#inward turning upon too-close targets...

[finelythreadedsky]

if epic poems can eat each other (which they can, for example the metamorphoses ate callimachus and the odyssey has consumed lots of early archaic poetry), can they also do kinslaying?

[impala-dreamer]

Worn Out Leather

A Supernatural Story

~ It isn't easy, but you know when it's time to go.~

Dean Winchester x Reader

5,267 Words

Warnings: Super Relationship Angst. Sexual Scenes. Show-Level Action and Blood.

A/N: This stands for my "strained relationship" square for @jacklesversebingo Hope you enjoy! If you've ever had a breakup like this, you probably won't get through without tissues... just FYI.

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Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

Things hadn’t been right in a long time. 

There were vicious fights that erupted out of nowhere. Fists found their way into walls, biting words struck their targets, eyes glared like daggers. 

It hadn’t felt like love in a long time, but neither wanted to admit it. 

There were good times too. Late nights spent passing a bottle back and forth, roaming kisses that sent tingles down their spines, hands reaching for each other in the dark. 

Once upon a time, it had been love. Whether true or imagined, passion-fueled or written in the stars, it had been there. 

It had been something altogether different for each of them. 

Now, Y/N sat on the bed, propped up by a stack of dying pillows. Her legs were crossed and her fingers gently turned the pages of an old book she’d found in the library. Something about it had struck her fancy hours ago, but the pale, handwritten words inside were now blurs on the yellowed pages. Her attention was gone; her mind was somewhere else. 

She stared off into nothingness, lost in the void between her eyes and the edge of the bed. If she was calm enough, she could see flecks of dust dance like snowflakes in the light, cast down like disobedient angels from heaven, floating on the warm air coming from the vents above. 

She didn’t notice when he walked in and didn’t bother to tear her gaze away from the dust. 

He did what he always did before coming to bed. 

First, he tugged off his flannel and tossed it onto the desk chair. Then, he sat on the foot of the bed and lifted his right leg. With a dramatic flourish, he tugged the frayed shoelace end and whipped it into the air, undoing the knot. 

She watched as he worked- one boot, and then the other. The thick muscles of his shoulders tensed then relaxed, and long the line of his spine bent then straightened. She used to love watching his body move. Loved his broad shoulders, and trim hips. She loved to stare at the nape of his neck, the soft spot where his hair stopped and his freckles started. Loved to think about running her lips across the velvet of his skin and feeling the short hairs tickle her cheek. 

Now, she stared with ice shards in her gaze, wondering if he would even speak to her before going to sleep or if another night lingering in heavy silence was their fate. 

His voice all but startled her, knocking her thoughts far away. 

“You still mad at me?” he asked. His chin was turned towards her over his shoulder, but his heavy eyes refused to lift to meet hers. 

Y/N clenched her jaw. “Yeah.” 

Dean exhaled loudly in a huff that hid a thousand harsh words. “Awesome.” 

‘Was it awesome?’ she thought. Had it ever been? What were they fighting so hard to keep? 

She turned the page with such annoyance that the force of it nearly ripped the fragile paper. With similar angst, Dean ripped the blanket back on his side of the bed giving it a tug. Y/N sighed curtly and closed her book. She moved slowly while he waited, knowing that he couldn’t move again until she placed her book on the nightstand and got up off of the blanket. He bit down hard on his bottom lip and curled his fist into the blanket corner. 

Finally, she moved and he pulled the blanket down for both of them to crawl beneath. 

The mattress didn’t move as they slid into their respective places. The foam remembered them, how they used to curl into each other’s sides; how Dean would rest his head on her shoulder while he slept, or how Y/N would twist herself inwards and hide in his left side after they made love. It remembered everything that was gone, and adjusted without judgment to their new positions. Dean hugged his pillow and turned towards the right, almost teetering on the edge. Y/N lay flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling until her eyes burned and she succumbed to the depths of sleep. No foot passed the invisible barrier between them, no hand roamed to caress a sore back, no body shifted closer seeking warmth. 

The line had been drawn and neither dared to cross it. 

Dean punched his pillow and settled into it, desperate to find a bit of comfort in the synthetic down. 

“Night.” 

His voice was soft to her ear but the tone was like knives on slate. 

Her stomach tightened. 

“You don’t even want to talk about it?” she asked, already sure of the answer. 

Dean sighed. “Not really.” He shifted, bending his left knee and turning farther away. “Not if you’re just gonna yell at me.”

Tears burned in her chest. She could feel them coming but she fought to keep them down. “Oh, right.” She sucked her teeth hard. “Because that’s all I do. I yell and you do nothing.” 

“Here we go.” Dean groaned and tossed back the blanket, sitting up. He leaned against the headboard and scrubbed a hand down his face. “So?” He turned to look at her and Y/N pursed her lips, finally looking at his face. 

He looked so done, so tired. 

‘Do I look like that?’ She pulled in a deep breath, struggling to keep the anger and stave off the tears. “So what?” 

Dimples popped above his lip. He closed his eyes. “So talk.” He threw his hands up in surrender. “You wanna talk, so talk.” 

How strange that months ago, the same words would be used to comfort her, to coax out whatever was hurting her and help find a solution. How did love curdle so easily? 

She dug her nails into her palm. “No.”

“No?” Dean rolled his eyes. “Now you don’t want to talk?”

Y/N shook her head. 

“Fine.” 

Giving up, he sank back down and pulled the blanket up over his shoulder. 

“Goodnight.” 

It was so final, so firm, that Y/N started to shake. 

“You such an asshole, Dean,” she spat. “You don’t even care what you’re doing to me, do you?”

It wasn’t fair, she knew. He wasn’t doing anything to her that she wasn’t doing to him, but still, she couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t stop fighting. When the fighting stopped, they were really done. 

Without a word, Dean rolled out of bed and reached for his robe. He shrugged it on and huffed loudly as he tied the sash around his waist. 

Y/N watched with teary eyes as he turned away and headed to the door. 

“Where are you going?” 

His jaw twitched and green eyes narrowed on her face. “I don’t want to sleep next to someone who hates me.” 

The words landed on her chest like an anvil and her breath fell away as he slammed the door. 

“Dean…”

Something was broken. Inside him, maybe, but between them most definitely. 

Dean traveled the hall, his bare feet sticking slightly to the tiled floor. For a moment, he thought to go back for his slippers, but he knew that was more trouble than it was worth. She’d be curled up on the bed crying, he’d be resentful of her tears, they’d yell at each other and neither would get any sleep. 

Cas’ bedroom door was open so he snuck inside and flipped on the light. In the back of the desk was a pint of whiskey that he’d stashed a million reasons ago, and he hoped there was something left. 

His prayers were answered and Dean pressed his lips to the cold glass bottle, closing his eyes as he took a long drink. 

Maybe he should just man up and end it already. Why was he hanging on to something that was too broken to mend? 

I still need her, he thought. But why? What was the magic power she had over him? Sure they had fun together. She was a hell of a hunter. She was clever. She was quick-witted and sassy. She was beautiful. But the constant arguments and bloody knuckles were wearing away at his soul. He was exhausted. 

Dean sat on the foot of the bed and took another drink. The bottle was only half full and he knew it wouldn’t be enough to push the pain away. Wouldn’t stop him from trying though. 

Her footsteps had been silent but the door creaked loudly. She stood in the doorway with wet cheeks and hurt in her eyes. 

Dean looked up and felt that familiar tug in his chest. He reached out a hand and she came to him, slowly crossing the threshold and meeting his touch. 

When her hand slid into his, he knew why he wouldn’t leave. He needed her. Needed a warm touch after a long day, needed some comfort after forty years of scars and trauma. 

He turned his wrist and bent to kiss her hand. He lingered there: chapped lips on warm, soft skin. She didn’t pull away, didn’t make a sound. 

He couldn’t break away, couldn’t let her go. Not yet. Not ever. 

Y/N took in a shaky breath and lay her right hand on his head. Lightly, she ran her fingertips over his scalp and Dean sighed, melting into her touch. 

When he tugged her closer, she didn’t protest. When he laid back and brought her with him, she went willingly. 

They kissed like it was the last time: long and slow, drawing out every movement, every breath. Her back arched under his groping palm; he hissed against her ear as she tugged down his shorts. 

Y/N spread her legs for him and Dean dove down, kissing the length of her body, hitting every spot he knew she loved, every inch that he had memorized over their time together. 

He brought her up fast with his mouth and broke the dam with the crook of two thick fingers. 

She clawed at his back, held on tight to his strong arms. Rolling her hips against him, she begged with sad eyes and desperate moans. 

Lightning passed between them, igniting every pleasure receptor, sparking something akin to love deep inside, but it faded too quickly. 

They lay naked and panting on Castiel’s abandoned creaky bed, each one afraid to speak and shatter the moment. 

At least there’s one thing that’s still good.

Three months earlier, Y/N had mistaken a stranger’s intense flirting for everyday kindness, and watching the scene unfold had driven Dean into such a jealous rage that they screwed in the back of the Impala for over an hour while he tapped into kinks she’d only ever peeked at. He called her a slut and she scratched lines down his back. He slapped her cunt and she cried out in ecstasy. He bruised her wrists, and she damned near drew his blood. They reclaimed each other in the dark misty night behind that club in Denville.

Now, he sat on the opposite end of the bar, forehead held up by one hand as the other toyed with the rim of his whiskey glass. 

Y/N’s voice carried over the crappy music to his ear but he didn’t bother turning her way. She was saddled up next to a tall blond man with giant arms and a shirt so tight she could trace every cut in his chest and abs with her eyes. He was spending a fortune on top-shelf vodka that she drank down like water, edging ever closer as the minutes ticked by. Keeping one eye on Dean, Y/N laughed wildly at the man’s unfunny jokes, smiled coyly, and bit her lip to entice him. He was smitten but she couldn’t care less. She just wanted Dean to give a shit. To show a hint of that animal who’d torn her panties to shreds and sucked her nipples so hard that they hurt for the next two days. She wanted him to rush over and push the hipster douchebag away, rightly claim his property, and dare anyone around to say anything about it as he escorted Y/N to her waiting punishment. 

She wanted him to notice. 

She wanted him to want her. 

He kept his attention on the amber solace of his drink and ignored her fake laughter. 

As her suitor leaned to whisper a proposal in her ear, Dean tapped his fingers on the bar, ordering another drink. 

Her stomach turned at the man’s disgusting premise, but her heart ached for the man she used to know.  

Dean knew what game she was playing, but it didn’t cut him any less. He drowned his feelings in the cheap stuff, ordering another while she ran her hands down the stranger’s chest. He clenched his jaw so tightly that his back molars hurt when he released the tension. He was boiling inside but refused to give in. 

The bartender was a curvy young woman with creamy dark skin and tight curly hair that bounced with every step she took. Every time Dean called her over, she would smile enticingly and lean over on her elbows to give him a good shot of her cleavage. Rich brown eyes slid over his face with carnal interest and by the fifth whisky, Dean was drunk enough to give her the time of day. 

Y/N peered over her date’s shoulder and saw Dean reach for the bartender’s hand, lightly resting his fingers on her delicate wrist. Her stomach burned and when he looked over at her, she dramatically slid her hand down the stranger’s arm and tugged him away from the bar. 

Dean watched her leave, blond man in tow, her hips swaying in a display that made every dick in the place twitch. He cleared his throat, pushing away the hurt, and set his eyes back on the bartender’s crimson-painted lips. 

He was still awake and drinking when she tugged her key from the motel room door and slammed it shut behind her. 

Silhouetted in yellow lamplight, he looked like a villain waiting to attack. 

Just as he’d done in the bar, she ignored him and dropped her stuff on the table, nearly knocking over the bottle of bourbon. 

She shrugged out of her jacket and tossed it onto the floor by his feet. She knew how much he hated it when she left her things all over the room. It was unsanitary and annoying. Digging in deeper, she kicked off her shoes one at a time, shooting them in opposite directions. 

He drew in a heavy breath. 

“Have fun?” 

Y/N looked at him and wiped a finger at the corner of her mouth. “Sure did.” 

The gesture made his stomach churn and he nodded slowly. “Good for you.” He took a drink, emptied the cheap plastic cup, and reached for the bottle. “Good… for… you.”

Y/N swallowed an angry growl and turned away. 

Alcohol burned away his sense and Dean went on. “So glad you’re out there whoring yourself out to anyone who buys you a drink.” 

She spun on her heel. “Excuse me?”

His eyes cut into her. “You heard me.” He downed a shot and reached for another. 

“You’re drunk.” 

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “That don’t change the fact that you just swallowed some other dude’s load.”

“Fuck you.” Her heart was racing, her muscles twitching for a bout.  

He laughed bitterly. “No thanks. I don’t need your sloppy seconds.” 

Y/N seethed. Her eyes narrowed. She took a step closer. “And what about you? I saw you drooling over that young thing behind the bar. Was she all you dreamed of? Did she squirm under you, Old Man? Did she scream your name?” 

Dean slammed the cup down. The thin plastic buckled beneath his fist and tore. Whiskey puddled on the table but he didn’t care. “I didn’t touch her,” he said, voice hard and righteous. 

“Sure you didn’t,” she laughed. “Probably wouldn’t let your drunk ass near her.” 

She turned and he sprung to his feet, knocking back the chair as he went. The wood crashed to the floor, thumping on the worn green carpet. He grabbed her arm as she spun away and Y/N gasped loudly when his fingers dug into her flesh. 

“Get off me!” 

He grimaced but held tighter. “The fuck is wrong with you? You go off and fuck some guy and then come back here like we’re all good and you can just crawl into bed with me? Who the fuck do you think you are!”

The anger in his voice shot through her and Y/N shuddered. Biting back tears, she wrenched her arm away and stared up at him defiantly. 

“You think you know everything, don’t you, Dean?” Somehow, she kept her voice calm and even. “You think you’re some fucking superhero and everything has to go a certain way for you. You’re the chosen one and the world has to bend to your whim. But I’ll tell you what you really are. You’re an oblivious, selfish asshole and you crush everything and everyone around you to dust. And one day, you’re gonna be left alone on this planet surrounded by nothing but the carnage you left behind and your own goddamned tears.” 

Dean balked. His spine straightened and his eyes went wide. He took a step backward.

She’d gone too far, she knew, but it felt good to hurt him just a little bit more than he hurt her. 

He blinked quickly to clear his vision and shove the waterworks back inside. He dropped his fists and ran his fingers across the hem of his flannel just to have something to do, some way to ground himself. 

Shit.

Y/N softened, hating herself. “Dean, I’m-” 

He closed his eyes and shook his head. “No. Don’t.” 

A tear escaped and slid down his left cheek. 

Fuck. 

Y/N watched it fall, wondering how he could leave it there, how the feeling of sadness trickling down his face didn’t annoy him into taking care of himself. 

“I didn’t mean that-” 

He chewed his bottom lip and she reached out, swiping the wetness away with her thumb before he could pull back. 

“I don’t know why I said that, I just-” 

He didn’t answer and it burned her more than if he’d yelled back. She pulled her hand back and held his tear in her fist. 

Once upon a time she would have hugged him close, cradled his head, and let him cry into her shoulder. She would have soothed his pain, been a tourniquet for his soul, but now she was the blade. 

Silence hung between them and Dean gathered himself up. 

“I didn’t fuck her,” he whispered, cementing his earlier confession. 

Y/N sighed and her shoulders fell. “Neither did I.” 

Dean’s gaze fell to the ugly carpet and he took her hand in his. “I need some sleep.” 

She squeezed his hand and nodded. “Yeah,” she sighed. “Me too.” 

There are many reasons a simple case can turn sour and become a clusterfuck of epic proportions. A lack of credible witnesses or an uncooperative police force could slow things down. The lore might be wrong, the map may have changed, and the moon might shift phases in the midst of the investigation. There were a million things that could go wrong and the worst of them seemed to align in Pittsburgh. 

The city was too big to sneak around in. The streets were packed with tourists converging downtown and stammering through the summer heat. Police Chief Warren had been overly dismissive of any reports of an odd nature and therefore threw out over a dozen eye-witness accounts, making things incredibly annoying and difficult when occult dealings started becoming more obvious. 

The pair of recently arrived feuding faux F.B.I. agents was icing on the shitty cake. Partners Dunne and Jones worked the case, rushing through the gorgeous city and beyond, hunting a murderous crew that was dropping bodies up and down the Allegheny River. 

Beyond case details, they barely spoke. If it didn’t need to be said, it wasn’t. If it had anything to do with their personal life, it was ignored. 

Dean slept on the sofa. 

Y/N stayed up most of the night staring at him. 

She couldn’t tell through the dark that he was staring back. 

They used to be a great team. She was fearless and he was protective. He didn’t know when to shut up, and she cleaned up his verbal spillage. They communicated with winks and nods; blinks spoke volumes. They were always in sync, always had each other’s back, and when things went to hell, they were there to patch each other up without judgment or placations. 

Now the rhythm was gone. He went left and she took three steps back. She forged on, he was already back at the car. 

It wasn’t easy, but the job needed to be done. 

By two in the morning, they had tracked a trio of shape-shifting maniacs to a rundown townhouse on the edge of the city. Without mapping out a plan, Dean kicked down the door and Y/N rushed inside. 

Bullets flew. 

Fists collided; bones cracked. 

Blood flowed from shallow gashes as the last shifter standing morphed into a tiger and slashed at Y/N’s shoulder. She screamed, tumbling down and rolling onto her back on the dusty floor. Dean heard her yell and raced to the scene, instantly taking aim. 

From the floor, Y/N cocked her knees and steadied herself. She dug her heels into the floor and closed one eye, ready to fire. 

As her finger hovered over the trigger, a shot rang out and the tiger fell. Blood sprayed across her face and she scrambled back as the animal collapsed at her feet. 

“Damnit, Dean! That was my shot!” 

Stashing his pistol, Dean shook his head. “Yeah, whatever. You’re welcome.” He leaned over and extended a helping hand, but Y/N shoved it away, refusing. 

“I got it.” 

“Let me help you,” he snapped. 

Despite the pain in her shoulder, Y/N pushed herself up and spat a mouthful of blood at his feet. “I said, I got it.” 

Annoyed, he threw his hands up and turned away. He jabbed at the corpse with a boot and sighed. “What the fuck are we supposed to do with this?” 

Y/N looked down at the monster and shrugged. “I don’t know. Pretty sure the zoo’s closed at this hour.” 

There was no way they could burn the bodies in town, so they piled them into the trunk and took off into the open pastures of Pennsylvania. 

Silence hung thicker than the stench of death and Y/N sat with her head nearly out of the window. Anytime she went to speak, Dean turned up the radio. One notch on the dial for every word she didn’t say. 

The blaze burned high and the tension between them matched its intensity. 

Dean refused to look at her. 

Y/N pretended it didn’t break her heart. 

When the embers cooled to ash and the sun began to rise, Y/N kicked some dirt onto what was left and watched the last wisps of smoke dissipate. 

“Shall we?” 

Dean nodded without a word and fished the car keys from his pocket. The metal glinted in the virgin light and Y/N stared into the shine, praying that he’d say something, anything. 

God wasn’t listening. 

Dean drove the back highways like they were running from a nuclear attack. They headed west, away from the sunshine and into the boundless landscape of muted colors that transversed the country. 

Y/N was balled up against the door, as far away as she could possibly get. She closed her eyes to the whipping wind and longed for an answer. 

Dean watched her sighing into the breeze. There was a time when he was captivated by the small things like this. The way the wind lifted her hair and a gust stole her breath. The way her eyelashes graced the tops her her cheeks; the hint of a smile upon her lips. Now all he saw was another fight, a dense script of harsh words that neither could take back. 

He took the next exit. 

She sat up when the scenery changed and the long stretch of highway became a bumpy country road. 

Without turning her head, she looked at him from the corner of her eye. She used to love to watch him drive. Loved how his thick fingers curled around the wheel, calloused hands on worn-out leather. Loved how his bowed legs fell to either side and he kept his left hand draped on his thigh. So comfortable behind the wheel, it was like the Impala was made for him. As if the metal was forged with him in mind. She used to love to watch him drive, to cuddle up at his side, drop her head to his shoulder, and relax as the miles flew by. 

It was different now. 

It was strained. 

The magic was gone. 

“What happened to us, Dean?” she asked, voice crackling over the drone from the speakers.    

Hendrix played on and Dean shrugged. “Uh, we got our asses handed to us by a couple of shifters.” 

She snapped the radio off and turned in her seat, denim sliding over leather as she tried to face him. “That’s not what I mean.” 

“I know what you mean.” He leaned his elbow on the door and rubbed his forehead. 

“So,” she took a steadying breath, already feeling the tears brew again. “So what happened?” 

He bit his bottom lip and shook his head, too afraid to look at her lest he break down. This was it. 

“I don't know.”

Y/N looked away and let her eyes burn as the tears gathered. If she blinked, they’d fall. If she took a breath, she’d break. She stared at the road, at the faded white line and blue attraction signs, wishing she could go back in time, do it all over again, do it better.

