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the-scandalorian · 3 years

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Tempered Glass: Chapter 6

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: M (will become explicit) Word Count: 4k Warnings: slow burn, sad feels/angst, canon-typical violence, cursing, sexy thoughts, pining Summary: When Fennec Shand reveals your true identity to the Mandalorian, you do your best to pick up the pieces. Notes: I’m sorry this took me so long!! I rewrote it like six times because I couldn’t get it to feel right. Next chapter should be much faster. Taglist: @bbdoyouloveme @beskarhearts @dincrypt @dunderr @honey-hi @just-me-and-my-obsessions00 @mbpokemonrulez @oloreaa @red-leaders @speakerforthedead0 @spideysimpossiblegirl @theflightytemptressadventure @ubri812 @zoemariefit

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Image from The Art of Star Wars: The Mandalorian

Fuck. Panic coursed through your veins and paralyzed you. Your brain moved infuriatingly slowly as you tried to think of a way to stop the disaster that was unfolding before your eyes.

And yet...despite your fear and despite the fact that this terrifying, high-level bounty hunter had once tracked you, hearing Fennec call you sweetheart made your stomach drop—in a pleasant way, not at all like when Toro had done the same. She was beautiful, strong, mysterious, intimidating. What little you saw of her fighting style confirmed that she was lithe and exacting—catlike in her grace and prowess. A sexy armored bounty hunter.

I have a type.

You shunted that wildly unhelpful train of thought out of your head to refocus on the crisis at hand.

You looked at Mando. “I—”

“What’s she talking about?” he prompted. You couldn’t tell if you were projecting because you felt guilty or if he really did sound a little hurt.

You opened your mouth again to respond, but Fennec beat you to it.

“Oh, you don’t know?” Even in the dark, you could see Fennec’s eyes sparkle in delight as she addressed Mando. “I don’t know how this one stayed off your radar,” she explained. “She was wanted by the Empire for years. Huge bounty... She looks a little different now—check her chest for a scar to make sure, but I’d bet her bounty it’s there.”

Mando had already seen the scar. He knew Fennec was right.

You caught the hungry look on Toro’s face as he drank in everything Fennec was saying. His eyes trailed down your face and landed shamelessly on your chest. You could practically hear the wheels turning in his head as he tried to think up a way to confirm your identity and claim the reward for both you and Fennec. This little fucker.

Fennec looked at you, and you took a step back involuntarily. “You’ve gotten sloppy, baby. There’s been chatter for weeks that you resurfaced on Nevarro. If I hadn’t been pinned down here, I’d have come for you myself.”

Her words felt like ice sliding down your throat and settling in your stomach. You’d figured that news of your sighting would probably get out, but you had hoped against hope that the blue-haired bounty hunter had been taken out before she’d been able to spread the word.

Mando was silent, fists clenched tightly at his sides, visor glued on Fennec. Pulling yourself together, you grabbed his arm and dragged him a safe distance away.

“I was going to tell you. I’m sorry,” you blurted, once you were out of earshot.

“It’s fine,” he replied stiffly, his gaze trained decidedly to your right.

Somewhere in the back of your mind you registered that even though it was just the two of you, his voice retained its icy, detached quality, all the tender familiarity gone.

“No, it’s not. I should have told you sooner. I-I wanted to—believe me—but I didn’t know if I could trust you. You were—you’ve been worried that I might turn you or the kid in, haven’t you? I was worried that you’d do the same to me if you found out. The longer I spent with you, the more I felt like you wouldn’t, but I had to be completely, totally sure. I couldn’t take the risk. You can understand that, right?”

He said nothing.

“Look—I really want to be able to trust you. I want you to be able to trust me. I just didn’t know where to start. It’s not easy for people like us to trust blindly, you know?” You hated that your voice sounded almost pleading.

Still, he said nothing, a blank beskar wall. The comfortable warmth that had developed—slowly, painstakingly—between you two over the past weeks had dissolved in an instant.

“Mando. Talk to me, please.” You reached out for his arm, but he stepped back. He still wouldn’t meet your gaze.

“Not now. Not here.”

“But—”

Your heart sank when he turned abruptly and walked back to the others.

You watched as he grabbed Fennec’s arm roughly, hauling her to her feet, and you trailed behind as he lead your party back down to the foot of the cliff. When you reached the bottom, Mando threw Fennec to the ground.

“Uh oh, looks like two of us have to walk,” Fennec taunted, eyeing the lone bike.

Mando jerked his head, motioning you and Toro to follow him.

“Alright, so what is the plan?” Toro asked Mando.

Reluctantly, you refrained from asking him if he could contribute for once instead of letting Mando do literally all the work; instead, you turned to Mando and supplied, “That dewback isn’t far.”

Mando didn’t look at you. To Toro, he said, “I need you to go find it.”

“And leave you here with my bounty and my ride?” Toro asked incredulously. “Yeah, I don’t think so, Mando. I’ll only go if she comes with me, so I have a guarantee that you won’t leave.” Toro gestured toward you.

You and Mando spoke at the same time: “No.”

“Either she comes, or I don’t go.” Toro was obviously pleased with himself for thinking of this plan, a smirk painted on his face.

You shot him a scathing look before turning to Mando to offer, “I’ll go get it alone.”

You’d love to put some distance between you and Toro, between you and Fennec, and honestly even between you and Mando at the moment.

“Suit yourself,” shrugged Toro. “Less work for me.”

You ignored Toro. “I remember vaguely where it was.” You pointed.

Mando pressed a button on the side of his helmet and scanned the horizon, stopping vaguely where you’d pointed. Finally, he trained his visor on you. He looked from you to Toro to where Fennec was seated and to you again, deliberating. You could tell he didn’t want you to go alone, but he also didn’t want to leave you here with Toro and Fennec. “We’ll go together.”

You nodded, knowing you were in no position to complain. Now that your secret was out, it was evident that both Toro and Fennec would capitalize on your value at the first chance. And, even now, when your dishonesty had been revealed to him, Mando still felt compelled to protect you, his generous heart winning out over whatever malice he felt toward you.

