When he believed one thing and she believed another, they debated the matter into the ground. He said nothing now. Perhaps he wanted her to be right this time. If Flynn won, he was victor of nothing but the argument. Lucy’s side held far sweeter promises.

“I’ll… let you think about it,” Lucy said, relieving Flynn of the idea that he had to make the decision right then.

“Thank you, Lucy.” The sincerity in those few short words was heartbreaking. Flynn genuinely believed Lucy was showing him a kindness he did not deserve.

Gently, Lucy reached forward and held his hand. It was a simple gesture but meant so much in the ways of support and understanding. “Take your time.” To him, it was a difficult choice to make, and she pitied his uncertainty. He viewed one side as reckless selfishness and the other as a necessary sacrifice for the happiness of all except himself.

Flynn watched their joined hands and Lucy saw his gaze wander forward. He would not ask. He was scared to ask. Lucy was not familiar with seeing Flynn afraid, and he was afraid of her, which was laughable.

Lucy let go of his hand. “Go ahead,” she encouraged. She knew he wanted it.

Flynn hesitated but took a step forward, a substantial one that brought him in close. The tips of their shoes nearly touched. His large figure eclipsed her from snooping passersby. Flynn’s hand came at Lucy so slowly, so tenderly. His fingertips touched her abdomen. They spread out and laid down until his palm pressed up against her. He exhaled with something like relief. He did not move.

Lucy watched his face instead of his hand. His concentration was intense. “Not that there’s, um, anything… to feel,” she added. “It’s only been… seven weeks.”

Flynn withdrew his hand, mindful of their public setting. “But there is something, yes?”

She was almost offended, thinking he continued to scrutinize her claim, but no. Flynn was, dare she consider it, excited— in his own reserved way. He tried to keep any enthusiasm contained, but he could not avoid thinking about where they were and what it meant. Lucy smiled and nodded. “There’s something.”

The hand Flynn touched her with flexed at his side, as if tingling with an aftershock. Despite ending the gesture himself, he was not done. Lucy wanted to assure him there would be other chances. It was not their last meeting, not unless he wished it.

She had no idea where pregnancy left them in a romantic or intimate context— or even as friends. There was no obligation to continue what they started. There was no reason not to. As they each said, it would all be over soon. They could decide what they were, free from outside influence.

“You know,” Flynn remarked with a slight grin, “we weren’t exactly careless.”

They took decent cautions to prevent the inevitable, but, “Maybe… some things are meant to be.”

Flynn liked that answer. It was a different future than the one predicted in the journal, and perhaps the book’s existence changed their fate and gave them a new one. There were worse lives to live. Flynn looked at the memory stick in his hand. His fist closed around it. “Come with me.”

“Um, uh,” Lucy stammered, “what?”

“I’m changing the past,” Flynn reminded her. “When I get back here, there’s a chance you wouldn’t be…” His eyes fell but stopped before landing on the ground. That contemplative gaze hovered around her still flat stomach. “It’s your choice, Lucy.” Flynn left it in her hands.

Lucy thought about it. She had to think about it because Flynn was right. If she stayed in the present, he could erase her every memory of them together. He could erase their child. He left the decision up to her. Flynn gave her an out. He gave her the option to erase the situation they landed themselves in, to forgo being a parent, just as she allowed for him.

The decision only sounded difficult. Lucy knew her answer. “I’ll come with you,” she said. “We can save your family. We can save my sister. And then…” They would be done. They could rest. There would be no more past. There would be only the future.

Flynn let himself smile. Lucy knew that his feelings over being a father again were still wildly unsettled, but maybe he preferred deliberation over that reality being taken from him. “Get whatever clothes you’ll need for the trips,” he said. “Call me when you’re ready.”

“I will.” It felt like everything was happening so fast, but after the last few months of her life, Lucy was getting used to that. “Just… uh, give me a few hours?”

Flynn nodded. “Oh,” he realized, “I almost forgot.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out her journal. “This is for you. I won’t be needing it anymore.”

[squirenonny]

yes hello, I saw in your tags on a piece of Voltron fanart you reblogged it made you imagine a twewy AU for it, and consider this an ask to enable you to talk about it to your heart's content!