Dean cleared his throat and pushed on. They were about a day from home and he longed for the safety of the bunker. He wanted to see Sam and have a beer. He wanted to call Jody and ask her how to fix this mess. He wanted to crash on his own goddamned pillow and pull on his giant headphones and listen to some fucking records before he lost what was left of his mind. 

Y/N was a million miles away and he had no idea how to reach her, how to fix what was broken between them. He still didn’t know which misstep had cracked the ice, but it was quickly shattering beneath his feet. 

He snuck a look across the bench seat, wondering if she knew the answer. 

She met his eye and something snapped inside her. 

“Pull over,” she whispered.  

His heart ached. “Are you OK?” 

“No.” She sighed and looked away. “Pull over.” 

She was done. All the nights lived in silence, all the chances he had to fight for them- it was too much. She was done. 

Dean pulled off onto the shoulder and hit the hazards. He twisted towards her with concern in his gaze and a plea on his tongue. 

She hesitated, hand hovering over the door handle, but when she gave him the chance, when she looked him in the eye, begging him to speak, there was only silence.

The door creaked open and her shoes hit the dirt. She grabbed her backpack from the backseat and slammed both doors shut. 

Confused and broken, Dean watched her set off. He knew he needed to follow her, but his body fought him. His legs were like lead, his arms were numb. 

She wouldn’t look back. She knew he wasn’t following her. The bag was heavy but she shifted it on her shoulders and took a deep breath. 

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t look back. 

He called her name and she stopped walking.

Boots hurried behind her. 

“Y/N-” 

She shook her head but he didn’t give up. 

“Where are you going? Come on-” 

She sighed heavily and hung her head. “I’m done, Dean.”  

“Done?” 

A laugh bubbled up and she turned. “Don’t act surprised, Winchester.” 

He licked his lips and shifted on his feet. “Look, I know things suck right now but-” 

“No.” She shook her head. “It’s not just now. We- we haven’t been right in a long time. You know we haven’t.” 

His stomach burned. “So that means you just walk away? You give up on us?” 

Anger swirled. “This is not me just walking away. This is me climbing over the hundred million little reasons we don’t work and leaving. It’s for the best.”

“It’s not. No part of this is for the best.” 

It almost broke her heart all over again. Almost. 

“Come on, Dean. You’re sick of me. I’m nothing but a bitch to you lately, and you’re… half the time you’re mentally checked out. We can’t stand each other.” 

He clenched his fists, his jaw, his resolve. “That’s not true!” 

“It is. You know it is.” 

“You can’t-” He swallowed hard. “You can’t leave.” 

“I have to. It’s the right thing to do. There’s nothing else here and it’s all just a distraction. One of us is gonna get killed. Or worse.” 

Heels spun in the dirt but Dean grabbed her arm. She looked down at it in shock and he retreated instantly. 

“Please, Y/N. You can’t end this.” 

If she’d ever seen him so hurt, so utterly heartbroken, she couldn’t remember. There was a darkness in his eyes that tugged at her soul. 

“One of us has to.” 

He closed his eyes and a tear trekked down his face. 

Fuck.

“Please…” 

She shivered. Her body was revolting against her plans, but her mind was set. 

“I’m leaving, Dean. Unless you’ve got a good fucking reason for me to stay.” 

His lip trembled. He searched for something to give her but there was nothing left. 

“Just one…”

His eyes closed again and Y/N’s shoulders shook. She couldn’t stop herself from crying, but she could keep herself from caving. 

“See- if you loved me at all, you could give me a reason. That would be enough.” She smiled sadly. “But you can’t say it. Because you don’t.” 

He held her gaze, sadder than she’d ever seen him. 

His voice cracked. “I do love you, but-”

Another laugh. Another pebble on the mountain. “You see? There shouldn't be a but. Love is love, Dean. Either you love me or you don’t.”

“It's not like that for me,” he said, barely breathing. “For us. This life, it-”

She cut him off with a hard shake of her head. “Do not blame the life.” She took a step closer and pressed her toes against his. “It's you and me right now. Either you love me or you don't.”

Kiss her. Grab her. Make her stay. You need her. 

Dean couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. 

The longer he stayed silent, the more sure she was. 

Midday peaked above their heads and their tears dampened the gravel below. 

Y/N placed her hand against his left cheek and pushed up on her toes to kiss the right. He closed his eyes and wrapped his hand loosely around her wrist. 

“Please…” 

She was all out of reasons. 

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[hydropyro]

He had finally been allowed into the city. No one had recognised him, which was surprising given the presence he knew this face had in the area. For a time he had considered that many may just be too afraid to draw attention to themselves upon recognition — but many were quite rude to him as well — so that theory couldn’t have been correct.

He had scoped every house, inn, and hovel in the outer city where all of the refugees gathered. Where better for his target to hunt? But, he’d had no luck.

‘Horus’ turned into the first inn he came to when being allowed through. He hadn’t quite made it into Baldur’s Gate yet, but he wasn’t in that much of a hurry.

He could have simply teleported himself there between the planes, assuming no agent of Zariel recognised him and alerted his father of his presence. But these hopeless mortals were prime targets for his own target, and so living among them was his best chance.

“My, you aren’t looking well, Mr. Raphael,” a woman said when he stepped into the lower floor of the inn. He’d kept and run his own tavern for what few years of peace he’d had, and knew immediately that this was more than such places.

Horus’s attention snapped in the direction of the speaker, who took a cautious step back despite her tight smile.

“No offence, of course.”

He didn’t know how his target sounded in this form, and so could not perfectly replicate his voice despite knowing how he appeared. He didn’t even attempt it. “It’s a common misidentification. But I am looking for the person you referenced. You know him?”

The mortal frowned but nodded. “Who are you?”

“You can call me Horus. Horus Crysst. Is he in?”

She nodded, looking a bit amused. The voice he’d used was not the voice his target did. “He is, as far as I know. Did a seeming spell go awry?”

When Horus did not respond, she gestured behind him toward a set of stairs. “Go all the way way to the top, out across the skywalk. The room’s called the ‘Devil’s Den’.

Horus suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Of course it was. and turned to follow her directions. As she’d said, the room was there, door closed but unlocked.

Horus pushed the door inward and saw him standing across the room, reading something. His clothes were fine and the perfume that permeated the air — almost suffocating — was expensive. Rose petals, enchanted never to wilt, littered the tiles near a roiling bath.

Examining his target, he found not a single hair out of place, though it was a different color than had been reported to him, and quite short not just ‘pulled back’. He held himself in such a way that screamed opulence. A mirror image of his father, however hard he tried to deny it.

Horus cleared his throat, though knew that the well-dressed man knew he was there. Raphael was making him wait. Still, at his own leisurely pace, the man turned, a practiced smile on their shared face.

The smile fell and gave way to confusion — and then a modicum of anger — then back to confusion after a moment of consideration. “I was not expecting a visitor,” he said simply, not showing his hand just yet.

“Surely.” Horus turned and locked the door so they would not be disturbed. It had been so long since they had last seen one another — how would he react?

The man before him had tensed some, but did not look too alarmed at being trapped in the space — until Horus let his mortal guise fall for the first time in many tendays. He stretched his wings and rolled his shoulders and neck as his body grew to its full height. The clothes that were baggy on his mortal guise now fit snug over his ridged, crimson flesh.

Then, Raphael’s eyes widened in unmask-able shock. “Magadon?”

[cast-you-dxwn]

Purge

“Contubernia 1-3 in position.”

The two small groups of angels had split in half, four legionaries on either side of the door that led into a no doubt small and cramped basement space. For that reason, each held only their short sword in one hand, the other resting upon the shoulder of the legionary in front of him the breaching stack.

Michael himself stood before the door, his own gladius tightly gripped, his nose wrinkled. He could hear the chanting beyond the thin particle board, could smell the blood and viscera, could hear the laughter mixed with song like, alluring giggling.

He knew his men could too. It was why each had tension tightening their musculature, why their knuckles where white upon their swords and their comrades shoulders, why the eyes of each burned with holy wrath.

Each knew what they would find inside. Each was eager for blood.

“Breach.” The word was muttered with a flick of his wrist, and the door splintered, exploding inwards to a chorus of confused and pained screams. The pieces of the door made fine shrapnel, but even throughout, that giggling only grew louder.

That, too, would fall silent soon. Tertius and Galavon, the two at the front of each stack, pulled small cylindrical objects from their belts. Bare metal, with only the image of a small cross etched into it. Pins were pulled, and both were tossed in. There was a flash, a deafening bang, and then a low and menacing hiss. The giggling stopped then, petering off into a hacking cough, then into low, distressed noises that gave way to shrieking screams. The sound of something burning alive.

“Engage.”

The legionaries thundered down the steps, and Michael followed closely. It was a short staircase, and they came upon their targets swiftly. They were still blind, deaf, choking on the fog of holy water that filled the room.

Most propped themselves up against the walls, or retched upon the floor, or clung weakly to the blood-soaked altar in the center of the room.

Tertius fell upon the first immediately, an empty hand tangling in the man’s hair, pulling him from the floor, his head back, a single well-practiced swipe of his blade cleaving the cultists head from his shoulders. The others similarly set about their purge, calmly and methodically relieving the profaned mortals of their heads, of their bellies, blood and offal spilling onto the concrete.

Galavons mighty arm hewed a woman in half with a single swing, her torso not meeting the floor before he had moved on to the next, simply pressing his hand into his chest until his entire being crackled and smoked, withering into ash as though incinerated by unseen flame.

For his part, Michael stepped to the altar, whereupon lay another corpse, not made by their hands. A young man, perhaps barely into his twenties, his already pale skin a bloodless pallor, his ribcage broken open in a bloody bouquet of gore. His heart had been removed, and laid upon the alter just beside his head.

But that was not where Michael’s attention was called. Deep grey eyes fell upon the twisted, disgustingly beautiful form that was curled upon the cold stone floor. It’s skin was splotched, wrinkled, turning from its normal purple color into a crisped black as it batted in futility at the fog that surrounded it, as though it could fan away the holy water that settled on its skin.

Its respiratory tract would already be beyond destroyed, the only sounds the demon could make, high-pitched whistling noises all that escaped its mouth as it hugged its knees to its chest. Writhing. Suffering.

All of this for a succubus.

Michael gave it little more thought, his blade falling in a clean arc. It weakly raised an arm, attempting to fend off the blow, but the angelic steel cleaved through its radius and ulna without resistance, meeting its neck, the pitiful noises it made cut mercifully short. Dimly, it occurred to him that he could have allowed it to suffer. To burn away into nothing as the holy water ate it alive.

He exhaled, as the demons corpse withered, blackened, and fell away to ash before dissipating into nothingness. Recalled the words he so often repeated to Lute.

Killing, when done righteously, is a chore like any other.

[galahdanblade]

“Maybe I’m crazy, but it looks like they all killed each other.”

the coernix station over looking alstor slough had never been intended to be an outpost - it had been set up to store supplies and had somehow started housing folks that were midway between outposts, but the place wasn't designed to keep folks protected.

the lights were deterrents only, and on the entrance and perimeter, but the building itself was just a warehouse - corrugated metal sheets bolted to a metal framework, which was in turn bolted to a concrete base. no insulation. no separation between storage and living quarters, it had worked as a stop-gap for a while, but with the darkness only thickening, it didn't make sense to keep power going to the place, not when they'd managed to move wiz and his birds to safety, there was nothing left in or near the slough justify a supply cache there.

most of the refugees had been loved throughout the week, leaving only a handful and a few hunters for the last convoy. they had been scheduled to be picked up in two days, but a broken radio transmission and set red flags waving a few hours ago - alex, a guardian rank hunter had contacted the base, reporting an attack, but the line had cleared before they'd established the full facts and they hadn't been able to get him back on the channel since.

a truck had been dispatched right away, but with an average travel time of four hours from meldacio to alstor, it had made for a jittery journey; the slough was close to wiz's old place, which in itself had been notorious for the varmint that had prowled the woods and the high-ranking daemons that had spawned there at night ... without further details of what had happened, they had sided on the latter; daemons. maybe a nidus had spawned and led a wave of daemons to descend on the old gas station.

but nothing had prepared them for the utter silence that met them once they'd dismounted the trucks. hopping out of the bed at the same time dave did, kaleb motioned for talcott to keep the engine running and to get the truck into a position that would make it easy for them to execute a speedy exit, if need be.

safety off, stock of his rifle held tight to this shoulder, kaleb peeled off to the left, boots barely making a sound as he eased his way to the side entrance to the warehouse - stomach knotting with each step; there was no noises. no shouts. not even the garbled, guttural gibberish that hinted at goblins.

easing the handle of the door down, kaleb sucked in a breath before he forced the door inwards with his boot, body moving to the edge of the doorway, his scope scanning from one side of the warehouse to the other for any moving targets ... but there weren't any.

hairs prickled on the back of his neck as he made his way further into the building's structure, keeping his back to the far wall, side-stepping to keep the open floor to his front in case he'd missed anything upon entering ... but there weren't any daemons in here. not even the hint of one - no black ichor on the ground from where someone might have lost a battle, just ... bodies.

eyes snapping up when his peripheral caught movement, kaleb's eyes met dave's as he rounded a shelving unit, the same haunted look on his face that kaleb was sure was mirrored on his own at that moment - none of this made sense.

they were all dead. the handful of refugees and the hunters that had been posted here - alex too. but there were no signs of forced entry outside the building. the lights were still operational along the perimeter and there was no evidence of daemons...

' maybe i'm crazy but it looks like they all killed each other. '

stopping when he heard dave's words, kaleb was glad the head hunter had said it first. but ... why? there were tales that had been brought by the nifen refugees about folks going mad in the darkness, but he'd never imagined this. was it the scourge? a new symptom? or something new? something that had lagged in getting to lucis, but had finally made it across the water? how did it spread? was it even a pathogen, or was it just folks losing their shit?

taking a step back, kaleb eyed the bodies and tugged his scarf up over his nose and mouth.

' we're in over our heads here, dave. i think we need to touch base with baldur - i've heard imperial refugees mentioning people losing their minds back in gralea ... but this is fucked up. '

@meldaciomartyr

[midori-laboratories]

Frozen Ashes: Chapter 11 - Blood in the Water V

Book 3 of The Calendula Chronicles.

Story synopsis: Albert Wesker molded his captive into the perfect, pliable bait for taking out Rockfort Island's paramilitary facility, and cracking open the Ashford family’s secrets. But who’s really in control, once chaos breaks out?

The stakes have never been higher for Marigold, but she may not be fast enough to save everyone.

Book 3 of the Calendula Chronicles series. Written as the other side of The Antarctica Incident.

Chapter summary: Albert Wesker frees himself, and learns what's become of his operation.

Takes place alongside: Chapter 8 (Antarctica Incident)

The oppressive weight which had locked Wesker’s limbs in searing agony slowly began to abate. He arced in pain, trying to loosen the bars locking him in place to the ground.

The majority of the flock (murder) had taken off some time ago, having found the regeneration of his flesh too much work to continue to deal with after their bellies were full. A few stragglers had retreated, likely waiting for the involuntary twitches of his body to subside so that they could feast upon a silent, still carcass.

He turned his head to look at the damage, though the effort left him light-headed from blood loss. The birds had torn at the flesh around the rebar that Marigold had punched through his bicep, and into the ground below. In the process, he had mostly torn free of the piece of steel. His arm had regenerated from the damage, leaving only the tattered sleeve and blood-stained skin as evidence.

Which meant that his right arm was now freed.

The steel in his shoulder actually helped in its own way, to keep his body still as he grasped the first of the spikes protruding from his abdomen and began to slowly extract it from the ground beneath his body, then through himself. After several long, excruciating moments, the piece of steel clattered to the ground behind him with a hollow ring. A warm spurt of blood followed it, then grew warm as the wound began to knit itself closed. He let his trembling arm fall to the side for a moment.

He’d have to get the other one out of his gut this way before he could free his upper body, lest the internal bleeding continue to weaken him.

Several long moments passed this way. The birds were not all gone. He could still see their little forms in the dark, watching, eyes gleaming, waiting for him to go still so they could resume their meal. When he got out of this, he’d have to secure some of them for study; a mild infection where the subjects maintained a sense of restraint against their hunger was deeply unusual.

For now, his hatred of them kept him from passing out, denying them their easy meal…again.

The second piece of rebar clattered to the ground, and Wesker gave a grunt of satisfaction. The others would be harder to get, but his regenerative factor could tend to the worst of his deeper injuries, while he took his time with the rest.

Marigold had been too frenzied to aim for critical points with the first two hits, but the iron bars had been left driven through him, and the crows hadn’t helped. The trap - she had somehow been cognizant enough to lay one - had held him there, in agony, for nearly an hour. She’d remained connected insofar as to keep him down - finally, he’d felt her riding the pain, using it to drive herself forward, and draw something else in. It had felt like a subtle working, though he had a sinking feeling that the results had been anything but.

The damage was not on the massive scale as he had experienced at the Arklay lab, but she had essentially pinned him like an insect in a collection, to experience the aftermath while fully present. Fully aware.

She’d known, then. Marigold had known this place was the target.

She’d planned for this.

Spencer had been sure she had fallen out with the family, and the family had drawn inwards, slowly dying out soon after she had been taken in. How much of the picture had she - had they -managed to keep secret? The way she had signed to the cameras - something he had remembered the twins doing when they had visited the botanical lab at Arklay in 1983 - told him that she had been much more involved than popular wisdom insinuated. She’d covered her tracks, and the family had followed suit, for years.

One of the two bars in his shoulder came free, and he yanked out the second before the regeneration could close it in any tighter.

How in the hell had he managed to forget that he was dealing with another Ashford? But of course, he knew. The way she had yielded to him after the Raccoon City mission had drawn a warm fog over his mind. He’d stopped asking questions.

Why had he stopped asking questions?

They…bite, don’t they. To infect. Marigold’s horrified face as she touched her mouth, back in the van outside the warehouse. Her horror hadn’t been only shock - it had been recognition.

Marigold’s teeth sinking into his shoulder after the mission, and again so many nights after. And here he’d thought it to be simple reciprocity. Wanted it to be. Reverberating pleasure and pain between the two of them, his focus held away from how that might be turned against him.

Looking at the monstrosity of metal above him, it was suddenly all to easy to imagine how her agility was built on a foundation of pain. How she might have trained herself to endure and hold it. In order to keep him from breaking away, she’d had to immerse herself in it, and had hardly flinched.

How deep did that corruption run? The pain-fogged thought began to sharpen as he worked the final piece of rebar from the ground beneath his shoulder. That he had not succumbed immediately seemed to have unnerved her, back in the remote lab.

How much has she corrupted his mind?

And how much control had he ceded in the process?

Over by the gate, a soldier had begun to haul himself over the gate - and froze. “Holy fuck,” Wesker heard the man breath, then shout, “Sir? Are you…oh my god. You’re alive,” the man - Segers, from the sound of his voice, turned his head back to someone on the other side. “The commander’s been ambushed! Get your asses back to your posts and send a fucking medic up here now.” Segers dropped down inside the gate and moved to unlock it from the inside.

“Not…yet,” Wesker said, gritting his teeth as he worked the final bar out of his body. The sense of relief was indescribable. His glasses had fallen off his face during his struggle to free himself, but they were in one piece, if scratched. He reached for them before Segers could get a good look at his eyes. The healing was one thing. The somewhat demonic cast of his eyes might be asking too much for one to accept.

He heard Segers’ footsteps approach, then stop and veer off towards the track - towards his radio. It had been going for some time, but the pain and effort of getting free had stolen his focus away, save for the increasingly panicked tones coming through. “Sir…can you move? The medic is on their way.” Segers hesitated, then, “That’s a lot of blood, sir. How are you..” Segers trailed off as Wesker climbed to his feet. His shirt was torn badly, and he likely looked like he had been dipped in blood. The regeneration and blood loss had sapped his energy terribly. There was pain when he moved, slowly fading to a dull throb.

Wesker would need a few hours and a decent meal before he was anywhere near fighting shape again, but he could function. “The mission?” He rasped.

Segers hesitated, then. “A lot happened, sir. We didn’t get orders to move in on Ashford - startin’ to see why, mind - so we held steady on position and held guard on escape points. Ashford didn’t seem to be throwing anything at us for a bit. Then that woman came through- from the control tower. She had someone with her, inna big poncho, hood up.” Wesker watched Segers fight to maintain composure. “She said this had been a weapons test, sir. When she put a knife in one of my men - two of them, but I got the other out, we were convinced it was a liquidation. Some ex-USS personnel had seen Ashford do that with prisoners, and when things started to go crazy…Davies stayed back to hold her off.”

Wesker sighed. Davies had been a hothead, but he had had enough years out in the field to be the sort that actively lived for blood and glory. HCF had offered him money and monsters to fight, and he’d brought several equally talented, though less bloodthirsty comrades along for the ride. But against a woman who could take out a pack of hunters with an improvised shield and light weaponry? “So Davies is lost.”

Segers hesitated. “No, sir. Davies is loose. I don’t know what the hell that woman told him, but he’s been cutting a swatch through our defenses. We’ve been tracking him - he’s starting to flag - but he’s gone fucking wild. And Ashford’s jet is…gone.” Segers voice twinged on the last word, but he maintained steady eye contact.