A small part of you resented him for that; it didn’t rub you the right way that he didn’t think you could take care of yourself. A larger part of you knew it was exactly why you liked him so much.

It would be convenient if he were a selfish ass. You could convince yourself you didn’t owe him anything, that you’d done nothing wrong. But no.

This is why it’s easier to be alone.

You felt both angry and guilty, an awful combination that manifested in the urge to hit something—a deep yearning to break Toro’s nose flashed through your mind when you caught the smug expression on his face as he looked from you to Mando. He was enjoying the palpable tension that had materialized between you a little too much.

“Watch her,” Mando reminded Toro, gesturing to Fennec. “And don’t let her get near the bike. She’s no good to us dead.”

Without a look or a word to you, he turned and started toward the dewback.

***

You walked in awkward silence, knowing you’d have to be the one to break it, but you delayed the inevitable, admiring the array of stars spread out above you. Mando stomped up and down the swells of sand, staying several paces ahead.

You meandered your way through a storm conflicting emotions: anger at yourself for getting into this situation (rightful), anger at Mando for being infuriatingly honorable (misplaced), guilt that you’d hurt Mando (well-founded), fear about your safety (appropriate), fear that Mando was about to break your heart a little bit (honest), irritation that you were trekking through a damn desert and there was an aggressive amount of sand in your boots (fair but trivial)... and a myriad of others that were too nuanced to unpack.

After deliberating for a long time, you decided to take an offensive position and offer to leave preemptively to save Mando the trouble (and to save yourself from having to hear that from him). You steeled yourself with a deep breath and interrupted the oppressive quietude of the night, jogging for a moment to catch up with him.

“We can go our separate ways when we get back to Mos Eisley. I know I’m too much of a liability to keep around, especially with the kid.”

He turned his head to look at you, the night sky reflected in his visor.

“I have enough credits to get off world some other way.”

“If that’s what you want.”

It killed you a little just how much it wasn’t what you wanted. You were supposed to be totally independent—you’d chosen this life when you joined the Rebel Alliance, knowing that if by some miracle you managed to survive, you’d be hunted for years. The call for your blood wouldn’t—and didn’t—end with the Battle of Endor, especially when Imperial remnants remained strong. And years ago, condemning yourself to this life for a just cause had seemed brave and romantic. Now, here you were, desperate to build a connection with someone else, despite the risk. And you were starting to think that truly being brave would mean accepting that risk.

At what point is it worth giving up ease for happiness, for something more?

You gathered up what nerve you could muster and took a leap.

“It’s not what I want, but I know you feel betrayed. I really am sorry I didn’t tell you—I was planning to, but I was scared. Scared that you’d take advantage of that... scared that you’d take back your offer to stick together. And the longer I waited, the harder it got to come clean.”

“I understand.”

The frostiness of his voice had given way to something a shade softer, but it still hadn’t returned to its former warmth.

You nodded.

As it became clear that he wasn’t going to say anything else, the disappointment started to settle in, trickling into the hollow of your chest. He understood, but it evidently didn’t change the fact that the fragile trust that had evolved between you was shattered.

Well, fuck.

You suppressed the wave of emotions that threatened to overtake you, focusing instead on making a new plan for yourself. There would be time to work through the feelings later, alone. Your thoughts wandered to where you might go next, running through a mental list of options. Nothing sounded appealing.

None of the places that came to mind would be stocked with a shiny, withholding Mandalorian and an ancient green toddler.

You walked for another twenty minutes before Mando spoke again.

“I want to trust you too.”

You stopped. “What?”

He halted too, turning to face you. The dark sky painted his beskar deep shades of liquid indigo, speckled with pinpricks of starlight, that moved as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “I wish you... uh... had felt safe enough to tell me that, but I understand why you didn’t.”

You knitted your eyebrows together. “Wait. You’re not mad?”

“I haven’t given you any reason to be open with me. And I guessed you were running from something.”

“Oh.”

“The Empire part caught me off guard—but I knew there was something.”

Of course he’d figured it out...that seemed so obvious now. He’d be able to spot that from a mile away. Plus, he knew you. You spent the last month or so learning his tells and quirks, but you hadn’t stopped to think that he was doing the same with you.

He continued: “But the kid and I are also wanted by the Empire. We’d have the same problem even if you weren’t here.”

“True...” You were struggling to recover from the whiplash.

“What are you wanted for?”

“I was an Intelligence Officer in the Alliance.” It had been years since you’d shared this information with anyone, but the words fell from your lips as naturally as if you said them every day, like you’d been ready to tell him all along and your mouth had finally caught up with your heart.

“Yeah, that makes more sense,” he said. “Explains a lot of your skills.”

You scoffed. “Fair.”

Mando cleared his throat and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “But... it’s...uh, nice to not always be alone.” He punctuated the end of his sentence with a shrug, a little embarrassed.

Relief washed over you.

You smiled. “For me too.”

“Good,” he agreed, nodding decisively.

“Shit, you really let me think you were furious,” you laughed, feeling infinitely lighter but still trying to wrap your mind around this abrupt turn.

“Sorry,” he apologized, “I was... trying to figure some things out.”

You shook your head in exasperation and started walking again, but you froze when he said your real name. You’d known your name would sound good in his voice—everything did—but the way it rumbled and rasped through the modulator was borderline sinful, agonizingly personal.

File that away for later.

You looked back at him, and he cocked his head: “So you’ll stay?”

“Yeah, I’ll stay,” you agreed, a broad grin on your face.

You both started walking again, and suddenly, trudging through the sandy desert in the middle of the night didn’t seem so bad. The dewback came back into view as you crested another sand dune.

Mando looked over at you. “Din,” he offered. “My name is Din.”

You glanced up at him, surprised. “Din,” you repeated back to him, feeling it out.

Despite the contradictory definition of the word, it suited him. He was the opposite of a cacophony, a man of few words—though to be fair, he did often cause a commotion. But as a name... Din was short, to the point. It evoked a lot of feeling for just three letters, and that felt right.

