#instead of watching them descent into agony and madness

[abyssalbathwater]

I think the scene where everyone is dunking on Solas for not being able to magically cure the most vicious and fatal disease ever to exist in Thedas and choosing to give his companion a dignified and merciful death is especially distasteful if you have Harding there, considering there is in fact an ending in DAI where she *checks notes* mercy kills Cullen instead of letting him go on rotting away in agony as he’s consumed by the final stages of his Lyrium addiction. Just something I think about from time to time.

[mitsuki91]

Characters analysis about Coriolanus Snow and Lucy Gray Baird.

(This is copy-pasted from a chat so forgive me if it's kind of messy).

Premise: Lucy is well aware of where the weapons are and makes Coryo find them on purpose.

Analysis: In my opinion Lucy recognises that Coryo still wears a mask in front of the world. She frames it immediately because she, in her own way, does too. She loves him, because she has seriously fallen in love with him (trauma bonding lol), but she also knows deep down that Coryo will always want to go back to the capital and make a political career, because it's the only way he can feel in control (and in a way she even understands this). She is worried that he will force her to follow him and put her in a cage and she is torn anyway because she loves him and would like to be with him but does not want to become a canary in a gilded cage... So she is slowly trying to make him understand that there is an alternative, that Capitol City and politics are not everything, that there is a life beyond power and beyond hunger. Only it all comes crashing down in 0.2 seconds. Coryo shoots the mayor's daughter and Lucy thus has 1) confirmation that Coryo would do anything for her anyway 2) sees how his paranoia starts, especially when Sejanus is hanged. She knows, because she knows him, that he sold him out to try to save his own skin. But she also knows that he is terrified and see himself already dead. She would like to reassure him and tell him about the weapons etc. but she knows that it is only prolonging the agony, because if Coryo could feel 'free' and return to the capital he would, and she is not up for it. So she finds a way to make him find the weapons - she first has confirmation that, even at the moment when Coryo loses everything, he still chooses her, because he loves her - and she watches him to see what he intends to do, but as she suspects he is not yet ready. She sees, in his eyes, that for him that discovery means 'freedom', a freedom greater than the truly free life he could have had with her. So she decides to take the first step and stop him from really choosing.... Because Coryo might choose her in that moment, but in one, two, five years etc. it would blow up in her face (between recriminations and various things because, basically, they want two different things out of life). Their love is not enough, Lucy knows that. So she does not give him the power to torture himself into a slow descent and chooses for him, leaving him. And he goes mad because he loses control, possession, over what he considered to be his by right because of the love he feels (his view of love and life: he sees possession as the highest form of love, because he grew up in a world where he had nothing and now only values the things he possesses).

Basically Lucy Gray values her freedom above love and Coryo values power/wealth/control above love.

Love exists between them, it is true.... But they have two different visions of life.

They have both betrayed each other in the worst way for each other.

Trust and loyalty.

But it wasn't a selfish spite, at least not on Lucy Gray's part.

He was still in full paranoia about the trust issue so he wasn't clear-headed, but she wasn't loyal thinking she was doing him a favour in the end by leaving him 'free'.

In the end, they 'gave' each other the most important thing they consider to themself: Coryo was giving her himself - "I am yours, Lucy, and I will follow you to the ends of the word" - i.e. possession. She gave him freedom instead.

[rakimaiirisa]

I'm nervous sharing this but this was the idea I had for the prologue to Arisa's story. Please bare with me as I am not very good but I am determined to improve. It's a very rough draft but I liked where it was going.

Awakening

In the distance, through the swirling fog, the beast approached. Arisa could hear the creaking of its wings as it came closer and closer.  Looking around, she could see no chance of escape, no place to hide, only this damnable fog that was everywhere. Before long the beast was before her and she drew in a shaky breath, taking in the sight. Sapphire scales glittered in the faint light and golden eyes glared down at her as it held itself steady before her.

She hesitated then drew in a shaky breath. While she was in awe of the beast, she held no fear. Instead there was sense of familiarity in those retilitan eyes.

"I know you.." she said softly and at her words, it gave a fearsome snarl, fangs gleaming dully in in the indiscernible light.

Then abruptly, the beast landed,crashing down, staggering her in the aftershock. Its huge head snaked down to her level and she could see her reflection in its eyes. She raised a trembling hand, intent on touching it, to feel its realness. It snarled again and she paid it no heed. As she touched its muzzle she gasped, struggling to stem the overflow of memories that filled her. Joy.. boundless joy as she remembered flying , wings spread wide riding the currents of the wind , soaring among the clouds and roaring her defiant challenge to the sky.

More memories  pushed through, and the ritualistic chants of men sounded clear. In her minds eye, she watched the figure of a bound figure of a woman on an alter struggle, hopeless tears streaming down her face as she watched her fate descend on her with a slavering maw. She tried to turn away, close her eyes to the gruesome scene but how could she? She was the beast. Another cane through, and a dark haired nord in gleaming armor strode towards her, drawing his great sword. As she hissed and met his challenge,he leapt forward, and slashed at her breast. With a roaring shout, she sent dragonsfire his way. Dodging her attack, he charged her again. This time, her bulk made her an easy target and she watched the descent of his blade as it made for her skull. The memories threatened to overwhelm Arisa even further and in agony, She broke away, collapsing to her feet. It watched her  impassively.

It took a moment for her to recover, and as she rose on shaking legs, she could see her reflection in it's cold reptilian eyes.

"Who are you?" She whispered. The beast cocked its head, and gave her an indescribable look. She repeated, no, shouted her question again.

"Who are you?! "

It regarded her in silence and she matched its grim gaze with own. Then it spoke, its deep rumbling voice speaking a language she had never heard.

"Mu kos gein, hi ahrk zu'u."

The words sound so familiar yet so strange. She felt as if she should know them. She shook her head, denying it. Denying that strage statement. No, this was madness.

The look it gave her was full of disdain. It repeated itself and she denied it again, this time more sure that her denial was the right answer. As she did, it snarled and its eyes narrowed in anger.

"Wah deny zu'u wah wah deny hi!" It hissed.

Without warning, the beast leapt into the air, the gust from its flapping wings causing her sway and struggle for balance. As it ascended, it made a sharp turn and headed towards her, roaring that strange assertion from earlier even as it sent down its deadly breath of fire. She stood and waited, lips twisted in a snarl. As the flames consumed her, she made her own defiant call, her rage issuing her challenge to it in its own tongue even as she burned.

"Zu'u am zu'u! zu'u deny hi sivaas!"

Darkness mercifully closed in and she was gone, the last sound a distant echoing roar from the beast.

[shreddedparchment]

Pseudo Princess Pt.15

Jealousy Incarnate

11/09/2019

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader          Word Count: 6,639

Warnings: language, angst, pining, fluff, jealousy, confused Peter Parker

A/N: Oh man, I’ve had a WEEK. My pain flared up out of nowhere and then I just couldn’t focus my brain. It was hell to get this chapter out, not because I didn’t want to but I just couldn’t. It rarely happens but I just couldn’t concentrate. Anyway, I hope you like this one. Things are...changing. Let me know what you think! As this story gets so many comments, I cannot reply to all of them but I DO read them all. I will try and respond to some of them. I love y’all so much. You mean the world to me. If you happen to reblog, thanks for helping me spread my work! xoxo

TAGS ARE CLOSED FOR THIS STORY!

You didn’t know you could be this angry. This hurt. This…jealous?

The festering boil that Maggie’s constant mention had brought, you thought, had been done away with.

True to his word, Steve did everything in his power to show you that it was you and only you.

As you’d begun your descent through the castle's pretty dark oak hallways, warm wooden walls lined with portraits and colorful tapestries, you’d almost made up your mind to pull him aside and just give in.

Love him as you were meant to. As you’ve been wanting to do.

You've been feeling less and less apprehensive with his Majesty and you’re just about ready to welcome him back into your bed.

Back into your life, properly. As your husband.

You still need to tell him about the baby too. Another month gone and you still haven’t told him, and your belly is just starting to swell.

You reach down and give it a quick caress over your dress, fingers tracing the delicate and ornate embroidery of the firm black bodice. The orange silk shirt underneath with it’s ruffled and off the shoulder neckline keep you cool in the last heatwave of autumn before true winter comes. Does it snow here? You aren’t sure.

The gray skirt is light weight, flowing around you like a gossamer cloud with only the faintest hints of black thunder within.

Around your neck you’re wearing your locket. Carefully you reach up to fix it as you head for the garden, where you know his Majesty will be.

He goes every day to walk the space, wondering if today will be the day you come down, or so he says.

You’ve tried to catch glimpse of him in the weeks past and you do see him wandering around in the afternoons.

Today you’re sure is the day to forgive him. Truly forgive him. For everything. Today, you and his Majesty can start all over again. Today is the day that your new life begins.

Turning into the garden, your feet stutter as you watch his Majesty walk towards the hedge and flower maze entrance, his wide shoulders relaxed. He has his hands held behind his back, but his face is happy, smiling, not a care in the world it seems.

Not even for you.

Despite his proclamations of coming down here to wait for you, there he goes, walking side by side with a blonde woman who stands taller and firmer than you will ever be. Her body even through the luxurious diamond blue gown she’s wearing is clearly fit and able.

You’re no slouch but her body is ridiculous. Carefully crafted protection. You shouldn’t compare. You shouldn’t do it, but your body is swelling. Your breasts are already growing larger. The fatty places, already soft and jiggly are thickening more.

She reaches out to grab his Majesty’s bicep and gives it a squeeze as she laughs, and he laughs with her.

He’s laughing with her!

You’re not expecting the tightness in your chest at the sight of him smiling and laughing with someone else. Not pulling away when she touches him the way he’d done so many times with you.

You can still remember trying to reach for his hand on your wedding day and he’d quickly pulled his hand out of reach.

You see red and huff. Fed up.

He turns to talk to her but then as you step back, your movement seems to catch his eye.

Quickly as you can, while his smiling eyes are taking a split second to recognize you, you turn and hurry back towards the castle, moving around the garden gate and out of sight, a flurry of voile skirt following in your wake.

You hear him before you see him, heart pounding with betrayal.

Suddenly he’s on you, his hand around your wrist as you turn to look at him, confusion and hurt in your eyes.

“Y/N…” He says in thick desperation that forms a lump in your throat. “You came.”

He smiles. And you hate him all over again.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Come with me.” Nat urges you, moving to pull you up from bed.

“Nat, I’m not even dressed yet.” You complain, moving towards the basin in the corner of your room where you’ve taken to running every morning. Sometimes after midday as well.

This baby is not making your pregnancy easy.

Nat sees where you’re headed and her excitement fades as her brow furrows instead.

“You okay?” She releases your hand and instead wraps an arm around your lower back.

“I’m fine.” You chuckle, pushing her arm away.

She and grandmother have been fussing over you since she arrived, watching your every move, every pain, every dizzy spell.

“Just a bit sick to my stomach. Nothing out of the ordinary.” You assure her and stop by your table instead to pick at your breakfast.

You stare at the jam in agony, wishing you could take a bite of the strawberry delicacy that his Majesty had sent up for you two mornings ago. It was better than the last and you wish you could eat it, but the baby does not like it and so, it sits there. Ignored.

You eat only a bit of bread. Then carefully raise the cup of wormwood and mint tea, suggested by grandmother for its calming properties.

Scrunching your nose, you sip it, and relish when your stomach settles a little. The taste is not exactly your favorite, but you’ll gladly sacrifice your taste buds to stop being sick every five minutes.

“Are you sure? I can fetch Grandmother.” Nat offers, adopting the name you’ve been calling the old woman since she arrived.

“I’m sure. I’ll feel better when I can eat. I’m hungry but at the same time, I cannot stand to look at food.” You sigh, missing your jams and jellies.

“Well, let’s get you dressed.” She hurries over to your wardrobe to look at your dresses and opts for something simple.

A white gown made of flowing light fabric. It kind of looks like cotton but not quite. It’s minimal compared to the other gowns you’ve worn around the castle. Just white. No design. Only a simple ruffle around the neck to accent your bust.

“Why?” You plead without whining.

“Because I have something to show you. Something that you must see. No exceptions. I also have something for you when we get down there.” She offers ominously.

“Down where?” You ask, moving to her as she throws your dress over the back of the opposite chair at your table then holds her hands out and waits for you to stand still to strip you.

“You’ll see.” She’s grinning like a cat, and you’re suddenly terrified.

It turns out to be the garden that Nat wants to take you to.

Fresh air is just what you need, and you find that your stomach settles completely once you’re out in the open space.

“This was a good idea.” You smile, feeling at ease and better than you’ve felt since you got back.

Of course, his Majesty is always on your mind. He’s the whole reason you’ve come back.

He’s the last piece of your puzzle. The reason you don’t sleep soundly.

And yet, he’s your husband. How can someone that’s already yours drive you this mad?

“I’m glad you think so.” Nat smiles beside you, her arm wrapped around yours as she leads you down the familiar path.

The gardens are alive with the end of the season. Dragonflies glisten with pearlescent wings, birds and bees fill the air, whizzing by in the comforting breeze. The sun pimples your skin as you soak it up and your hand subconsciously moves over your still normal tummy, excited to give your baby healthy sunshine.

The air is fragrant. The endless flowers, which you now notice have been left to grow wild, paint the garden in vibrant colors.

He listened. You can’t help but think. Because you’d told his Majesty that your only criticism with the beautiful space is that everything was too well kept. Too structured.

Now the gardens have begun to resemble the wildflowers you’d napped in on rolling green hills back in Malibia.

This garden…most of it anyway, makes you feel like you’re home.

You make to turn to the left, away from Margaret’s pavilion which his Majesty had banned you from using—the only spot in this lovely place that makes you feel like an intruder still…unwelcome—but Nat pulls you to a stop and turns towards the right.

“Let’s go this way. We never go this way.” She insists, forcing her manipulation to sound like genuine pleading. You can see right through her though.

“Because there isn’t anything over there, except a place that I’m not allowed to go.” You sigh and move once more towards the left, pulling your arm from Nat's when she doesn’t move.

You get three steps before there’s a deep sigh. “Wait!”

Stopping, you turn to look at the wily Goddess and she rolls her eyes, reaching into her dress pocket to pull out a thick piece of parchment.

“What’s that?” You wonder, suddenly nervous because you know very well what it is.

“I wanted to see your face when you see it, but I suppose I should just do it his way. Here.” She offers the parchment to you looking disappointed.

“His way?” You repeat, confuse and moving back towards her.

Taking the folded piece, you open it up and stare down at his Majesty's familiar hand.

My Darling,

He begins, and your heart beats crazy.

I understand why you cannot see me. Rather, why you won’t see me. I have done nothing but make you feel as if you do not belong here. Such is my crime.

You frown, hating the reminder.

I didn’t know what you would come to mean to me. How could I when you came out of nowhere and struck me down like a bolt of lightning? I want you to know that I wholeheartedly regret the things I said…and did. You didn’t deserve them. I was a fool. I wish I could take them back. All of them.