Ahhhhh! Thank you! Honestly, TWEWY crossovers are my favorite thing and I’d have written SO MANY TWEWY AUs over the years if (a) I knew more people who’d played TWEWY and (b) I didn’t already have a million fics on my plate. lol

Quick background on The World Ends with You for those who haven’t played it: (I mean, you should play it, but..) TWEWY focuses on the Reapers’ Game, which is more or less a competition for dead people to get a second chance at life. In order to play, you have to give up whatever’s most important to you as an entry fee, and you fight monsters called Noise using psychs (usually activated by pins; not everyone can use every pin). You compete in pairs, completing daily missions issued by the Game Master. A timer on your arm shows the time limit for the mission. If it hits zero before the mission is complete, everyone dies. (Only one team needs to complete the mission each day. Anyone still alive at that point advances to the next day.) If your partner is erased (dies), you have seven minutes to form a new pact, or you get erased, too. Survive seven days and you get to come back to life.

The Game takes place in the Underground (UG), which occupies the same space as the world of the living, the Realground (RG). Players in the UG can see the RG, but the UG is invisible to those in the RG. The Game is run by Reapers (who can freely cross between the UG and RG) and is created and defined by the Composer. It’s watched over by beings from the Higher Plane, called Angels.

[For anyone wondering, this was the fanart that inspired this whole thing.]

Also omg I’m so sorry this is 3500 words of crossover, I have no self control.

The AU:

The ranks of the Reapers and Angels are made up of Alteans and Galra (not strictly divided along species lines.) Alfor is the Composer in this specific game, Zarkon is the Conductor (second ranking Reaper, directly under the Composer, and a kind of liaison between the Composer and the rest of the Reapers. Runs the day-to-day business of the Game, while the Composer only intervenes in emergencies.) Sendak and Haggar are Game Masters. Coran fills the same role as Hanekoma (someone who helps the Players, but only indirectly. If you’ve played TWEWY, you’ll know what I’m getting at.)

Allura and the paladins are Players. [More below the cut]

Entry Fees (Have I mentioned that I love entry fees??)

Pidge’s entry fee is Matt. They died together, in a car crash, but Pidge is playing for both of them.

Shiro thinkshis entry fee is his memories, but that’s actually Keith’s fee; Shiro’s is his autonomy (Reapers can’t directly take control, but certain Noise can, the Composer (Alfor) and Conductor (Zarkon) can, and sometimes his partner has to)

Keith’sentry fee is Shiro’s memories of him.

Lance’s entry fee is his home – even though they’re playing the Game in his neighborhood, he’s barred from going to his house/street and can’t see/hear his family

Hunk’s entry fee is his safety – normally Noise will only attack Players without a partner (or if they’re directed to attack by a Reaper), but all Noise around Hung are aggro

Allura used to be a a Reaper, but she died in the RG and got stuck in the game. Her entry fee is her father. He doesn’t remember her and so can’t help her, and Zarkon even persuades him to turn against her

Psychs

Pidge initially uses a small subset of pins to turn tech into weapons (e.g. self-driving cars, vending machines that launch soda cans at the Noise, power cords strangling and electrocuting Noise). Eventually gets a hold of Noise pins (the kind Reapers use to summon Noise). Pidge can’t summon Noise, but can take control of Noise that already exist.

Shiro had a regular, unremarkable prosthetic arm when he was alive. His psych turns that prosthetic into a weapon (works basically like it does in the show)

Keith is a pin prodigy, like Neku in TWEWY, and can use basically any pin. Especially likes melee pins and fire pins, but rotates as the situation demands.

Lance can only use a few ranged pins and ice pins, but views Keith as his rival and wants to master all pins. Not exactly a pin prodigy, but more skilled than most Players.