“I know your real name now. I thought it was only fair that you know mine too, but only use it when it’s just me and you and the kid,” he explained.

Your throat was unexpectedly tight.

You reached over to squeeze his arm at the elbow, where there was a gap in the beskar. He didn’t pull away.

“Thanks,” you answered, looking up into his visor.

You hoped he understood that you were thanking him for more than just his name—for his understanding, for his trust, for his protection, for his vulnerability. You couldn’t say that all out loud at the moment, but you hoped he knew.

He dipped his helmet in acknowledgement, and you dropped your hand.

When you finally reached the dewback, Din approached slowly, speaking to it in a calm, lilting voice. It warmed to him slowly, and he grabbed the reins.

He hauled himself up onto its back and then extended a hand down to you. You took it, and he pulled you up easily to sit behind him. You wrapped your arms around his middle.

“Is this okay?” You weren’t really sure why you asked this time. Things had shifted between the two of you, so you were compelled to check that the casual contact was still welcome.

He cleared his throat: “Yeah, fine,” he confirmed.

It had been a long time since you’d been physically affectionate with anyone, besides the occasional casual, short-lived tryst. It was nice to wrap your arms around someone familiar and comfortable, someone who knew you.

The dewback started forward. Din directed it back toward the cliffs with the reins in his fist. It wasn’t a huge distance, but the dewback was a slow means of transportation.

You had little idea what all this meant for your daily reality with Din. You had both shared that you wanted companionship, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was interested in anything more than that. However, for you at least, this was undeniably no longer a superficial interest that you harbored; you had real affection for him. And it seemed like he maybe was starting to feel same way about you? Or maybe he was just getting comfortable with having companionship? The man was starved for human interaction, so it was hard to know if he was warming up to you or warming up to companionship in general.

One step at a time.

Time slipped by as the dewback lumbered on. You rested your cheek against the scratchy fabric of his cape and closed your eyes. The rhythmic movement, the darkness, and comfort of the position lulled you into a light sleep.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been asleep when Din woke you, squeezing your now limp arm that was resting on his thigh above his beskar plate.

“Alive back there?” he asked in a low voice.

Leaned against him, still groggy with sleep, you felt the question rumble through his chest.

You sat up straight, pulling your arms back to your sides. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

He chuckled. “It’s fine. We’re close.”

The two suns had risen, bathing the landscape in the golden glow of early morning. You looked around and saw that you were a short distance from where you’d left Toro and Fennec. You couldn’t see them yet, but you figured they were hidden behind one of the many large boulders strewn across the landscape.

As you drew nearer, though, you could tell something was wrong. Only one figure came into view—and it was crumpled on the ground. Din registered this as well: his shoulders stiffened, and he pulled the reins tight to halt the dewback’s slow advance.

It was Fennec’s body on the ground. Toro was nowhere to be seen.

“Fuck,” you breathed.

“You were right about him,” said Din. “Stay here.”

Din dismounted and approached Fennec’s body. She looked dead, but he crouched to check. He tried to find a pulse, and after a moment, he stood back up and shook his head.

As Din walked back toward you, the realization dawned on you both at the same time.

“He didn’t—”

“The kid—”

“She must have—”

“We have to—”

Din hurried back onto the dewback and directed it toward Mos Eisley, doing his best to make the lumbering creature pick up its pace. It didn’t help much.

The ride back was interminable. You definitely didn’t fall asleep this time, adrenaline keeping you on edge as the hours passed. Both you and Din were incredibly tense, speaking very little, thinking only of the child.

***

Night had fallen again by the time you reached Mos Eisley. The speeder bike that Toro had been riding was parked outside Peli’s. Fury and fear spidered through your veins at the thought of him with the kid.

Din jumped off the side of the dewback and looked up at you expectantly, his arms outstretched. You maneuvered your leg over the side and slid down a bit until his hands gripped your hips, and he lowered you until your feet hit the sand. You could have easily jumped down on your own. He knew that. You knew that. You’d let him help you anyways.

You paused outside the bay to draw your blasters.

“Here,” Din offered you the flash charge.

You slipped it into your jacket sleeve, where it stayed tight against your wrist. Together, you crept through the door and down the stairway that opened up to where the Razor Crest was parked. It was eerily quiet.

You scanned the space, jumping slightly when one of Peli’s pit droids scurried past.

“Took you guys long enough.”

Toro walked slowly down the open ramp of the Crest, the barrel of the blaster in his hand pressed to Peli’s back. The child was held in his other arm.

“Looks like I’m calling the shots now. Huh?” he sneered.

The urge to hit him flared up so acutely that you clenched your fists. You hissed at him: “Don’t you da—”

“Drop your blasters and raise ‘em,” he ordered, cutting you off.

You and Din exchanged a look before throwing your blasters to the ground. In a subtle movement, you shifted the charge from your sleeve to your fist as you placed your hands behind your head.

“Cuff ‘em,” commanded Toro, nudging Peli forward and throwing two sets of cuffs to the ground.

She moved toward Din.

“No, start with her,” Toro drawled, jutting his chin toward you. “To think I almost cut Mando out of this deal,” he laughed. “I would have gotten you and Fennec, but this is so much better. I get to collect the bounty on you and this target here that Mando helped escape,” he pointed his gun at the baby and all your muscles tensed in protective rage, “...and I get to turn in the legendary Mandalorian himself—a Guild traitor.”

Peli walked behind you. You grasped the charge in your fist so that she would be able to see the top of it. You heard her quiet, sharp intake of breath.

“Fennec was right,” Toro continued smugly. “Bringing you three in won’t just make me a member of the Guild—it’ll make me legendary. Three high-value targets on my first try. Wow, I should really thank you guys.”

Peli was fumbling with the cuffs behind you, taking longer than necessary on purpose.

You hoped she was ready to duck because you’d heard enough of Toro’s self-congratulatory monologue. You released the charge.

In the split second of blinding light, you, Din, and Peli sprinted in opposite directions, taking cover. Toro groaned and attempted to cover his eyes, shooting blindly at the empty space where you had been standing.

Din took Toro out in one shot.