Fuck. Fuck. Wesker closed his eyes a moment. “Has anyone checked the palace? You said there was only one other person with her.”

“Yeah, but also there’s no need. We gotta lead come in. You’re probably going to wanna talk to this guy.” Segers dug a card out of his vest. “Says he’s a Monitor going from way back, in the Antarctica lab. It’s their real territory.” He handed Wesker the message, who took it from him, then looked at him sharply. “The source is real. Seems to be getting real antsy about all the T-virus coming into the facility from here, and is looking to cash out. Whoever it is has done work on the comms frequencies here on the island - had a backdoor to get straight through to us.” Segers swallowed as the blood-soaked man continued to read silently. “We assumed you were dead, sir. Quite a few others believed the rumours.”

Wesker had started to smile as Segers had nervously unspooled the previous hour’s happenings. In his hand, one Donald McNally, head of maintenance, had gained access to the deeper parts of the facility, as well as the mansion itself. In doing so, he had discovered Dr. Alexia Ashford, slumbering peacefully in a stasis chamber beneath the facility. T-Veronica was real, all right, and Doctor Ashford had taken precautions to ensure it bound properly to her cells.

“You said people evacuated there, from the fighting here?” Wesker asked.

Segers nodded. “Ashford’s jet shows a trajectory going in that direction. It looks like everyone’s flight paths were locked to those coordinates, actually.”

“So the one the men saw in the palace..”

“Not her. Ashford - the one we’ve been fightin’ - seemed to have cracked a lot more than we assumed. It was him the whole time.” Segers began to fidget. “Sir, whatever your deal is, that’s way above my pay grade. But, can I unlock the gate now? The others need to see that you’re alive so we can regroup and focus on locking Davies down….the blood will probably convince people that…” Segers trailed off.

“That this is not a liquidation,” Wesker finished. The fight itself would weed out all but the best for future missions, but there was no need to rub salt in the wound. Segers had proved himself to be a competent field captain. ”They’re cornered down there, if there’s an outbreak in progress. Umbrella will remote detonate the facility if it is not managed…and if the neglect here is obvious, I can’t image what a defunct lab would be able to do against that tide.” Wesker took a steadying breath. He needed to rest, but time would be of the essence. “We’ll need to get back the comms center. I want Davies alive - no one else has been exposed. I need to deal with this, and confirm it with head office.” The sound of other soldiers, including the medic, began to rise from outside the gate. “We have fresh units arriving in a few hours. Anyone not ready to evacuate will have to be picked up on return.” Wesker began to stride forward. Paused, then glanced back. “And find me the person in charge of sample containment. I want some - maybe a dozen - of these fucking birds secured alive for the main lab for observation, and the rest burned.”

I told you to leave my family out of this, Marigold had said to him, almost calm against the feral fury of her actions.

Marigold had known, about Alexia. Guessed. Getting here, playing him, was part of her endgame. And if she were saving Alfred, then fleeing to a virally-enhanced Alexia behind their castle walls….

I told you to leave my family out of this. He scanned the ground, spotting the empty injector. It was a thin lead, but something to chase down. Alexia - or at least, the father - would have developed this, which Marigold had used to break the haze induced by the hormone and pEspilon cocktail.

Boats and planes have also been evacuating in that direction, toward Antarctica, carrying the T-Virus. Their fortress would become a tomb before long, courtesy of Oswell Spencer. The old man had been shutting down facilities left and right. Umbrella’s coffers were running awfully low these days, and he’d likely need half a reason to pull the trigger on an Ashford-managed facility.

In the plane, he would find the vials of counter-serum that he’d made to manage Marigold’s inevitable realization and retaliation. He had held it for later in the mission, as she had slipped her lead much quicker than anticipated.

Segers jogged ahead and unlocked the gate. Wesker kept his face grim when the others outside caught sight of him, and let that carry the message. Segers began to relay the orders he’d just been given, having won the trust of this particular group. Davies was to be secured, and they would be securing their forces before getting ready to move out in a few hours time.

In the distance, an alarm sounded, and soldiers began yelling to clear the military facility. Alfred had triggered the self-destruct mechanism for the labs beneath it; who knew how much of the overlying structures would cave around them.

They’d have just enough time to clear the grounds before the explosion. Then, they would have to triage the situation. Segers was already yelling orders into his comm, and people were moving out.

The next phase of this fight would be harder, and stranger. But, if Wesker played this right, he would still be able to walk away with everything.

----------

Deep within a hidden chamber of the Antarctic facility, Alexia Ashford drifted between dozing softly and lying awake in the soft aftermath of a triumphant awakening. She felt…warm. Sated. Weak, for now (fifteen years of growth without muscle tone would have that effect) but pleased.

Grayson had been there to pull her out when she was ready, just as she intended. The shock on his face when he’d seen her speaking was…concerning. But he’d met her energy when she’d pulled him down into her arms. It seemed that the virus had certain drives that bore feeding, and she would, gladly. The rest could wait for later, all of it.

It had worked. T-Veronica had settled and entwined with her over all of those years. She suspected that the process of awakening might have been more traumatic, but the effects of the p-Epsilon liquid cast a soft blanket over her perceptions.

Alexia was awake. She was one with her virus. And the boy she had grown up alongside with her twin, had grown to love, had been waiting, ready to take care of her. He had tucked her in under the blanket after their exertions, insisting that she take the time to rest and recover.

The mutamycete root in the adjoining sealed chamber was beginning to stir. It waited, a part of her gone quiet in her drowsy state. T-Veronica, a blending of T-Virus, the primordial ant virus, and the mutamycete, all flexed its power while camouflaging its host.

Was this some of what Aunt Marigold had felt with the virus, before she had died? Alexander’s work on a chelator had given Alexia access to to a scant portion of Marigold’s “field notes”, as she’d liked to call them. (The cool anger and latent terror in Alexander’s eyes during that one horrid week in late 1981 had suggested strongly that her aunt’s end had been imposed from without, rather than as a result of her condition. He’d refused to speak of it.) She found herself wishing she could ask. Alexander was in no position to answer that sort of question, if he ever had been.

Later, she could explore. Later, she could plan. For now, she turned in her sleep under the wool blanket which smelled like Grayson, content that all was well in the world.

[coldfanbou]

I'd like to see a submissive Umji, I think it somehow suits her. Thanks!

Trainer's Delight

A submissive Umji for you.

A note to everyone, as of right now, on the request side of things, the order of the fic releases will be Mommy Taeyeon, Son Naeun, and Sohee from Alice. As for the next part in the twice series, it should be out later in the week.

Length: 1.7K

You didn’t think that life could turn out this way for you, a sudden downturn in luck changing your path in life. A young Olympic-level archer struck with a sudden and terrible shoulder injury. In the time it took you to recover, you had lost endorsements and your spot on the Olympic team, and now you were just teaching others archery. It wasn’t all bad; you were close to your passion. Occasionally you would see students with great potential, and it would excite you to see that. Today though, you had a private lesson scheduled. Under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t accept private lessons, preferring large classes, but with the amount of money offered, it was impossible to refuse. Upon agreement, you were given an address and name. You were told to provide the name to the man on the intercom once you arrived for the lesson. Looking up the address, you find it is quite a large estate. 

As you arrive at the estate’s entrance, you see the large front gate’s intricate floral design; the amount of detail is impressive. Pressing the call button, you hear a voice over the intercom. “Yes? What business do you have here?” 

“Uh, I’m the archery trainer you recruited; I’m here for the private lesson with Miss Kim Yewon.”

“Ah, I see; I’ll let you right in. She’s waiting for your arrival. You can park your car in the first garage on the left. Miss Yewon will be waiting.”

As the large gates begin to open, you slowly drive into the estate, the lush green grass has been well kept, and all along the driveway, vibrant purple and orange flowers are planted, creating a welcoming atmosphere. As you park in the garage, You see a beautiful young woman waiting inside; she’s checking her bow. 

“Hello, I’m the instructor. Are you Miss Yewon?”

“Y-yes, but just call me Umji; everyone does.” Her nervousness is apparent; she twitches slightly. When she’s speaking to you, she can’t match your eyes. 

“Should we make our way to the range?”

“Yes, we should,” she responds curtly. She leads the way, a fair distance in front of you; you can’t help but notice her outfit: a white form-fitting sleeveless shirt with a racing design on the front, a belt accentuating her small waist, and a white skirt.  It looks great on her, especially when contrasted with her orange hair. Umji suddenly stops and points to a large target 80 yards out. Lowering her head to look at the ground, Umji says, “I should tell you I’m not good at this. My arrows go way off course.” 

“Well, that’s what I’m here for, aren’t I? Why don’t you take a few shots at the target so I see what I’m working with.” As Umji readies herself, you notice her stance; her knees are bent inwards. Her arms are shaky, and her face shows a grimace as she releases the arrow—wide right, 20 yards short of the target. The next couple of shots are much of the same; on her final attempt, Umji collapses to the ground letting out a moan as you rush over to her; your mind races as to what could have happened to her.

“Yes, please just fuck me.” She’s tearing away her clothes as she says that. Umji stands before you now, her body like that of a goddess. As your focus goes down her body, Umji has small perky tits, her midsection toned like someone who’s been dancing for years. You’re eyes reach her dripping wet pussy, which not too long ago had a vibrator in it. Taking off your clothes, you already imagine what to do to Umji. As you free your cock from your boxers, Umji quickly takes hold of it and starts stroking you. “Oh wow, you’re pretty big.” Umji shows just how hungry for cock she’s been as she starts taking you into her mouth. Her head is bobbing at a quick pace while she fingers herself. As she moves her head down, you thrust your hips, forcing her to take your whole cock. She gags at the unexpected action. Grabbing her head, you push your way further into her mouth, pulling her back; she coughs, tears starting to run down her face. 

She tries to get up, but she collapses again. “I’m fine, really I am.” As you reach her, you try to help her up. You hear a thunk, something heavy fell on the ground. As you look to the ground, you see it’s a vibrator. It’s still moving around. Umji knows you caught her; she grabs the vibrator and your hand, rushing you to her room within the house. “I can explain.” Sitting on her bed, you’re stunned by what just happened but slightly amused at what she’ll say. “Look, I’ve had to deal with so much, and I…I” She cuts herself off, lurching toward you, locking lips. You both fall to the bed. “Look, I just really need to be fucked, please,” she puts on her look, striking at your heart with puppy eyes and a pout. It’s been a long time since you had any action, but you had to ask first.

“I’m I still going to get paid?”

“I’m still the teacher here. I'm taking the lead if you want me to fuck you.” She nods her head, her mouth wide open. You slap her tongue with your cock before sliding it into her warm mouth. “Use your tongue, Umji.” As you command, she starts using her tongue, licking the sides of your cock as you slide it in and out of her mouth. “Fuck, Umji, have you done this before? Brought someone in just to have sex with them?” Meeting your gaze, she shakes her head. She’s being honest. “Umji, I’m going to cum. Make sure to drink it all, don’t let a drop go to waste.” As you pump into her mouth several times, you make Umji deepthroat your cock as you reach your orgasm. Cumming down her throat Umji tries her best to do as she’s told, but the ropes of cum you give her are too much. Her throat and mouth quickly fill up and overflows cum leaks out from the corners of her mouth. As you pull yourself out of Umji’s mouth, you see the small amounts of cum that overflowed fall onto her chest. “That’s a good first attempt next time; you’ll do better, right?” Umji nods her head excitedly, still swallowing all of your cum. You pull her up, placing her at the edge of the bed. You tell her to lay back, and kneeling, you position yourself between her legs. Umji whimpers as your fingers glide along her pussy, “Umji; you can’t cum, no matter what, or we’ll end things here, alright?”

“But-”

“No, buts Umji.” She lets out a moan as you insert two fingers in her. Your fingers slowly make their way into Umji’s depths, making sure to poke and prod at her walls. Umji’s moans grow louder. As you pull your fingers out of her, you ask her, “Do you like that, Umji, my fingers playing with your tight little pussy?”

She nods her head. “Please don’t stop.” You oblige, going back to fingering her, her moans coming more frequently. You start playing with her clit; she can’t hold on much longer. “I’m going to cum.” She screams out. It hadn’t been over a minute, and she was about to cum already. You quickly pull your fingers out of her, denying Umji her orgasm. She looks down at you. “Why did you stop?” 

“I said you couldn’t cum, Umji, and I’m very disappointed you nearly did. I guess I’ll just have to punish you for being unable to last that long.” Standing back up, you turn her over, so she’s bent over the bed. Placing your hand on her ass, you pull back and slap it. Umji lets out a yelp. “I didn’t want to do this, Umji, but you need to be better.” You smack her ass a couple more times, a red hand print forming on it. 

“I’ll be better; I will!”  She says; you stop slapping her for a moment to align yourself. 

“Well then, if you say you’re going to be better, I have to make sure starting now” You thrust in Umji’s warm pussy, driving yourself as far as possible. A loud moan escapes Umji as you enter her. As you try to pull out, you can feel Umji’s pussy trying its best to keep you inside. You begin to thrust into her with more force; placing a hand on Umji’s head, you force her down as you pound away at her pussy. 

“Yes, this is what I wanted,” Umji moans out. You slap the other side of her ass, creating a matching handprint. 

“This is all you wanted, isn’t it? To be fucked like the little slut you are.” 

“Yes, it’s all I wanted; I wanted to feel your big hard cock in my slutty pussy.” As you continue to thrust into her, Umji’s walls begin to tighten.

“You’re going to cum aren’t you, Umji? Since you’ve been such a good girl today, I’ll let you cum.” You quicken your pace, feeling Umji’s tightening wall bringing you to your own climax. 

“I’m cumming” Umji screams out as she reaches her climax, her juices staining the bed as they rush out of her. As you reach your orgasm, you pull out of Umji cumming onto her lower back and ass. 

“That was great, Umji, but I think we’ll need to have many more lessons for you to improve.”

“Yes… I think we will” Umji manages to get out, her heavy breathing normalizing. You get a couple of tissues from the nightstand. Wiping away your cum from her body, Umji quietly asks, “Is it okay if  I lay my head on your chest, at least for a little while?” 

It’s not a question you expected, but you agree. As you lay down on the bed, Umji makes her way over. Placing her head on your chest, she wraps her arm around you. 

“Thank you,” She says in such a sincere voice you can’t help but be taken aback. “I can’t wait for our next ‘lesson.’” As you look down at Umji, she meets your eyes, a mischievous smile on her face. She moves closer to you. “You’re kind of like a big teddy bear, you know,” She says to herself, followed by a giggle. 

“Oh yeah, laugh it up now, but just you wait until our next lesson.”

[starshipsofstarlord]

I Miss Him

Pairings | Liam Dunbar x reader. Past Brett Talbot x reader.

Summary | previously, you had dated Brett, a while before you and Liam began to kick it together. But now he’s dead, and you can’t help but mourn for your ex boyfriend, he was not only that to you, but also a good friend.

Warnings | mentions of death, mourning, loss, angst

Requested ✖️

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

The hunters were out of control, acting out of fear, taking innocent lives, all because they thought that it would ensure their safety. To their mortal dismay however, they did not acknowledge that there was something more intricate at play, twisting their wills, and bending them to its deadly whim.

But they didn’t know the first thing about supernatural species, in fact, you were a lot like them. You loved, and endured loss, the pain of such a thievery almost breaking your heart.

Liam felt guilty, from where he sat in class, watching you. He could sense you wanted to rip Gabe’s throat out for his loyalty to Monroe. He too had that desire, but upon Scott’s orders, and against his impulsive wishes, he remained silent, and tried to blend in.

But he was well aware, since that night, all eyes were on him, piercing him with their scared and revolted judgement. They had seen a truth that they had not been prepared for, and the idea of creatures that stalked and preyed under the moonlight, walking around in human skin, terrified all of them.

It was her fault that Lorrie and Brett were killed, she was going to pay. Your claws gouged the underneath of your desk, lightly picking away the wood with ease.

To say you were infuriated was understatement. Every possible emotion burdened you, and it made you feel utterly heart broke. Brett Talbot had been your first love, and whilst the two of you had eventually broken up, things ended pm good terms.

The image of his body, covered by Lori’s surrendered one haunted you. If you hadn’t tried to keep up with the chase, and not ended the new hunters, you’d mistake yourself for suffering from symptoms to poisoning too.

“He’s a monster.” The words met your ears, and that voice belonged to the murderer that you knew to be Gabe. “Dunbar is going to be next, we just need to expose him first.”

Your eyes rapidly fluttered around the room, inspecting every corner with your hyperactive sight. Liam was their new target, and it brought a burning wrench within your gut, one of which you tried to control.

For now, it was all talk. But that said, the humans would eventually take action to strike, and you’d be damned if you lost another loved one; especially Liam.

The lacrosse players exited the coach, carrying their tactical bags, as you absentmindedly trailed behind them, smiling up at Brett as he stood tall among the herd. Breathing in the fresh air, you reeled your mind blank for a moment, until you heard disruptive chatter, that sounded like it was going south.

Once you returned to your conscious senses, you saw your boyfriend talking down to a shorter boy, who wore an unimpressed expression. It was Liam Dunbar, the by that had moved to this school after his anger problems had gotten out of hand - literally.

Holding your head high, you walked over to the small group of players that had gathered,and were demeaning the blonde. Calling out Brett’s name he slowly turned towards you, his brow firmly raised. He hardly moved your intent for interrupting his latent and distressed discussion, and so you grabbed his elbow, pulling him away.

Before walking away with your long legged partner, you sent Liam a calm smile, only to end up dragging the werewolf towards the back of the bus, leaving Liam’s new friends in a state of relief. A cocky smile forged onto his face, as he trapped you against the weight carrying vehicle, leaning down so that his tender and luscious lips were fanning air upon your own.

“Did someone get all hot and bothered seeing me put Dunbar in his place?” He snickered, and whilst you usually adored his humour, now was not the time nor place for it predominant presence. At his usual self and words, you contained an infatuated grin, up keeping your stern expression towards him.

“You are here to play lacrosse, not tick off Liam.” You reminded him, swatting his face away as he tried to apologetically peck you. “No Brett, you can sense it too. The change practically reeks off him,he’s one of us.”

“It’s all fun and games.” He tried to reason, but you weren’t having it. And so you crossed your arms over the other upon your chest, harmlessly glaring up at him.

“When you’re n that position, it isn’t. It’s something you need experienced, you were born a wolf, a lot of us weren’t. And let me tell you, when the first first begins to make you into something else, it didn’t easy. So cut Liam some slack, would you? For me?”

A light scoff exited Brett’s mouth, but eventually, with the aid of your prone flowering, he gave in, tipping his head back, and groaning. “You bring out the best in me, and as much as i love t, at times it can be a pain in the ass.”

“Well,” you began, warmly squinting your eyes at the boy. “I’m your pain in the ass. And I’d say you have quite a nice ass.” You smirked.

“You always know what to say to pull me back.” He moved closer and this time you allowed him to close the space between you. In fact, you relished in it, falling deeper for the Devenford Prep student, with every word that the pair of you exchanged.

A deep breath caused you to falter your staring into nothingness. As you looked to the side, you noticed Liam knelt beside you, clasping your face. And that was when you realised that class must have been over, for the room was entirely empty.

“Hey, you good gorgeous?” Liam asked, cradling your jaw as though it would break under your touch. He was admittedly worried, you didn’t have the best record for controlling the inner animal. During class,he thought he may have needed to stop you from killing Gabe.

To everyone’s luck, that wasn’t necessary, and everyone was still alive... or, at least, almost everyone was. It would merely be a matter of time until Gerard got the war that he wanted, it clearly had already began.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You mumbled, feeling comfort in the warmth of his hand. It was one of the few things that could bring you any kind of calm and steadiness in these dire times.

“How’d you stop yourself?” He also had troubles with control, the conflict of his inner nature and his inwards anger had never been friends. Slowly, you licked your lips, as you scrambled for the answer, unaware that it had been right in front of you all this time.

“Brett, he’s- or at least, the memory of him - is my anchor.” You tried to explain, a furrow on your face as the mere mention of the boy, and the thought of him alongside his dear sister set you into ample mourning. Instead of saying anything more, Liam pulled your head down to curl against his shoulder, him sharing your pan and loss.

[thebadbatch]

Hunter x FemJedi!Reader

Plot: You're a jedi, the next chosen one after Anakin Skywalker. You're paying a lot of attention to Tech and his curious questions but Hunter wants the attention on him.

Warnings: Light jealousy but cute!

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My chosen one.

Being a jedi was nothing new to you, even as the chosen one. The last chosen one to hold this weight of the galaxy upon their shoulders was a man named Anakin Skywalker who eventually ended up a part of the dark side. Once you were born you already had an overpowering connection with the force, you always understood and trusted one another. People were wary of you of course, they didn't want you to turn to the dark side like Anakin once did but you were different. The light side of the force ran through your veins, power coursing through you at all times - you are the strongest warrior within the galaxy and many civilians even saw you as a goddess. Once Order 66 had occurred, you were one of the few remaining Jedi left and the Empire wanted you. Constantly on the chase, you met a group of enhanced clones who were also on the run from both the Empire and bounty hunters. Eventually you had agreed to join them, protecting each member as well as their little sister Omega who was a constant target. It had been months of running and protection along with many beautiful memories you couldn't help but hold close to your heart, the group still strongly curious about your force abilities. In fact, you were sitting in the cockpit beside the member Tech with Omega at his side both of whom were asking non-stop questions.