Hunk specializes in Velocity Attack/Velocity Crash pins (pins activated by dashing into enemies to knock them down or to toss them in the air. Basically a body slam) [Side note: Hunk is really good at modifying food to give more bonuses]

Allura doesn’t actually use regular pins, though she pretends to. Because she used to be a Reaper, she can summon and control Noise with Noise pins

Partnerships

Pidge and Shiro (Pidge finds Shiro, recognizes him as one of Matt’s friends, figures he’ll help get Matt back, they form a pact, then Pidge realizes Shiro doesn’t remember anything from the last couple years)

Hunk and Lance (they knew each other before the Game, maybe even died together, so they latch onto each other as partners)

Keith and Allura (Allura chooses Keith more or less at random, because he’s the first Player she finds, and Keith reluctantly accepts. Both of them are keeping secrets–Allura that she was a Reaper, Keith that he’s always been able to see the UG (Keith doesn’t know this, but one of his parents was a Player when Keith was a baby, and Keith was their entry fee–which did weird things to baby Keith, like change his perception of the world.) Keith has actually seen Allura in action as a Reaper, so he doesn’t trust her at first, but eventually they come to rely on each other and metagame the shit out of everything.)

The Game (kind of spoilers for TWEWY? Not plot spoilers, exactly, but mechanics of the Reapers’ Game that the characters don’t know from the start)

((Okay, there’s one or two plot-related spoilers, but if you can pick them out of all the rest, then you’d probably have figured them out before the game told you, anyway.))

Week 1

Sendak is GM. Our six heroes are the only Players who survive to Day 7. (Which is,,, SUPER impressive for Lance and Hunk?? Given that they’re being constantly attacked at all times. It actually makes them some of the best fighters in the Game by the end of the week, not that anyone realizes that. It’s not like anyone’s going head to head.)

They’ve all run into each other a couple times (enough that Lance and Keith have struck up a rivalry) but no one trusts the others enough to actively work together. (Especially Keith and Allura, who know that there’s a limited number of people who can actually *win* the Game, even if multiple pairs survive.)

On Day 7, Hunk and Lance are the first pair to figure out the clue to Sendak’s whereabouts, but when they get there it’s a trap.

Lance is erased.

The others arrive right about then, and Allura tells Hunk he has seven minutes to live. Tells him to get to Coran, promising that he can help.

Hunk goes, and Coran introduces him to Shay.

Fun story: Shay and Rax were Players in a previous session. They won, but were denied the right to come back to life. Welllllll okay. The two of them beat the GM of their week and are the only Players to survive. Zarkon comes to them and says, oh, btw, no more than one Player per Game actually gets that second chance, sorry did he forget to mention that? Shay scored higher than Rax.

Rax is presented with three options: die, re-enter the game, or become a Reaper. Rax, angry, convinced Zarkon will just cheat him again, elects to become a Reaper. (At least that way he can still visit Shay in the RG.) He’s immediately promoted to Harrier Reper because Zarkon is a dick.

But, heh. Zarkon never *technically* said Shay won, just that she had the higher score. So she gets the same choice as Rax–except it’s not really a choice at all, is it? She wants to play again, but if she does, Rax will be required to try to erase her.

Shay becomes a Reaper, too (but Support, not Harrier). She regrets it almost immediately.

So when Lance dies and Hunk goes to Coran, and Coran takes Hunk to Shay, Shay agrees to re-enter the Game almost immediately, knowing there’s no way either of them will come out on top. They agree to choose to become Players again next week, and to go from there.

Meanwhile the others have defeated Sendak, and the Game ends. Zarkon comes to them to congratulate them and discuss the matter of rewards.

Keith is declared the winner for killing Sendak (he knows as well as anyone that’s a BS reason, but he doesn’t complain. He and Allura have a Plan.)

Allura is utterly unsurprised when Zarkon calls her an illegal entrant (Reapers don’t really die, so she should have simply ceased to exist, not been entered in the Game. Clearly Alfor was playing favorites, but when Zarkon gives Alfor the chance to intervene, he doesn’t, surprise surprise.) Zarkon, in his great mercy, proposes a compromise: Allura may rejoin the ranks of the Reapers, but she must forfeit her entry fee because she broke the rules.

Allura had always planned to rejoin the Reapers. It’s where she can do the most good. But this was a higher cost than she expected.

She agrees anyway, knowing it means she’s just lost her father in every way that matters. Forever.

Shiro, Pidge, Hunk, and Shay reenter the Game as Players for a second round. Their entry fees are returned, then the entry fees for week 2 are collected:

Pidge once again loses Matt. They had approximately thirty seconds of reunion before he disappeared again. Shiro’s fee (autonomy) also stays the same.