You were closest to where he fell, so you charged forward with your blaster trained on his body. The baby wiggled out of Toro’s arms and ran toward you. His big eyes were watery and his arms stretched toward you, his fingers making little grabby motions. He chittered nervously as you scooped him up with your free arm, and he buried his head in your shoulder.

You kicked Toro’s blaster away from his body as Din approached to make sure he was dead. After he checked his pulse, Din tugged the pouch of credits from Toro’s belt and tossed it to Peli. “Here,” he said.

With a gasp, she caught it and emptied the pouch in her hands. Credits tumbled out, a few falling to the ground.

“That cover us?” Din asked.

Peli looked shocked, scrambling to pick them all up. “Yeah... uh, yes. This is gonna cover you.” It was clearly far more than she was expecting.

You passed the child over to Din, and he looked down at the baby, tilting his helmet in...what? Affection? Relief? This was a head tilt you hadn’t defined yet.

Peli approached him and looked down at the child. “You take care of him, you hear?”

Din nodded.

“Thank you for watching him,” you said to Peli, genuinely grateful that she had turned out to be trustworthy.

“Besides getting held at gunpoint... I guess it wasn’t too bad,” she replied, smiling down at the baby. She’d clearly grown fond of him, and you couldn’t blame her. After a moment, Peli mumbled a goodbye and walked away, eagerly counting the credits in her hands, her pit droids skittering after her.

You stood there, finger caught between three tiny green ones, as the kid babbled and cooed up at you. When you looked up, Din’s helmet was trained on your face.

He tipped his head toward the open ramp of the Crest in a wordless invitation.

You smiled at him, a comforting warmth settling in your chest, and he followed you into the hull.

***

Chapter 7

#tempered glass #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #my writing #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x female reader #the mandalorian x female reader #din djarin x f!reader #the mandalorian x f!reader #reader insert #mandalorian reader insert #din djarin reader insert

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grumpyhedgehogs · 3 years

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I Don’t Need My Momories (I Have You)

Summary: R2-D2 and C-3PO face a hard truth. (C-3PO's big mouth gets him into too much trouble.)

Notes: Inspired by the Star Wars comics, which actually gave us C-3PO wiping his own memories in an effort to protect Padme's children. As if Star Wars canon weren't miserable enough. (RA-7 is an actual--evil--droid from the comics, who also got its memory wiped by C-3PO so it couldn't give Vader Luke and Leia's locations, god, these droids are gonna make me cry.)Also the Sundered Heart is the actual title of Bail Organa's ship, which I just HAVE to believe was a jab at Anakin Skywalker's every life decision being terrible. The level of petty every Star Wars hero can reach...It's truly amazing.

Beware sad droids ahead.

“There is no other way, my dear friend.”

R2-D2 chirps his dissent, whirling and looping in place. Dust skips up beneath his treads, accentuating his displeasure. C-3PO wishes he could smile but contents himself with bending at the waist to plant a few pat upon his companion’s head. R2 beeps again agitatedly.

“And how do you expect me to keep Master Skywalker’s younglings safe if I don’t enact the memory flush?”

R2 slows only for a moment before whirring to life again, his clamps coming out of their compartments to seize the RA-7 unit’s limbs; with a terrific rending sound, they detach from their sockets. Wires hang limply from the ends of their limbs and R2 spins to deposit the arms at C-3PO’s feet. Angrily beeping again, R2’s entire unit shakes with indignation and righteousness.

His locked joints mean that C-3PO ends up collapsing to his knees in front of his friend, but he wagers it is worth risking the myriad of infectious diseases spread throughout the ship to get closer to his only true friend. His gold fingers curl lightly upon the R2 unit’s casing; he isn’t programmed to clutch any tighter, and it pains him deeply--as deeply as his systems will allow, anyway.

“I know you would defend me to the very end of the galaxies, my little friend,” C-3PO soothes. If he were programmed to, he’d let his breath hitch now. But he is not, and so C-3PO keeps going, one measured statement at a time. “My most constant and loyal friend. How I will miss you so.”

R2 rolls quickly forward, tipping on his axis to bump against the droid’s chest cavity. C-3PO has never been designed to laugh, let alone laugh sadly, and so he does not. The other droid chirps again, agitated and loud. It echoes down the ship’s corridors.

C-3PO only shakes his head. “RA-7 was only the beginning. You know it, R2-D2. I know it. I hazard that Master Organa knows it too. Perhaps that is why he sent us on this silly quest.”

R2 whines questioningly. C-3PO lets his hand fall once, twice, three times, affectionate and damning, against his best friend’s domed head.

“I cannot be trusted with vital information.”R2’s head spins all the way around as he shrieks his dissent. “I am not saying you cannot be trusted, R2.” C-3PO continues, reasonably. He doesn’t usually have to be the reasonable one, really, but sometimes R2 can be deliberately dense, especially when it comes to the two of them splitting up in any way whatsoever. " But I am very talkative, you know this. It’s only a limited amount of time before I give up information I do not specifically wish to.”

Mistress Amidala’s family must be kept safe at all costs. C-3PO knows this. R2-D2 knows this. Even Anakin Skywalker knew this, once upon a time.

There is a moment of deadly silence in which C-3PO tries to swallow the knowledge of his fate. The R2’s light blinks, red, blue, red again before he whirs to life once more. With a ferociousness that is unbecoming of a droid, R2 rips the Ra-7 unit apart, bit by bit. C-3PO watches as his best friend deposits the cranial unit of the other droid into the Sundered Heart ’s trash chute. When R2 is done enacting vengeance, he turns back to C-3PO. C-3PO, a clanging, resounding crash echoing in his unit where a heartbeat would be, shakes his head. “Thank you, my friend. But I still need to enact the memory flush. We both know it.”

Rolling back and forth as if rocking on non-existent heels, R2 deliberates for a moment. In the end, though, he chirps sadly and rolls into C-3PO. He goes farther forward than he has ever gone, farther than C-3PO is expecting, whirring as he knocks into his best friend’s chest cavity, creating a hollow clong . As much as his stiff joints will allow, C-3PO strives to wrap his arms around the other droid’s cylindrical bulk. They have never held each other like this and maybe never will again. This one time has to count. Perhaps even more so because C-3PO will never remember that it has happened.