"You're the chosen one?" Tech had asked, leaning forward in complete disbelief with the datapad he cherished laying tightly in his grip. "Like Anakin Skywalker?"

"The chosen one?" Omega echoed, staring at Tech for any answers to her question knowing that he always held the answers. "Who's Anakin?" You laughed lightly, clutching to the robes that covered your skin. 

"Anakin is the previous chosen one, unfortunately things didn't go to plan." You paused for a moment to watch Tech frantically type into his datapad. "I'm the next chosen one, me and the force are close and we're determined to end the Empire." Omega gasped lightly before gazing over Tech's arms to see what he was looking at.

"You're worshipped as a Goddess - I apologize for my abruptness but this is truly Incredible." He took a moment to scan his eyes over the datapad, "May I ask why you didn't say sooner?" Standing, you straightened your clothes out and ensured that your lightsaber was against your side.

"I wasn't sure if I could trust you all, but it's clear that I can now." You shared a slight smile with them before turning to face the door Hunter was about to walk through. As soon as the door opened, Tech joined you at your side with Omega rushing to his side. "Hi Hunter!" You grinned, fiddling with the sleeve of your robe. Truth be told, you had developed strong feelings for Hunter overtime, something about him just felt So right. The force practically glowed around him, clearly agreeing with your feelings.

"Hunter, y/n is the chosen one." Tech blurted out as he watched Hunter's eyes narrow slightly at you as he wracked through his thoughts for a moment.

"The chosen one?" Omega nodded and smiled,

"It means that she's going to stop the Empire!" He grinned at her and ruffled her hair before facing you three, Techs eyes fixed upon you with a light blush across his cheeks. Hunter rolled his eyes lightly, gently moving to stand closer to you.

"She's seen as a goddess to multiple planets and rightfully so, her force capabilities are beyond anybody's understanding." Hunter watched as a blush coated against your own cheeks which made jealousy practically fill his lungs as he inhaled a sharp breath. He hated watching Tech fall for you whilst Hunter loved you and always had done. 

"A Goddess huh?" You heard the sharp breath he took inwards before turning toward them, "Anyway, Tech and Omega could you tend to the repairs on the hyperdrive? Just whilst I brief y/n on our next mission." Hunter's hand soon held yours as he pulled you lightly to the bunks. You felt in the force that something felt off - there was an abundance of emotion coming from him via the force and you couldn't pinpoint what exactly was wrong. 

Once the doors slid shut behind you both you watched as Hunter paced lightly between the bunks.

"Hunter?" Your voice alone sliced through the rapidly building tension, "This isn't about the mission is it?" He immediately came to an abrupt stop, face within his hands before he shook his head.

"No but I-I need to talk to you. Please." Nodding lightly, you sat on top of his bunk, lightly patting the white sheets beneath you for him to sit. Once he sat beside you his hands began to nervously fidget with his knife which made you smile. You had grown to adore the habits he had, they felt almost enchanting.

"Go ahead, I'm here to listen." Without a moment's notice, his voice soon went through the air once your voice had stopped.

"I want you to be my chosen one, y/n." Your heart instantly knocked against your chest within a sudden rapid heartbeat with your cheeks heating up.

"Your chosen one?" You repeated, feeling his heart race and warm yet timid emotions through the force. He nodded whilst running his fingers through his hair, eyes avoiding your own.

"Yeah… I want to be with you. I want to spend my lifetime with you and I just-" Allowing a large smile to grace your lips, you held his cheeks so that his gaze was finally fixed upon your own. To cut his anxious rambling off you pressed your lips to his own in a short yet loving kiss. 

"You know I love you too right?" His eyes widened once your lips left his own, a smile soon reaching his own lips too.

"You do? I thought you liked Tech?" You laughed lightly, shaking your head as you held his hands. His fingertips intertwined with your own, his emotions only warmth and joy.

"He's like a best friend, but you? I want to spend my forever with you too…" Your voice trained off as the smile against your face grew bigger. "As your chosen one." With that, his lips met yours once again in a more passionate kiss - any words not previously said being shared through the kiss.

"My chosen one."

[maverickcalf]

Barry & Mitch

'You're a really bad liar'

Barry x Mitch (Unnamed AU) So We never named this AU, but the idea is that Mitch remained single and made his way up the latter at the firm. Then started his own firm. He was very closed off, both emotionally and his personal life. He basically hires Barry to make sure no one outs him to the press.

Mostly about his transness more than anything.

Anyway here is my writing sample for the fic. Might add more later, I just tossed this through Grammarly so there might be more errors, but I wanted to get this done today.

It was supposed to be an easy hit. The guy who was ordered to rough up had a pretty regular routine from what Barry had observed. But when it came to the night he was supposed to, in Mr. Mcdeere's words, silence him (which is what he usually asked for), something felt different 

It wasn't until Barry, who was perched on a nearby hill, heard the all too familiar sound of glass breaking that he put it together.

Someone else was sent to kill his target. And unfortunately for him, they weren't too quiet about it. Barry looked around wildly, looking for the point of entry to the house. Spotting it seconds too late as one of the goons already made it inside.

The rest of what happened was a bit of a blur. Barry had moved closer, turns out it was two guys, and the other had spotted him and took aim at him. Shit. Thankfully he just grazed his shoulder but the rest of the area was left a mess.

Normally he waited until their agreed-upon time, but this time he had seen that Mcdeere's target also had another enemy. Maybe they wanted the information about Mitch. He needed to give McDeere that news.

He knew even on a Saturday morning McDeere would be home. Barry had never been to his home before opting instead to meet in a small book store. He liked it there. It was always quiet, but not too quiet that their voices stand out.

As Barry knocked at the door he was surprised to hear two sets of barks greet him from the other side, rather aggressive sounding. However, they do not sound like big dogs. Barry waited nervously until he finally heard the barks die down. Instead, he heard the sound of a camera moving.

Barry looked up at it, a bit more surprised than he probably should be. Of course, Mitch had a camera. For someone of his caliber, living alone, made sense. For some reason, however, Barry didn't like it.

The door flew open. Mitch Mcdeere was standing there. Adding to Barry's confusion, he was wearing active wear. He looked like he was in the middle of working out. This was the first time Barry had seen him in anything less than a suit. Once he had seen him without a tie, but nothing like this threw him off.

Because of that, it was up to Mitch to say something first. Barry was too busy standing there with his mouth open.

"What the hell happened to you?" He asked, his face as unreadable to Barry as ever, even as his eyes flicked up and down Barry's form. What Barry did understand is when Mitch took a step back and waved him forward.

Barry did as he was told and walked in. The dogs were intrigued by the new person walking inside, sniffing as far as they could reach, which wasn't far as they were some sort of corgi mix.

"I'm sorry," Barry started to ramble, barely noticing how Mitch was guiding him over to the living room. "The hit, someone else was there. I know you only wanted him roughed up, but they killed him."

"Sit."

Barry did as he was told and sat down on the couch, but he kept talking, "Anyway it doesn't matter I got those guys too. So I didn't fail at all."

He didn't fail, he couldn't fail. Because if he failed Fuches would be right and he would have to go back. And after their fight… he couldn't. Not without begging anyhow. It wasn't until Barry looked up at Mitch did his face fell.

He was frowning, his lips were curled inward. His eyes were still taking Barry in. Fuck, maybe he did fail. Mitch only frowned at people he was angry with.

Barry broke eye contact with Mitch, it was too much for him to handle. "...'m sorry I didn't do what you said-. You don't have to worry about payin-"

"You are hurt."

Barry blinked in surprise and looked up at Mitch in confusion. Barry saw him pointing to his shoulder, which had stopped bleeding, but his shirt was still torn from the bullet.

"Oh, this." Barry said moving his arm slightly, "It's nothing." It should be normal. He was hurt like this all the time and it was nothing. That's what Fuches said anyhow. That he was a marine and could handle a little pain.

"You're a really bad liar, Barry." Mitch chuckled briefly, but his eyes remained the same.

Barry winced, looking down at his feet, noticing now that they were covered in mud and he had trailed in through the hall. No wonder Mitch was mad.

Damn, he did mess things up, but he couldn't… he couldn't go back to Fuches. That would mean he was right, that he wasn't ready to leave Ohio. And Barry didn't want to go back, not back to his apartment where he was so alone. 

He didn't even notice that he had been sitting there stewing until he felt the couch move slightly. 

Barry turned to see Mitch sitting next to him with a first aid kit. At first, he was speechless. It wasn't until he felt Mitch's hand on his arm did he find his voice.

"It's fine. I have dealt with worse." And that was the truth.

"I don't doubt that," Mitch growled. Then he paused, taking a deep breath in and out. His voice is now steadier, "I know you don't like touch. But I need to clean this or it could get infected. Okay?"

Mitch said okay, not as if it was a question, but as something Barry was going to have to deal with.

Barry nodded. "Okay."

Despite dealing with the weight of his crushing failure, the experience of having Mitch patch up his shoulder was pleasant. 

Mitch bandaged the wound the same way he did work, with the sort of attention to detail that others would be jealous of.

Once he was done he closed the kit and stood up. "Now you said there were two other men there? Are they the ones who hurt you?"

Barry nodded, still looking at his bandages, moving his arm slightly. It didn't hurt as much now. "Yeah, but I took care of them."

Mitch was quiet for a moment, before turning back towards the kitchen. 

Barry looked up when he heard the sound of Mitch walking away. "Where-?"

"You look need some breakfast. Do you like eggs?" Mitch said, turning back towards Barry.

Barry blinked, "But I failed-"

Mitch waved his hand, dismissively, "First off, no, you didn't. Second, me feeding you isn't part of the contract. Three, Do you like eggs?"

Barry was taken aback, he was going to fight. Say how he did fail because he didn't do what he had been hired for. But there was something about the way Mitch stood that Barry knew he would lose that fight.

Barry took a deep breath in and out, "I like eggs."

And for the first time, Barry saw a smile creep up on Mitch's face. But it was different than the others he had seen. It was warmer. There was real joy there.

"Good, now stay there, take your shoes off, and relax, okay?"

Something had changed, but Barry wasn't sure what. Was this what it was like to make mistakes and not have it treated like it was the end of the world?

Barry nodded, a hint of a smile appearing on his face as well.

Maybe failing wasn't so bad after all.

[enmy-writes]

Just Let Me Help You

Summary: Zuko, trying to keep is girlfriend safe, unintentionally gains the trust of the Gaang after a showdown with Combustion Man.

Word Count: 2728

Fandom: ATLA (Avatar: The Last Airbender)

Pairing: Zuko x Fem!Reader

Genre: Mostly fluff, is fluff-angst a thing? Idk guys I’m soft, you tell me.

Rated: 18+

Content Warnings: Profanity, some gore graphics (brief mentions of blood, killing, murder), uhhhh that’s it I think I’m sorry if I forget anything else.

****Huge shout-out to my friends Kenz and Jenna for editing this and hyping me up. Hopefully, since this semester from Hell will be over soon, I’ll be able to write more. Please request things! Thank-you all for supporting this and let me know more of what you want to see in the future :) Also, feedback is always welcome. Enjoy!****

_____________________________________________________________________

They had landed the war balloon days ago, stalking the tired and defeated Team Avatar and trying to figure out how the complicated Fire Prince would convince the people he chased for months that he wants to help them now.

(Y/N) was stoking the hot flame provided by the fire bender, making sure the coals were burning a cherry red before she added leaves and herbs into a pot to make a stew for the two to enjoy. Her eyes followed Zuko as he paced back and forth, practicing what he was going to say when he finally decided to confront the rebel group, lips turned upward in an amused smirk.

“Hey, Zuko here…” she heard him say before he started rambling a bunch of nonsense about his past; from his discovery, to Azula, to his father-- all the tragic topics. It took him about three minutes, but he finished with a hopeful look in his direction.

“Well?!” He clenched his fists at his side in a nervous gesture, only wanting to get this right.

The girl on the log cleared her throat before speaking, obviously hiding her laughter from the sensitive boy. “Well… it’s perfect. I especially liked the ‘Hey, Zuko here’ part. I’m sure that Aang and his friends with be very pleased to finally learn your name instead of thinking you’re called ‘Angry Ponytail Hotman’.’’

He groaned loudly, rubbing his eyes with clenched fists. The melodic laughter from his companion tempted him to give up his quest and just run away with her and live a happy life free of his father and his destiny… whatever that may be.

Still laughing, (Y/N) stood from her log by the fire and made her way to Zuko, coming up behind him. Her arms slid right around his slim body, holding on tight as she tried to pull his mind from the depths of his insecurities.

“Zuko, love.” Her voice is soft, but intense. “Just go down there. I won’t lie, they might not take you right away. You have done a lot of damage to them and their goals.”

His warm hands slide down the tops of her forearms and slide between her chilled fingers, entwining them together as Zuko grips her like she’s holding him down on the land they’re on.

“I… I just…” He struggles to get his feelings out, finding it hard to convey how he feels even to the girl wrapped around him.

She shushes him. “I know.” Is all she says, as they stand there in a momentary comfortable silence before she detaches from him to continue dinner.

____________________________

Zuko had told her to stay behind, that he’d be back to either get her or because he failed to convince the group that he came to support them, instead of harm them.

“Zuko! I could easily be an alibi for you. A reason for them to trust you!”

“No. End of story. They could attack me and you’re in Fire Nation clothes. You’re staying here.”

A staring match between the two only lasted a few seconds, but (Y/N) let it go; remembering Iroh’s advice that sometimes the boy has to do what eases his mind to grow.

The empty pot gleamed an orange glow from the flames, a light in the dark woods that surrounded the two as they lounged by the fire.

(Y/N) was carding her fingers through the upset prince’s hair while he stared at the sky; confused. His emotions spilling onto (Y/N). He didn’t talk much about the encounter, only enough to tell her that they wouldn’t be helping the Avatar defeat his father anytime soon. Rather than pressure him, she offered her solace with calming actions rather than words.

The two had met in their early childhood, (Y/N)’s father being the leader of the Yuyan Archers and of course the Fire Lord wanted the talented girl to meet his… troubled son. In hope that she could help bend his son into the ruthless leader the nations needed to proceed him. Though they didn’t see each other as much as they should have due to (Y/N)’s schooling, the two quickly became close friends and were often found with Lady Ursa quietly running around the palace grounds.

His banishment led to (Y/N) perfecting her skills, and becoming the master she was destined to be, given there was no more distraction. No one could understand her in the way that Zuko did— they fit together like they were made for one another. Where he was hotheaded, she was cool; Where he was nimble and direct, she was resourceful and hidden. The two were the perfect set of opposites who ultimately balanced each other. And one without the other was a heartbreak everyone could see.

When she heard the news of his return, she rushed to the palace; radiant as ever. In an instant, the two fell back into where they left off;  barely any words needed between the two. Her fingers and lips had trailed over his scar often in those few days, brushing away the tears and insecurities that came with it.

Leaving the Fire Nation with Zuko wasn’t even a debate in her mind. She was tired of the life of lies and torment that her nation inflicted upon the world. She had spent the last two years relocating and rebranding people who were targets to the Fire Nation. In total, about one hundred innocent lives were saved from her dangerous missions. Her skill level was better than even her father’s, and she prided herself in her abilities. (Y/N) was truly a professional in her art with the eye of an eagle.

When she caught Zuko writing a letter to her with packed bags on his bed, she instantly went into the shadows and caught up with the boy easily, hiding in the balloon behind the engine for a while until it was too late for him to turn back. It was hot and the most uncomfortable thing she has ever done, but she regrets none of it. She joked with the boy; how did he not question a pile of fabric behind the piece of equipment that holds fire? She let it go after he hugged her close and cried for a while.

“Don’t do that shit again, Zuko.” Her voice was stern, though her voice stern, she held him close. She ghosted her fingers over his tense shoulders; the shoulder that carried such burdens. She pressed her fingers into his shoulders; trying her best to rub the tension from his body. 

“I won’t. Never again. Don’t leave me, I need you.”

A rustle of leaves and broken trees in the forest near the edge of their little camp put the two into defense, instantly gripping her perfectly crafted bow and quiver. Her ears pricked at a slight movement and she aimed her bows in the direction of the noise without even looking. Suddenly, green clothes fill the area as a younger girl makes her way into the clearing. Startled, Zuko sends a wave of fire towards the intruder, burning the girl.

Everything happened fast.

(Y/N)’s left foot—her plant foot—sunk into the ground and twisted inward, releasing a loud crack into the air. The Earth girl was long gone now; Zuko had been screaming at himself when he heard the cry of pain and the sickening noise that left the lips of his girlfriend.

The earth has released its hold on her, but the damage was done. She kneeled, trying to hold back tears but failing as they kept streaming down her face in a pain response. Zuko’s own eyes filled with tears as he ran over to her, helping her sit down and take the tension off of it.

The joint was already beginning to swell, black and blue and purple and yellow starting to show up in swirls around the area. Zuko carefully tried to feel the injury, barely touching the girl in fear of hurting her more. (Y/N) sighed, pushing his fingers away and ignoring his protest. She rotated her foot outward, cringing at the pain, but crying out when she turned it the other way. Zuko cupped his hands around her ankle, hands heated slightly to hopefully alleviate the pain.

“Baby… it’s okay—”

“No, you’re hurt! I knew this would happen!” He cuts her off with a panicked yell. (Y/N) places her hands on the sides of his face, forcing his eyes upon hers with a slight wince of discomfort.

“It’s most definitely, at worst, a fracture. I can still move it outwards without a lot of pain. It’s, like, a week off my foot at most and then another week with a splint and a crutch. I am okay, Zuko.” They stared at each other for a solid minute, saying nothing.

"Promise?" Zuko whispered.

"You think I would lie to you, Zuko?" She says as she wraps her pinky his for good measure

They turn in not too long after, (Y/N)’s ankle wrapped up in some extra clothes for stability. Zuko’s arms hold her to his chest as they slip off into the world of dreams.

_________________________

Oh shit. She thought from her perch on top of the cliff edge. The assassin that they have also been trying to find has been blowing up the place, really testing the stability of the edge of the cliff in shakes after shakes like an earthquake. Zuko had told her to stay at camp, but unfortunately for Zuko; (Y/N) was never that good at listening to commands.

She was sitting down, watching the Avatar, his friends, and her boyfriend try to figure out how to win this fight against the combustion bender, feet dangling over the edge. She didn’t want any pressure on her foot from standing on it; settling for the dull throbs of pain coming from the force of gravity alone.

Some third eye. (Y/N) thought to herself as she watched her boyfriend get too close to being blown off the edge of the cliff, wincing. She quickly strung her bow, aiming it at the man. She smirked, a devious smirk, and aimed it in a precise location.

Zuko was still trying to talk the man out of it when suddenly, his eyes went blank and the grossest sound he has ever heard reached his ears. Everyone watched the man, confused as to why he just stopped. It’s not until red trails down his forehead and around his nose in a slow trickle that they look at his eye.

In the middle of the red eye, that at one point seemed indestructible; an arrow sat; a perfect shot — his perfect shot. "Bullseye!" (Y/N) howled, her voice resonating in his ears.

In the midst of Zuko's panic, he failed to recognize the cliff he was standing on becoming increasingly unsturdy; turning he locked eyes with the archer. A ghost of a smile graced her lips, pride radiating off of her. Though he was angry, he couldn't help but share her pride. He locked eyes with his girlfriend who was sitting nonchalantly on the cliff edge above them all, waving nonetheless, when he told her to stay back. It’s then that the earth beneath him rumbles and falls, taking him with it.

“Zuko!” She screams, jumping to her feet; a loud crack coming from her ankle, buckling under the pressure and bringing her to her knees.

With a hobble in her step, (Y/N) climbed down the cliffside. The tears ran down her face at a ferocious pace, making her way over to the cliffside, a loud sob relented from her mouth as she saw Aang helping Zuko up over the edge of the cliff. 

"Spirits, Zuko!" She breathed, limping her way over to him and hugging him tight. "I should kill you, you fucking idiot!" She sobbed, pulling him into her chest. 

Zuko huffed out a laugh, wrapping his arms around her. He took deep breaths, calming his nerves from his near death experience; he focused on the feeling of her hand carding through his hair to grip it tight, and the hold on his shoulders. As he calms down, he remembers that he told her to stay put; and he sharply pulls away.

"I told you to stay at camp!" He huffed, "I told you I was coming back for you!”

She scoffs pushing on his forehead with two fingers. “In case you have forgotten, Zuko, I have authority issues. If I weren’t here, who would be saving your stupid royal ass? No one! You’re welcome, by the way. He wasn’t going to negotiate, Prince Pouty, and you and everyone else here is no good to the world dead.”