Especially our wedding night. My heart is raw knowing that I hurt you that way. I love you. I can’t believe I…

From this day forth, I will do everything in my power to make sure that you know just how much you mean to me.

You’re chewing your lip furiously, anxious and somehow grateful for the words he’s written but only time will tell how well he can keep that promise.

This is your home, sweetheart. You’re my one and only from now until our dying day. Forgive me for making you feel as if you had to compete with someone else.

The funny thing is, you can see the intent behind his words even though he only half means them.

You can tell that he means them in the sense that you are his future. He loves you as his current wife. The woman who will be the mother of his children though, he doesn’t know that yet.

In that sense, he means it, but he also meant every word about Margaret. He loved her to death and when she died, he fell apart. He ceased to function.

She had a part of him that you can never touch. Not in the same way and you feel slightly sad that he feels he must bury that down to make you happy.

He should make you happy just as you want to make him happy, but that doesn’t mean you like the way he’s going about it. You’d much rather he be open with you, no matter how painful hearing about Margaret might be.

Maybe so long as he doesn’t compare you, then you’ll be okay?

I hope this small gesture will prove to you that I mean what I say. I’ve instructed Nat to take you.

You’ve been walking down the pathway towards the opening with the pavilion and suddenly it springs out of the greenery.

You gasp, completely thrown by the fact that Margaret’s red daisies are gone and in their place are what must be hundreds and hundreds of pale pink and peach peonies.

They rustle in the breeze, wafting sweet fragrance towards you threatening to knock you off your feet with how much you want to swoon.

With shallow breath, a gasp of air you hadn’t realized you’d been depriving yourself of, you look back down at the letter.

For the one that I crushed. I am the biggest moron in the twelve Kingdoms.

I love you, Y/N. Believe me or not, it does not change the fact that it’s true. Never forget that I am waiting.

I will wait forever if I must, patiently. Longingly. Desperately waiting for you to love me and this time I will gladly let you.

Yours forever,

His Majesty King Steve G. Rogers

You don’t know what to do. You want to cry because you’re so happy, but you also want to laugh because this letter is everything you’ve wanted him to tell you. You’re angry because it isn’t in person, but you have only yourself to blame for that.

You begged him to stay away and you do still want him to keep his distance. But you wish you could look into his eyes and see if he means these things he’s writing.

“Y/N?” Nat checks, peeking around a small hedge. “You okay?”

You turn to her and nod, smiling lightly as tears glisten between your lashes but do not fall.

“I…Why couldn’t he be like this from the start?” You sigh, looking down at your letter and then looking up at the peonies standing in pleasing contrast against the dark stone of the little build.

Nat sighs. “I think he wanted to.”

You look at her, not believing her one bit. “But…”

“I think that’s exactly what made him mean. Steve has always been one for commitment. For duty and honor and marrying you was not exactly his choice. I’m not saying that he isn’t glad he did it, but the council pushed him to marry quickly. Before he was ready to let go of Maggie.

“I don’t think he was expecting to like you as much as he did. To love you. Truly love you and also still love her. They made promises to each other when they thought that they had forever and then forever was gone. But he still made those promises and ever a man of his word, he tried to keep himself from giving in to you.” Nat smiles at you, reaching over to rub your back.

“So, what you’re saying is that he was purposefully cruel because he was in love with me and didn’t want to be?” You repeat for her.

Nat’s smile turns apologetic and you sigh, shaking your head in disbelief.

“I don’t know if I can forgive him, Nat. I have had no experience in love. I was a virgin when we married. I…Thor was my first kiss. My first real one that wasn’t taken by force.” Some of the men of your village were disgusting and only a knife to the throat could deter them. “It should have been Steve. His hands should have been soft and gentle. Instead, he held me down and…”

“He knows that you need time.” Nat assures you. “But do you think you can forgive him eventually? Enough to be with him? To be his wife again?”

You lapse into silence, staring at the romantic gesture before you and notice inside the gazebo a small table has been set up with teas, biscuits, and jams.

Your heart swells, fluttering in your chest as you huff a small breath of delight.

Now that you’ve been outside for a while, you realize how hungry you are and your stomach growls loudly.

“Is he trying to overfeed me?” Your heart grows wary. “He doesn’t know, does he?”

You turn to Nat who shakes her head. “Of course not. No one but Grandmother and I know and we’re not telling anyone until you’re ready. But Y/N, you can’t keep this to yourself for long. The council will usurp Steve if he doesn’t produce an heir. You have just under five months left to announce your pregnancy and have a doctor examine you to ascertain the validity of your pregnancy.”

“I know.” You move towards the pavilion, taking in the tall steeple roof that you just now realize ends in a point made of glass. It gives view to the sky. “I just didn’t want him to love me for the baby.”

“He’s already in love with you.” Nat promises. “Baby or not. He wants you.”

“Will he be happy?” You wonder. “Truly happy? Will he regret that it isn’t with Maggie that he’s building a family? Will he love my baby as much as he would have loved hers?”

Your mouth runs on, asking the questions only your heart knows. Afraid of being second to a memory. Afraid to hear him say those words again, “Maggie wouldn’t-Maggie would-Maggie did-Maggie, Maggie, Maggie”.

“Y/N…” Nat begins.

“It’s stupid to be jealous of her. I know that.” You sit in the small padded seat and reach over to lather jam on a biscuit and take a nice big bite.

No nausea.

“When you’re ready, ask him. And I’m sure he will tell you exactly how he feels about you and your baby. His baby, Y/N.” She reminds you.

You nod. “Our baby.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s just a peek. That’s all Steve wants. Just a quick look.

He knows you came down here because Peter came to tell him.

Peter who has been moping around Steve instead of being with you and Nat as he usually is because you’ve instructed him to stay away too.

He’s right beside him now, walking silently the way the kid does.

His mouth is a different story.

“What did I do? Do you think I offended her Majesty in some way?” Peter asks, gesturing his chest over his pale green tunic. “I understand why she doesn’t want to speak with you or having you around. You were a huge ass to her. But me?”

Steve turns to glare at him, frowning as he turns back towards the smaller hidden pathway that leads to your pavilion.

“What? I didn’t do anything to make her angry.” Peter reiterates.

“No.” Steve sighs. “She might just need some space. Talk about women’s problems with Nat.”

Or tell her about things that you’d done with Thor that you didn’t want to say around Peter?

Even though Thor had assured him that he hadn’t lain with you, Steve wonders.

“You’re sure she never asked about him?” Steve questions your guard and Peter frowns at him this time.

“Why do you keep asking me?”

“I just want to be sure.” He explains. “They spent a lot of time together.”

“Your Majesty, Steve…if she wasn’t in love with you, she wouldn’t be pushing you away right now. She has to really care about you to be pissed enough to give you the cold shoulder. If she were talking to you like normal, then I think you’d have reason to worry.

“If she stops getting angry, then it means she doesn’t care.” Peter nods. “She never asked about Thor. Not to me.”

Steve stares at the kid—at twenty-two he’s not really a kid anymore but to Steve he’ll always be that massively strong little twerp that stole his shield—and realizes that he’s right.

You’re angry. Which means that you still care. Steve smiles and walks on, shifting into a semi-crouch as they get closer to a small opening in the hedge that is hidden behind a well-placed tree.

“Why are we here?” Peter asks, whispering because Steve’s crouching makes everything feel sneaky.

“I just want to see if she likes it.” Steve stops behind the tree, peeking out towards the pavilion.

All of Margaret’s red daisies are one, replaced by large, fragrant, and beautiful peonies in peach and pink shades.

His heart gives a small ache at the absence of the flower he’s associated with Maggie for almost twenty years, but then he sees you, sitting in the pavilion, smiling from ear to ear.

You’re a vision in white. No…more like a cream, with a pale green ribbon around your waist. The ruffles on your neckline accentuate your breasts and Steve’s heart gives a small ache. He wants to have you in his arms again.

Beneath him, beside him, inside you as one but properly this time. Showing you just how much he should have been worshipping your precious body from day one.

You laugh lightly, chuckling at something Nat has said then reach out to grab a biscuit and smear some jam on it.

You take a bite and the sticky pulp smears against your pretty lips.

Steve swallows hard, then his mouth falls open as he gapes at you while you lick your lips clean. Had your mouth always been so tempting?

He’d been fighting himself so hard that he had never given himself a chance to really look at you and appreciate the small details of your body. Now it’s all he sees. The way your hands elegantly curl around a tart. The gentle way you throw your head back and laugh as Nat serves your tea.

He grins when you slouch and then as if you’re remembering you shouldn’t be slouching, you suddenly sit up straight and he can see you chastising yourself silently for the slip.

He’d give anything to move to you and rub your back, assure you that you can slouch and lay back if you want to. Convention is only for when the public can see you. At least in these instances. Tiny things like this…you should be comfortable in your home.

Suddenly, he realizes that you are. Forgetting to sit up straight, laughing in the pavilion, surrounded by the flower and its fragrance that has permanently seeped into your skin and hair. You are completely at ease in this spot and he feels a pain in his gut that moves up along his ribs and into his chest carving out splinters because this should have always been yours.

He made you feel unwelcome…how can he ever make it up to you?

“Steve…?” Peter whispers, and Steve’s head inches to turn to him but when he doesn’t Steve takes the nod as assent to continue. “Do you really love her?”

For a moment, Steve can only stare at you and ask himself that same question. You lay your elbow on the back of the bench and lean your head into your hand as you take a bite once more, staring at Nat as she animatedly recounts some tale.

Your hair falls around your face, the small smile that stretches your lips is angelic. Perfection. Why did he have to wake up to your true charms so late? Why couldn’t he have given in sooner?

“I do.” He confesses.

“Because if you don’t—and you’re just using her so that you can get your heir and keep your crown-” Peter begins.

Steve rounds to look at him so quickly that Peter takes a step back, hands twitching at his side, ready to web his way out of the garden if Steve tries anything.

“There was only one time that I used her. One time. And it was to save Morgana from marrying me. I think I’ve loved Y/N from the moment I saw her standing in my throne room…in that blue dress…looking excited and terrified. And heartbroken when I told her that she could never make me happy.” Steve sighs. “Now she’s the only one who can.”

He looks at you but you’re rising, eyes brimming with recognition and excitement.

Although he can’t hear you, he sees you open your mouth in an exclamation of delight. Calling to someone out of sight.

You raise your skirts and hurry down the steps of the pavilion and hurry towards the hedge path.

Lumbering out of it comes Thor, blonde hair flowing behind him as he rushes to meet you.

The two of you collide and he can hear Thor’s laugh, booming around the space and filling it with his deep chortle. He can’t hear yours, but he can see it in your face as Thor lifts you and turns you around slowly.

Without hesitation, he leans in and kisses your lips. A quick peck that might be in friendship but the both of you shut your eyes and Steve must look away as his chest is cracked open. He wraps his hand around the backside of the tree he’s hiding behind, fingers crumbling away at the bark as he curls his hand around it in a fist.

He tears his eyes back up to the two of you, forcing himself to watch.

All that affection…over a month…

“What did I do?” Steve wonders, trying to see it all through new eyes how he pushed you and neglected you and refused to give you love.

Thor’s got his hands on either side of your waist and he’s looking down at you as if he’s examining your body and Steve hates him again. And himself. Mostly himself.

Thor steps aside and from the path comes a smaller body, thinner, long straight brown hair flying behind her as she races to embrace you.

Morgana.

Tony and Pepper follow a few steps behind but stand back to allow you and your sister to reunite.

“Steve?” Peter checks with worry in his voice. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Your Majesty?”

“No.” Steve admits. “I’m not. I have work to do.”

Without another word, Steve pushes past him and heads back up to the castle to finish what he’d started in his office.

If he’s going to win you back, he’s going to have to really try.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re at a loss for words, arms clinging to the teen girl because her own hug is so very tight.

With wide eyes you look up at Tony and Pepper who stand there smiling at you fondly.

You can’t say what you’d like because Thor is here so instead you carefully tuck Morgana’s brown hair behind her ear and coax her head up to look at you.

“Mara…” You coo, happy to meet your sister at last. “I’m so glad you’re finally home.”

“I’ve been home.” She says, half laughing and it’s only now that you realize how distinguished she sounds. How much of a princess she really and truly is as opposed to you… “On the way here, I was telling Thor that I’d only seen you a few times a year so when you offered to take my place as King Rogers’s bride, I was so full of love and gratitude. I can never explain the complexities of how I feel to finally have you in my life once again. Thank you.”

She’s letting it all out, spilling everything in so few words. Telling you that she’s grateful that father found you and that you agreed to marry his Majesty. She’s telling you that she accepts you as her sister and that she understands that where you come from is a secret and she is going to do everything in her power to keep it for you.

You smile at her, hoping it’s with fondness that you do so.

“Tell me everything.” She suddenly gushes, and then slides to stand beside you. “Can I stay with you for a few weeks? Will Steve mind?”

Even Morgana calls him by his first name?

You nod. “You can stay. I’m sure he won’t mind. You’re my precious sister. I dare him to try.”

Morgana laughs, wrapping her arm around yours and leading you back up to the pavilion where Pepper, Tony, and Nat follow.

The next few weeks are full of time spent with your family.

Every day you wake up and have breakfast with Morgana, Thor, or Tony and Pepper until they finally have to leave to deal with kingdom business. Morgana stays. So does Thor. And because you’re not ready for anyone to know about the baby yet, you have to make even more adjustments to your day-to-day life.

Before the castle wakes, Grandmother comes to see you. Often, you’re already up, spewing your dinner into its designated basin. Nat isn’t around this early so it’s up to you to take care of yourself.

Grandmother checks your body, measures your stomach which steadily begins to curve outwards. After a month, your bump is finally large enough to notice, but only when you stand naked or when someone comes to feel it.

Nat does this every day and she has to look for it to feel the hard, little pebble that seems to be growing in your belly.

You’re so happy and it’s dimmed by only one thing.

After lunch you take your reading and writing lessons, and as he always does, his Majesty waits to cross into his council chambers as you exit the large library.

He stops, his eyes devouring the sight of you.

Every time he does it, your cheeks burn, and your neck overheats. Every day he looks bit more tortured.

Finally, after the third week of not speaking with him, he sends word with Nat.

“Another one?” You ask, looking across your room at the vases of flowers that he’s sent. There are gifts still unopened on one of your tables by the window.

They’re lovely, and you are grateful, but you’re starting to think that he may be wanting to buy your affections, so you stop opening them and just stare at the slowly growing pile.

“It’s just him telling you that he’ll be walking in the garden if you ever wish to join him. He’s getting desperate.” Nat’s lips curve into a satisfied half smile.

“Why is that funny?” You wonder, staring at the letter before moving over to your window to try and get a good look at the garden but from this side you can’t see much.

“No one has ever made him work this hard.” She tells you. “With Maggie everything was just decided. They were together one day then they were getting married. It all just fell into place.”

You sigh. “I wanted it to be that easy for us.”

“I know. But I’m glad it isn’t. I think it’ll make you both stronger in the end.” She nods.

With a sigh you turn to look at her, watching her fill your bath.