“Thank you, my friend,” C-3PO acknowledges. “I wouldn’t be able to do this without you. I--I do not believe I could find my way in this world if you weren’t looking out for me.”

Downcast, R2 trembles in his arms.

“Now, now. I know you can do it. You’ve always been the more responsible of the two of us, and don’t try to spare my feelings now. I won’t remember you extending the courtesy anyway.”

R2-D2 beeps deploringly. C-3PO wishes he could have been installed with a laughing sequence.

“Exactly, you'd be expending the effort to be polite for no reason at all. So. I’m going to start the memory flush sequence now. Are you ready?”

R2 beeps a question at him. C-3PO doesn’t have an answer that will satisfy either of their coding programs. “I don’t know if I am, R2. But I do know one thing; if I ever was ready, it would be because you were at my side.”

Then, before his last, most true friend, can say anything in response, C-3PO ignites the memory flush.

His eyes flicker, dark one moment and light the next. A strange alarm sounds from deep within the C-3PO unit, like an old gong struck for the first time in millennia. R2 rocks back and forth uncertainly, but does not leave the circle of his friend’s limbs.

Later, C-3PO looks up, his tone sunny and bright. “Hello. My name is C-3PO. I am a designated protocol droid. What is your name?”

R2 chirps his designation code, and then their orders.

“R2-D2.” C-3PO logs this in his blank memory banks. “We are to accompany Mistress Leia Organa on a diplomatic mission, then? We must set off, of course! She will be waiting for us!”

C-3PO gets to his feet and, taking no notice of the overly familiar position the two droids were previously in, sets off to his new task. R2-D2’s light blinks, red, blue, red, blue, and stays that way. He whines, chirps slowly, and follows at a much slower pace.

No matter how slowly he goes, it feels as if he is leaving behind a friend he will never get back.

#star wars #sw #star wars rebels #star wars the clone wars #post-order 66 #star wars original trilogy #star wars prequels #star wars fanfic #star wars fic #c-3po #r2d2 #droid feels #star wars rebels comics #star wars comics #my writing

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uchihashisuii · 3 years

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not ready to say goodbye

Summary: Shisui/Itachi | When Shisui was young enough to still be in the academy, he learned to swim in the Naka River. or: in which Shisui lives, and falls in love, and lives some more. or: in which canon is politely ignored. Tags: same age au | Aged-Up Characters | they're both older teenagers because i said so | Attempted Suicide | focus here being on 'attempted' | Friends to Lovers | Angst with a Happy Ending | Uchiha Shisui Lives | Teen Romance | Romance | First Kiss | grinding in a hospital bed | yknow when rin dies and obito can see flashes thru kakashi's sharingan? | the concept of still bein connected lives in my head so i rolled with it | loving descriptions of a river | lots of shisui and his family headcanons | because he's my wonderful little guy and i care him | canon is played by the book for the most part | until the cliffside | then i went lol naw | I never know what to put here | hey how you doing today? Author’s Note: This is my work for Day 3 of ShisuIta week 2021! I combined the prompts 'water' + 'healing' Suggested Listening: Hold Me by The Sweeplings + Not Ready To Say Goodbye by Leah Nobel Read it on Ao3 here Enjoy x

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When Shisui was young enough to still be in the academy, he learned to swim in the Naka River. His mother would hold his hand as he stood waist-deep in the cool water, splashing him with her foot. He remembers the way she would lean down, pressing a kiss to his cheek as her long, tumbling curls would fall around him like a curtain. He would watch her float and twirl and glide through the water, using shunshin to jump up beside him, startling him enough to make him shriek with laughter, begging with a child's wonder for her to teach him how to move like her.

And his mother would smile and smooth a palm over unruly hair he inherited from her, and she would teach him.

It was only when he was a little older, his eyes a little more attentive, that he realized the truth behind those hours spent at the riverside. They lined up nicely with the bouts of his father's loosened temper; the days when he would look at their home and see a battlefield instead, or look at Shisui and see nothing at all.

He doesn't remember much of the man his father used to be, before trauma and war had pulled him apart, inch by inch. He doesn't remember most things of his childhood; too focused on school and training and living up to the burden of Uchiha expectation.

What he does remember, is the musical sound of his mother's laughter, the feel of her steady hands holding him afloat in the water, and the association of peace to that serpentine river near a shrine of secrets.

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As time goes on, Shisui spends less time at home, and more time with Itachi. When he's not running missions with his squad, he's with the other boy, training together or eating together or simply being together. Shisui's mother had teased that they could be brothers, and to this day he pretends he didn't feel a sinking feeling in his stomach, looking at Itachi from the corner of his eye and feeling something a brother wouldn't feel.

They make a good team; even better friends. They balance one another perfectly; his own loud and outspoken way an easy foil to Itachi's quiet intensity. Itachi is all slender curves and strong hands, a contrast to Shisui's broad shoulders and light-footed agility. They're alike in a myriad of ways -brothers echoes uncomfortably in his head, and he once again pretends not to notice the slope of Itachi's throat, the graceful fall of his long hair- that makes their friendship easy, if not simple. No - not simple. His relationship with Itachi is the most important thing in his life, filling his heart to bursting with their conversations and laughter and memories. He cannot, will not, call it simple. Not when Itachi is the stars in his sky, bright points of light in an otherwise blackened horizon.

One thing leads to another and Shisui can't imagine carrying on in the dismal and violent shinobi world, not without Itachi by his side. They're a team, closer than he could have ever possibly imagined being with another person. Itachi makes him brave; makes him feel like they can achieve a dream of peace with no need for bloodshed, with Uchiha standing proud alongside their Konoha brethren.

A child's dream, perhaps. But a dream nonetheless, one Itachi had confided in him one summer night, camped beside the Naka. The roar of the river had drowned out their secrets and whispered confessions, but Shisui kept the words buried in his chest, held close to his heart. The passion and determination in Itachi's voice had made his stomach clench, and Shisui knew he would spend his life helping to achieve his dream.