“You—You---You could’ve been hurt! (Y/N)! Or worse!” His protest was a whisper, trying to make the scene more private as he’s aware of the crowd around them.

“Zuko, love, I can handle myself. I’m a master at my craft--.”

"—your craft of carelessness, you could've been killed—"

"—but I wasn't Zuko!"

"That's not the point." His voice stern, making it clear that the conversation was done for now. (Y/N) simply nodded, pulling away from him and fixing her clothes.

Aang, Toph, Katara and Sokka watched the two as they argued; watching as they continuously tried to out-care the other. They watched as the two eventually stopped arguing, instead remained staring, as if daring each other to speak

“That was a ... nice shot? I guess?" Aang spoke, clearing his throat and drawing the couples attention to him. "He's definitely you know, dead."

(Y/N) smiles at the boy. “Thank you, Avatar, for helping save this dumb ass from falling off a cliff.” She gets up and bows to him. Zuko suddenly picks her up, the world turning sideways as he put her bridal style in his arms.

“Stop putting weight on your ankle!”

“I’m literally showing respect to the person who just helped you, is that a crime?”

“What if you break your ankle so much that you have to cut it off.”

“Oh, now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“Okay well you were first when deciding to sit on the edge of a cliff with a broken ankle.”

“You’re right! Sitting is dangerous. Next time, I’ll make sure to stand so at least I’ll have a better chance of reacting if the cliff side starts falling from under me. Oh wait, you were standing, and you still fell.”

Zuko sets her down on a broken rock that’s suitable enough for her to sit on. “Will you just shut up already and let me help you.” He reaches for her ankle, but she moves it from his grasp. Their eyes meet again and narrow in competition.

A mess of limbs as the (Y/N) evades the grip of Zuko, occasionally slapping his hands away if they get too close.

Sokka tilts his head in confusion and opens his mouth. “Is he—is he actually caring for someone?”

Aang nods. “I think? I don’t know, they’re kind of fighting a lot.”

Toph cringes, “Guys, I think it was me who hurt her in the first place. Last night at their camp. Zuko instantly stopped trying to help me when I heard her scream.”

“Guys… I think I’m supposed to let him be my master. I mean, he did just risk everything to save us.” Aang says, eyes locked on the one member who he cares more about than anyone.

Katara, still holding off on agreeing, looks to the two Fire Nation kids again.

“Ow! You bit me! Are you crazy?!” Zuko yells, shaking his left hand out.

The stranger girl laughs cheerfully. “Only crazy for you, stupid.”

And a phenomenon occurs. Prince Zuko of the Fire Nation blushes and looks down at the ground, a huge smile on his face.

“I hate you.” Is all he says.

“Yeah, I love you too.”

Katara, seeing the humane side of the prince, finally lets her guard down and walks over to them. Zuko’s eyes widen at her proximity, but the water tribe girl holds his gaze.

“I’ll heal the girl if it gets you two to shut up. And you have to find dinner for tonight.”

Katara’s eyes widen again at the sight of the crying prince who suddenly bows to her feet, thanking her with his whole heart. He then turns to his smiling girl beside him and pulls her into a hug.

“Thank you, (Y/N). For everything.”

“I’ll always help you… stupid.”

[iceeckos12]

time travel snippet

little time travel au oneshot. season 5 jon travels back in time to season 1. from the perspectives of tim, martin, and sasha. 3.5k.

i dont think i need to tag anything, but please let me know otherwise.

Tim wakes up that morning, and it’s just like any other day.

Well—no, okay, that’s a bit misleading. Today is his first day working as an archival assistant, so he’s one part nervous, one part that breathless, exhilarated feeling you only get when you’re about to do something unfamiliar that may or may not redefine your life for the foreseeable future. When he says “it’s just like any other day”, he means that he wakes up, and he’s a normal person doing normal people things like eating a healthy breakfast and going to work.

(So, no. In short, he doesn’t realize that today is the day when It happens, that big, life-changing event that you think will Never Happen To You.)

He gets out of bed, stumbles into the bathroom. Washes his face of whatever residue that’d built up during the night, tries to scrape away the evidence of his nightmares, smiles big and bright at the mirror to see how successful his efforts were. He’s betrayed by the traitorous bags beneath his eyes, but that’s okay. Sasha taught him how to wield concealer as a shield whenever his past wore down his armor.

He shoots twin finger guns into his reflection, making soft pew, pew! noises that are almost too-loud in the hush of the bathroom. Then he turns on his heel and walks away, sauntering and humming along with the chorus of Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5.

He gets to the Institute twenty minutes before he’s supposed to—not because he’s trying to impress his boss or whatever (he and Jon have known each other long enough that there’s no point). It’s just, Jon will probably want to make some sort of game-plan before the actual workday starts. 

The poor man had been relieved to an almost comical degree when Tim had said yes, I’ll come with you to the Archives. It’s painfully obvious how out-of-his-depth Jon is with the whole “Head Archivist” thing. Tim’s honestly baffled as to why Elias had singled him out for the position in the first place, considering his lack of qualifications.

But, whatever. It’s fine! Tim and Sasha will be there to help him—although the third assistant is a bit of a problem, considering that they know absolutely nothing about him. There’s no guarantee that this Martin Blackwood won’t report inadequacies or mistakes back to Elias. If that’s the case, Tim and Sasha will have to be Jon’s safety net, which is partially why Tim is hoping to talk to Jon before anyone else gets there.

He also wants to talk to Jon because he just knows the man is probably working himself up over all of this. Maybe reassurances won’t do away with the source of anxiety entirely, but at least it’ll remind Jon that he’s not alone, and that he can count on Tim and Sasha.

As expected, when Tim gets there he can see a sliver of light pouring out from the cracked door of the Head Archivist’s office. He selects a desk and sets his bag on top of it, noting a set of strange gouges in the fake wood with a raised eyebrow, and then an internal shrug. The Institute issued laptop is near the far edge of his desk, and his collection of pictures are strategically placed so that he can see them all clearly.

His eyes linger over the image of him, his mother, and his brother. Their smiles are almost perfect replicas of each other, like someone took a mold of one of their faces and recreated it twice over.

Briefly, he closes his eyes. Then he shakes himself, releases a slow, steadying breath, and goes to check on Jon.

Tim’s not sure what he’s expecting to see when he goes into Jon’s office.

(That’s misleading too, though. He’s not sure if Jon will be visibly calm or upset, if he’ll be on his laptop, if he’ll be picking at the skin around his fingernails, as he so often does when he’s stressed. He is expecting Jon as he is and always has been—a twenty-some year old going on sixty, who wraps his gruff, grumpy demeanor about himself to protect the soft, vulnerable core he likes to pretend doesn’t exist.)

He comes up to the door, and the soft rectangle of light that emanates from beneath the door paints the tips of his shoes gold. “Jon?” he calls softly, rapping his knuckles against the frame. There’s a soft rustling noise—papers maybe? but no audible response, so he shrugs and pushes the door open. “I’m coming in.”

Tim steps inside, a quip instinctively readying itself on his tongue—but then his gaze lands on Jon, and he freezes dead in his tracks.

Even years later, he still vividly, viscerally remembers the moment he saw Danny standing on the stage underneath the Royal Opera House, the way he’d looked...not quite right. The wrongness had been subtle, so much so that it had been unnoticeable upon first glance, upon second glance. The longer Tim had looked though, the more obvious it had become, exposing all the little faults in that almost-perfect recreation of his brother.

Looking at Jon now, it’s the first and only thing he can think of. Because—yes, there’s the long, silver-streaked black hair, there’s the rich brown eyes, there’s the pair of spectacles that make him look far older than he actually is. But that’s where the similarities between the Jon he knows and this Jon end.

Jon’s always been a small man, but his feigned haughtiness makes him seem much bigger than he actually is. Except—except this Jon looks smaller somehow, his shoulders curved protectively inward, like he’s trying to present less of a target. And there’s something about his face, too—his expression is too sharp, too much—

But the worst of it is his eyes. There’s something very wrong with his eyes.

Who the fuck are you, and what have you done with Jon? He doesn’t say it out loud though, just keeps staring at Jon, a heady mix of terror and horror making any sort of reaction impossible.

After a moment Jon’s lips thin, contorted by some distant cousin of displeasure, and he rises to his feet. Tim stumbles instinctively backward, his breath escaping him in a sharp gasp that’s immediately swallowed up by the apathetic stacks of books and papers surrounding them. He’s struck by the fact that if he dies here, it’s unlikely anyone will notice; he’ll become just another set of marks gouged into the desk, willed away with an uneasy shrug.

Jon freezes, lips parting subtly, as though he were about to speak. Tim feels his breath catch in his chest, unable to shake himself out of the clouded stupor his mind has fallen into.

In the end, Jon says nothing. Just releases a long, slow breath of air and sits back down, pushing his chair close to his desk. The motion looks heavy, tired, as though it takes far more energy than it should.

“You—you should go,” Jon rasps, and there’s something off about his voice too, though Tim can’t put his finger on why. He can’t cobble together enough of a train of thought to make sense of any of this, all he can think of is that clown ripping Danny apart—

He stumbles out of Jon’s office, sits down at his desk. Stares down at the cheap, fake wood, at the gouges that have marred the otherwise pristine surface. Puts his head in his hands, and tries to will his heart to stop pounding in his chest.

-0-

Martin’s heard things about Jonathan Sims.

He’s not usually the type to pay attention or encourage gossip, as the vivid memories of his classmates tittering cruelly whenever he walked by still leaves a sour taste in his mouth.The problem with the Institute is that the employees get bored pretty easily. Though most would consider academic research into the esoteric and the paranormal to be fairly interesting, it’s still academic research. And the subject content can get to be a bit...repetitive. There’s only so many gruesome statements you can read without thinking, oh great, more meat.

So the employees gossip a lot, and while Martin usually tries to keep his head down and avoid it, it’s difficult not to overhear some things. And from what little he’s heard, he’s...a bit concerned. Rude and unsociable has frequently been mentioned, as have arrogant and unnecessarily finicky, and worst of all, a bit of a stuck-up know-it-all.

Normally he tries not to put too much stock in office gossip—he’s well aware that the grapevine tends to exaggerate one’s most undesirable traits—but if any of it is true, then he might just be in trouble. It was hard enough being a library employee when his boss wasn’t even paying attention most of the time. If Jon is as exacting as they say, it might be enough to expose the fact that Martin has no idea what the fuck he’s doing. And if that happens, then he might get fired, and he can’t get fired, he needs this job, he can barely keep up with his mum’s medical bills as it is—

Calm down, Martin tells himself firmly, pressing his hand against his sternum, as though that will be enough to quell the rising panic. It’s only your first day. Maybe he’s nice, and we’ll actually be good friends.

(With his luck? Yeah, right.)

The Institute looms in the distance, growing closer with every terrified, grudging footstep. A shiver runs up his spine at the sight of its imposing presence, a dark, ugly blot of a building against the backdrop of the iron grey clouds.

If there’s one thing he’s good at though, it’s keeping his head down and muddling through until he’s able to figure out what is actually expected of him. He can twist and fold himself into whatever role they need him to fill, as he has done so many times in the past. Not easily perhaps, but he has always managed. The alternative is untenable, after all.

So he takes a deep breath, and shoves his panic down as deep as possible. Lifts his head and forces a smile onto his face, like a good attitude will be enough to protect him from his boss’s wrath.

He could really do with a cup of tea.

Martin trudges down the stairs, giving the blank walls, the old-fashioned carpet, a dubious look as he does. The Archives themselves are as he remembers it—he’s been down here a couple of times when Gertrude made a request for something specific, but—

He pauses when he notices a man sitting at one of the desks, his face buried in his hands. His shoulders aren’t shaking and his breathing is even, so Martin doesn’t think that he’s crying? He’s just….sitting there, his stillness so perfect it’s almost inhuman.

“Hello?” Martin calls softly, cautiously, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet.

The man looks up, revealing a very handsome face and brown eyes so dark they may as well be black. His cheeks are dry but his eyes are bright and a little wild, and his mouth is pressed into a small, tight line. He doesn’t speak, just keeps watching, blinking dazedly in Martin’s direction. Martin gets the feeling that this person isn’t entirely there at the moment, like a house in which every room is lit, but there are no people inside.

He swallows and shifts nervously back and forth, trying to decide whether or not to call for some backup. Eventually he sets his bag on the floor and shuffles a bit closer. “Um—are you—is everything okay?”

The man blinks rapidly, some semblance of awareness creeping back into his gaze. He shakes his head slowly, pushes his short, gelled hair back from his head. His hands are trembling. “I’m...yeah, I’m fine. It’s—everything’s, it’s…”

But then his gaze lands on something over Martin’s shoulder, and all the color drains out of his face, his mouth shutting with a painful sounding click. Martin quickly spins around, searching for whatever could’ve scared him so much—

There’s someone standing in the doorway of Gertrude’s office.

There are so many things that one normally takes in upon first meeting another person: their hair, their skin color, all the little wrinkles and marks that give you the briefest insight into their life. Martin looks at posture first, tends to check if a person is intentionally looming, or if they’re making themself smaller.

But all Martin can see are the eyes.

There’s—two of them he thinks, but two is such an arbitrary number when the thing you’re applying it to doesn’t ascribe to human values (he’s not sure how he knows that—how does he know that—?). That horrible, terrible gaze is an unerring arrow, all-encompassing, all-consuming, piercing the deepest corners of his mind. It hurts in some distant, nebulous way he’s not even sure he comprehends—

Then he blinks, and the sheer terror, that feeling of the horrible, violating exposure of everything that he is, abruptly snuffs out. What’s left is just a person, wispy and small, his slight frame fairly drowning in a chunky, cable-knit jumper. He’s leaning against his doorframe, his eyes—two big brown ones, rich and unfathomably sad and more than that, human—drinking Martin in, his lips parted in a soundless gasp.

“Um—” Martin glances over his shoulder, and almost leaps out of his skin when a land falls heavily on his shoulder. The man who’d been sitting in the chair is standing just behind him, a strained but polite smile on his face.

“Hi Jon,” the man says, an undercurrent of a warning in his voice.

Martin glances between the two, his confusion growing with every passing moment. This is not what he was expecting when he first came into work today, and the uncertainty makes him feel strange and off-kilter.

The person in the door swallows once, twice, then straightens, one hand still gripping the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. When he speaks, his voice is soft, tentative, a little ragged around the edges. “Tim. It’s, um...it’s good to see you.”

“Martin Blackwood, was it?” Tim continues, injecting a bit of cheer into his voice. It takes Martin a moment to realize that he’s being addressed, and he shoots Jon—this is Jonathan Sims?—an uncertain look before nodding slowly. “We’re happy to have you on the team.”

“O-Oh?” Martin squeaks, then grits his teeth and bodily forces his voice back into its normal range. “I’m—um, I’m happy to be here?”

“Good,” Tim says through a grin that looks more like a grimace, giving Martin’s shoulder a friendly pat. The look he shoots Jon is a dark, mistrustful thing. The look Jon gives him back is fragile, vulnerable, that winds the tension in Tim’s shoulders so tight it has to be painful.

Jon’s gaze flickers to Martin, just for a second—and then he disappears into his office, leaving the door cracked behind him.

Tim and Martin stand there for a second, staring at the door. Tim’s still tense as a bowstring, and his grip on Martin’s shoulder is almost uncomfortable. The air in the Archives feels stuffy and too warm, and there’s a strange prickling sensation on the back of Martin’s neck, like he’s being subjected to close scrutiny.

Then Tim sighs and lets go of Martin’s shoulder, a little of the tension bleeding out of him, and without it he looks small, deflated. He goes back to his desk and sits down, booting up his laptop without a word of explanation to Martin.

Martin stares at the back of Tim’s head for a moment, a number of questions clamoring around in his brain—what the fuck was that? What’s wrong with Jon? Why are you so obviously suspicious of him?—but the words won’t come. Breaking the silence feels...sacrilegious, somehow. Every breath of air sticks against the back of his throat.

In the end, he doesn’t say anything either, just sits at his desk and takes out his Institute-issued laptop. Stares blankly at the screen as the machine slowly, laboriously, comes to life.

-0-

Sasha’s not entirely sure how to interpret the tense atmosphere that has descended over the Archives.

The first day she’d arrived a couple of minutes before she was supposed to, prepared to follow Jon’s direction and help him adjust as best she could. (Her feelings about Jon’s promotion...didn’t matter. She didn’t like it, but it wasn’t his fault that Elias was an old-fashioned misogynist.)

But when she’d come down the stairs, Tim and the assistant she didn’t know, Martin, had been seated quietly at their desks. They’d both had the same distant, shell-shocked look on their faces, like they’d received some shattering, horrible news. Sasha had sent Tim a confused look, but he either hadn’t noticed it, or hadn’t wanted to explain.

She hadn’t even seen Jon that first day, just received a polite email asking her to start organizing the statements according to the system which he’d devised.

It’s been almost three days, and nothing has changed. Oh sure, they’ve all started organizing the statements as directed. Tim cracks jokes, Martin tiptoes around them and makes copious amounts of tea. That strange tension that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up, like the world is holding its breath in anticipation, hasn’t faded though. And while she doesn’t know Martin all that well, she knows that something’s still up with Tim. He seems more subdued than usual, keeps sending uncomfortable looks in the direction of Jon’s office—

—which hasn’t been open since that first day. She hasn’t seen Jon at all either, no matter how early she arrives or how late she stays. The only proof she has that he’s still alive is the polite email she periodically receives, detailing some specific task that he wants for them to do.

Even then, his emails are...odd. She’s not sure how she can tell, but they feel...awkward? Stilted? Like he’s only half-aware of what he’s typing, or like he’s only asking them to do things because he feels like he should, not because he has any actual goal in mind.

Normally she’d be frustrated by this, would complain bitterly to Tim about Elias passing over her for someone who obviously doesn’t properly appreciate the position they’ve been given—except that she knows Jon. He’d made a point to explain the situation to her himself, an apologetic twist tucked into the corner of his mouth. More than that, he’d asked her to follow him to the archives, saying that he wanted the two people he trusted most, her and Tim, to come with him.

He respects her too much not to take this job seriously.

The strangeness of the archives is only emphasized by Jon’s complete and utter lack of presence within it, but she doesn’t—she doesn’t buy that. She doesn’t believe that he’d just suddenly decide not to do the job he’d been so anxious to excel at. 

More damning than anything is Tim’s complete, utter silence regarding Jon’s strange behavior, but whatever he knows about it, he isn’t saying anything. Martin is willing to talk, but he seems to be as lost as she is.

“I—that first day, Jon…” Martin shrugs, shooting a nervous glance toward the door leading to the archives. He’s been spending a lot of time hovering in the break room making tea, not that she can blame him. “He—I mean obviously I don’t know him very well, but he seemed...upset?”

“Upset,” Sasha repeats dubiously.

Martin lets out an exhausted sigh and turns away, waving a dismissive hand. “Look, I’m not entirely sure how to explain it. He just—okay, so, bear with me for a second, but he reminded me of this guy who used to live in my neighborhood.”

Sasha backs off, folding her arms and leaning against the counter. “Okay?”

“There was this little old couple that used to live in my neighborhood. They were—they were really sweet! The husband used to give candy to us younger kids. But um—sometimes you’d see him sitting in the rocking chair on his porch, and it was like...he wasn’t entirely there? Like, he’d just sit there for hours, rocking and staring at nothing. That’s—that’s what Jon’s expression reminded me of.”

Martin gets more animated the more he talks, Sasha notes; his hands move in broad, sweeping gestures, his expression twisting into an expression of extreme concentration. The moment he finishes he deflates again, tucking his hands into his armpits self-consciously, a hedgehog curling protectively in on itself.

“So, yeah,” he finishes eloquently.

“Huh,” Sasha says thoughtfully.

She gets back to her desk. Looks over at Tim, who’s studiously working through a box of statements, his mouth set in a neutral, concentrated frown. Takes a deep breath, letting the taste of dust and old papers sit heavy on her tongue.

Then she opens her laptop and starts looking through the catalog of cursed items that are currently being held in Artifact Storage.

(She doesn’t think that she’ll find anything, but—but just in case.)

-0-

They all get the call the next Monday morning: Elias Bouchard was found dead in his office.

[chaoticevilbean]

Inspired by Redemption and Far From Home, Close To Heart

Luke stumbles into the shuttle, heaving as he carries his father’s body the final few steps. The ground shudders beneath, a sign of the impending destruction. His mind is numb, not letting anything slip into his head. He has no thoughts but one, as though he’s on autopilot. He has to get into the air. Now.

Somehow, he manages to get into space and out of range just moments before the Death Star explodes. The shuttle rocks a little from the waves of energy, but settles quickly enough. Luke can’t tell if he’s about to pass out or throw up, or maybe both, but he still manages to turn his head to the controls, prepping to return to the Rebellion.

He stills as he does a double-take of the view outside the transparisteel.

A void. Absolutely devoid of stars, planets, and ships. Where are the Rebels? Where is Endor? Where is everyone?