“What about you?” You demand.

“What about me?” She widens her green eyes, shaking her head as she measures your oils.

“When are you going to stop torturing Bucky and marry him?” You bite.

“Oh, no. Not you too.” Nat gripes.

“You know what? I think that’s a valid question.” A deep voice offers.

In your doorway, Bucky stands with his arms crossed over his chest.

“When are you going to marry me? I can’t keep waiting for you, my scarlet rose. I’m an eligible bachelor. I have many women who would love to be Lady Barnes.” He boasts.

“Oh, is that so?” Nat wonders, eyes narrowed to slits. “Well, then I guess you don’t need me then.”

She shrugs.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes, your Majesty. I’m going to go fetch you some more hot water.” She turns and moves past Bucky, nudging him with her shoulder as she passes.

Bucky is speechless, staring at you with confusion as to how his gentle teasing went so wrong.

“What-?”

“You’re really going to just let her walk out after that?” You offer.

“Shit.” Bucky gasps, then sprints from the room after Nat. “Natasha!”

You peek out at the garden again, and this time you can see his Majesty’s wide shoulders and golden head as he waves slowly through the hedge maze in the distance, hands behind his back in contemplation.

Suddenly he looks towards your room and he stops to stare, the two of you sharing in this moment of utter pining.

Will you and he ever be as close as Nat and Bucky?

You rub your tummy and bite your lip.