They spend long days and longer nights near the Naka. Sparring on their favored cliff, laying beneath the stars with hands held. Shared meals and shared warmth, quiet laughter and a gentle intensity in black eyes that make Shisui's heart race.

And when he is sixteen, Shisui admits to himself that he's in love.

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The rush of water pulses louder than a drum; the deep ravine echoing the sound below him tenfold. The cliff above the Naka has come to be a favourite spot of Shisui's; a private place where none but he and a scant few others even know exist. He sits on the edge of the hard-packed earth and rock, hands splayed behind his back as his legs dangle in open air. Shisui can feel the spray of water from the waterfall directly across, the chill wind it emanates making him shiver. The setting sun reflects off the rushing water, lighting the ravine in swathes of gold and red and orange, so bright it nearly blinds. But then, the same could be said of all beautiful things.

Shisui tilts his head back and to the side, glancing at Itachi laying silently beside him. His eyes are closed, chest rising and falling evenly with every deep breath. The fact alone that Itachi had allowed himself to be vulnerable enough to fall asleep next to him is enough to make Shisui's throat tighten uncomfortably; Itachi doesn't trust easily or half-heartedly. Trust that he is betraying, Shisui thinks with a guilty heart and flushed face.

Shame burns in low embers beneath his breast, though if he's truly honest with himself, he doesn't feel the least bit contrite. It's a rare chance he'll happily -if guiltily- take, to simply sit and stare at his dearest friend.

Itachi holds a fragile sort of beauty in the setting sun. The warm colours of evening bring his angles into sharp relief, making him look thinner than he is. Though it adds a healthy glow to his relaxed face, the tear troughs that run across his cheeks look far deeper, adding a layer of stress and anxiety that Shisui would do anything to wipe away.

A breeze tugs at his hair, black strands brushing across his nose. Itachi makes an irritated face even in his sleep, and Shisui has to stifle both his laughter and the hand that instinctively reaches out to brush the hair from his face.

He is tempted, more than he'd care to admit, to reach out and curl a lock of fine hair around his finger. He wants to know what it feels like, to touch something ethereal.

His eyes spin red of their own volition, sharingan capturing the moment of peace, the image of effortless beauty. Shisui's smile is gentle and his heart full. His mouth moves but no sound comes out; his confession a secret between him, the sunset, and the river.

I love you.

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And then everything falls to hell.

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They're seventeen, and the disquiet and hushed plots among the Uchiha begin to come to a head. Shisui gets the go-ahead from the Hokage, to commit to his betrayal of his family and use his forbidden Kotoamatsukami on the clan head, and stop the coup d'etat before it can begin. His heart pounds and his palms are slick with sweat, but he is content in the knowledge that he is doing the right thing; and, at the very least, Itachi won't be counted among those who wait in the Naka Shrine. His heart will be away and safe, waiting on their cliff beneath moonlight whilst Shisui commits the greatest of taboos among the Uchiha. Using the mangekyo against one of their own.

His stomach churns despite knowing it is necessary, and Shisui swallows down bile as he jumps from tree to tree on his way to meet with Danzō.

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Blood pours in a river down his face, his hand shaking as he covers the empty socket of his eye with a slick palm. The hot shock of pain had dulled to an ache, though Shisui suspects it has more to do with adrenaline than anything else.

His thoughts run a mile a minute as he leaps and bounds and shunshins across the thick forest, pulse a steady roar in his ear. It's all fallen apart in his hands, the crush of failure and fear weighing heavy upon him. If the clan discovers that a sharingan had been stolen -

Danzō's words echo in his mind. That even if he had succeeded in changing Fugaku's mind with the Kotoamatsukami, it wouldn't end the conflict or deep-seated bitterness in the Uchiha. The cycle would begin anew.

His jaw clenches hard enough to crack, a plan already beginning to unfurl as he follows the river to where Itachi waits. He glances at the rush of water with his remaining eye, and thinks with a startling clarity that perhaps, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if the Naka were to take him.

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Shisui is glad, in a strange sort of way, that he only has one eye to see the look of horror on Itachi's face. He pretends not to notice the shining tears that brim in his dark eyes, choosing instead to pretend to be brave, for once.

They argue even as Shisui lays out his plan, his hope, his desire for Itachi once he's gone. And, cruel and crude as it may be; the awakening of his mangekyo, once Shisui is dead. He keeps his voice steady and clenches his hands into tight fists to keep them from trembling; he's convincing himself as much as he is convincing Itachi.

With a rough shake of his head, Shisui forces a lazy smile to curve his mouth. He reaches with a shaking hand to pluck his remaining eye from its socket, refusing to make a single sound. The fact that he's about to be parted from Itachi for good is far more painful.

He holds his macabre final gift out, summoning one of their shared crows to inherit his sharingan. Shisui's heart feels light, strangely unburdened as his world turns black. Though his hands still shake and his stomach feels like it's fallen somewhere near his knees, he's glad for the small mercy that his final sight was Itachi's face.

He is afraid to die, but, strangely, he finds the courage to do something he should have done a long time ago.

The wind turns the drying blood on his face into ice, and he spares a single thought on what horror he must make as he reaches with soaked hands for Itachi's face. Shisui feels his hair first, the wind whipping the dark strands against his fingers. He chuckles quietly, deep in his throat; he'd finally gotten to touch it.

Shisui cradles Itachi's face in his palms, slippery with blood. He is as tender as he can be, thumb sliding across the line of his cheekbone, before leaning down to capture his mouth in a bruising kiss.

Itachi makes a choked noise in the back of his throat, though his hands immediately come up to grasp at Shisui's shoulders and pull him closer. His heart sings at that, though he doesn't allow himself the luxury of dwelling on what, exactly, that means. He allows himself a moment to drift on the feeling of Itachi's soft mouth, a sudden surge of bravery filling his chest.

"I love you," Shisui whispers against Itachi's lips, smiling through the blood. "And I'm sorry."