A light catches his attention. A star pops into existence, shining brightly. As he watches, another pops up on the other side of his view. Another at the top. Another by the first. Suddenly, the pinpricks that are stars are materializing from nowhere, filling his vision with a brilliant white. He feels the need to look away, but doesn’t. The Force is screaming at him to look, to keep his eyes forward. He obeys, despite his eyes trying desperately to blink away the overload, despite his mind pressing him to call for the Rebels, for Leia and Han, despite the part of him that is numb with pain and grief and exhaustion.

The last speck of black disappears, and suddenly, Luke is constricted. He feels something compressing him, and he can barely breathe, but he trusts the Force.

Just as it all grows to just below too much, it stops. The light is gone, the constriction is gone, and Luke feels like he’s floating in the center of space.

It only takes a single second between his eyes closing at the sudden darkness and them opening for Luke to know something has changed drastically.

For starters, his head feels a little clearer, and he can actually form thoughts now. He passes that off as the Force’s help. His body is still pumped full of adrenaline, leaving his pain as null as it can be.

The larger difference is the shuttle… which is no longer a shuttle. Instead he sits in some sort of starfighter, equipped with technology that looks at least two decades old. Luke’s sitting in it as though he’s been flying for hours, the security belts wrapped snugly across his chest. A quick glance back shows him that his father’s body isn’t there. Granted, the ship would be too small, but Luke is still disappointed when he sees nothing but more outdated tech.

He’s still in his singed clothes, and he can see the faint lines from being shot full of electricity. Instinctually, he wraps a hand around his lightsaber, startling at the feel of another weight. He looks down, and takes a deep breath as he tries to remain calm.

Five lightsabers. Five. Kriffin’. Lightsabers. One is his own green blade, and he recognizes the one next to it as his father’s, the one that’d made him check his belt. Two more radiate darkness, and he guesses them to be the Emperor’s own blades. The last saber is one he has no clue who it belongs to, but it’s light is brilliant in comparison to the three shadows between it and Luke’s own weapon.

A large boom draws his focus to the open space in front of him. He swiftly takes the controls, letting the Force and his own knowledge of engineering and ships take over as he adjusts to the old machinery. He sees a planet nearby, he himself having been facing enough away to not notice initially. Outside the planet’s atmosphere, Luke’s breath is taken away.

Two Venator-class Star Destroyers battling three Munificent-class frigates, a flurry of fighters surrounding them and causing small explosions that left small bursts in Luke’s vision. He can see vulture droids mixed in, and it seems that most of the fighters belong with the destroyers and the droids with the frigates.

He startles at the beeping of a comm from his controls. He’s cautious, uncertain of where he is and what just happened, so instead of simply accepting the call, he makes sure it’s only audio first. Then, with a deep breath to steady himself, he presses the answer button.

“Trooper, state your designation.” Oh. They think he’s a stormtrooper.

Don’t answer, the Force whispers to him. He doesn’t, instead starting towards the battle.

“Trooper, state your designation or you will be targeted.” Luke notices the voice is nervous, hidden under a professional steadiness. The Force whispers more. Good. Not Imperial. Fight. Fight with them. Luke has never been one to ignore the Force. With a renewed determination and energy funneling into him, he revs the engine, shooting off like a bolt towards the battle.

Instantly, there are droids seeking him out, targeting the fighter as an enemy. Luke doesn’t hesitate to blast them, quick and clean shots. They collide with each other, blowing up as the vacuum of space pulls them apart. Other fighters unthinkingly attack anyone tailing him, and he responds in kind. He ignores the voice that calls for his designation again, only noticing when the call clicks off. Perhaps the officer believes his ship is unable to connect properly, and took his joining the battle as him trying to prove himself not an enemy without comms.

The battle’s tide is slowly turning to the side of the troopers, who apparently aren’t Imperial, which is strange. But the frigates are still firing, and it’s not a guarantee of victory yet. Luke decides to change this.

Remembering his flight against the first Death Star, he passes right next to the main frigate, close enough to draw the attention of a large group of vulture droids. The other fighters do their best to shoot the enemies down, realizing that one of their own has some sort of plan. With little hesitation, Luke fires directly at a small weapons port. He remembers the main layouts of these sorts of frigates, having studied them with Han because “Ya gotta know the basics first, kid, and these are what I grew up with.” The plasma hits, and it’s just like he planned.

A chain reaction, like the Death Stars. The port blows up. Being so small, there’s no shielding, and nothing stopping it from blowing up the port next to it. There’s a series of explosions along the frigate, followed quickly by the shields going down as their generators are hit. In truth, it’s a clever blueprint, only expending power on the bigger weapons, which are more likely to be targeted. But the smaller ones are made closer together, and they make a path straight past the protection of the generators.

With nothing between the walls and the oncoming attacks, the main frigate fails quickly, and Luke barely makes it away before it explodes, splitting in half and taking out another of the enormous ships with a collision. The last ship is swiftly decimated, all droids going lifeless without their command centers. Fighters rush to destroy them fully, before the one-person ships return to their destroyers.

Luke’s comm lights up again, and this time he doesn’t hesitate to answer it- just audio again, because he’s sure he’ll be blasted into oblivion if he reveals his true face.

“Trooper, good work out there. Return to the Resolute and we’ll see if we can fix that receiver of yours.” He responds by ending the call, a signal he was listening, hopefully. He moves his fighter to obey, about to follow the starfighter that looks most like his own, at least from his limited angle, but halts at the humming negative from the Force. A nudge directs him towards the planet, so he turns right around and launches off towards the surface. The comm lights up again, but he ignores it once more.

Upon breaching the atmosphere, it’s clear what the Force wants. A large amount of outdated droids, ones that look straight out of the Clone Wars era, face off against a legion of- wait. As Luke flies closer, his mind reels. He’s in a ship at least two decades from the past, and fought droids with troopers who aren’t Imperial. Not to mention that many of the ships had some sort of personalization to them. Even the legion below looks more varied in color than stormtroopers would be. And more droids, more Clone Wars era droids, are fighting against them.

A flash of blue catches his attention, and seals the conclusion. He’s in the Clone Wars. The Force somehow brought him back in time to when the clones haven’t been brainwashed and turned against the Jedi. Luke knows it’s true, not just from the humming energy around him, but also from the fact that a Jedi is among the clone troopers, currently slicing apart B1’s like they’re flimsi.

Deciding that flying will make him too much of a target, Luke drops down at a high speed, pulling up just enough to not crash and barreling through the droids far enough away from the troopers that he won’t hurt any. They’re in a city, one with earthen buildings and green roofs. The transparisteel pops up and he jumps out, using his green blade to destroy the machines around him. The Force leaps to his aid, and he directs it to push back at his enemies, clearing the area swiftly as the poorly made droids crumple. He doesn’t feel bad about their demises, knowing they’re only partially sapient. Nothing like Artoo or Threepio.

With a small pause in fighting, he closes his eyes, raising a hand up to help concentrate on the Force around him. He senses the droids for a good chunk of distance, and manages to stretch himself to the troopers and the Jedi without overexerting his already low reserves. He’s still rather numb from his battle on the Death Star, but wounds have never stopped him before. Gently but quickly nudging the Force away from the living beings, Luke closes his fist slowly. He can hear as well as feel the metal being crushed as the Force wraps tightly around each piece, pressing inwards with a strength that can’t be fought.

The droids for roughly a square mile around him are destroyed, pummeled into nothing by his will. He doesn’t rest, instead rushing towards the Jedi, even as he feels their presence rush towards him. They’re bright, radiating peace and serenity.

Luke rounds the last corner just as they do, coming face-to-face with the troopers and their leader.

The Jedi wears brown robes of varying shades, covered in dust. A Human male, with auburn hair and a beard. He seems taken aback at the sight of Luke, although who can blame him. The young man probably looks a few inches from death.

The Force doesn’t wait for the Jedi or his troopers to recover, instead pressing Luke in a new direction. He turns his head towards it, letting his senses enhance with the urges of his ever-present companion. There’s more droids. He guesses that the Force wants all of the destructive machines gone, so he doesn’t waste a second to rush off, ignoring the exclamations behind him as he dashes to obey.

His feet are numb as he runs, but he feels every impact jarring his body, and knows he can’t keep up the adrenaline much longer. He exits an alleyway straight into another group of troopers battling B1’s, and hurries to slice the enemies to scrap. He sees another Jedi, his heart soaring as much as it can at the thought of more of his new people being alive. The purple blade doesn’t halt in its attack, even though Luke can feel the scrutiny of the wielder on him.

Once more, the moment there’s a big enough break, Luke’s eyes close and his hand raises, and he crushes as many enemies as he can from his position. He feels the Force pressing on him again as he opens his eyes, and he distantly hears the sound of something clunky and metal heading towards their area. He follows the directions, saber aloft as he goes to meet the fast-paced enemy in the middle. Whatever is there moves fast and without worry.

A strange sight greets him, his mind struggling to comprehend for a moment before finally clicking the pieces of history into place. General Grievous, a mostly cybernetic Kaleesh.

He is more droid than organic. The thought attempts to slip through, only to be grasped by the Force, energy pulsing in agreement. Grievous sees him, lightsabers drawing in a menacing action.

“Ah, a Jedi,” his raspy but deep voice calls. “Your sabers will be a fine addition to my collection. And you have so many.”

Luke bows his head in concentration, disengaging his saber and putting it on his belt so he can raise both hands. He hears the movement of the CIS general, but trusts in the energy that swirls around him. He wraps it around Grievous, much like he did the droids, but this time only uses it to take hold of his limbs. Said limbs move without the commands of their attached brain, instead twisting around each other. Grievous roars, perhaps in pain, but definitely in rage, as he loses control so quickly, watches his own body warp into a cage for him. The lightsabers he holds fly from his cloak and hands, straight onto the belt of his victorious opponent, one who did so little and yet so much.

Luke opens his eyes, waiting for the next command of the Force, hoping that it will lead him a step closer to whatever reason the energy of the galaxy has for bringing him here. He receives only a nudge to wait a moment. He does, hands gripping his singed shirt tightly. A voice that sounds like Leia tells him to get medical attention as soon as possible. A voice that sounds like Han tells him to demand a reward. He brushes both away with a small smile.

Both Jedi he encountered barrel into the open area, lightsabers out and ready, only to pull up short at the sight before them. Luke gives them a small wave, still smiling a little.

He knows that it truly is a sight to behold. Grievous was always portrayed as a sort of monster-under-the-cot in his history lessons, and the cyborg truly did look it. To find said monster twisted into a Tatooian knot is surprising, to say the least. Then Luke himself is singed and sweaty and has five lightsabers on his belt, along with whatever ones Grievous had been carrying with him.

But just as they observe him, Luke himself attempts to memorize the features of the Jedi.

The one with the purple blade is also a Human male, dark-skinned and tall. His head is smooth-shaven, and his clothes match his peer’s. He gives off an aura of control, of a determination born of practice. His eyes are distrusting but curious, but what else can be expected in a literal war zone?

The blue-sabered one hasn’t changed in the time between Luke first seeing him and now, but now Luke can make out some of the details. The man has bags under his eyes, and a gash on his cheek that is sluggishly bleeding. Both Jedi’s clothes show marks where blaster bolts barely missed their targets.

“Hello there,” the first Jedi calls over, eyes darting between Luke and Grievous with partially concealed shock.

“Hello.” Luke winces at the word, raspy and painful. He attempts to clear his throat, only to find himself coughing horribly at the rough feeling. The Jedi look concerned, the dark-skinned one a bit more mildly, at the small fit. Once he’s recovered, Luke tries again. “Hello.”

“Well, it seems you’ve done us a great favor. That is, if you were the one who crushed the droids and did that,” he waves his hand in a vague gesture at the still growling and twisted Grievous, “then we have much to thank you for.” Luke nods in affirmative, already feeling the adrenaline starting to fade a little. His head is getting a little more fuzzy, and his body is feeling more unbalanced. To counteract this, at least temporarily, Luke calls on the Force for support, clearing his head and grounding himself in the moment.

“Who are you?” The purple-sabered Jedi speaks up now, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Luke sees him glance down at his belt, where so many weapons are clasped.

“Luke Starkiller.” Rebellion protocol has been drilled into him, that he has to give a fake name until he can figure out if he’s safe.

“Mace, as much as I know you wish to question him, and goodness knows I would love answers as well, I think it best we get him some medical attention. It’s amazing that he hasn’t gotten psychic shock yet.”

“Psychic shock? What’s that?” Luke receives two extremely worried looks in response, signs that perhaps Yoda and Ben missed something important in his training. It’s practically confirmed when the two men turn back to each other, instantly engaging into what Han loves calling “let’s not die” mode.

“I’ll get Grievous and him to the transports, along with all the other wounded. You move forward in the campaign.”

“Master Koon should be down soon to help us.”

“Well, that’s good then. We no longer need three generals down here, so I’ll simply trade off positions with him.”

“Make sure Skywalker’s cleaned up everything before you lift off.”

The two of them clasped arms, probably switching to communicating through a Force bond. Then, with a quick nod to each other, the two launch into action. The dark-skinned Jedi, Mace, the other called him, disappears further into the city, gone in an instant. Luke watches the movement with tired but keen eyes, then starts as their words finish registering. Did Mace say Skywalker?

But he had said his name was Starkiller. Even if they saw through the lie, it didn’t make sense for them to instantly know he’s a Skywalker. Unless… if this really was the Clone Wars, then his father is still a Republic general. Alive, fighting against the Sith, having not Fallen yet.

It’s a bit too late when Luke realizes the remaining Jedi is now standing next to him. Behind the man, Grievous levitates a few feet off the ground, silent as though having given up on making noise.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine. Just a little tired,” Luke reassures the elder being, trying to sound as little croaky as possible.

“I would think so,” he responds, clearly not convinced. Without asking, he loops an arm around Luke’s shoulders, directing the two of them back the direction they’d come. The young man lets him, keeping a determined gaze on their surroundings and letting the Force fill him. Grievous is pulled after them by the other Jedi, who seems perfectly at ease despite the famous CIS general being close enough to murder him- if he had use of his limbs, that is. Even though Luke didn’t learn much about him in his lessons, he knows the Kaleesh is dangerous, always managing to escape and often taking many lives with him.

They walk quickly, towards the presence of a large group of troopers, but Luke still manages to notice there’s no one else around.

“Where’re the locals?” he asks hoarsely, swiveling his head to peer through windows and into alleys.

“We got them out just before the assault picked up. They should be waiting a little ways away from the city, but far enough away they won’t get caught in the crossfire.”

“How large are the CIS forces?”

“The what?”

“The Confederacy.” Luke is pleased to hear the rasp in his voice beginning to die a little.

“Ah. Well, we were pretty much at a stand-off until you came along. It shouldn’t take more than an hour or so to finish off the rest of the droids, and I still don’t know how you managed to best Grievous.”

“I was already manipulating the droids, so I just went for his metal. It’s rather terrifying that he’s more cyborg than Vader.” Luke internally winces at the name as it slips out, but makes sure he remains as neutral as possible in demeanor. He does receive a very curious and confused expression, but it swiftly disappears as the clone troopers come into view. He barely keeps himself from recoiling away at the sight on pure instinct.

“General!” A trooper rushes over, his armor painted yellow in several places and scuffed and dented from many battles. He comes to a halt right in front of the two Humans and the Kaleesh.

“Commander.”

Sensing the tension from the commander’s gaze, Luke steps away from the Jedi, moving back a little and coming to stand a few feet closer to Grievous. His actions are acknowledged by a glance over, before the Force-user continues speaking.

“Has Anakin checked in yet?” So his father was alive. A version of Anakin Skywalker that hadn’t yet been Darth Vader, one that was still loyal to the Jedi Order.

“Yes sir. It appears that the enemy frigates have been destroyed and General Koon is on his way down as we speak.”

“Good. And the men?”

“A few major injuries, but the rest we can treat on the go. We’ve prepped the ones that need bacta to join you on the transport.”

“Excellent. Then I want to make sure the troops are ready to move out soon. Send word to the civilians that the city is almost taken. They should be good to return by sunrise tomorrow. Help Windu with the clean-up and I’ll contact you once we’re aboard the Resolute. I’ll need to contact the Council as well.” At his last words, the auburn-haired man sends another glance towards Luke, who only just catches it. Most of his attention is on the gold-eyed glare coming from his left.

“Sir, if I may, who is that?”

“Luke Starkiller. He’s the one that took down both the droids and Grievous. I’ll be bringing him back to the Resolute with me, seeing as he needs, at the very least,” a pointed look is thrown Luke’s way, “a check-up with Kix.” Luke bristles at first, before remembering how many of the Rebels avoided medical attention unless forced to or in major need. He himself only received timely care due to Leia’s authority.

“Copy that, sir. I’ll get the troops moving.” The commander nods once, before swiftly turning on his heel and barking off orders. The clones, in yellow or purple themed armor, begin moving instantly, obviously trained well.

“Well, come along, Mister Starkiller. We’d best get moving.” The Jedi’s arm is suddenly back around his shoulders, pressing him forward. Luke is willing to let this happen, as the older man seems trustworthy, his presence filled with light. But the Force is still swirling around him, whispering directions into his mind.

The ship. The fighter. Return. Follow.

“Actually, I have my own ship. I just need to know where to go.”

“Ah, yes. The starfighter, I presume?”

“Yeah. I don’t think it’d be good to leave it in the middle of the streets, especially if the locals are coming back soon.” The duo stops, Grievous still behind them, and the Jedi regards Luke with a neutral expression. He worries for a moment that he might have to make a run for the fighter, but the anxiety fades quickly as the other being smiles warmly at him.

“If you wait to take off just yet, then I can comm you when Master Koon arrives and you can escort the transport back to the Resolute. That way you’ll know which ship it is, and-”

“-you can keep an eye on me, seeing as I’m not exactly trustworthy just yet.” He receives a small chuckle as an answer, and, surprisingly, the Jedi turns to continue heading to the landing zone. He waves once over his shoulder, a flick of his wrist in the air. Luke grins, forcing himself into motion once more and relying on the nudges of energy to find his way. He really hopes they get to the Resolute soon, seeing as he’s relatively certain that not being able to feel one’s lower half is considered bad. He assumes that the (probably) Star Destroyer is equipped with a medbay.

The starfighter is right where he left it, transparisteel raised. He leaps inside and settles down, securing himself and preparing to take off as soon as he gets the all-clear. It comes sooner than he expected, the comm blinking as the call is picked up. Luke answers without changing the settings, leaving his audio on and his feed off.

“Starkiller.”

“This is CT-5852, Stump, clearing you for escort.”

“Thanks, Stump. Liftin’ off.”

“Copy that, sir.”

Luke starts the engine up as the call drops, checking his systems before lifting the ship off the ground, retracting the landing equipment as he does so. His nav-system picks up the Republic transport’s signal, and he sidles over to it. Through the transparisteel, he can see the pilot, Stump, sitting there. The moment the trooper looks over, Luke gives him a thumbs-up, receiving one in kind. Just like flying with the other Rogues.

The Rogues. That could be fun.

Luke latches onto the transport’s comm number, punching it in and waiting for it to pick up. It does, and he can see the look he gets through the clear material. He grins with mischief, and enjoys Stump’s double-take.

“This is Stump to Starkiller.”

“Rogue Leader, reporting. Rogue One still in action. Fly high and may the Force be with you.” Laughing at the waves of confusion and amusement he can feel from the other, Luke tilts the fighter, pulling closer and performing a barrel roll around the bigger ship. He rises back to level to see the trooper holding tight to his controls. Stump looks over at him as he smirks back, and he does the maneuver again, this time staying underneath the transport and waiting. He’s a little surprised but not at all disappointed by the reaction he gets.

“Rogue Leader, bogey check,” Stump practically crows through the comm. Luke responds with an actual crow, remembering his first time being taught the phrase among the Rebellion. Hopefully it’s the same among the clones.

The fighter zips out from under the ship, rising fast right in front of it but without colliding. He spins as he rockets skyward, then diving back down, making sure to get a full view of all angles around Stump. Finally, he rushes over the top, narrowly avoiding the durasteel, and loops around to resume escort position.

“Bogey free, you are clear, Stump.”

“You are absolutely insane, Rogue Leader.”

“Aren’t we all?”

A laugh escapes over the mic, before the call is ended again. Luke’s smile shrinks to something softer, reminiscing about training flights with the Rogues. He misses those, having not had time in quite a while. But right now isn’t the time to spend remembering them. The Force clearly wants him to fix the past. Why else would he be brought back in time to when his father isn’t evil and the Jedi and the Republic are still alive? If he plays his cards right, perhaps he can save the galaxy from the Empire. Maybe even establish something similar to the Rebellion’s forces, only this time for fun or to protect planets with the aid of Core Worlds.

The transport and its impromptu escort make their way outside the atmosphere of the planet with ease. Luke pulls back a little, allowing Stump to lead him to one of the Star Destroyers. Belatedly, he realizes that the officer that commed him earlier said to ‘return’ to the Resolute, the very place where he’s now moving his fighter to dock. The landing gear descends as proper gravity once more takes hold, and Luke puts out the engines the moment the fighter settles.