How long will he wait?

~~~~~~~~~~

“Steve?” The blonde woman calls, and rounds the gate, eyes searching for him.

Steve?! She calls him, ‘Steve’?!

You stare at him, this new revelation painful.

His mouth opens and shuts as he finally sees past his own happiness to see the discomfort in your eyes.

“Oh.” The blonde says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know that you—You must be Y/N.”

You know damn well that she should be calling you by your title, so your heart grows a little colder and you carefully yank your hand out of his Majesty’s grip.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you.” She hurries to his Majesty’s side and curtsies before wrapping her arm around his elbow as his own brow furrows as you inch away.

“The pleasure is all mine, Lady…?” You wait for his Majesty to speak. He should be the one to introduce the two of you.

She gives his arm a squeeze.

“What?” He looks at her and realizes what’s happening. “Oh, right. Forgive me. This is Lady Sharon Carter.”

Then he hesitates.

You fix your eyes on him, wondering what the uncertainty is for.

“Sharon…” He looks at the blond whose angelic smile is soft and controlled but real and her hand is still around his elbow! She’s a true lady. Like Morgana, so put together and controlled. A golden swan before a dulled brown pigeon. “Sharon is Margaret’s cousin. We grew up together.”

Seriously? Another Carter? This is just perfect.

“It’s nice to meet you.” You tell her, speaking quickly. “If you’ll excuse me, Lady Sharon, but I don’t feel well.”

You turn and leave them, storm cloud skirts swishing along your ankles.

You’re inside when you hear the hurried steps that then break into a run before that same heated hand is around your wrist again.

“Wait, Y/N…don’t go.” His Majesty pleads.

As you turn to pull your hand free, his Majesty tightens his grip and so it pulls you closer to him so that you’re standing inches away.

“Release me.” You speak sternly.

“Why are you upset? Did I say something?” He suddenly looks deep in thought, replaying the past ten minutes in his head.

“Your Majesty, please, release me.” You beg.

“Your Maj-? Steve, please Y/N. Call me Steve.” He doesn’t release you. “Why are you trying to leave? You came down finally. Does this mean you’re ready to speak to me?”

And he sounds like he’s finally been put out of his misery. He’s so happy that your heart aches because you made him miserable this past month and you hadn’t anticipated that. You’d only wanted a break from everything he’d brought you. Pain. Humiliation. Neglect.

You hadn’t meant to hurt him in the process.

Once more you attempt to pull yourself free, but he suddenly throws his arm around your waist and pulls you flush against his chest.

“Why are you trying to leave me?” He asks, bringing his voice down low and quiet so that you and he are the only two in the hallway, the castle, the world.

“Did you get tired of waiting for me? Did you need company?” You ask of him, wondering if he’ll pick up on the jealousy you’re feeling. The sting of it is unbearable.

Being jealous of Maggie had been one thing. She’s gone. That blonde…Sharon…she’s right there. Clinging to his arm.

He sighs, a small smile tugging at his lips. The heat of his breath warms your lips and your body melts without your permission. He quickly compensates for the lack of resistance and cradles you closer to his body.

“Oh, sweetheart, no.” He smiles a little more, this time it reaches his eyes and they’re so dazzling in their sparkling blue that you nearly forget that you’re upset about the blonde woman with her arms on your husband. “Sharon arrive late last night. She heard that I was in the garden and came to look for me. I wasn’t expecting her.”

He licks his lips, dipping down to wrap his arms, both of them, around your waist better. He stands up straight pulling you along with him so that you’re standing on your toes a bit to compensate for the difference in height.

“I’ve only been waiting for you, pigeon.” He assures you.

Your heart flutters, stomach tumbles, as he scrunches up his nose.

“I’m not sold on the pigeon name.” He suddenly says.

“What?” You gasp, so breathless that it makes him smile a little wider.

“You are not a pigeon.” He explains. “And I’d hate to jinx us and call you a bird only to have you run off on me again.”

“I won’t-”

“I’d rather not risk it.” He sighs and begins to rock his body from side to side, taking yours with it.

“Your Maj-”

“How about pearl? Can you be my pearl?” He shakes his head. “No. You’re full of beauty and elegance. A true Queen. Noble. Royalty. A diamond? Maybe you’re my gem?”

His words sting because they’re all wrong. You’re not a true queen or noble or even remotely royal. You’d be lucky to be on the same level as a pearl. You’re definitely not a gem.

You don’t know what makes you do it. Maybe it’s because you’ve been in such pristine specimens of the upper-class lady in Morgana’s and Nat’s company? And with Sharon here too?

You’re nothing like these women. You’re nothing. No one. A peasant. A commoner.

“I’m not.” You tell him.

“If you don’t like being my gem, we can pick something else.” He says, not understanding.

“I’m no one, your Majesty.” You continue.

“Steve.” He chastises.

“I’m a peasant. Truly.”

He stops rocking.

“Father…King Anthony found me on the side of the road, helping an old woman fetch her purse from a bog. I’m an orphan. I come from nothing and no one. I’m not his true daughter. He wanted to save his daughter and you, and he begged me to do this for him and I agreed…I’m of no consequence.” Your lip trembles, threatening sorrow as you realize that you’ve told him your last secret.

The only one that matters.

He’ll kick you out. You’ll have to go back to Malibia a failure.

“I’m no one.” You repeat.

His face serious, stern, and those blue eyes boring into your own, his arms tighten.

“You’re a Rogers.” He tells you, so certain that your heart skips a beat. “You’re my wife. My Queen. And you’re my flower.”

He smiles slowly, happy at last with his term of endearment.

“And tomorrow, I’ll throw you the wedding feast that you deserved. I’m going to dance with you and make sure everyone knows that you’re mine. Especially Thor.”

You huff a laugh. Your heart soars.

He leans in towards you, licking his lips as he does.

You shut your eyes.

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice floats down from behind him.

His Majesty breathes in sharply, angrily, frustrated, but turns to look at Bucky while gently placing you back on the ground.

“I’ll be right there.” His Majesty assures him, apparently exchanging words with a mere glance, then turns back to you.

“You have nothing to worry about with Sharon.” He promises, caressing the side of your head. “We’ll continue this soon?”

He’s genuinely asking you for your permission and you nod, so stunned at the sudden shift that your mind is reeling.

He leans down to kiss your cheek.

“I will send for you, Lady Rogers.” He smirks, then leaves you to stare after him and Bucky, your legs numb.

[featherfloof]

#Temp Wars

     Angela stood at the top of the stairs; arms laden with dirty laundry. It wasn't the daunting idea of walking down the steps blindly that caused her to pause before descending, though normally it would. Between Jamison and their two boys, the staircase was usually littered with toys, books and tinkering’s, creating a veritable mine field to navigate at the risk of stumbling and breaking one’s neck.      But Angela needn't worry as she already cleared the stairs; something she'd long ago gotten in the habit of doing first when cleaning house after having stepped squarely on a small, inconspicuous LEGO and subsequently tumbled down a few steps as she reeled with agony. Who knew something so tiny could inflict such incredible pain? Apparently, their children hadn't inherited her organizational skills and need for order. Their fathers’ chaotic ways had superseded, of which he was perversely proud of.

     It was the single bead of sweat that was currently trailing its way slowly down her spine that had her planted in place. Angela's slender brows drew together in frustration as she became distinctly aware of the perspiration coating her forehead and neck, causing her hair to stick to her skin, further trapping in the heat of her body and making her feel absolutely muggy and disgusting.  

     It was like working in a sauna.

     With a huff of exasperation, Angela finally started her descent, a scowl plastered on her usually serene countenance as she prepared to engage in the next chapter of what seemed like a never-ending battle. Angela paused by the thermostat on her way to the laundry room and dropped the clothing unceremoniously as she reached forward and snapped down the plastic door that covered the HVAC settings. A slender, delicate finger stabbed forward and punched furiously at the arrow that pointed down, watching with increasing satisfaction as the temperature on the screen dropped from seventy-four degrees to seventy even. As she closed the housing once more and bent to scoop up the load of laundry, Angela could only hope that maybe this time, just maybe, he wouldn't notice.

      Jamison worried his bottom lip between his teeth as he leaned forward in his workbench chair, eyes narrowing as he focused on the group of wiring joints he was currently soldering. He moved the soldering tip beneath the last joint, waiting for the wires to appropriately heat as he carefully tapped the solder wire against the top. Just as the wires reached that critical moment of perfect temperature to apply the solder, a sudden and unsuspected chill wracked his body, causing his hands to become unsteady as he applied the solder too firmly against the joint, resulting in a massive blob of metal to half coat the twisted wires.

     A hiss escaped between Jamison's teeth before he spit out an expletive beneath his breath at the sloppy mishap. He holstered the soldering iron and tossed down the solder wire before bringing his hands to rub over his face in frustration.

     His fingers were freezing.  

     Goosebumps prickled the exposed skin of his arms and chest as he became distinctly aware of how chilly it was within his "laboratory". The term really was more grandiose than what his workspace was in reality, but the boys had insisted in christening the small, office-like room that he holed himself up in to work on his projects just that. His laboratory. The secretive room where Daddy disappeared within like a reclusive mad scientist; as his boys had so colorfully described him.

     The one place where he could escape the stress and worries of being a husband and a father and lose himself to the incessant ideas for tinkering’s that his mind never ceased in conjuring up.  Explosives were not allowed within the house, for annoyingly obvious reasons (a few explosions never hurt him, he'd argue with Angela in regards to keeping the house boom-free for the sake of their children). So, instead, he'd settled on constructing the non-caustic components of his creations here at home. But it was damn hard to do even that...when the fucking house was as cold as a penguin's asshole!

     With a growl of irritation, Jamison stood from his desk and whirled towards the door, his prosthetic hand slapping loudly against the metal handle as he twisted it and flung the door open. He then stomped out into the hallway loudly in a display of intractable behavior that would rival his youngest son's tantrums.

     "Ange!" Jamison bellowed as he reached the top of the steps, fists planted firmly on his hips.  The answering silence was all the confirmation he needed. She had once again turned down the thermostat and was now hiding from him to save herself from the coming storm.

     Jamison hobbled down the stairs as quickly as his peg leg allowed and stomped in the direction of the thermostat, rounding the corner to find himself staring at his wife as she stood before the control box on the wall, sipping smugly at a mug of coffee.

     His amber eyes narrowed as she smiled sweetly above the rim of her drink.

     "Yes, dear?" She all but purred.

     Jamison stiffened.  

     "Dont’cha 'yes dear' me!" He growled, though the threat behind his words was minimal. "Why'd ya turn the heat down? Can't do a damned thing with icicles for fingers now can I?" He asked as he wriggled his digits in the space between them.

     Angela frowned and lowered the mug from her face. "Well, I can't do anything when I'm melting in my own house! You've always got it too hot in here." She complained, shoulders sagging for emphasis.

     Jamison waved a hand dismissively as a snort escaped between his lips. "I dunno what to tell ya. The boys and I like it that way."

     Angela took another sip of her drink and Jamison noticed how her eyes roamed over his minimally clothed form. "You wouldn't be so cold if you wore more than just shorts."

     Jamison fired right back at her. "You wouldn't be so hot if ya wore a little less!"

     Angela looked down at herself. She was donned in a hoodie and sweats with thick socks covering her dainty feet.

      "But, I'm comfortable this way." Angela murmured and looked up to focus on Jamison when he made a garbled noise.

     "And I'm comfortable this way!" Hands gesturing wildly at his half naked self.

     They stared at each other in silence, at yet another impasse when it came to just the right temperature within their domicile.

     Jamison's gaze shifted from Angela to the thermostat and back. She must have noticed, because she side-stepped closer to the box on the wall, as if daring the Junker to just try to turn the heat back up.

     Never one to back down from a challenge, nor to pass up the chance to have his hands on his gorgeous wife, Jamison suddenly lunged towards her, his hands darting up beneath her hoodie to grasp her sides within his chilled digits.

     Angela shrieked and tried to whirl away from him as she squirmed within his clutches, gasping from how frigid his hands were against her warm skin. It didn't help that she was currently defenseless, unable to fight him off as her hands were gripping her coffee mug for dear life and attempting not to jostle around and spill the drink onto the floor, or all over herself.

     "No fair!" Angela wailed, still wriggling even as Jamison pulled her against him, arms wrapping around her securely as he held her tight.

     "Come'on love. Dont’cha wanna warm us up, eh?" He purred against her ear and Angela finally stilled within his embrace.

     Angela stretched out her arm and deposited her mug safely on a nearby cabinet before releasing a feigned huff of surrender. The corner of her lips curled impishly as she parted them to speak.

     "It's not my fault you don't want to wear clothing like the rest of society. Such a rebel."      She felt him brush his lips against the back of her neck, sending a shiver of pleasure to race down her spine as a soft gasp escaped from her lips.

     The next instant Jamison twisted Angela around in his arms before backing her up against the wall, pinning her with his body.  

     Her fingers kneaded at the toned muscle of his chest as Angela looked up to meet Jamison's warm, amber gaze. A cocky smirk pulled at his lips as he lowered his forehead to rest against hers.

     "Oi, it aint m'fault you're so damn hot all the time, now issit?" Jamison whispered low in the space between them, hands drifting up to cup her breasts which made it obvious that he wasn't referencing her body temperature. Angela opened her mouth to protest but was silenced as he covered her lips with his own, kissing her firmly, almost punishingly as he further pressed his body into hers.

     Angela mewled helplessly, her arms raising from between them to wrap around the back of his neck, further allowing their bodies to meld together as their kiss deepened, tongues gliding together sensually.

     The next instant, Angela felt Jamison's hands drift down to grab the hem of her hoodie before leaning back just enough to tug it up and off, tossing it blindly aside before he returned his hands to drift gently over her torso and up her sides, groaning into her mouth.

     "Christ, you're so warm...and soft." Jamison murmured against her lips.

     In the foggy state of mind her husband had reduced her to, Angela became slowly aware that what was once both of his hands roaming over her, was now one. About the time that she became suspicious of that fact, Angela heard a distinct click that could be nothing other than the small plastic door to the thermostat being opened, followed by the soft clicking of the button as Jamison punched it several times to once again increase the heat in the house.

     All the while he continued to lavish her with his mouth and flesh hand, making it so terribly hard to be angry with the realization that he'd tricked her.

     Angela snorted out her amusement, whispering low against Jamison's lips.  

     "You dirty rat."

     Jamison hummed in answer as his prosthetic hand returned to cup her face gently, warm, metallic thumb brushing against her lower lip as he grinned triumphantly down at his wife.     “Would’ya have me any other way?"

[hothian-snow]

Sparagmos: First Draft

To celebrate me reaching 32K with my WIP, here’s a bunch of drabbles which inspired the initial first draft. I might reuse one or two scenes, but not the stuff with Darth Zhorrid. Both Yen and her master has changed a lot through my second revision of the fic too, and so has my writing style. Enjoy!

Darth Kharopos knew damn well that he was intimidating. He must be, lest all the other Darths devour him whole. He was also acutely aware of the effect he had on Yennevyr. It was almost amusing, the sudden change in her posture, her back snapping straight the moment he stepped into the room. Her deference towards him, the soft words and lowered eyes. Was she eager to please, or eager to survive?

From her quick feet and mind, he thought it was the latter. Self-preservation was a necessary trait among the cutthroat Sith, but for his apprentices - his legacy - he wanted more. He thought with her keen eyes and her outsider’s perspective, she’d be able to see the Empire for what it was. To see beyond the rabble, beyond the rat’s race and see what truly mattered. Instead, her eyes were puffy and pink, the next morning they met during saber practice.

Pathetic.

And it wasn’t a one off occasion too. Every time she’d come back from a particularly grueling mission, her mind was elsewhere, her blows lacking the conviction he’d expect from an acolyte worthy of being called his apprentice.

Drawing his attention back to the current practice, he swung a saber at her, the saber deflected mid-swing by a well-placed parry. He stepped aside, and noted how her feet were firmly planted into the ground, readying the body to absorb the weight of a heavy thrust or jab. A defensive stance- again. Must he truly hurt her for her to finally switch to the offense?

The tip of her saber was shaking, her stamina running low.

With the ease of swatting a fly, Darth Kharopos knocked the saber out of her hands. Scowling, he walked away, not pausing to glance back..

*******

Something was different. Clearly, something had changed.

Yet, it was less of a change or a growth and more of a pot bubbling over, the pressure and the heat exploding, the fragile cage of a badly crafted glass teapot cracking, its jagged shards flying into the wall before smashing into sharp little pieces.

Something flared in her eyes and her single red blade came to life, slashing in his direction.

He stepped right and striked left. She jumped back, moving like a spooked jungle-cat, before bouncing back forward with an unexpected speed and thrusted her saber towards his form. He blocked her, catching her blade with the end of his own. Her stance buckled under his strength, and so she slid her saber away but not before suddenly twisting her grips - shifting form, right in the heat of combat, inches away from her enemy - and plunging the blade into where he stood. Darth Kharopos spun his double-bladed saber, creating a quick shield that deflected away Yennevyr’s weapon.

The weapon flew out of her hand.

He felt her clearly. Frustration. Loathing. Wrath.

Their force bond was never this strong, but now he could feel her closer than ever. The way her heart raced, the blood thumping in her ears, her ragged breath and barely held back sobs- it was a dam broken loose, her force presence like a whirlpool throwing the cold serenity of his mind into chaos. Decades of careful restraint and calculating control kept him from drowning in the waves of her emotions.

Yennevyr, with her lithe form and dancer physique, sent a butterfly kick towards his head. Darth Kharopos reeled back. He could’ve blocked her again, that he was more than capable of- but his senses were screaming, alarm bells ringing.

With that distraction - that uncharacteristic distraction, that daring, was so different from the cautious acrobat who used to dance in and out of his range - she summoned her saber back, the hilt smacking into her palm with a loud slap. Fluid like water, she leaped and swung the saber like a guillotine axe above his head. Eyes wide, Darth Kharopos raised his saber up to form a cover, digging his feet into the sand below as the impact hit him. Yennevyr was not relenting.