Hunk’s new fee is Lance. This surprises him–isn’t Lance dead? Zarkon just smiles. (It’s not comforting.)

Shay, who never gave up an entry fee for this week, is penalized: she doesn’t get to know what her entry fee for week 2 is.

Week 2

Haggar is GM.

Hunk partners with Shay, Pidge with Shiro. Since Keith won the last Game, Shiro has his memories back.

On Day 2, Haggar pretty much just throws the rules out the window. She takes control of Shiro and tries to make him kill Pidge. Pidge only survives because Hunk and Shay show up.

Shiro is completely MIA for the rest of the week, which means Pidge can’t fight Noise, which is… kind of a problem, considering Haggar is having the Reapers sic Noise on the Players at every turn. Pidge pretty much becomes the third Player on Hunk and Shay’s team. This is when Pidge figures out how to use Reaper pins (courtesy of Allura) to hack Noise, pretty much circumventing half the battles the three of them otherwise would have had to fight.

By Day 3, the Noise are attacking without provocation. Shay had thought her entry fee was Rax, but she saw him among the Reapers on Day 2, and he apologized, which means he still remembers her. Wonders now if her fee is safety, as Hunk’s was last week.

(Meanwhile in the background this whole week, Allura and Keith are devoting every moment of every day to searching for Alfor. As the Composer, he’s the only one who can overrule Zarkon’s decisions.)

Hunk, Shay, and Pidge make it to Day 7, and get their mission: Erase the Game Master. An address is given, which is weird, because usually it’s harder than that.

They find Haggar there with Shiro. Pidge hacks Noise to keep Shiro busy while they fight Haggar. She has a lot of fun with the fight, expecting to beat them easily. She’s surprised when they win, but dies laughing.

Their timers don’t disappear.

That means they haven’t completed the mission.

(Keith and Allura finally manage to break their way into the Composer’s hideout on Day 7, only to find Alfor missing. Coran has only just learned of this, and fills them in on what he knows–which is not nearly enough as far as Alfor is concerned, but points to a very big problem for the Players in this Game. Allura stays to look for clues to her father’s whereabouts with Coran, while Keith goes to the others. Before he goes, Coran gives him two special pins–pins that can be used by anyone, even the living. Keith asks where he got them, but Coran says there’s no time to explain.)

Keith arrives just after the Players defeat Haggar and tells them what Coran just told him:

Haggar abdicated her role as GM for the week.

Shiro is the Game Master now. His run at the Game was ruled a loss, so he forfeited his autonomy, and Zarkon took control. The reason the Noise kept attacking is because Pidge doesn’t have a partner. Hasn’t had a partner since Day 2.

The mission is to erase Shiro. To kill Shiro. If they don’t, Pidge, Hunk, and Shay lose. They die, which means Lance’s and Matt’s lives are forfeit, too, along with whatever Shay sacrificed.

No one moves.

Shiro is a friend. They can’t kill him.

Keith tells them it’s just numbers. One life against five. (No one’s fooled. They know Shiro was Keith’s original entry fee.)

Keith tells them Shiro wouldn’t want them to die for him.

They still can’t kill him.

Pidge says if Keith’s so damn sure of himself, why doesn’t he kill Shiro? Furious, Keith reminds Pidge that this is a mission. It only counts if one of the Players completes it.

So Keith uses the pins Coran gave him. With one, he takes control of Hunk and Shay and uses them to erase Shiro, which (understandably) makes everyone hate Keith.

Before they can do anything about it, though, the Game ends and Zarkon summons the three surviving Players for the final tally.

This time it’s Hunk who wins–but he doesn’t get to return to life. Turns out that was Shay’s entry fee–the possibility of a second shot at life. This week was essentially pointless, except to entertain Zarkon.

Rax was right, Shay says. The Game is rigged. There’s no way to win, not really.

Zarkon just shrugs and returns their entry fees. Matt reappears, and Pidge stands between him and Zarkon, as if that will stop Matt from being taken as Pidge’s entry fee for a third time. Hunk gets… a pin. A Noise pin, but not one any of them recognize.