Before opening the ship, he takes a moment to look around at the inside of the Destroyer. He sees a plethora of blue troopers, mixed with several yellow and red troopers. Grievous is being dragged off by several of them. Starfighters and transports and small frigates are docked all around, along with piles upon piles of crates. He sees the auburn-haired Jedi standing beside a young Togruta, the elder listening as she speaks animatedly to him. She, too, has the lightsabers and bright presence that mark her a Jedi. However, every ounce of Luke’s attention is drawn by the man that enters the hangar from the nearest entrance.

Dressed in dark robes, with dark blonde hair and a scar that travels down from his hairline to just past his eye in a straight line. His presence is bright, as bright as the two suns of Tatooine at midday. Another Jedi, but one that seems to ripple with energy, the Force swirling like a whirlpool around him. Luke recognizes him from holos Han showed him, ones saved from a Corellian childhood in the midst of the Clone Wars. The Hero Without Fear was the only thing Luke could get his friend to call the Jedi. Han had lied when he said he didn’t know the man’s real name, but Luke hadn’t pushed.

Transparisteel lifts as the unwitting time traveler finally manages to overcome his hesitation, sliding down the side of the fighter to the ground.

Almost instantly, a screeching astromech nearly barrels into him, circling him before finally hiding behind his legs and nudging them a bit harshly. Following close is a pair of yellow troopers, eyes angry but turning to shock at the sight of the singed stranger. Glancing back, Luke’s heart momentarily aches at the sight of Artoo, which he pushes aside. This version of his partner doesn’t know him yet.

“Is something wrong?” he asks innocently, moving slightly to the right to hide Artoo more. The action is noticed, as well as the clearly exaggerated expression on his face.

“That little osik zapped us!”

“What’s an oh-sik?” The troopers freeze, clearly not expecting that to be the part questioned. Slowly, as though scared Luke is going to press for an answer, the two back away, turning around after a few steps and hurrying off. Artoo trills happily at their retreat, circling around to face Luke.

[Thanks for the save. They deserved it.] Luke laughs at the familiar bluntness.

“I’m sure they did. But be careful next time.”

[I’m always careful.]

“Is that why you were hiding behind me?”

[Strategic retreat.] Luke laughs again, even though his head is once more feeling lighter than it should.

“And who’re you?” The voice draws his attention, and he turns to see the Hero Without Fear looking over at him in curiosity, as well as concern.

“Luke Starkiller.”

“So you were the mystery pilot!” the Togruta exclaims. Her voice cuts through the hangar’s overall noise, yet is ignored entirely. It likely only seems so brash to Luke because of the slight ache growing at the back of his skull.

“Mystery pilot?” Luke’s voice has suddenly returned to the hoarse rasp from before, the first Jedi’s worry seeping out at the sound. The young Togruta looks at him with a surprised expression, but returns to her previous energetic words.

“Yeah, no one recognized your fighter, but it shows up as Republic so the bridge tried to contact you. According to them, your comm wasn’t working, but you joined the battle so you definitely weren’t an enemy. And then you blew up the central command frigate, and you took down so many droids, and when the bridge tried to call you back you looked like you were heading over. But then you went down to the surface and you weren’t picking up any calls and we got word from Cody that a fighter had landed in the middle of the city. And then-”

“Breathe, Snips,” the Hero Without Fear reminds his companion. She does pause, smiling sheepishly upon realizing she’d been rapidly speeding up her speech. He chuckles at her good-naturedly, turning to face Luke with a smile not at all affected by his scar.

“Sorry about my Padawan, she gets rather excited sometimes.” Padawan. That’s what Jedi call their students.

“It’s alright,” Luke rasps back, then tries to clear his throat, forgetting his earlier attempt. He doubles over as a large coughing fit wracks his body. Someone grabs onto his arm, supporting him from the left, but he can’t tell who. There’s a faint ringing that’s growing fast, the ache from his head moving to between his eyes as well.

Suddenly, the energy that has been keeping him up drains quickly. It feels as though something is wedging itself between him and the Force, cutting off the support he’d been using since planet-side. Pain courses through him, piercing every organ and straight through his skull. He’s coughing too much to do more than gasp at the agony. Waves of numbness intersperse with the stinging, and he’s vaguely aware that he’s dropped to his knees. Whoever’s on his left grabs his shoulders, and there’s so much noise, so much light, so much-

The world goes black and silent.

[soartfullydone]

No. 27 - I’M FINE. I PROM… passing out | vertigo | collapse Me/John Silver requested by @editoress

This is absolutely a scene from Stowaway that I haven’t gotten to yet. 

*

Space battles were eerie things. At one moment, the RLS Legacy was on a steady course, utterly alone in the vast, dark emptiness with no other company but the distant stars. The next, a ship appeared on their starboard side and fired its cannons. Even that had been silent with no warning cry from Onus, all six of his eye stalks closed in sleep in a gross negligence of duty. Then, the enemy ship’s laser fire breached the RLS Legacy’s atmosphere, and the air positively roared without stopping.

Captain Amelia, alive with rage and a rifle in the shrouds, shouted orders to open fire that somehow carried over the cacophony of the attack. Yet most of the crew hesitated a beat too long, flying into action only after the ship’s cook echoed the captain’s orders. 

Melody Westfire didn’t notice. She was ducked down below the railing, attempting to get across the deck to the last place she’d seen Jim and Doctor Doppler. Not trained fighters, them. Oddly, she didn’t feel near the concern towards the ship’s medical doctor and her homicidal robotic assistant, but she also didn’t know if they were caught in the fray or below—

Laser fire hit the side of the ship just in front of her, the railing exploding inward in a shower of broken wood. She cried out and fell to the deck, eyes screwed shut and stinging from debris. Fine dust and the sharp stench of burning ozone made her cough, and tears fell down her face from the grit stuck in her eyes. If she’d taken another step, that hole in the railing could’ve been her.

It pissed her off.

The lack of preparedness she had, both mentally and physically, towards a pirate attack pissed her off. Her father’s insistence of keeping her away from proper military training pissed her off. She should be in the shrouds with Amelia, jumping from mast to mast and firing her guns and rallying the crew. Amelia truly was worlds above her, in captaincy and so much more.

Melody managed to open her eyes, and they locked on the laser rifle resting a few feet from her. A dead crewman lay beside it, his green skin turned ashen and his yellow eyes staring dully into the vastness of space. She barely saw him, snatching up his gun and extra power cells. She then placed her back against the railing, breathing deeply, getting accustomed to the weight of the weapon in her hands.

Cabin boys weren’t supposed to be armed with anything beyond a sword. As a known stowaway, she wasn’t supposed to have any kind of weapon, the privilege taken from her after the launch. She didn’t care. Neither, it seemed, did the rest of the crew, who were all preoccupied with the space battle, of using their own weapons to stay alive.

She rose from cover just enough to get her sights aimed on a target, and once she found it, she braced the rifle in the pocket of her shoulder and fired. The first shot was low, the white laser fire connecting with the side of the pirate ship and returning the hole they’d delivered. Not good enough. She adjusted, looking for the stance that was the most steady, the most accurate. 

The enemy ship was drawing up closer to them. The pirates that weren’t firing from the deck or the fighting tops were preparing ropes and a long plank. They were looking to board. Melody honed on them and fired again. This time, her shot took a pirate in the stomach, which was as broad as Turnbuckle’s. He fell atop the ropes clutched in his hands, and the other pirates took notice. They fired upon her immediately.

She dove and rolled across the deck, avoiding shots until she scrambled behind a mast. A laugh escaped her, hysteric and euphoric both. Melody had thought it would be harder to fire at another living being, to take a life. Turned out, in the heat of battle, it couldn’t be easier, and it had been a pirate’s at that.

Melody Westfire was a general’s daughter. She was born to kill pirates.

Familiar with the rifle model, her hands moved fast to expel the used power cell and replace it with a fresh one. Then, she slung the rifle over her shoulder and climbed the shrouds. Another crewman was dead in the top, and she shoved his body aside as respectfully as a life or death situation would allow. 

Being up high like this gave her an advantage on viewing the fight on deck more clearly, but the Legacy was not flying steady by any means. Turnbuckle manned the helm, attempting frantically to prevent the pirates from hooking onto the ship and boarding. So far, he was failing. Melody took aim and fired as she could, but pirates in the other ship’s tops saw her as fair game, forcing her to take cover. The closer the other ship got, the more she realized it was not only larger than the Legacy but also its masts were taller. She was about to be a sitting duck if she didn’t do something.

She spotted it the next time she’d peeked over the top’s railing. The other ship’s mizzenmast had taken a stray hit, a chunk of wood missing from almost halfway up, yet still it stood strong.

Melody gritted her teeth.

Not for long.

She must look mad, she thought as she popped up to fire at that spot in the mizzenmast before retreating down again. More of her shots missed than connected with her target, but she knew all it would take was just a few more. Just a few more, and the mizzenmast would break, taking the sails with it. 

The pirate trying to kill her from the top of that very mizzenmast realized what she was doing too late. Melody heard him call down to his crew some indecipherable warning, but she couldn’t make it out over the cannon fire, over her own crew’s shouts, over the roar of the gun by her ear as she pulled the trigger again and again.

But she heard when the mizzenmast cracked, the snap of the wood louder in that moment than a supernova. Their ships were side by side, their atmospheres converged. Everyone heard and watched with mixed horror and glee as the mizzenmast snapped, the shroud and white sails falling like a flag waved frantically in surrender. Part of the mizzenmast crashed into the mainmast, tangling shrouds and sails together and jostling the ship’s colors: a red, right-facing skull over crossed swords on a black background. Though the mainmast remained standing, the hit caused any crewman upon it to fall to the deck, some fatally. 

The crew of the Legacy crowed in delight, George Merry’s voice rising to shout crude insults to the pirates concerning their mothers. Melody caught Captain Amelia’s gaze on her. The captain was perched on the Legacy’s mainmast, a hand on the ropes, and she was glaring. Not out of anger, but calculation. Melody wrenched her attention away, heart pounding harder now than at any time during the firefight. Her skin pricked with heat. She felt she had just made an unfixable mistake.

It dawned on her then that, strategically, she had made a mistake. Instead of convincing the pirates that the fight wasn’t worth the cost and forcing them to flee, she’d broken their ship. They would want a new one, which meant their only option was to—

“Captain!” she called, but Amelia was already moving with feline speed, her gun stowed away and her sword unsheathed. She fell upon the pirates who had boarded her ship with deadly grace, the clash of steel on steel rippling across the ship as the fight turned into a short-range conflict.

Melody didn’t join them. She didn’t have a sword on her. She would pick off the vultures one by one.

By the steps to the galley was Silver. He looked no worse for wear, appearing rather to be in his element. His cybernetic arm whirred in flashes of metal, disarming and maiming the pirate who thought to challenge the cyborg with nothing but a measly sword. She didn’t have time to be surprised that her and Jim’s mentor could back up his rare bark with bite. Instead, her heart lurched for a very different reason.

“Silver!” screamed Melody when she saw a pirate raise a laser pistol to shoot him in the back. 

Somehow, he heard her, or perhaps he sensed the threat behind him. Silver dispatched his attacker and turned right as Melody’s shot fried the pirate. He dropped at Silver’s feet, and Silver’s expression was oddly blank, as if this weren’t the first time he’d come close to death or just as quickly been saved. His cybernetic eye flared red as his gaze followed to where the shot had come from, shock appearing on his face when he saw her, rifle in hand.

Alarm suddenly replaced shock. “Get down, lad!”

In her panic to save him, Melody had stood up completely to shoot, leaving herself exposed from the hip up. The force of his order made her drop faster than anything else, including the returned shots that came her way. Head back in the fight, she paid no further attention to Silver, Amelia, or anyone else beyond bringing the pirate attack to a swift close, pulling the trigger until all the power cells were used and lay clustered around her feet. 

When the laser fire quieted and swords returned to sheaths, the remaining crew of the RLS Legacy got busy with clean-up. Captain Amelia oversaw disposing of the dead pirates and locking up any survivors in the brig. Doctor Anderson—Elizabeth, Melody reminded herself—and Cutter tended the wounded. Jim helped them by running back and forth above and below deck for supplies. Doctor Doppler, shaken, was sent to his cabin, so he could stay out of the way.

As soon as Melody climbed down from the ropes, Silver was upon her. “By the powers, lad!” he cried merrily. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

“Um,” she hedged, clutching the rifle strap. She thought about the hours she’d spent watching the academy cadets, studying their movements. She thought about the afternoons running drills in between school lessons. She thought of the nights she’d picked the lock on her father’s gun safe when he was away from home. Of the books and manuals she’d spread out that taught her what each part was for as she took each gun apart and put it back together again. “Around,” she answered. “I missed a lot.”

“And modest as well,” Silver replied. “Been wastin’ your talents as a cabin boy, haven’t we? I reckon, should any more pirates think to ruin our voyage, the Cap’n will have ya manning the guns, she will!” He chuckled, giving her a good-natured clap on the shoulder.

The force of it had surprised her at the start of the voyage, but she’d always weathered it fine. This time, her knees gave out from under her, and she collapsed to the deck.

“Mel!”

She registered Silver’s fear, but what she didn’t understand was why she’d fallen in the first place. Some unconscious part of her knew. Her hand flew to her side. When she brought her hand up to examine, she found it covered in red.

“Stars, you’ve been hit!” Silver’s hand found her other side, his arm slung across her back as he helped her to her feet. A whimper of pain escaped her at the movement, as if by acknowledging the wound, it had given her brain permission to allow her to feel the pain. “Ya need the medic, lad.”

Melody felt Silver inhale—likely to shout for Elizabeth. She clamped down on his flesh and blood arm as hard as she could and said fiercely, “No.”

Silver’s face darkened. “This is no time for—”

“I’m fine, Silver.” She found her footing and pushed herself out of his arms. She had to favor her right side, but she remained stubbornly standing. It wouldn’t last long, not if she didn’t get moving. “I can treat it myself. The others need the doc more. I think Morgan got skewered pretty bad.”

The Ursid didn’t even acknowledge her attempts at deflection. “Aye, lad, treat it you will, and I’ll be assistin’ ya until our fine doctor can see to you, you can be sure of that.”

Her whole body was starting to shake, from blood loss, fatigue, or fear, she didn’t know. He couldn’t find out. None of them could find out. “No,” she said weakly, backing away towards the galley. “I can—”

In two strides, Silver caught up to her, and this time he swept her up, preventing any more retreats. The movement made her hiss, her side burning. The darkness of space was soon replaced by the shadows of the galley as Silver carried her downstairs. 

“I wonder when it happened,” Melody spoke into the quiet room as Silver laid her upon an empty table. “I didn’t even know.”

“Was when you saved me, I fear.” Silver’s voice was gruff as he rummaged through the galley. She heard the cutting of cloth and the gears of his arm moving. There was a faint slosh of liquid in a container. “You managed the rest of that skirmish well, all quick-footed as you are. I was hoping that—” He cut himself off, his tone forcibly bright. “Well, never mind. You’ll be right as stars and back on those quick feet soon, or I’m not John Silver, finest cook this side of Terran space.”

“And what does a cook know about dressing wounds?”

“With this pretty arm and leg of mine? Plenty, lad.”

Breathing hurt. Every inhale aggravated the wound in her side, and her shirt was sticking to her skin, a red stain spreading slowly across the fabric. She kept pressure on it as best she could. As Silver approached, she struggled to her elbows. “You can leave everything here. I—”

Silver set down the supplies with more force than usual. He looked down at her with displeasure. “Not on your life, Mel Dawson. That ain’t no little cut. You’ll need more hands to tend a hurt such as that.”

Melody had never gotten the impression that Silver meant to loom over her; it was just the natural state of things. Now, she felt the acute pressure of it, his will clashing with hers to keep her still and let him help her. She shook her head, frantic, but he ignored it. His hand caught the hem of her shirt, fingers brushing against her stomach.

She struggled, trying to stop him by pushing his hand away, but the room was starting to spin. She was lightheaded. “No, don’t.”

A series of snips. A gentle tugging. Silver was cutting her shirt away from the wound, exposing more and more of her to his gaze. It wouldn’t matter how baggy the cloth was once the trimness of her waist was exposed, and if he saw the wrappings around her chest… He wasn’t stupid. He would know she was a woman, that the identity she’d created to stay incognito on this ship was a false one, and the questions would start. There would be no more hiding. 

Heart pounding in her ears, Melody kicked out and thrashed. Her side stung in fiery agony, and the bowl of water fell off the table, shattering on the floor. But she couldn’t stop. She had to get away from him.

Her vision went black momentarily as Silver retrieved a flask from his person and poured alcohol on the wound. The area practically felt like hellfire after that. She wasn’t sure if she screamed through the black or if she simply passed out. Faintly, through the rush of pain and vertigo, she felt him pressing a dressing on the wound. Her sight returned, and she flinched, trying to squirm away. It was his cybernetic arm that made her freeze at last, the gears in motion before something sharp came down, plunging into the table beside her head.  

“Don’t fight me,” Silver ordered, his voice thick with anger. But worry lined his face, and the way he was looking at her finally made her realize how serious the wound must be. “You’ll die if you keep this up, lass.”  

Lass.

Not “lad.” Melody blinked up at him, stunned. Had she misheard him? Did he really say—?

The cybernetic arm withdrew. Silver got to work, his movements practiced but infinitely careful. There were no rough nudges, no jokes, no more shows of camaraderie he offered to the male crew members. They had been replaced by a gentle touch and a sense of urbanity that he normally only showed Captain Amelia or Doctor Anderson.

“It’s good ya have fighting spirit,” he said against her tense silence, “but it’s always a shame when something like this happens.”

“Something like what?” Melody slowly asked.

“For a lady to be surrounded by able-bodied men yet still come away with a scar on her fine skin. Just isn’t proper.” He paused in his work, expression dry. “Did you really think you’d fooled ol’ John, lass? I’ve seen all sorts in my time, I have, and no cabin boy ever managed to look so fair as you.” 

Her side suddenly wasn’t the only thing on fire. He’d known? Yet all this time, he hadn’t treated her any differently from Jim and the others. He’d been warm to her in the way that men sometimes were. Clapping her on the shoulder. Ruffling her hair. Urging her on with a push of her back.  

But hadn’t there also been times when she thought his touch had lingered a tad too long? Where sometimes he’d spoken to her or looked at her in a way that made her feel she wasn’t fully in on the joke?

Whatever blush had appeared across her cheeks, fury now took its place.

“How long have you known?” When Silver didn’t immediately answer, she set her jaw, forced herself to sit back up amidst his protests, and snarled, “Damn you, answer me! How. Long.”

Silver started to speak, but before he could, a new voice interrupted them.

“Hmmmm. Now where did all this blood come from?” 

The doors to the galley were pushed open, and Cutter shuffled in, his optics following the obvious blood trail on the floor. When he discovered them—Melody noticeably prone on the table with her bloody shirt pushed up and Silver’s hand resting on her bandaged stomach—Cutter drew up short. “Oh. Am I interrupting something? You fleshbags have so many mating rituals, I can never tell.”

Melody would have answered, wouldn’t have stalled or evaded like Silver had moments ago. Instead, Cutter’s appearance seemed to sap away the last of her strength. Her vision darkened around the edges. Her head fell back as she passed out on the table, the wood smooth and cool against her cheek. This time wasn’t a momentary escape.

The last thing she heard was Silver howling at Cutter to retrieve his master.

His master and the captain.

[franniebanana]

CQL Rewatch - Ep 25

Every time I start these things, I say something stupid or controversial right away that probably turns people off. Honestly, it's not my fault how weird the cuts are on these CQL episodes! If you're on the fence about reading this, I mostly babble and gush about wangxian, so just ignore the other stuff, okay?

Maybe it's because I'm old and have no patience, but Wei Wuxian really needs to get over the whole Jin Zixuan thing. He wears such a scowl when the guy shows up, but at a certain point, he needs to just move on. His shijie is totally into the guy, so just accept it and move on with your life! Yes, it's all very dramatic and makes for fun television, but it's a little old. I think maybe I've seen this show too many times haha.

And I can't help myself, but it's adorable how excited Jin Zixuan gets when Jiang Yanli accepts the invitation to watch. I don't know when or how this happened, but he's suddenly head over heels for her. I'm not going to over-analyze the whens and hows of that relationship, though, because I don't think it matters. Jin Zixuan is one of those characters who I think is mostly there to move the plot forward, which is totally fine. I'm just saying I don't think there's any deep meaning to why he suddenly fell for her, so I'm going to continue thinking they are cute and adorable in this whole puppy love phase.

And it's a little annoying how Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng keep looking at her. They both know (Jiang Cheng said it in the last episode) that she's in love with Jin Zixuan, so it should be no surprise that she's accept the invitation. Again, it's like Jiang Cheng just is obsessed with keeping people at his side. Honey, there's nothing for Jiang Yanli in Lotus Pier. She's going to get married and move away, period. That's the whole thing with patriarchal societies--she's not gonna marry her brother, and obviously Wei Wuxian is out of the question. It's just--why the surprise?