Her eyes were scarlet. Those amber orbs now glowed red, the color looking like freshly spilt blood against her snow-pale skin. It reminded him of the first time he saw a total lunar eclipse: the moon bled red, as if someone had stabbed its white soil and the wound began gushing glistening ruby.

He let her hit him.

*******

Despair was an emotion Darth Kharopos never experienced, not truly and certainly not personally. Whether that was an indication of mental strength or privilege, he didn’t know.

Lord Atala’s death hit them all hard; the empty space where his mother once stood still felt like a void. Darth Kratais second marriage with Darth Labrys could never fill that gnawing, missing hole, but the woman’s hands were tender and her gaze was warm and when she whispered words of comfort to him, it felt like he had a mother again. Her presence had gentled his father’s severe disposition, and when she brought about his half-sister - Tatyan - into the world, the younger Sith Pureblood felt like a tiny bird fluttering in his palms. She truly was worth protecting.

When his father passed, it felt like a bad dream had come again.

Except this time, mother was grieving and Tatyan was bawling and they all cried together.

“Never show weakness in front of outsiders”, Darth Labrys said. “But here, we’re family.”

Because of family, he’d never known despair.

He was used to inflicting it upon others, though.

Hearing prisoners beg for death, attempting to gouge their eyes out as if the act could wipe away the vision of seeing their loved ones writhing as lightning tore through them, was something he’d grown accustomed to. He saw it coming like a holofilm in slow-motion: the moment where a war veteran’s mind was about to break, their will and determination ready to be shattered into dust at just a single jab. He always made sure their descent into madness was quick- no need to prolong the suffering. Genuine torture was only reserved for the worst of his enemies. It was satisfying, forcing some arrogant Republic general to their knees and making them scream, or exposing some tough Jedi for the weakling they were, like ripping open a bandage to reveal the ugly pus beneath.

How then, had he become so numb to the agony of others, that he missed seeing the same signs in his apprentice?

She was in despair, so upset she wished she’d died.

The circular burns on her arms looked like the ones he was used to inflicting upon Republic foes. It was an easy interrogation technique: stamping a recently deactivated lightsaber onto bare skin, the still-hot metal like a sizzling brand. And when he gazed into her eyes (oh sweet Yennevyr, when was the last time he truly looked at her?), they were dead. Empty glass orbs that had given up on life, if only her heart would just stop beating and give up on her too.

“Do I disappoint you, my lord?”

There was no mockery, no snippy retort in her voice, only pain.

*******

“I’ve always wondered how the law would work out in the long run,” Darth Labrys said, her voice lilting through the holocall. She was referring to the law to bolster Imperial ranks with worthy slaves and aliens, the law which also applied to the Sith. “You can’t expect a slave or a foreigner with no background, no exposure to Sith culture or history to integrate smoothly into Sith society without intervention, much less demand top performances from them.”

Not to mention the consequence of overwhelming power suddenly awakening within someone never taught to wield it, Darth Kharopos thought. The dark side was intoxicating, and one could lose themselves to everything from bloodlust to misery.

“I’m not advising you to go easy on her… but do be understanding, Tyrkos.”

His mother warned that even with the best medicine or therapy available, it would take time, and heavens knew that the Sith journey was already difficult enough, requiring one to fall apart and be reborn from the ashes, to kill who you were for what you could become.

Trust between Sith, especially master and apprentices, was rare. Now, he doubted she’d ever place her faith in him beyond hoping to one day take his place.

*******

Is this how I die? Darth Kharopos thought.

Every breath felt like hot knives stabbing his lungs. The rebreather was dying on him, for he could taste soot in his mouth. Collapsed against the cool floor of his hideout, back leaning against a bloodied wall, his apprentice loomed over him. How embarrassing, for his apprentice to see him so helpless.

“What’s the meaning of this?” she cried out. “Master!”

He thought he’d take that secret to the grave, to ensure that the fallout was minimal. Sith Pureblood, heir to the Rosokor family, involved in a light-side conspiracy. Should he be exposed, the Dark Council would have his mother’s and sister’s heads.

He pleaded for her to understand.

And if she didn’t, he wouldn’t blame her.

Her left hand clutched his holocommunicator where the damning evidence of his treachery laid, and in her right hand was the scarlet lightsaber, poised for execution. In the months under his tutelage, she’d grown into a stunningly beautiful Sith assassin indeed.

He closed his eyes.

“Tell me how to help.”

In shock, his eyes snapped open.

Her eyebrows were scrunched up but whether in anxiety or concern, he could not tell. There was a flush in her cheeks, and wildness in her eyes. Against his every expectation, Yennevyr chose mercy. She chose a chance at the Light. She chose him.

Master, did you not choose me, on Korriban? You saw something in me. I see something in you, too.

*******

Yennevyr hated mopping up blood. She had watched her late father’s maids do it all the time, his underlings scrubbing a crime scene clean. She later played the role of the domestic servant, doing the same back when she was enslaved under the Hutts, whether it be with spilled drinks or bloodstains from a brawl. She wasn’t afraid of blood- the coppery stench just smelled revolting.

Her master bled liters, the liquid forming sticky pools beneath his broken body. Sealing the wound wasn’t too difficult once she found the medkit, although her clumsy handiwork would definitely leave a scar. What was even more concerning was her master’s breathing, the fact that it sounded agonizingly labored and worryingly irregular.

With effort, they managed to haul their way to the hideout’s medical wing before he slipped into unconsciousness.

When his armor was stripped away and it was only his form in plain robes on the simple bed, her master looked more exhausted than she’d ever seen him. Heavy fatigue was written all over his sleeping face. It reminded her of those times she woke up especially early to see the Kaasian sunrise, the soft orange peaking through grey, stormy clouds. Some days, she deduced how master had been running some secret errands the night before, and she’d spot him limping home, his feet dragging, with an uncharacteristic slouch burdening his usually proud posture. Logically, she knew her master was no more or less a person than her, but to glimpse him tired and worn out had shocked her.

She spent the night by his side, the implications of her actions becoming clearer with each passing moment.

To reform the Sith society from inside out, she thought. A lofty dream. When did I become such a cynic?

With curious eyes, she glanced at her master’s resting form, the sound of his still ragged breathing filling the room. She wouldn’t even need a lightsaber; all she had to do was wrap her hands around his neck, and squeeze. She wondered if suffocation felt like sleep.

Oh, will I ever see you this vulnerable again?

Instead, she gingerly placed a palm on top of his limp hand, entangling her fingers with his. His hand was warm.

*******

After the suspicious death of Darth Jadus, Darth Zhorrid - in her sick ways - sought to consolidate her position as a Dark Lord of the Sith.

As if the Council would stand her, Yen scoffed. After they’ve sucked her dry of whatever knowledge Jadus may have passed down to his daughter, she’s dead.

It was no secret that her master disagreed with many of the actions taken by Darth Jadus, but he’d always respected the chain of command, bowing whenever the Dark Councillor requested his presence, amicable before his superiors. This time, however, Darth Zhorrid asked for her master and would not expect anything less than absolute submission.

“Wait outside, Yennevyr. Do not interfere no matter what happens.”

Many may claim force cloaking to be an act of defense, like the Jedi Shadows who’d rather sneak past their foes than needlessly spill blood. Perhaps she truly was like that, in the past. Eager to run, to dart in and out unseen. Conflict-avoidant.

But a cloak was also a tool, like a viper’s green scales that blended into the grass, obscuring fangs and venom. To take it a step further: force cloaking was manipulation. It was to force upon someone a false visage, to bend the mind of onlookers to the point of them rejecting the evidence of their own eyes, denying the existence of a sword pointed at their head. On Korriban, Yen had figured out how to twist her force cloak, inverting it so that her opponents’ visions were plunged into darkness and the world became invisible to them.

It only took hearing her master scream for the first time for her cloak to become a dress.

The scent of ozone reeked through the semi-closed office door. By god, no matter how many times in the past she’d angrily fumed - fantasizing of sweet it would be to give her master a taste of his own medicine - actually hearing her master who had just barely recovered from his previous ordeal now screaming under the powers of some bratty Darth who probably did not even deserve that title...

Yen’s hands curled into a fist, and she was surprised by the anxious lump that formed in her throat. She took in a sharp inhale and when she breathed out, the Force coiled around her like serpentine tendrils, slick and cool. Shadows rested around her shoulder blades like a fashionista’s scarf.

Or for her enemies, a noose.

When her master stumbled out of Darth Zhorrid’s office, a hand clutching at his side, she took the opportunity to peer into the slit of the half-opened office door and caught the Dark Councillor’s sadistic gaze. Yen gave a smile.

*******

Yen had always been good at force cloaking. But this time, instead of projecting the lie of invisibility, she’d chosen an illusion- a glamour, a mirage. To project something false into the world required unwavering will and mastery over that image.

Her mask was fueled by hatred.

Never had she thought she’d one day hate anyone more that she hated the Hutts or herself, until she met Darth Zhorrid. That pathetic mix of insecurity and sadism was infuriating. She had read up on Darth Jadus’ treatment of his daughter. It took everything for her not to barge into that office and wring that sick woman by the neck and ask her if she thought she was the only one who had ever faced abuse. Everyone faced pain at some point in their life. Suffering was the story of all beings, especially so if you were Sith. Yet, when she hated herself, Yen only hurt herself. Unlike Zhorrid, she’d never tortured others as a way to lessen her own pain, to hide her weakness.

And for that, Yen wished Zhorrid was dead.

But not before providing use for her and her master, of course.

Wearing the Force - the fabric of the universe - as if it was a garment, was an act of complete domination. With a smile, she had sparked a flame of interest within Zhorrid. With a light touch of her fingers, she’d quicken or calm the Dark Lord’s pulse, the woman’s heartbeat hers to command at her pleasure. In a blink of an eye, Zhorrid would forgive her master for any misdeeds he’d supposedly done, and most importantly, Zhorrid would leave him alone.

Why pay attention to some grumpy old Sith when the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen was standing there in front of her eyes?

A drugged cupcake ready to be eaten.

Darth Kharopos felt his stomach sinking when he received the holocall requesting that Yennevyr go meet Darth Zhorrid in her chambers. His muscles tightened, as if readying for battle. He wasn’t scared of that snooty brat; anything she threw his way he could take. But Yen, his student, his ward, his protege, his apprentice-

She was smiling.

The Force swirled around her, draped all over her form like a dress blowing in the wind. It was as if she wore a robe of woven flesh, of slithering serpents and tendrils that wrap and cling and coil. There was a gleam in Yen’s eyes, her russet eyes mirthful, radiating confidence. The last time he remembered seeing his apprentice so self-assured was when he was bleeding on the cool tiled floors, her red lightsaber hanging over his head like a bloody guillotine.

“My lord, I am every bit your apprentice. Trust that you’ve taught me well.”

When Darth Kharopos was later summoned to Darth Zhorrid’s office, Yennevyr sat on Zhorrid’s lap like an overpriced poodle. What Zhorrid did not see was the undulating threads latching onto her, their ends sinking into Zhorrid’s skin like a snake’s fangs, or parasites whose teeth pierced her bloodstream, draining her dry.

“Ah, you’re here, Darth Kharopos,” Zhorrid said with a grin. “Very good, you look very nice indeed, perfect for the job.”

Darth Kharopos only nodded, his eyes glued to Zhorrid’s pale hand which stroked Yen’s hair as if she was some exotic pet.

“I need you to look into two places: Belsavis, and the Arcanum.”

Belsavis was a tightly guarded secret he was privy to knowing, but his heart skipped a beat when he heard the name ‘Arcanum’. The Emperor’s property. Jedis have died to get a glimpse of the space station, and there were words of a rogue Dread Master recently robbing the place. Was it even under Intelligence’s jurisdiction?

A squeal snapped him from his thoughts.

“So you do know about the Arcanum!”

Her voice went from a slimy purr to an abrupt shriek. He felt a hard shove and invisible cold fists pinning him to the wall. His legs hung in the air, and he glared at that wretched woman.

“My lord,” Yennevyr murmured, her doe-like eyes widening at Darth Zhorrid. “My master’s a Darth of Imperial Intelligence. Is it not his role to know all that is going on?”

The pressure released and soon he was free. Zhorrid made a noise of agreement, muttering ‘Yes, yes… you’re right, of course.”

Zhorrid began ranting, a semi-coherent monologue punctuated with giggles and sudden screeches on the unfairness of her fate and the need to prove her worth to the Dark Council. Before her anger boiled over, a force tendril planted soft kisses on Zhorrid’s lips, quieting the woman’s anxiety in one swift move.

When the Dark Councillor appeared distracted, Darth Kharopos broke eye contact and glanced at his apprentice. He suppressed a shudder, seeing the predatory glint in Yennevyr’s eyes. Everyday, they grew more scarlet.

You will drink my words, or I will pour them down your throat.

*******

Belsavis he took care of alone, but as per Darth Zhorrid’s orders, he allowed Yennevyr to accompany him on the mission to the Arcanum. It was perfect: with every eye glued to the young rising-star commander, a Sith not-yet-a-lord with the bewitching presence of a black hole, nobody noticed him slipping away, leaking whatever information he could find on the Emperor to Republic SIS. His heart thundered the whole way, but every time he looked at Yennevyr - black hair tied up in a bun, a saber and light armor ready for combat - he felt like he could breathe easy again.

The mission was a success. They tracked the thief, Lord Tagriss, down to Ilum. His dualsaber stabbed a hole in the Sith Lord’s chest, and he felt his apprentice’s pride flared through their bond the moment Lord Tagriss’ dead husk fell into the snow.

When they returned home, she was ready to be a Lord.

“From this day onwards, you are known as Lord Soteira,” he declared, his apprentice kneeling before him. “It means savior.”

His apprentice stood up. When she looked at him, something swirled in his chest.

You honed my blade and sharpened my edges until they are lethal. You scrubbed away the rust, and revealed the blood-soaked truth. Master, don’t feel guilty thinking you turned me into something I already wasn’t. I’ll try to reach for the Light as you want me to, my lord, but don’t pity me if I fail.

[waywardaardvark79]

Come Back to Me: Part 7

Summary:  Y/N, a WW2 army nurse spends her days caring for and patching up injured soldiers. The last thing she ever expected was that one of the soldiers that she saved would steal her heart. A story of two people and the insurmountable obstacles they overcome to always come back to each other.

Pairing: Dean x Reader, Benny x Reader (platonic)

Warnings: language, character injury

Word Count: 4,702

A/N: Updates should be at least once a week. No set schedule. Memories in italics. 

Dean could hear voices, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. He was too far away. It was almost as if he was underwater, everything distorted, nothing clear. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt so heavy, and after multiple attempts he had to stop, no longer able to devote what little strength he had left to the seemingly impossible task. 

So, Dean laid there, dipping in and out of consciousness, trying to figure out where he was at when he was alert and dreaming of you when he wasn't. He was desperately trying to piece together what happened, trying to figure out what events occurred to land him where he was, but no matter how hard he tried he just couldn't remember. 

The voices were fading. They were now nothing more than an incoherent mumble, and Dean knew that he wouldn't be conscious much longer, the blissful allure of sleep too much for him to resist because at least when he was asleep you were there with him.

Something told him to turn around and as much as he didn't want to do it, fearing that seeing you standing there, especially with him knowing how badly you didn't want him to go, would stop him from going all together. He was afraid that if he looked at you again he would never leave, his mission be damned, and despite the fact that every part of him was screaming for him to keep going, he stopped. 

Dean took a deep breath before he turned around, trying to prepare himself to see you upset, his heart aching that he was the cause. He honestly wasn't prepared for what he did see when he looked at you. He was fully expecting to see tears and heartbreak, and was shocked when he saw relief on your face. It was almost as if the moment he looked at you a weight lifted from your shoulders, and even though he knew it was an impossible thing to see, he could swear that he did.  

He would always remember how relieved and happy you looked just to be looking at him again, and he couldn't help the smile that formed on his face as he focused on you. He was smiling so big that his cheeks hurt, but he couldn't stop, not when you were looking at him like that, like he hung the moon. 

He heard Benny clear his throat and he had to force himself to turn away from you, willing the way you looked at him to stay fresh in his memory, hoping that it would be enough to get him through until he could see you again.

Suddenly he was in a different place, no longer with you. He was jumping and he could feel himself falling. He felt a sudden tugging feeling in his thighs and back and his descent began to slow. Then, it came to him, the plane, the attack, and the mad dash to escape the aircraft before it could explode or crash.

He remembered thinking that everything would be okay until he felt himself violently pulled back, his body crashing against a tree, seeming to hit every branch on the way down, pain and the feeling of hard earth beneath him was one of the last clear things he could remember. Everything after that was a bit of a blur, coming only in flashes.

"Dean...Dean." he heard someone say, and he recognized the voice instantly, but no, it couldn't be you. You weren't there with him. "Open your eyes, Soldier." he heard you say.

"Y/N." Dean breathed out, so shocked to see you standing there that he momentarily forgot about his injuries until he tried to move, crying out in pain afterward.

"Shh...easy, Soldier." you said, kneeling down by his side. "Everything is going to be all right. I'm going to make sure we get you home."

"I'm...sorry." he panted out, so desperate to feel your touch, fearing as though he may die without it.

"Remember your promise, Dean. You have to come back home." you said, your hand coming to rest on his shoulder before starting to gently shake him. "Dean! Dean, come on brother, I need you to wake up. Dean!" you pleaded, but it was no longer your voice he was hearing. It was Benny, everything quickly fading to black before he could make sense of it.

The voices were growing louder again, and even though he still couldn't understand them,  the clarity was there. They were no longer a mumbled mess and it was almost as if he was starting to breach the surface of the water he felt like he had been under.  

Even though his eyes were still closed, he could tell that there was a bright light shining on him, the back of his eyelids seeming to glow. Dean tried once again to open his eyes, but his body still wouldn't cooperate, the small task still seeming to be an impossible feat. 