Ah, but he's still a dreadful coward. Waiting until both eyes are gone to say the words, so he won't have to see the look on Itachi's face.

Between one breath and the next Shisui pulls Itachi's hands from his shoulders, gives his knuckles a parting kiss, and steps backwards off the cliff.

He's glad it'll be over quickly, when he hears Itachi shout his name over the din of the waterfall. The desperation and pain are heard clear as a bell, and something beneath his breast shatters.

The roar of the waterfall is deafening, Shisui's palms beginning to sweat as the sickening feeling of falling without sight turns his world upside down. But with grit teeth he swallows down the fear; he wants his last thoughts to be of Itachi, to be of love.

Summer afternoons spent lazing beneath the shade of a tree. The sound of Itachi's warm chuckle. The first time Shisui had lost a spar to him; a rasping laugh escapes his throat as he remembers his face flushing when Itachi had thrown him to the ground, straddling his chest and holding a kunai to his throat.

I'm sorry, Itachi. For putting so much on your shoulders, for leaving you now. You're too kind for the shinobi world. We could have changed it, we could have -

And finally his mind returns to that evening by the river, the setting sun bathing Itachi in a golden glow that had stolen Shisui's breath. A good final image to hold on to, even as he thinks with a sting of regret that he should have kissed him that day.

Something in his empty vision flickers. Shisui sees a flash of midnight wings, the edge of the cliff. A wave of vertigo washes over him as he sees his own body falling, gracefully down to the current below. And then, impossibly, Itachi diving off the edge straight after him.

Panic makes him choke on his next breath, body jerking uselessly against the pull of gravity. No, no, no, please - this is all wrong, it wasn't supposed to happen like this. You have to live - for your brother, for the clan, for me -

Shisui wants to scream Itachi's name, but his back slams into something hard and freezing and he knows no more.

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Shisui's awareness comes in waves. At first it's the dull ache of pain in his back and skull, the scratch of something unpleasant on his face. There is a warmth cradling one of his hands, the rough slide of a calloused palm rubbing slowly up and down his arm. Sound returns shortly after; a door sliding open, and what he thinks might be a muted conversation.

When his mind finally catches up, he doesn't know whether to be relieved or not at the fact that he's alive. He's in too much pain to be dead, he thinks.

He can't help the chuckle that breaks free of his parched throat, the sting of it making him hiss through his teeth. Shisui hears a gasp from somewhere close, the slide of a chair on linoleum. The warmth on his hand and arm disappears, giving way to the feeling of gentle fingers carding back through his hair.

"Shisui?" Itachi's voice is barely a whisper, but Shisui thinks it might be the loveliest thing he's ever heard; his name, just his name, in a dulcet tone filled with relief.

"What happened?" Is all he asks, before he says something ridiculous like I love how my name sounds in your mouth.

There's silence, and a sudden feeling of apprehension fills the room, with no small amount of anger. It makes Shisui nervous, and he swallows thickly.

"I - I was able to bring you to the hospital, right after - after you -" Itachi's voice reveals nothing of his emotions, though the fact he stumbles over his words is telling in and of itself.

Itachi's hand moves to cup Shisui's cheek, thumb brushing lightly over the swell of his cheekbone. Shisui feels his face immediately heat, and thinks he might actually be dead, if Itachi is touching him so tenderly.

"You saved me," Shisui manages to croak out, tongue sticking dryly to the roof of his mouth. His tone is coloured in wonder, still distracted by Itachi's hand on his face.

"I did. Open your eyes, love."

Shisui just barely stops himself from choking, something tight and hot filling his chest at the endearment. He licks his chapped lips, and does as he's told.

It nearly blinds him, ironically. The overhead light stabs into his eye, making him flinch and immediately squeeze his eye closed again. Before he can crack a joke about maybe getting a little warning next time, Shisui sucks in a breath. His hand moves to prod at his face -bandages and gauze wrap snug around his head; no wonder he was so itchy- and he realizes there's only one.

"It's the crow's," Itachi answers before he can ask, voice tight as he pulls away, Shisui already missing the warmth of his hand. "The other was lost when I killed Danzō."

"What?" Shisui's eye snaps open at that, a wheeze coming from his tight throat as he jerks to a sitting position. He blinks rapidly, tears spilling from the sting of pain and over-sensitivity. Shisui tilts his head to see Itachi standing with his back turned, gazing out the open window.

"The coup is off. After Danzō's treachery was revealed, Sandaime asked my father and the Uchiha Police to investigate. It - went a long way to bridging the gap, so to speak. Opened up the opportunity for a proper discussion, between the clan and the village. There's - a lot's happened, while you've been ..." Itachi trails off, shrugging his shoulders. He does not turn back around.

Shisui blinks. Blinks again. "What?" He repeats, confusion clouding his already-muddled brain. He looks down and sees that Itachi's hands are shaking, his arms held rigid at his side.

"Ita-"

He's interrupted as Itachi suddenly whirls on him, eyes blazing red. Shisui flinches, mouth dropping open. "What were you thinking? Leaving me to do everything? Kissing me? Making me watch as you -" His voice breaks, a hand coming up to curve over his throat. "- as you throw yourself off a cliff, and call it a gift? You think your suicide is nothing but a way to unlock my mangekyo? Kissing me?! Idiot."

It's the most angry Shisui has ever heard him. Vehemence spit through clenched teeth, his sharingan bright from the pooling of tears.

Shisui's face burns. He feels about an inch tall, in the face of Itachi's ire. He's - he's right. Shisui had been thinking of the future of the clan, and not of how it would feel for Itachi, to be thrown into such a nightmare with the added weight of guilt and loneliness. Add to that the kiss - Shisui puts his face in his hands, shaking his head.

"You're right. Shit, Itachi, I'm -"

Shisui finds himself interrupted once more, though he doesn't quite mind. Not this time. He can barely take a breath, barely has time to close his eye, before Itachi is on him. A hand fisted in his curls, soft mouth searing against his. Their second kiss is more teeth than tender, and it lights a fire that licks slowly up Shisui's spine. He doesn't think, doesn't stop to consider; he lifts his hands to grip Itachi's trim waist, fingers digging hard into his hips. Itachi makes a low noise in his throat, lips parting to lick inside Shisui's mouth, and he swears he sees stars.