“You said my entry fee was Lance!”

Zarkon smiles. “That is Lance.”

Before they can demand more of an explanation, before they can demand a third shot at the Game (because at this point it’s a matter of principle), before Zarkon can claim their new entry fees

the world goes dark.

They all wake up, alone, in the middle of a sea of Noise.

Week 3 (The Final Week)

At this point, all semblance of order is thrown completely by the wayside. There is no Game Master. There are no missions. If there were entry fees, no one can figure out what they were.

Hunk forms a pact with Shay.

Pidge forms a pact with Matt.

They’re not even playing to win at this point, they just want to destroy the whole freaking Game.

They run into Allura, Coran, and Keith on Day 2. Pidge has explained to Matt what happened–how Keith used Hunk and Shay to kill Shiro. So all four of them immediately attack Keith.

They’re stopped by a Noise unlike any they’ve seen before: a lion all in black except for the brilliant purple of its right foreleg. It doesn’t hurt any of them, but it refuses to let them get close to Keith.

It’s Matt, ironically, who figures it out first.

“Shiro?”

The Noise stares him straight in the eye and nods.

There’s a lot of confusion at that, but eventually Coran explains. The seven minute period after one partner is erased is as much a time limit for the victim as for their partner. For seven minutes after erasure, the soul is still near enough to the UG that it can be bound to a Noise pin, which is what Keith did after making Hunk and Shay erase Shiro. It fulfilled the terms of the mission without actually permanently killing Shiro.

It’s also what happened to Lance–though it would seem Zarkon is the one who bound Lance’s soul, probably because he knows Coran well enough to have expected some kind of trick that would let Hunk survive the week. Zarkon figured it would be good to have leverage.

Allura asks to see the Lance pin and summons his Noise. It’s a blue lion cub, half the size of Shiro’s Noise, and immediately jumps into Hunk’s arms to nuzzle his face.

Now that no one is trying to kill anyone else, and everyone knows that no one is 100% dead just yet, they get down to business:

How to fix everything Zarkon’s screwed up about the Game. Allura assures them all that this isn’t how her father intended the Game to go, but Zarkon has manipulated him to the point that Zarkon basically has free reign.

The only answer is to find Alfor and convince him that he needs to step in. If they can do that, he can basically snap his fingers and fix everything, up to and including bringing everyone back to life–Lance and Shiro included.

But Zarkon, it turns out, is also searching for Alfor, fully intent on killing him to take his place as Composer. Then he really would be in control of everything, and. Well, suffice it to say the last two weeks will look like a nice tropical vacation compared to what comes after.

The final week only actually lasts about three days before the Players (and their allies) find Alfor.

Zarkon has been watching them, and shows up about five seconds after they do, a literal army of Reapers behind him.

There’s a big melee, everyone fighting. Zarkon disappears into the chaos, but so do Allura and Coran.

Coran isn’t technically supposed to interfere in the Game directly. (But then, he’s not even sure this counts as a Game anymore, and Zarkon is so grossly out of line that Coran doesn’t care either way.) He distracts Zarkon long enough for Allura to go to her father.

But of course Alfor doesn’t know Allura, and Zarkon is, as far as Alfor knows, his only friend and ally. Alfor won’t listen to Allura, and Coran can’t hold Zarkon off forever.

Allura knows there’s only one option.

She kills her father, and so takes his place as Composer.

One week later, she comes to see her friends in the RG. She set everything right, of course. Shiro and Lance regained their human forms. All the Players returned to their ordinary lives in the RG, all entry fees returned to them. The Reapers who had been Players themselves were given the same option, though many of them declined. Too much time had passed, and they’d built a life for themselves as Reapers, coexisting in both realms at once. Rax takes Allura up on her offer, though, and Shay introduces him to her new friends.

Coran later asks Allura whether she regrets what she did.

“It had to be done,” she says.

“That wasn’t my question.”

Allura laughs. “The Reapers’ Game is all about sacrifice. Every Player must give up that which they hold most dear, and they forfeit it if they lose. In a way, I suppose, my father is still my entry fee. Maybe when someone else takes my place as Composer, if I have played well enough, I will see him again.”