The thought that maybe he had died back there on the cold, hard ground after the jump entered his mind. He thought that it would explain why he couldn't seem to do anything that he wanted to do, why his body was betraying him,  and maybe this was what happened after life. Maybe it was just an all consuming darkness where you relived moments from your life.

Dean had almost convinced himself that this was the case, well, until the pain hit. It was a pain so intense that it felt like molten lead was running through his veins, his whole body alight with agony. He found himself struggling to even draw a single breath, the intense pain the only thing his brain could seem to focus on.

A sickening crunch sounded through the room, Dean's agonizing scream soon drowning out the sound as he bolted upright, his body finally responding to something he told it to do. He could feel himself being weighed down, almost as if he was being pulled backward. He forced his eyes open , determined to escape the agony, the bright lights of the room nearly blinding him. 

Dean looked around in complete panic as he was forced back down on the table. Men, strange men that he had never seen before, were holding him down while another man did something to his leg, the same pain from earlier coursing through him and what little he had in his stomach was threatening to make its way back up. 

The men were speaking, all of them seeming to bark orders at him, orders that he couldn't understand. If finally dawned on him, a little late in his disoriented state, that they were speaking German, and that's why he couldn't understand what they were saying to him. He was able to make out the words unten bleiben, and he knew that it meant stay down.

He thought about defying what little bit of the order he could understand. The only thing he kept thinking was that if they wanted him to stay down that would be the last thing he would do. He tried desperately to raise up, but he was no match for the men that were holding him down. His body only allowing him to make miniscule movements.

He did manage to raise his head. He needed to know, to see what they were doing to him. Dean had heard horror stories about soldiers that had been captured by the enemy. The things that were done to them were worse than any nightmare he could conjure.

Every story he had ever heard was playing over in his mind in a big jumble, a constant stream of horrible acts, as he tried to prepare himself for his new found fate. He had been captured. He had become a prisoner of war, and part of him wished that he had just died back there after the jump. He was sure it would have been a kinder fate, but just as he thought that dying would have been better, your face popped into his mind, and he knew that he couldn't give up. He had a promise to keep.

So, instead of thinking about dying, or of all of the atrocities that were sure to befall him, he focused on the man at the end of the table. He was prepared to see the man wielding instruments of torture not stitching him up after he reset the bone in his leg.

The man noticed Dean looking and in very broken English said, "Bone." raising his hands, keeping one level as he held it out in front of him while  his other hand made an upward thrusting motion. "Skin." he added, Dean assuming that the broken bone in his leg had pierced though his skin, and this man was attempting to fix it. 

Dean nodded his head before glancing around the room, trying to get a read on where he was. The only thing he could come up with was that he was in a German doctor's surgery.  

He laid his head back down, deciding that the man meant him no harm at the moment, and even if he did there wasn't much Dean could do about it in the state he was in.

After the doctor finished with his leg he put it in a makeshift splint before moving on to his arm. The break in his arm was not anywhere near as complex as the one in his leg. This allowed the doctor to set it pretty easily, the pain nowhere near what he felt when the doctor was working on his leg. The doctor put his arm into  a splint before moving on to the wound Dean had on his head.

Dean tried to stay still as he cleaned the would, flinching only a little when he started the stitches. Apparently, any form of pain relief was out of the question and Dean was thankful that he was almost finished. He didn't know how much more he could take.

Dean let out a slow breath when the doctor finished the stitches and wrapped a bandage around his head. He watched as the doctor stepped away from the table, speaking to the other two men that were surrounding him before turning back to Dean and nodding as one of the men he was speaking with left the room. 

The door to the surgery opened a few moments later, four armed men walking in with the man who left. The doctor started to speak with them, his attention drifting over to Dean periodically. As soon as the doctor finished speaking the armed men approached the table Dean was on, and his fight or flight response kicked in and since flight was out of the question, the only option he had was to fight, even though he knew that it would end poorly.

The doctor seemed to understand what Dean was thinking, "Be ok." he said, Dean still unsure of whether or not he could trust this man, but then again, he didn't really have much of a choice.

The four armed men transferred Dean to a German hospital where his arm and leg were put into plaster casts. He stayed there for two days before he was transferred by train to a holding camp, still no sight of Benny or his other men.

Once Dean arrived at the holding camp he was placed in solitary confinement. The cell he was in was windowless, and damp. Of course, the Germans didn't heat the cells, and since it was the middle of winter, the temperature definitely wasn't kind to him.

Dean spent most of his time in the solitary cell huddled in the corner, the dampness of the cell had caused both of his casts to become damp themselves, and the damp combined with the frigid temperature didn't allow him to ever reach any level of comfort. In fact, the chill was so deep in his bones that he doubted he would ever feel warm again. 

Dean couldn't say how long he was held in solitary, the constant darkness made time irrelevant, the days and nights melting into each other in an indiscernible haze. The only thing keeping him sane was thinking of you. 

He tried to recall of every detail about you, imagining that you were right there with him, your words giving him the will to keep fighting. He thought about your smile, and he hoped that if he thought about it long enough that maybe he would be able to feel the warmth of it. He always thought you had a smile that could warm a man to the bone.  

He tried focusing on the warmth you always radiated towards him, hoping that somehow it would warm his cold and aching body, and even though it never worked, he still found himself comforted by it somehow. So, that's what he did to pass the time. He thought of you. He imagined your arms around him, the things you would say to keep him calm, and of course, he thought of your song.

Dean closed his eyes, and imagined that you were right there with him, singing the words. He could hear your voice clear as day, the squeaking of his cell door opening pulled him from his thoughts and just like that, you were gone, two armed guards taking your place. The men roughly jerked Dean to his feet and practically dragged him to a small room with a single chair waiting ominously in the middle. It was the only furnishing in the room. The guards dropped him into the chair and left the room without uttering a word.

Dean knew what this was. He had been preparing himself for this moment ever since he had been tossed into the solitary cell. This was the interrogation. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the voice in his head now replaced with yours as you told him what to do. 

Every man in Dean's company, well, every man in the service really, had been told exactly what to do in a situation like this. They were told constantly during every briefing that if they were ever captured the only thing they could tell the interrogator was their name and rank. This one rule had been drilled into his head since he joined the service and he was bound and determined to follow it. He was only going to give the German interrogator his name and rank, nothing else.

The interrogator walked into the room, dragging a chair behind him, "Seems like you've had some bad luck." he said in perfect English, nodding his head towards Dean's casts.

Dean chose not to reply, fixing the man with a cold stare instead as he positioned the chair he was dragging in front of Dean, placing it about two feet away from him before sitting down.

"I'm First Sergeant Dean Winchester, and that's all I know." Dean said, remaining calm and composed in the face of the enemy.

"Well, now...First Sergeant Winchester, I'm sure you know more than that." the interrogator said, Dean clenching his jaw instead of replying.

The interrogation lasted for hours. The interrogator was persistent, trying everything he could think of to get Dean to talk, violence seeming to be his favorite. Dean was panting, blood running down his face when the interrogator finally took a step back. 

"You know, if you tell me what you know I'll tell you about the men you were captured with. They are your men, right?" the interrogator asked.

Dean didn't respond. He simply spit the blood that was pooling in his mouth on the floor at the man's feet. He couldn't say that he wasn't tempted, his men had been on his mind since he had been there, especially Benny.

Dean raised his head to look at the man, one of his eyes swollen shut, "Like I told you before, Sir." Dean said, raising his uninjured arm so that he could point to his temple, "I can't seem to remember anything else. It must have been the hit I took." Dean said.

The interrogator finally left the room, beyond frustrated that he couldn't get anything out of Dean. The two armed men that brought Dean there from his cell walked back in and roughly pulled him to his feet, giving him the same treatment they did when they brought him to the room.

The dragged him back to his cell and tossed him inside before slamming the door behind him. Dean waited until he could hear their retreating footsteps before hobbling over to the wall, his back pressed against it as he slid to the floor.

Every part of him hurt, and he couldn't even see the damage the man had done. One of his eyes was completely swollen shut, the other he was only able to see out of a little, the swelling in that one not as profound. He was pretty sure that his nose was broken,  he knew that his lip was split, and the inside of his cheeks were cut to pieces. He could feel blood dripping down the side of his mouth, but he didn't have the strength to wipe it away. So, he did the only thing he could do. He waited, knowing that the man who interrogated him was far from finished, and he prayed that he would have the strength to survive.

He had finally managed to fall asleep when the sound of his cell opening woke him. His body jerked upright, the sudden movement causing pain to radiate throughout his body. He felt himself being hauled up from the floor, and he didn't resist as he was dragged back to the room he was in the day before. He was placed into the same chair, and left alone, neither man saying anything to him.

Dean couldn't really see the man when he walked in the room, but he knew it was the same one. He had listened to that voice for hours, and he wouldn't soon forget it. The interrogation played out almost exactly as the one the day before had. The interrogator did lay off on beating him, figuring that he couldn't do much more without seriously harming him.

Dean stuck to his story that the blow he had received to his head had rendered him unable to remember anything, and the interrogator soon grew tired of talking to him. The man got up and left the room abruptly, the two men that brought him there returned and dragged  him back to his cell. Again, Dean waited for them to leave before sliding back down into the corner, the horrible realization that this was going to be his life set in, and he didn't know how much longer he could hold out.  

The next day, or at least Dean assumed it was since he had no way to really track the time that passed, a different man walked into his cell, three more men following after him. They pulled Dean to his feet, one of them passing him the single crutch he was given in the German hospital, and ushered him from the room.

Dean was hauled outside and loaded into a cattle truck with about forty other men, none of them his own, despair slowly starting to sink in over the fact that Benny must not have made it. Dean didn't speak the entire ride to the camp, his spirit broken, his focus on the dirty cast on his leg.  

He finally looked up when the truck came to an abrupt stop, armed men appearing soon after and herding them like cattle through the open gates of the camp. After all of the men were through the gates Dean watched as one of the guards pulled the gates shut and wrapped a chain around where they met before placing a lock on the chain. 

"For you the war is over." the man said before walking away.  

Guards from inside of the gates divided the men into small groups, Dean amongst the last group which was the smallest. The guards started to lead each individual group to their lodgings. Dean's group, consisting of himself and four other men, was last, the building they were led to was nothing more than a poorly constructed shack.  

They were shoved through the door before it was closed behind them, and Dean took a few labored steps into the room, the single crutch he had to walk with not doing much to help him.

The room had ten double bunks, a small stove in one corner of the room and a basin and Elsan style toilet, which was basically a toilet seat on a bucket, in the opposite corner.

There was already four other men in the room when Dean's group was brought in, all of them huddled around the stove in the corner. Dean hung back as the other men from his group selected their bunks, all of the bunks closest to the stove were obviously taken.

Dean hobbled to the last open bunk, which was right by the door, and eased himself down, thankful that it was the bottom bunk and not the top. He laid down and pulled the thread bare blanket up over his head, trying to make himself as small as possible as he body shivered with the frigid temperature.

Dean was almost asleep when someone gently shook his shoulder. Dean didn't even bother to remove the blanket from  his head, "What? I made sure the bunk was empty before I took it and I ain't tradin'." he said.

"Look, man, I don't want your bed. I was just gonna give you something to eat. I bet you could use it." the man said.

Dean ripped the blanket from his head, thinking that he recognized the voice. He was almost scared to look up to see if it was really him. 

"Benny." he said, looking up at him in shock, still unsure whether he could believe it, after all he could hardly see.

"Dean." Benny said, dropping the bowl in his hand before he practically ripped him out of bed, hugging him so tightly the Dean feared he would crack a rib. "When I woke up and you weren't there...I...I thought you died, brother." Benny said, finally releasing him.

"I kinda thought I had died there for a minute myself." Dean said. "Where did they have you?" he asked, Benny helping him back into bed.

Benny sat down on the edge of Dean's bunk, "I, uh, I blacked out after your fall. I made it to your side, but I think one of the bastards must have hit me over the head. I woke up in a cell." Benny said, pausing a moment. "I'm not sure how long I was there. They tried to interrogate me a couple times before movin' me here. I've been here for almost a week."

Dean nodded his head, "I woke up and this doctor was stitching me up, then I was transferred to a hospital for the casts." Dean said, holding up his arm. "I got tossed into solitary too, and well, obviously you can see how that went. So, what about...have you seen any of the others?" Dean asked.

Benny nodded, "Miller and Morgan are here. I see them sometimes when they do roll call. We all have to go outside for that. Far as I can tell, they're okay, but I...I don't think anyone else made it. I haven't seen anyone else." Benny said.

"So, hit me with it. How bad is it here?" Dean asked.

Benny shrugged his shoulders, "It could be worse. They'll do roll call, like I said. They usually do it twice a day and then they toss the bunks while we're outside. I heard they had a couple of guys escape a couple of months ago, and now they always look for contraband. I hear we get food rations once a week, but a lot of the guys that have been here for awhile say that it usually never happens, so when we do get something we have to make it last. So far I haven't really had any problems with anybody, but I've kept my head down, and most of my time has been spent trying not to freeze my ass off." Benny said.

"You said they had a couple of guys escape?" Dean asked. 

Benny chuckled, "I should have know that would be the only thing you would take away from that." he said.

"You can't tell me that it hasn't crossed your mind. How'd they do it?" Dean asked, the wheels in his head turning.

"Of course it has, but that's a suicide mission, brother. I heard there was a group of ten of them that tried. Only two guys made it out. The rest were shot." Benny said.

"But it can be done." Dean said.

Benny shook his head, "No, it can't. Trust me. They have got guards patrolling constantly. They search for contraband twice daily, sometimes more than that, and they take anything that could even remotely be used for an escape attempt. Also, in case you haven't noticed, it's the dead of winter. Nobody would get far in this weather, and I can't even tell you exactly where we are." Benny said, trying to talk Dean out of even trying. 

"I ain't sayin' it's gonna be easy, but I'm findin' a way to get us out of here. I have to get out of here." Dean said, thinking of you.

"I feel the same way. This is the last place I want to be Dean, but the last guy that even touched the fence was shot." Benny said.

"So, you're just gonna give up?" Dean asked.

"I'm not giving up. There's talk that the Germans may surrender soon, and then the camps would be liberated." Benny said

"Oh, come on, Benny. You can't hold onto that bullshit. We don't know when that will be. It could be tomorrow or six months from now." Dean said.

"Yeah, I know that, but I don't think we have a choice." Benny said.

"We always have a choice, and I choose to get the fuck out of here. I...I can't stay here. I have to get back." Dean said.

"Now that I found you I'm not gonna let you run off on some half cocked mission. All you'll do is get yourself killed. I know who you're thinking about when you say you have to get back, but I need you to know...that I have my own promise to keep to her. I told her I would watch out for you, and I can't let you do this." Benny said.

Dean nodded his head, thinking over everything that Benny had said before speaking, "Trust me, I've heard everything you said, and I know that you're probably right, but I'm doing this with or without you. I'm getting out of here." Dean said.

"Yeah, well, let's just say that you do manage to get out of the fence. You gonna hop your way back?" Benny asked, nodding towards his leg.

"I'll do whatever I have to do." Dean said.

"You're as stubborn as a damn mule." Benny said.

"That shouldn't be news to you. Now, like I said, I'm doing this with or without you, Benny." Dean said.

"You ain't doing anything without me, but you ain't callin' all the shots either. I have a few conditions of my own." Benny said.

"Ok." Dean said.

"We ain't going anywhere until those casts come off. I figure that gives us about two months to plan everything out, and I want every thing planned out, every detail. Now, I know how bad you want to do this, but if we're gonna do it, we're gonna be smart about it." Benny said. 

"Two months." Dean said, nodding his  head, "Two months and we're breathin' free air." he added, his fighting spirit renewed.

Benny shook his head, "You know that this is a stupid idea, right?" he asked, Dean nodding his head, "Well, just as long as you know...so...where do we start?"

Tags: @miraclesoflove @22sarah08 @flamencodiva @divadinag​ @backseat-of-deans-67chevy @superflurry @familybusinesswritingbro​ @briagallen​

[mst3kproject]

510: The Painted Hills

 You don’t see a lot of movies where the top-billed star is a dog.  I’m going to venture that it’s probably a bad sign. When the dog actually deserves it, for being the best actor in the film… well, that’s even worse.

A grizzled old prospector (who has a name but I’m gonna call him Stinky Pete, both for the Toy Story reference and because he looks like he never bathes) has just struck gold.  He hurries into town to file a claim, and then he, his business partner Len, a boy named Tommy, and Shep the dog get to work mining.  There’s plenty of gold to be had, but you know how it goes – mo’ money, mo’ problems, and the problem here is Len.  The more gold they dig up, the more Len is paranoid somebody’s going to come and rob them.  Eventually, he doesn’t even trust Stinky Pete anymore, and pushes him over a cliff. Too bad for him, Shep the dog discovers the crime, and now she’s out for revenge!