Seriously, man, you're being such a dick! He will not let anything go with Jin Zixuan, he just keeps holding those grudges until the day Jin Zixuan dies! Maybe this is a hallmark of Wei Wuxian's first life, though. When he is resurrected, he learns to let a lot of this emotional baggage go. But right now, he's just being an ass, stepping in front of Jin Zixuan, not allowing him to say anything else, not letting Jiang Yanli walk him out alone--like, why are you accompanying her?! Wei Wuxian barely attends to any duties at Lotus Pier, but because he sees Jin Zixuan as this villain, he won't let his shijie be alone with him. Of course, there is propriety to consider, but then why couldn't Jiang Yanli have been accompanied by her handmaidens or something? I'm just saying, there were other ways. And also, this whole episode centers around Wei Wuxian clashing with the Jin Clan, so why did we need more of that here?

I don't have a terrible about to say about this, but everyone outside of the Jin Clan is shocked by the Wens being hauled out on a chain gang at the Phoenix Mountain hunt. Obviously Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian are shocked and horrified, but also Jiang Cheng, Lan Xichen, and Nie Mingjue are also shown to be disturbed by this. At least upon first glance, it looks like they all think the Jins have gone a bit too far. And of course they have! It's no wonder that Wei Wuxian does that OP move where he shoots all the targets. He doesn't want to see less-skilled archers accidentally (or even purposefully) shoot the Wen prisoners.

I like that Jin Zixuan also does the jumpshot move. Like father, like son, I guess!

Hahaha that pout! But seriously, how does Wei Wuxian intend to use Lan Wangji's headband to cover his eyes? That thing is way too thin. Though he's probably serious here, it's nice to see that teasing side again, after seeing angry eyes Wei Wuxian for a while, now. Also fun to see Lan Wangji just not having it, and just ignoring him.

Iconic. Not much I can say here, other than he's sexy and he knows it. I noticed Lan Wangji kind of smirking as Wei Wuxian is putting on the blindfold, and I find myself wondering if that's really Lan Wangji or Yibo. Either way, I think it's safe to say that he's proud of Wei Wuxian for sticking it to the man.

The weird thing here is that he agrees to be blindfolded for the entire hunt, but then just...doesn't. It's strange that he would even agree to it, and then there's no mention of it again. Novel readers of course remember this for the infamous kiss scene (personal favorite of mine). This was cut for obvious reasons, but it's a damn shame because that's the hottest kiss I've ever read, I kid you not. Of course the reader can guess who it is--it's fairly obvious--but it's great because Wei Wuxian has no idea. He thinks it's some shy girl who just doesn't want him to know! Honestly, his cluelessness there is probably why people seem to think he's dumb. Instead of dumb, I'd say he's naive. It doesn't occur to him at all that Lan Wangji harbors any romantic feelings for him, because if it had, Lan Wangji's reaction to being seen definitely would have tipped him off. Plus the guy either punches a tree in half or cuts it--the translations vary and I obviously can't read Chinese.

I love how his expression changes when he sees Lan Wangji. It's like there's an inward gasp, and then relief. I don't want to read too much into things, but they are also alone in the woods together. Wei Wuxian doesn't have to perform for the crowd of people, he doesn't have to put on airs--he can just be himself. We get so many nice, candid moments between the two of them, but it's been a couple of episodes, I think. A good amount of time has certainly passed since they've seen each other. I'm sure Wei Wuxian looks forward to these moments as much as Lan Wangji does.

Ugh, and then he gets totally crushed, recalling what Lan Xichen said about being careful not to hurt those who care about him. And again, I think he wishes to distance himself from Lan Wangji. If there is distance, it means he cannot be harmed. Of course, Wei Wuxian thinks of Lan Wangji first because the warning came from his brother, but it can just as easily be applied to any of those who are close to him. He doesn't ever hesitate around Jiang Cheng or even Jiang Yanli, but it seems he's more protective of Lan Wangji. Some of that may have to do with the Gusu Lan principles and that he's not from the same clan or family--in that way, it's easier to put distance in between them. But maybe he doesn't realize that Lan Wangji feels the same closeness (indeed much more) than if Wei Wuxian were a fellow Gusu Lan disciple. Their relationship with each other pays no attention to clans or sects--it's just the two of them and how they feel about each other. And if Wei Wuxian doesn't realize this or perhaps chooses to ignore it, he'll think that distance is the answer. Unfortunately for him, Lan Wangji won't accept that.

I think there's a little bit of, "Shit! He's seen me!" and also "Thank God he's seen me." Wei Wuxian seems to be both panicked and relieved that Lan Wangji didn't just keep on walking. This scene does hurt my heart, because Lan Wangji is so sure of himself, so absolutely sure that he loves Wei Wuxian and wants to stay beside him, but Wei Wuxian just isn't. He's very conflicted about what his place is--at home and among the rest of the clans. He already feels ostracized because of the unorthodox cultivation, he is constantly arguing with Jiang Cheng, and he has Lan Wangji on his back all the time about coming to Gusu to be retrained. And on top of that, we're seeing his views about the Wens changing. Perhaps if he didn't see Wen Qing on that road, he would have let it all go, but once he sees her, everything changes. I tend to think that he would have done something sooner or later, because that's just who he is. Seeing Wen Qing and finding out what happened to Wen Ning only forced him to act sooner.

He says, "What do you take me for?" echoing Wei Wuxian's question, and he can't even look him in the eye. This is Lan Wangji, someone who doesn't back away from anything, yet this question has him retreating. I think he's very much afraid of the answer, maybe even regretting asking it in the first place. But I think it was done in the heat of the moment. His question, though it is the same words, is completely different than Wei Wuxian's. Wei Wuxian is exasperated, feeling stifled by Lan Wangji's attempts to help him. His question is off-hand, "Come on, I don't need this? Why are you so obsessed with figuring out how to change me?" Lan Wangji's is more serious, earnest, honest: basically questioning their entire relationship. Are they best friends? Are they even friends? Does Wei Wuxian see him as just some guy he used to know or some kind of pest? Lan Wangji makes himself really vulnerable here; his question suggests that he considers Wei Wuxian to be a very important person, he considers them close. To him, there's no question if he'll help him--he'd do anything to help him. But his fear here is that Wei Wuxian doesn't return those feelings in the slightest.

Wei Wuxian doesn't quite know what to do here. Unbeknownst to everyone else, his only path to cultivation is through unorthodox methods. If he agrees to let Lan Wangji truly help him, he knows that would mean giving up cultivation altogether. Chenqing gives him power, the amulet gives him power--without those, he has nothing. And for someone who wants to help the weak, etc., being powerless is not an option. I think he feels like he has to choose between demonic cultivation and Lan Wangji here, and he desperately doesn't want to make that choice.

I want to see that fucking snake!!!!! SHOW ME A MONSTER!!!!!!!!! But most of all, the Stature Measuring Snake, because that just sounds hilarious and terrifying.

Lots of deep questions being asked in this episode between our couples. "Do you dislike the hunt, or dislike being with me?" I mean, I get that he has to ask that. Essentially, should he continue to pursue this relationship or not? He has to know, otherwise he's just wasting his time. If Jiang Yanli doesn't like him, then there's really nothing he can do to make her. Still, my heart squeezes a little bit for him. I'm a sucker for unrequited love ALWAYS, and he feels like his love is unrequited here.

This part bothers me. We've already established through Jiang Cheng that they basically are leaving the decision of marriage up to Jiang Yanli. That happened in the last episode. So, why is Wei Wuxian blowing in here, saying that Jiang Yanli won't have any other associations with Jin Zixuan anymore? He's totally overstepping for his position--like, she's not his sister! He has no control over what she does. Even though I don't agree with it, Jiang Cheng could probably come in here and say the same words, but at least from him, it's okay. I mean, it's not okay, but you know what I mean. It's not unorthodox for him to do that. But Wei Wuxian is basically nobody. He doesn't get to make those decisions. Even though Jin Zixuan's mother is overbearing, she at least wants to speak with Jiang Yanli about it, and nobody else.

I hate myself a little for saying this, but I think I agree with Jin Zixun--IN PART. It was unfair for Wei Wuxian to capture/kill 30% of the prey, using magic. It was unfair that he spoiled the hunt for the others. I agree with him there. And I think Lan Wangji and Jiang Yanli do as well. Jiang Yanli stands up for him, of course, because he's like her little brother, and while what he did was wrong, he didn't deserve the slurs and hatred that came at him because of it. Lan Wangji, I'm afraid, probably feels it's not his place to speak up. The clans are their barriers and this truly is not a Gusu Lan Sect matter. At the same time, he wants to keep Wei Wuxian from blowing up and killing everyone here.

I just want to point out that Lan Wangji barely takes his eyes off of Wei Wuxian this entire time. While all the other people are arguing, his focus is just Wei Wuxian. While it's insane to me to even imagine what Wei Wuxian is going through, the constant challenges, vitriol, horrible language that's being thrown at him--being in Lan Wangji's shoes is not an enviable position either. It must be hard to watch this and be unable to really do anything to stop it. His uncle and brother both see what has happened to Wei Wuxian, and they don't like what they see either. Lan Qiren barely tries to understand and instead just tries to give Lan Wangji busy work to distract him from thinking about Wei Wuxian. He drills the disciplines into him over and over again to make him remember what his priorities are. Lan Wangji is torn between helping his best friend and violating his family's rules. And when he does choose Wei Wuxian, he gets punished. I think it's obvious that Lan Wangji would choose Wei Wuxian any day, but that doesn't change the fact that he still has to go home and face his uncle and brother. He can't just abandon his sect--he has a responsibility to them too.

This is probably a top moment for me for Jiang Yanli's scenes. She is deliberate and assertive, and uses the facts to take Jin Zixun down a peg. She recognizes that Wei Wuxian acted unfairly, but she also points out basically that he's being a big crybaby, and it's not anyone's fault but his own if he can't hunt anything. This is the nature of competition: some people are just better than others. And also hearing her talk about Wei Wuxian as a brother of course makes me happy inside.

Yeah, but this scene, it's like a big "FUCK YOU!" and it's great.

Again, I hope I'm not reading too much into this, but Lan Xichen says, "Wangji, what are you doing here?" and he sounds pretty concerned. I mean, he knows Lan Wangji is participating in the hunt, so…? Maybe he doesn't see the other Lan disciples, and wonders why he's off on his own. I feel like he sees this big kerfuffle, centered around none other than Wei Wuxian, and kind of panics to see that Lan Wangji is there. I think a lot of people put all the blame on Lan Qiren for trying to stamp out Lan Wangji's desire to be with Wei Wuxian, but I'm sure Lan Xichen had a little to do with it too. I mean, he didn't do anything to try and stop it. I think he's worried that his brother is going to get caught up in something dangerous. I think he sees Wei Wuxian as potentially dangerous. He's seen how much he overreacts and how he can't quite control the dark energy. In the same way Jiang Yanli wants to protect Wei Wuxian, Lan Xichen also wants to protect his little brother, and seeing this scene, I think he's growing more concerned.

He knows his brother better than anyone else, even Wei Wuxian, so I think he knows what Lan Wangji is doing. I just wonder if he ever approached him in the Cloud Recesses and tried to persuade him to stop trying to help Wei Wuxian. I'm guessing no, not at this point, but perhaps later. God, I hate to think that he had one of those "I told you so" moments. But knowing him, he probably could never say something like that!

Omg how fucking awkward is this? Wei Wuxian is practically 20 feet from them, Jin Zixuan is holding back a few feet too--like you're not far enough away to not hear what they're saying, just far enough for it to seem weird. Wei Wuxian is like a helicopter parent who can't let his kid date without spying on them. Jesus!

The absolute horror on his face here. Jiang Yanli stops on her own. I think he may even still be holding her hand here, and she digs her heels in and stops. Before, she looks as though she's reluctantly leaving, as if she's waiting for something, waiting for Jin Zixuan to speak and not let his mother do all the talking. I think she's afraid to tell Wei Wuxian and her brother how she really feels in her heart, and he's so taken aback here with the realization that she really does want to marry him.

I love the way they shot this. Jin Zixuan is finally confessing (in front of a whole crowd, no less!), and we only see Jiang Yanli as she turns around. Wei Wuxian is hidden behind something. It's really cool how they did that. It's as if he doesn't really matter. This doesn't concern him, no one else is even there. I don't know, but I like it.

I do kind of feel bad for him here. Kind of. I mean, Wei Wuxian is over there showboating, catching 30% of the prey, meanwhile Jiang Cheng has no idea it's going on. He already is a little annoyed at him for going over the top in the archery contest, and then he finds out this--well, overhears it. Because of Wei Wuxian, people are looking down on the Jiang Clan. Because of Wei Wuxian, people think Jiang Cheng is some kind of figurehead. They seem to suggest that Wei Wuxian is the real one in charge, while Jiang Cheng just has no idea what he's doing. After all, he's still so young, his parents died, and he had to take over the clan at such a young age. It's easy for him to be manipulated. I get how he must be feeling. Tons of negative thoughts are swirling around his head. And let's face it, he's always resented Wei Wuxian for being better than him.

Favorite Wen Qing look ever. By far. I don't know why, but I love it.

At this point, Lan Wangji is desperate. He sees how out of control Wei Wuxian is becoming and he feels like he needs to do something about it. The sad thing is, he never really gets the chance. Wei Wuxian finding Wen Qing sets everything off--it's the point of no return. By the time Lan Wangji is really able to ask him to come with him, Wei Wuxian can't say yes, even if he wanted to. Because of his prior decisions, his hand has been forced. The Cloud Recesses wouldn't accept him, even if Lan Wangji wanted him there, even if Lan Xichen is okay with it. Lan Qiren certainly wouldn't be all right with it, though. And Wei Wuxian doesn't intend to change his ways either. It's desperation that makes Lan Wangji say that he wants to bring a man back to Gusu, but it's desperation that makes him blind to the logic behind it. It wouldn't work. It couldn't work.

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[atviera]

Before the Front

The sun’s golden glare began to just creep over the mountains, granting the copper sands and yellow grasses a tinge of illumination. A nascent pool of crimson began to seep within the grains, staining the earth with the brushstroke of a kill. In time, there would be nothing to distinguish the fight beyond a dessicated skeleton.

Dawn had come. The victor reflected upon what had transpired.

To the northwest he went as the desert waves became less pronounced, presenting a smattering of vegetation. Trees scattered beyond the horizon, coiling and twisting to the sand-kissed torrents that carved into bark, grass was blending rich yellows and pale greens, and flowering blossoms dotted the canvas. The Viera set his eyes upon a familiar comfort, slowly approaching the thickest tree he could identify.

The hunter set aside his supplies and ascended the wood with a ferocious swiftness, exhilaration and adrenaline taking over as he made his way to the top. Beneath the blank countenance, a smile irresistibly creaked beneath, with determined gaze proceeding the bout of joy he experienced. His left arm unslung the aged, but well-maintained bow he relied upon for his entire life. With a gentle grip upon the haft of the weapon, he nestled the right hand on the sinuous string.

A figure was running eastward, colored in blue and black. From the distance he sighted the individual, nothing else could be discerned. Two digits upon his right hand crooked inward, which materialized an arrow of biting wind. The Viera drew a bead, readying to loose the projectile on the unsuspecting target.

At that instant, the winds began to change their song. A flash of light exited from the stranger and a howling vortex ripped through the air. The Viera narrowly leapt out of the way of the attack as the blast snapped the branch with a whip-like crack, leaves turning into dust. Bounding between the branches, the conjuror knocked a triplet of earthen broadheads to harass the target. He lacked the opportunity to confirm they made their mark as he was met with coiling tendrils of lightning.

The winds guided him once more, barely dodging the attack. The trees were far too scattered for him to continue with the advantage of elevation, though the wanton destruction obscured his presence as to where he was. A boom echoed throughout the environs, though it was no declaration of war, but rather an offer.

“COME ON DOWN HUNTER, I KNOW HOW YOUR KIN FIGHT. LET US TALK LIKE THE CIVILIZED FOLK WE ARE.”

He could not understand the words meant, but he could interpret the tone. The Viera slid down the curve of the trunk, boots planted into the rusted sands. As the veil of destroyed foliage ceased, his blackened eyes were met with a closer view of the approaching prey.

The individual was towering, muscular, and adorned with blue fur which met ornate stripes and a braided mane of ebon hue that reflected the patterns. Lowered to their side was a weapon so outlandish and bizarre to one as technologically inept as he was. The right eye was obfuscated by a scope made of metal and glass. The right hand, empty, raised towards the device, unveiling an eye that matched the same viridian shade as their counterpart. The Hrothgar grinned widely, baring incisors that glinted against the waning moonlight.

“You’ve got the look of someone who is far from home, though you must have some sort of gift to dodge my shots like that. Well done, well done!” The leonine individual chuckled and relaxed their shoulders. “Hah! A Viera man comes face to face, well, face to mask with a Hrothgar woman! What kind of luck is that?”

A breeze brushed his hair, hollow eyes looking up as her mouth closed, preceding a smirk. “Come. A good fight needs to be countered with good rest.”

She turned slightly, beckoning with her free hand and continuing her way eastward. Thoughts intruded to slay her and be done with this ordeal, but curiosity crept its way in and overwhelmed such murderous intent. The Viera was quite keen to see how this would play out.

The wandering to her camp was silent and felt as swift as their duel. A ring of stones were in the center, snapped branches enveloping a dying ember. The Hrothgar sat by the flickering fire on top of a sizable sleeping bag. Her head turns to a pack, pulling out a brown bag, tearing it open with a claw, and then proceeding to absent-mindedly eat the contents. She turns to face the masked man and raises a brow.

“You’ve got a name?”

The Viera sighed and set the worn bow to his right. With both of his hands free, he pantomimed writing on an invisible piece of parchment. She nodded, rummaging through her pack, and unfurled a pen with a small notebook and began to initiate conversation. Every time she observed the Viera interpret the scrawlings, she spoke it out loud.

“Like I asked before, you got a name?”

Sero.

“‘Sehr-oh’ or ‘Seer-oh’?”

The former.

The Hrothgar nodded. “A fair name. I am Stelya.” The conjuror nodded. “What brings you out here, Sero?”

I am traveling westward. Obviously the course has changed to get me to land to lead me further west.

The Hrothgar sighs. “You do not want to keep going north. That leads to Bozja. My old home. The place is ravaged by the fires of war and a scar that will stain the land for all time. Turn back, I say.”

Sero quietly nods. Then what do you suggest?

Stelya hums, eyes squinting. “You could turn back east, or press your luck southward. I’ve not strayed too far from here, however.”

I will consider it. And what are you doing out here, Stelya?

“Discouraging wayward souls like you from going to the front. Even if they can fight like you, there’s no need for them to die.”

Sero looked down at the written word for a moment and nodded. He looked back up at the Hrothgar and stared, his face bearing the weight of trepidation beneath the visage. Stelya recoiled slightly at looking into the mask. As she was about to speak, he sighed and slowly wrote something into the notebook.

There is something I would like to show you.

The traveler buried his hand into a small bag and presented the engraved cube he found in the desert. For something buried in the warmth of the dunes, it was extremely cold to the touch. Sero presented the item in front of the Hrothgar.

Her face let out a wavering grin as her eyes fixated upon the device. Two of the fingers in his other hand flicked slightly.

The Viera set the cube down upon the coarse sands between them and picked up the notebook. Stelya hastily stole the book from him and hurriedly scrawled into it.

“You have no idea what this is, do you?” Sero shook his head.

The Hrothgar picked up the cube in her hand, twisting the wrist to make out every detail known to her. One of her claws tapped rhythmically on the grey surface, engravings dimly lighting with each impact. “This, Sero, is a piece of Allagan technology. The Allagan Empire, or Allag, was a progressive and brutal society that created wonders and horrors that make our machinations look like child’s play.”

Stelya ran her finger across the surface of the central button and hummed. “Based on similar items I have had the chance to uncover, this is likely a data storage unit. What it has or knows, I could not tell you.”

The Hrothgar took a deep breath and sighed, rolling the cube across the sands between them. Sero grasped the archival device and then twisted himself to stow it away.

Stelya took the gunblade in her hand, pointing it at the newly acquainted Viera as he returned the Allagan cube to his bag. The steel glinted in the approaching sun’s light, barrel staring down the face of her prey. She shook her head and let out a hearty chuckle.

“A final lesson to you, Sero. Never let your guard down, no matter how welcoming the prey might be. I suppose another would be to NOT show mysterious technologies to strangers.”

Sero closed his eyes and exhaled sharply. A whistle broke the silence as an arrow of wind finally found its mark.

The entry wound in Stelya’s neck cried out with a fountain of blood, creating a twisted, albeit wondrous contrast against her blue fur. Red sprayed across the grasses and the sands, adding a new hue upon the arid abstraction.

As the tremendous Hrothgar slumped to the ground, the missile dematerialized. She let out a cough, spurting out even more blood in the process. Wordlessly, she grinned deviously as her soul departed for the lifestream.

Sero lowered himself into a squat and shook his head. He sighed heavily, presenting an empty jar to collect another sample of dirt. Using his newly acquired pen, he wrote the following on the label: “Stelya’s final lesson.”

He returned to the tree he initially climbed, gathered his belongings, and made his way north.