Okay, first of all, this movie is set in the mountains of California (the Native Americans in it are, for the most part, local Miwok people speaking their own language!), but the Painted Hills are in Wheeler County, Oregon.  Apparently Desert Hot Springs, California, is sometimes called Painted Hill, but that’s in freaking Coachella Valley, an area that looks nothing like anywhere in this movie!  What gives?

Second of all… have you gotten the idea that I’ve saved the boring movies for last? Because that’s exactly what I’ve done. There were movies like Radar Secret Service and The Starfighters that were so gut-wringingly awful I just really wanted to get them over with, but then there were movies like Time Chasers and The Painted Hills that I just kept putting off and putting off because they were too dull for me to even write about the pain they put me through. It wasn’t a sharp, torturous, kidney-stone type pain like some of those worse films… it was just a low, dull, ache that refuses to go away.

Time Chasers is actually a pretty good comparison with The Painted Hills, in that both take an intrinsically compelling idea and make it as boring as they can.  In Time Chasers it was time travel and paradox – in The Painted Hills it’s a good man’s descent into madness.  I’m pretty sure Len is supposed to start out as a nice guy, a friend to Stinky Pete and with a fatherly affection for Tommy.  Then greed overtakes him, until he is driven to murder one and contemplate killing the other.  If this was the movie’s intention, though, it fails.  Len is surrounded by red flags from the beginning, and where we should see his growing paranoia, we’re instead watching a cheerful mining montage.

Stinky Pete originally heads into town to share his find with a friend named Frank, who was Tommy’s father.  He arrives to find that Frank has died, and part of his share in the mining claim has been bought up by Len.  This makes Len an interloper from the beginning, and when he first shows up dressed all in black, we immediately know he’s going to be the bad guy.  The arc would honestly be far more powerful if he were somebody Stinky Pete knew and trusted, rather than a relative stranger. What little we see of them working together is not nearly enough to establish that they have become close, and the red flags around Len make his betrayal an inevitability rather than a tragedy.

We see Stinky Pete, Len, and Tommy agree to start building a sluice with Len still a nice guy, and then there’s a montage, and the next time we see Len he’s got a beard and is plotting murder.  How much time we skipped I have no idea, but with it went all of Len’s development.  The Painted Hills is a short movie, but other than this one thing it’s very careful to establish things.  It sets up the fact that Bald Eagle is a skilled herbalist and that Tommy knows his grandchildren.  It sets up the pastor and how he knows to recognize Tommy’s horse.  Yet it can’t bother to give us even bits of the most significant character arc in the movie?

The other major disappointment in the story is that Tommy, who ought to be the human hero, is never vindicated.  He tells his story to the pastor, who doesn’t believe him.  When they find Shep later, Len is already dead and they still have no proof that he killed Stinky Pete or tried to poison Shep.  The fact that Len tried to shoot the dog may be a clue, but it’s not the same as discovering the hidden gold or the bottle of poison, or some other bit of material evidence.  For all we know, Tommy tried to tell the story to his mother only for the pastor to assure her that he made the whole thing up.

While I’m here… why does Len re-hide the gold?  Is he hiding it from Shep?  Yes, re-hiding it does cast doubt on Tommy’s story, but he had no way of knowing the pastor was coming.  Why is he so determined to kill the dog?  Does he think she’s going to tell on him?  His behaviour here, including running out into what we’re evidently supposed to believe is freezing cold without a coat on, is entirely irrational, and completely at odds with what he was doing a moment earlier, when he calmly told the pastor that Tommy was making up stories.

The most believable character moment Len has is when he thinks Tommy has died in his fall from the horse.  The shock of this brings him to his senses and he is visibly relieved to find Tommy still alive.  Thoughts of killing the boy vanish, and he takes him inside to come up with another plan. This is also the most captivating moment of the movie, both because it is so well-played and because Tommy is not nearly as annoying as a lot of little kids in old movies.  It also lends credibility and tension to the sequence that follows, in which Len tries to convince Tommy he’s jumped to conclusions.

Unfortunately, this bit stands out so sharply because the rest of the acting is dreadful. Everybody is flat and stagey, just standing around with their thumbs in their belts reciting their lines and trying not to look at the camera.  Bruce Cowling as Len tries to give a physical performance in a couple of spots, inching his way along a narrow ledge or trying to knock the gun out of his frozen hand, but it never works.  It’s always too pantomimey, and the sets are never convincing.  There’s no way we believe he’s in danger of falling and he’s obviously not actually cold.

The only good actor in the movie is, as I already mentioned, the dog.  She’s clearly very well-trained and it’s actually rather hard to watch when she’s supposed to be writhing in agony from the poison.  A big contributing factor is obviously that a dog has to show-not-tell, whereas the human characters do an awful lot of telling.  Kudos to her and to her trainers and handlers.

Besides Time Chasers, the other thing The Painted Hills rather strongly reminds me of is old made-for-tv Disney movies and nature documentaries… things like Lefty the Dingaling Lynx (which for some reason I was obsessed with at the age of six) and White Wilderness (the one with the lemmings – the lemming scene was actually staged in the city where I live).  Something about the technicolour, the lighting, the pretty but unconvincing matte paintings, and the recited line reads all adds up to warm fuzzy childhood memories.

As an adult I realize that these films contained appalling animal cruelty and a fair amount of dark content of their own, but it’s still weird to see the same aesthetic in a dark tale of murder and revenge.  Then again, The Lion King is also a dark tale of murder and revenge, so maybe I’ll get back on topic now.

The theme of this movie, as stated by the narrator over the opening credits, is a dog’s bond with her loving master, so strong that she even avenges his death. Dogs are known to do stuff like this, but the way it’s presented in The Painted Hills makes it look like Shep is less ‘loyal and loving’ and more ‘actually psychic’.  First there’s the way she starves herself while Stinky Pete has a fever and is unable to eat. I could believe her refusing to eat because she’s pining for her human, but the idea of some nonphysical link that specific seems a bit silly.  Same with Stinky Pete’s death – Shep isn’t actually there to see it, she just somehow knows that Len’s responsible.  When she refuses to eat the poisoned food until Len tosses it to her from the table, I was honestly surprised this was not portrayed as her somehow knowing it was poisoned!

The narrator’s speech also left me a bit surprised that Shep actually survives the movie and goes off to live happily ever after with Tommy, especially after the rather shocking shot where we actually see her blood staining the snow from a bullet wound!  The movie had seemed to be leading up to her being able to die at peace having avenged her master’s death and ready to join him in the hereafter.  I’m honestly not sure how I feel about them not going that route.  I mean, nobody likes it when a dog dies in a movie, but having her be fine at the end feels like they chickened out.  I dunno.

‘I dunno’ is really my whole response to this movie.  There’s not enough substance here to be worth the level of thought I have to put into a review.  The fact that it manages to make a revenge movie so colourless would be fairly impressive if I weren’t so bored.

Although I gotta admit… it’s not every day you get to see Lassie just straight-up kill a dude.

[thehikingviking]

Mt Silliman from Lodgepole Visitor Center, Sequoia National Park

Colin had a free weekend so he was keen on getting a trip together. He was most interested in Mt Silliman which lies in Sequoia National Park. I had hoped to save this peak for when I was in a pinch and needed an easy SPS peak, however I decided that Colin’s company was too good to pass up. Mike Toffey also agreed to join us, which gave us an opportunity to have a nice little reunion post Kandlbinder Peak outing. Inspired by Sean King and Chris Henry’s snow climb a month earlier, we hoped to challenge ourselves with some spring conditions. We watched the daily satellite and observed the snow receding at a very fast rate. We decided to bring our crampons and ice axes with us, and we planned to make the call on what to carry after seeing the conditions first hand at the trailhead. I offered to drive, so on a Friday afternoon, I picked up both Colin and Mike from San Jose then drove across the valley to the SEKI northern park entrance. We found a section of national forest land where we slept. Colin and Mike set up tents above the road, while I slept in the car parked near a closed gate. I was disturbed at 2am with high beams penetrating my car. There were two PG&E trucks and they were fiddling with the gate so that they could tend to some issue further up the forest road. I was not blocking the gate, but I was in their high beam’s line of fire. It took them a remarkably long time to open such a simple gate, and needless to say I was pretty upset. I caught a couple more hours of sleep after they finally passed through, but I didn’t quite get the well needed good night’s rest that I had hoped for. The next morning we piled back into my car and drove the remaining 18 miles down General’s Highway to the Lodgepole Visitor Center. Colin threw up on the drive; was it car or altitude sickness? I could have parked closer to the Lodgepole Campground, but it was my first time in the area and simply parked in the first lot after turning off the freeway. This folly added about a half mile of extra pavement walking each way, but we were in high spirits and expected a moderate day to begin with. We left the snowshoes in the car, but brought along our crampons and ice axes. We crossed the Marble Fork of the Kaweah River then started up the Twin Lakes Trail.

We started off at a strong clip. I was hoping to get my Sierra hiking legs back under me but my body screamed in agony. My lungs, legs, feet and brain protested as I walked up the gradual trail. It usually takes me a few Sierra hikes to get back shape, but I was in exceptionally poor conditioning after a multiweek trip to El Salvador. I pretended to analyze the foliage to make excuses for my constant little breaks. The Mountain Misery was one of the prime candidates of interest due to it’s recognizable and nostalgic scent.

We followed the Twin Lakes Trail for 2.2 miles. Prior to crossing Silliman Creek, we picked up a well trodden use trail that stayed along the southeastern side of the creek.

We continued up to Silliman Meadow wondering when we would finally hit some snow.

The trail remained generally easy to follow, aside from the occasional fallen tree that had us make small diversions.

The trail ended at some granite slabs at a fork in the canyon. Many trip reports mentioned these granite slabs so we continued up the right fork of the canyon.

Snow patches had started to appear. They were melting fast and water was running all around us. We decided to keep our gear in the pack and find a snow free friction route up the smooth granite.

-Sierra Stonecrop

The patches of snow that were unavoidable were easy to walk across.

We reached Silliman Lake at just over 10,000 ft. It was still covered with ice.

From here it looked like the peak was to our east, but in reality it was more to our north.

Although it seemed counterintuitive, GPS corrected my assumption and we continued on our way towards the summit. Again we were able to pick a mostly snow free route, now that we were on the exposed southern side of the peak.

I could have found a class 2 route to the top, but that would have been too boring. I aimed for the ridge and once there, picked a fun class 3 route along the top of the ridgeline. It was very benign, but I’ve seen some YouTubers refer to this as “Death Drop Ridge”. They used a fish goggle lens to make their periphery appear more exposed. Most viewers end up being fooled by this trick, and they get a lot of views because of it. I find the whole mountain influencer culture to be fraudulent and pathetic.

Mike came up to join me while Colin stayed slightly below the ridgeline. The western summit was rather impressive with a nice layer of snow.

It wasn’t much longer until we reached the summit. We didn’t need our crampons or ice axes once.

To the northwest ran the Kings-Kaweah Divide.

To the northeast was the gash in the Salinian Block that is Kings Canyon.

To the east stood the Great Western Divide.

To the southeast was the Kaweah Range. Black Kaweah looked exceptionally striking.

To the southwest were Panther Peak, Moro Rock and the southern entrance of Sequoia National Park.

To the west was the hazy San Joaquin Valley.

Things were going well I felt, but out of nowhere Colin started to feel sick. It was not long before he started coughing, then some vomiting ensued.

Mike and I gave Colin some time, since it was early and we had nowhere we needed to be. Once he got everything out, we started back down, expecting his symptoms to improve once at a lower elevation.

The descent was very fun. I found safe snow patches that were glissadeable, both on our feet and on out butts.

Other sections had me stomp through the soft snow. Water was flowing everywhere and it was quite magical.

Then out of nowhere, Colin unexpectedly got sick again. We were much lower in elevation now so Mike and I were a bit perplexed as to why his nausea had returned. Only this time it was coming out of both ends.

Mike and I chose a spot to rest down below to give Colin some privacy.

Once he was strong enough to continue, we dropped down the rest of the slabs and found the use trail.

I remember walking back and studying Colin’s body language. He was clearly hurting, and I could sense the negative energy coming from his body. Colin is usually the friendliest and happiest guy, but this was a time that he didn’t want to talk. Instead I focused on chatting with Mike about stupid things, things that probably unintentionally irritated the hell out of Colin. One I realized this, I went back to studying the forest, mostly learning about Wolf Lichen, which for the longest time I thought was moss.

Colin started to feel a little better as we reached the trailhead. As we walked through the Lodgepole Campground, I noticed that entire sections of the campground were closed while others remained open to full capacity. This was most likely done as a Covid precaution, but was completely idiotic. They could have easily closed every other site to allow for more intra-camper distancing, however instead they decided to jampack all the campers into one small, dense section of the campground. I’m sure the mouth breathers of the park service believe that they saved lives by doing this. We hopped back into the car and began our drive back home, but I had to pull over a few times for Colin to throw up some more. What madness! He finally was able to keep food and liquid down once at the low elevation town of Squaw Valley. We still don’t have a good explanation for why this keeps happening, but I hope Colin figures it out soon, as he appeared to be in a lot of discomfort that day. All in all, it was good to bag another Sierra Nevada Peak, and while we didn’t get the snow we had hoped for, it was still a fun day in the mountains.

[prettyfunkyunorganized]

Daughter Series - Hanzo pt. 3

Ooooooh, you guys might like me for this, but too damn bad! I’m not the kind of person who can just write about happy times. But don’t worry, all my stuff ends happy, this one included. 

But yeah, a bit over 3,400 words. 

Warnings: injuries, pain, severe burning, near-death experiences. (*evil laughter*)

More Daughter Series: Hanzo, McCree, Reaper, Soldier 76, Genji, Roadhog

Hanzo installments: pt 1, pt 2, pt 3

Masterlist

Another Overwatch mission had been set up, and this time, Hanzo’s number was up. Mercy, Tracer, Genji, and Winston himself were joining him. The archer had been mildly intrigued by the idea of seeing the massive, hairy scientist out in the world, but then the genetically modified gorilla had suggested they bring Mirra along. And Hanzo had fumed. She was still a minor! And inexperienced in this sort of work! And a fucking minor! Winston had assured the enraged man that Mirra would stay on the ship, safe and sound, unless they absolutely needed her assistance. Nor would she ever be in the line of fire – the young woman was only there to consult. Mirra knew the city Overwatch was entering and had connections therein. She would be useful, Hanzo couldn’t honestly deny that, but she wouldn’t be safe. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but the idea of her being anywhere that didn’t have a state of the art defense system terrified him.

However, Mirra was able to talk Hanzo our of his irate frenzy, and he eventually relented. She promised to be careful, wait patiently in the airship, and stay out of sight. He still didn’t like it, but it wasn’t really his decision. In the end, the mission had gone well, despite Hanzo’s distracting worrying over Mirra. In fact, without her assistance, the team likely would have been in town twice as long. The girl knew exactly who to call and exactly how to pressure them into providing Overwatch with everything they needed, which made Hanzo swell with an unfamiliar sense of pride. She was impressive. Within in three days, the agents were heading to the jet for the ride back to Gibraltar, and Mirra had been nowhere near the fighting. Perhaps the man had overreacted. He should have known the others wouldn’t put her in danger. They adored her. Everyone did.

Just as she had promised, Mirra was waiting at the open hatch of the ship, lounging casually against the doorframe with her hair pulled into a fluffy ponytail and a smirk on her face. She gave them a wave as they approached and Hanzo was soon smiling back at her. He’d . . . missed her. They’d been apart for less than 72 hours and yet it was long enough for him to truly miss her. The revelation was both worrying and oddly pleasant. The loneliness that had plagued him for so long was slowly ebbing away.

Then she saw her gaze float behind the team, and her hand gravitate toward her dagger. Hanzo swiveled around and saw a group of attackers rushing toward him. The rest of the Overwatch operatives caught on quickly, and the five of them sprung into a defensive formation. Hanzo instantly hopped up to higher ground and began covering the others. Tracer was darting about, firing at targets from all angles – watching her move still made the archer a little dizzy. Winston was lumbering toward a group of heavy firing enemies, not an ounce of hesitation in his powerful movements. Mercy was staying close to the other Shimada as he flit about, deadly katana at the ready. Everyone was accounted for. But there was someone else slinking about in the shadows, sneaking up behind any lone assailant and bringing them down with one swift movement.

“Mirra,” Hanzo whispered as terror gripped his body. She could be killed at any second. She wasn’t wearing a bit of armor. It didn’t even look like she had her gun on hand. “What the hell are you doing,” he seethed.

Hanzo was distracted just long enough to nearly be shot and knocked off balance, tumbling from his perch with a thud. He grabbed another arrow and returned the shot. He didn’t miss. The archer continued to cover his team as he moved, inching toward Mirra. He was going to drag her back to safety if he had to. They met at the edge of the fray and the young woman shrunk as he approached.

“Don’t be mad,” she blurted out.

“Get back to the airship,” he snarled at her. “Now.”

“I had to help,” she spat back. “Look at how many guys they sent after us!”

“I do not care how many assailants they have sent, you were to stay back and – ”

The way her face drained of color silenced Hanzo and the next moment she was pushing him away from her. Then she was screaming. Wailing in utter agony. Hanzo had never heard anything so harrowing. He was beside her writhing body in a split second, sputtering out in panicked Japanese. He put his hands on her shoulders, and one of them came back coated in sinew. “Mirra,” he said breathlessly.

He came to his senses quickly and killed the man who had shot his child with an arrow full of pure malice before reaching for his communicator. “Mercy,” he began with a trembling voice, but she cut him off.

“I’m already on my way,” she yelled back at him, “just keep her behind cover!”

Hanzo pulled Mirra closer as she shook violently and gripped his arms tighter than a vice grip. She was alternating between gasping for air and heaving in staggered breaths. He put his hand on her cheek, unintentionally coating her face with her own blood, and tried to hold her focus. Their eyes finally met. “Hold on, just hold on.” She sobbed and crumpled into his chest just as Mercy found them.

“Oh verdammt,” she muttered, looking over the giant burn sprawling across Mirra’s back. “She’s been hit by plasma rounds. We need to get her into surgery as soon as possible, before she loses more skin.” The medic reached for her earpiece and spoke to the full team. “I need to get our little one to the ship, Winston, can you assist?”

“Yes,” the scientist replied, “but I’ll need covering fire.”

“Hanzo and I will watch your back,” Genji volunteered.

“No,” the elder Shimada frowned, “I will not leave her.”

Mercy squeezed his arm and pulled Mirra close to her, soothing the girl with her caduceus staff. “We’ll take care of her, I promise you, but we need your help to keep her from being hurt further, alright?”

He couldn’t stand the thought of leaving her like this, thrashing and weeping, but he had to. The man didn’t know a damn thing about medicine, but he knew how to stick bastards with arrows. And he had a lot of anger to expel. Between the two highly trained brothers, the Overwatch members were soon no longer under fire, and prepping for departure. Hanzo was sprinting toward the onboard med bay, but nearly fumbled over his metal feet at the sight before him.

Winston had both giant hands pressing down on Mirra twitching body, forcing her into the doctor’s table while she screeched at the top of her lungs. Mercy was lathering something over the girl’s back. Every time the doctor’s gloved hand came in contact with Mirra’s skin, the younger one cried out at the top of her lungs and white-knuckled the stiff mattress beneath her. The heart rate monitor to the right of the three of them was suddenly blaring out a sickening sound and blinking an awful warning sign. Hanzo ran to Mirra’s side as her arms went limp and dropped.

“We’re losing her,” Winston whimpered.

“What have you done to her,” Hanzo growled at Mercy, grabbing the blonde’s wrist. She glared right back at him.

“I’m trying to save her! Now let me go!” He didn’t, instead tightening his grip on her. “Genji,” she hissed, “get him out of here before he – ”

The machine made a new noise that shook Hanzo to his core, giving his brother just enough time to grab the archer and pull him from the room. As soon as the older Shimada realized what was happening, he began thrashing wildly. He had to get back to her. He had to. But the metal door slammed shut, locking tight.

“Enough,” Genji said, slamming Hanzo into the wall. “Enough! If anyone can take save Mirra, Angela can.”

“No,” Hanzo tried to protest, leaning toward the door again.

“Brother! Please,” Genji barked. “They will not let Mirra die on us, I swear to you.”  

The word ‘die’ sunk Hanzo like an anchor and sapped all the strength form him. He slowly slid down the wall and collapsed on to the floor. She was about to die. He hadn’t kept her safe and now he was going to lose her. The most incredible thing in his life was about to disappear due to his inability to protect her.

And he’d never told her how much she meant to him.

How much he needed her.

What the fuck was he going to do now, without her smile grounding him, without her feisty comments making him snort, without her singing bringing him peace. He wove his fingers through his hair and panted heavily, fighting tears.

He couldn’t lose her.

“Genji,” he gaped as his brother sat beside him, “I – I – ”

“I know,” Genji sighed, putting a hand on Hanzo’s shoulder. “I know.” It sounded as if he were trying to contain a sob, too.

They sat there for what felt like days, but in truth was only a matter hours. Tracer called in over the comms at some point to check in on them, but Hanzo couldn’t bring himself to speak. Eventually, the speaker overhead informed the two men that they were nearing home, but Winston and Angela were still tucked away. It was quickly becoming too much for Hanzo to bear.

Finally, they were preparing for their final descent and Winston stepped into the small hallway dividing the main seating area and the med bay. The archer’s head jerked up, but he didn’t have the strength to stand.

“She’s gonna be okay,” Winston assured them as Genji got to his feet. The brothers shared a relieved groan. “But she’s in really bad shape,” the scientist continued. “Angela says Mirra’s going to be sedated for a while until the pain can be managed, but these plasma rounds are terrible. She’s going to be recovering for weeks.”

“But she will live,” Genji clarified.

“Yes. We’re going to make sure she receives the best care possible, I promise. I – I’m just so sorry I brought her. Hanzo, you were right, and I need to apologize for – “

“Not now,” the exhausted father huffed, “I do not wish to hear it at the moment. I just want to know if I can see her.”

“Angela thinks it would be best if you wait until we’re home, and Mirra can be settled in the medical wing there.” Hanzo nodded, not wanting to fight, not now.

He watched Angela and Lucio roll Mirra’s bed down the ship’s ramp and onto the tarmac, nearly sprinting, but Hanzo still caught a nauseating glimpse of her bloodied, puss yellowed bandages. The sight made bile rise into his throat.

“What happened,” Mei asked as the mission team entered the base.

“Mirra saved my life,” Hanzo said quietly, “and nearly lost hers because of it.” All of the other operatives stared at him as he slowly wandered toward the on-base clinic. He was going to sit there and wait for Dr. Zeigler to give him an update, no matter how bone tired he was. Thankfully, she approached him after only another hour.

“She is stable and resting,” the doctor said with her arms crossed, a few feet from Hanzo.

“Good,” he moaned, rubbing his face. “Is she in pain?”

“Not now, but she will be when she wakes up, which may be a while,” she said rubbing her nose.

“May I see her,” he asked, leaning forward from the wall.

“Yes, if you actually want to.” There was an angry, judgmental edge to Angela’s voice, which was unsurprising. It was no secret that she didn’t like him, and he didn’t like her. Neither trusted the other. They worked together, but Angela would likely never get over what Hanzo had done to Genji, and Hanzo would likely never get over his feelings of apprehension about the woman who could toe the line of life and death. She was more than just a doctor. She could do more. It made him suspicious.

Evidently, Ziegler was also suspicious of his newfound affection for Mirra. Or perhaps doubtful was a better word. Nonetheless, Angela waved her hand for Hanzo to follow her into the patient holding area where Mirra lay propped up on her side, all but her neck and head covered by a thin sheet and blanket. She looked raged, but calm.

“Winston said something about plasma rounds,” Hanzo rasped.  

“She was hit by a barrage of them, mostly on her right shoulder and back of her right arm. These munitions though, they generate a massive amount of heat and that heat spreads,” Angela said shaking her head in disapproval.

“I am familiar with them,” Hanzo grumbled. “Did they sink deep enough to give her third-degree burns?”

“In a few spots, but it could have been much worse. I was able to get to her quickly and cool her down. This is not the first time I’ve dealt with these sort of injuries, however, and I can assure you that she will be well taken care of. I have everything I need right here to treat Mirra efficiently and with minimal scarring.” A small smile snuck onto Angela’s lips. “She’ll be so disappointed if she can’t wear that dress she ordered for the holidays. We’ll have to get her patched up before then.”

Hanzo gave the blonde a sideways glance. Mirra preferred to be well-dressed and presentable, but her roaming lifestyle hadn’t allowed for having a proper wardrobe. Once the girl joined Overwatch though, she and Mercy had spent many evenings huddled over a tablet shopping online – a guilty pleasure for them both. Hanzo would do anything to see Mirra’s giddy grin right now, even if it meant he had Ziegler to thank for it.

“I owe you an apology,” Hanzo said after a long pause. Angela frowned at him, confused.

“Is that so,” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, trying to ignore the haughty lilt in her voice. “I tried to interfere with your work while you were trying to save Mirra. I should not have done that. I know that you are . . . skilled in your field. I should have known you would do all you could for her.”

Angela’s eyebrows flew up in surprise, and she gave Hanzo a curious once-over before bowing her head a bit. “You were worried about her. It’s hard to think rationally when we are about to lose the people we care about. I know that very well.”

They both exchanged a look, a sort of unspoken understanding – they could both put aside their misgivings regarding each other, for now. For Mirra and Genji. Damned social butterflies, making Hanzo crawl out from his pleasant, introverted cave.

“May I stay with my daughter a while,” Hanzo said brushing a few loose curls from the girl’s face.

Dr. Ziegler smirked and nodded. “Of course.”

“What is that unsettling smile for,” he said scowling as she walked away.

She twisted around and shrugged, “I’ve just never heard you call Mirra ‘your daughter’ before. It was somewhat nice, is all.”

Hanzo couldn’t stop himself from blushing, but thankfully he was alone with his sleeping child now. He saw a sink nearby and hastily scrubbed the dried blood from his hands and chest before pulling a chair to Mirra’s side. It was terribly stiff, but at least he wouldn’t fall asleep while waiting for her to wake.

Genji came by to check on his niece and gave Hanzo a reassuring pat on the back. Lucio was next, clipping a small speaker to Mirra’s pillow that emitted a soft song the DJ said would help her heal. Reinhardt poked his head into the med bay and attempted to reassure Hanzo that, “his girl was the picture of strength and resilience.” Tracer and Mei dropped by with dinner for him, and McCree came by a few hours later with some incredibly bitter coffee that did, in all honesty, make staying awake easier. Even Torbjorn and that odd Bastion unit wandered by to see how Mirra was doing, the latter making a series of depressed beeps that were stunningly convincing. Winston seemed to be keeping his distance, likely nervous Hanzo would snap at him, but the archer wasn’t mad at anyone but himself.

It was now the middle of the night, maybe closer to morning, and Hanzo’s head kept bobbing back as he nearly drifted off to sleep. “Not yet,” he hissed to himself, blinking a few times. “Not yet.”

Something moved in the corner of his eye, and he turned to see Mirra’s face scrunch as she flopped to lay on her front, her fist rubbing her puffy cheek.

“Mirra,” he blurted out, hoping to his feet and gripping the side of her bed.

“Hanzo,” she moaned questioningly.

His shoulders sagged as relief washed over him. “How do you feel? How bad is the pain? Do you remember what happened?”

She looked up to him, frowning. “I remember getting shot, but I don’t remember coming back here. How long have I been out?”

“We have only been back at Gibraltar for half a day or so,” he answered her, his brow furrowing. “Mirra, what on Earth were you thinking?! You nearly died! You should not have left the ship, you should not have joined the fight, and you absolutely should not have dived in front of a plasma shot!”

Mirra curled into her pillow and hid in its fluff. “Hanzo, please, just this once will you not yell at me? I’m so tired, and everything hurts and – ” It was clear she was about to start crying from her shaky breathing. She let out an anguished yelp as her shoulders moved. “Everything hurts,” she repeated softly.

“I – I am sorry,” Hanzo gulped, crouching closer to her. “I did not mean to sound angry! I only meant – ” He let out a dejected sigh, but Mirra eventually peeked back at him. “What I am trying to say, is that I wish I were the one in that bed instead of you. I am supposed to keep you safe and away from harm, but I could not. In fact, you protected me better than I protected you, and I . . . almost lost you because of it.” His girl stared at him with those oppressively big and dark eyes. She was so beautiful, all of her mother’s soft features with just enough of his genes to convince Hanzo that she was truly his. He still didn’t understand how a man like him had helped create this much perfection.

“I didn’t mean to be reckless,” she said wiping her tears, “I just reacted. I wanted to help, make sure everyone got out safe, and when I saw that guy aiming that ridiculous gun at you, I had to do something! I . . . don’t want to lose you either.”

He very gently reached out and cupped her reddened cheek in his hand. “I am sorry I yelled at you. I promise it will not happen again.”

“I understand,” she said with a faint smile, “and I’ll be more careful from now on.”

“Will you let me take my own bullets?”

She grinned, “Yeah.”

The corners of his mouth turned up just a bit. “Promise?”

“I promise. Especially if it means feeling like this again.”

“If I could take this pain from you, I would. In a heartbeat,” Hanzo said solemnly.

“Could be worse,” Mirra said trying to sit up a, “it’s been a long time since I had someone by my bed when I woke up hurting. I’ve missed it.”

“I will go get Dr. Ziegler, she will have something to make you feel better,” he said pulling away.

“No,” she squeaked, grabbing his arm, “will you stay a little longer? Please? I just . . . you’re being so nice and I don’t want to miss out.”

Hanzo rolled his eyes with an amused scoff, “Clearly you are not completely out of sorts if you can tease me.”

“No, I feel like shit, but you make me feel better.”  Her fingers tightened around his.

“I will only be gone a moment, sweet girl, then I am not going to leave your side until you are feeling like yourself again.”

“I like the sound of that,” she said releasing him and pulling the covers closer to her face. Sweet girl indeed.

Additional tags: @watch-your-grammer @winchester-sonsandcastiel

[neliedoria]

Musings

Originally posted here some time ago.

Eli lay sprawled out across the rooftop, listening to the random sounds of those moving about in Erudition below.  There always seemed to be people coming and going.  Some seemed more interesting than others, but she had deigned to keep herself at a distance rather than milling about with the rest.  Sure there were some odd glances when she had turned up a time or two for something to eat, though Maggie seemed happy enough to indulge her.  Tiredly she lifted a hand to rub at her eyes, the dark circles beneath speaking to the very little sleep she had managed since her arrival a few days before.

Why was she still even there?  In truth she’d made to leave a few times, but before she would step foot past the wards something would stop her.  She didn’t belong there, that much she knew.  Just as she knew past her brother’s offer, she didn’t belong back with him either.  Her own little carved out kingdom called to her, even though she knew her subjects would continue their work without her directly there to pull the strings.  Her ravens continued to arrive while she warred with herself, keeping her up to speed and relaying any issues that arose in the meantime.  Softly then she snorted, her face screwing up for the accusations Ailos had thrown her way in regards to what he perceived to be her lack of anything past fucking for coin or petty larcenies.  

If only he knew.

She grit her teeth as the the words he had slung at her rose to prick her once more.

“You would see all that we’ve worked for lost to the winds? You would see where you grew up, where you were married, be gone forever?…You would see your love lost to the winds?…My children all loved you dearly, my wife did, your brother does, and so did our sister.”

Each of their faces flitted across her memory once more, people who loved her and she loved dearly in return.  For the briefest moment she allowed herself a bittersweet memory of the joy she’d felt with the birth of each of her nieces and nephews, those happy years watching them grow, the sorrow and agony of their loss.  She had grieved for them all as well as for her brother, the agony he had been going through for his incomprehensible loss.  Of course she had her own…her head shook to drive that thought away before it had even formed.  

And why, why did he harp so on the man who had been her husband?  Her chest tightened then and she lifted a hand to rest just beneath her breasts as she began to breathe slowly and steadily with a frown wrinkling her forehead.  Her Baradir.  The first and only man she had ever loved outside of her brothers and father.  They had grown up together, knowing they were promised as early as she could remember, and she had been happy.  Another sentiment that was but a distant memory.  But either Ailos’s eyes that were supposedly on her at all times were lax, or they didn’t relay what they had seen, because if they had truly been watching at all times, their conversation surely would have gone differently.  If Ailos’s spies had truly been watching and hadn’t seen her Baradir’s slow descent into addiction and madness, heads would have rolled - of that much she knew.  There were many things that she disagreed with and questioned in regards to her brother, but she knew he spoke the truth in that there would be nothing to stop him should he had known things had been as dire as they were before her husband turned on her.

Or when she turned on him.  

Ailos didn’t know.  Couldn’t have, even he wasn’t so good an actor.  For certain he sounded sincere with his brave claim of nothing being enough for him to forsake his blood, but saying the words was entirely different from being faced with terrible truths.  Her burden would remain hers and hers alone.  She could not bear to see that disgust on his face again, or worse yet - pity.  If she were to be turned away again, she wasn’t sure she could survive that hurt a second time.  That was plain fact.  It certainly would solve the issue of the burden of the Lightsworn holdings though.  Another thing she couldn’t, wouldn’t explain, a thought that had her digging her fingers into the leather that protected the skin beneath her palm.  How much would it truly matter anyway?  Perhaps it would only be a matter of months before she paid her part in full, perhaps it would be decades yet.  In either case, save for some tragic incident both of her brothers would outlive her and the whole argument would be moot.  Still not something she had any intention of broaching.  

As if her thoughts had summoned him, Eli’s eyes shot open as she heard Ailos’s voice nearby.  Quickly, almost too quickly, the shadows took her despite the fact she was relatively unnoticeable up on the rooftop, but she wasn’t ready to speak with him yet after the way they had last parted.  There was an odd sensation she was coming to be used to whenever she cloaked herself, just another oddity that was fast becoming the norm the longer she stuck around.  The odd music at dusk, the strength and potency of the shadows - such odd things.  She let her mind wander then, turning away from those that dipped into dangerous territories.  The past was the past and there was nothing to be done for it.  In the meantime, she could instead focus on whether or not to speak with the walking corpse or just return back to the life that was idling off to the side.  A decision would be necessary, and sooner rather than later.

[whiteraven13]

Preserving OPs tags: #lace Harding#solas dragon age#dragon age solas#DATV critical#dav critical#Veilguard critical#Veilguard criticism#I liked Harding a lot better when she was nuanced and had a spine#people who grow up on farms aren’t too precious about life#you know how many animals she’s probably had to kill?#like just assuming she became an archer to hunt and not just for lolz#she’d likely have put down animals that were sick injured or otherwise suffering#she also murdered plenty of rebel mages who were just kind of fighting for their civil rights#and did so with a literal smirk#no really that is pretty much our intro to Harding in DAI#she shoots down a rebel mage (who is defending themselves against a Templar) and then has herself a little grin#and then being from Ferelden and having lived through the most recent Blight she would have seen plenty kill their infected loved ones#instead of watching them descent into agony and madness#she might have even done it herself here and there because the Blight as a disease is both endemic and incurable#like Harding my girl you of all people#what have they done to you

I think the scene where everyone is dunking on Solas for not being able to magically cure the most vicious and fatal disease ever to exist in Thedas and choosing to give his companion a dignified and merciful death is especially distasteful if you have Harding there, considering there is in fact an ending in DAI where she *checks notes* mercy kills Cullen instead of letting him go on rotting away in agony as he’s consumed by the final stages of his Lyrium addiction. Just something I think about from time to time.