Shisui tightens his hold, yanking Itachi down. He immediately moves to straddle his waist, nails scraping over his scalp, pulling lightly on his hair. Shisui's chest rumbles at that, nipping at Itachi's bottom lip with his teeth.

"Idiot," Itachi breathes into his mouth, kissing him deeply. Shisui hums, hand moving to rub up and down his side, his mouth curving into a smile. "Idiot," Itachi says again, all breathless laughter and warm affection.

Shisui doesn’t know how long they remain like this. He's losing himself in the heat of Itachi's mouth, in the feel of the other man eager and warm and grinding down on his lap, desperate and needy. Shisui groans at the sensation, his mouth moving down to press against Itachi's jaw, then the slope of his neck. Itachi throws his head back with a gasp, exposing his throat to Shisui's eager mouth. He kisses Itachi's pulse-point with teeth and tongue, hands roving up his back to tangle in his long hair.

"I love you," Itachi whispers around a thick swallow, eyes fluttering closed.

Shisui pauses, just a moment, before he winds Itachi's hair around a tight fist, making his back arch. He nips and kisses Itachi's neck with renewed vigor, whispering words of affection against his skin. "I love you, too."

They lose themselves in the whirlwind, Itachi plucking noises from Shisui's throat he hadn't realized he was capable of making, with every roll and grind of his hips. Shisui's back and head ache something fierce, but he refuses to let go of Itachi, not now that he has him. It's nearly overwhelming, the sudden influx of emotion and sense of right. But Shisui is happy to let himself drown in it.

#shiita #itashi #shisuitaweek2021 #shisuita #shisui uchiha #itachi uchiha #naruto #shisui x itachi #itachi x shisui #jules writes #why am i always late with these

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siennahrobek · 3 years

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Qui-Gon Jinn had not expected to wake up at all, much less in a fire fight.

He was lying flat on the ground, his back aching a little like he had fallen from the trees. Blaster fire soared over him, and it took him a moment to realize that he wasn’t, in fact, at this position, going to get hit. He could hear some explosions far off, that rumbled the ground and voices that screamed indecipherable orders. Hopefully, the explosions wouldn’t get closer. He had enough to deal with the blasters.

Qui-Gon didn’t really want to move but he knew he probably should. He just had to figure out a way to stand without immediately getting shot in the crossfire of whatever battle was happening. This was all rather strange. With a long and slow blink, he turned to his side, still too low to be in the range of the shots overhead and looked around.

His surroundings were woodsy but in a bit of a clearing. There would be plenty of cover. However, getting to that cover would be the challenge. He crawled over to a fallen log, trying to keep himself unnoticed. He didn’t know who was around or how close they were. Predictably, he failed.

Qui-Gon could practically hear Obi-Wan’s snarky comment. “Well, of course.”

“There is a civilian, sir!” someone called and Qui-Gon knew it wasn’t Obi-Wan. Not that it could have been anyways. Within the moment, Qui-Gon was surrounded, protected by a small group of armored soldiers. They have Qui-Gon enough time to get to his feet and ignite his saber.

There was not a second to waste. He leapt over their heads in a classic and well-done Aratu jump and deflected blaster bolts that were incoming. He didn’t know the sides or who was who, but these boys had defended him. So, for now, it was an easy side to choose. Aratu wasn’t perfect for this type of thing, but Qui-Gon easily shifted into something simple, a blocking form. Reminiscent of Soresu, he has been told.

“Oh! He’s a jedi!” a soldier said, a bit surprised but not completely shocked by his appearance.

Qui-Gon winced, fearing the next reaction. Not everyone was so pleasant and accommodating when people figured out who and what he was.

“I didn’t know another was stationed here,” another said.

They sounded quite familiar to one another. Perhaps it was the vocoder in their helmets.

He blinked, surprised. There was another jedi out here? This far out? It didn’t seem very likely, but the soldiers sounded pretty sure. And apparently, not too displeased either. That was a point in his favor, he supposed. Perhaps he had gotten lucky and chose the right side.

“Commander Tano!” yet another called out, loudly.

“I’m coming, Fives!” a female voice shouted back.

Qui-Gon just barely turned to see a Togruta padawan rumble and tumble through the forest and to their aid, a green lightsaber flashing with jerky movements.

“Canon fire!” someone yelled.

Sure enough, a giant blast soared over them, creating an opening. “That’s our signal!” the Togruta said. “Let’s get back! Come on, master.”

The two jedi and the squad of troopers raced through the foliage, away from the worst of the battle. It was strange, how this was all happening, and he had no idea what was going on. After several minutes, they started to slow down. “I think we are okay, sir,” a soldier said, trying to catch breath.

“Well then, I suppose this could be a moment to ask,” the padawan replied, turning towards Qui-Gon. She looked him over, scanning as if that would glean something from him. In turn, he looked at her. She seemed rather familiar, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He hadn’t been to the Temple in quite some time. “Who are you? And what are you doing out here?”

“Honestly, I could not tell you,” He admitted. “I don’t even know how I got here, much less where here is. However, my name is Master Qui-Gon Jinn.”

They kept walking, barely even stopped for the pause. The girl blinked at him. “Sounds familiar but I’m not sure,” she murmured. “My name is Ahsoka Tano. I think you maybe should talk to my master. He might know more or ya know, who you are.”

The walk turned into something of an initial silence, but it ended up being rather unbearable. Luckily, the Togruta found it just as terrible as him.

“I haven’t seen you around the Temple, Master Jinn. Like at all,” she pointed out, suspicion seeping into her voice. He wondered if he should be surprised by it or not. “Where have you been?”

He was truthful, there was no reason not to be. “I haven’t been to the Temple in…quite some time. Last, I remember, I was falling on an ocean planet in wild space. I was sure I was going to die,” he confessed.

“The Force works in quite mysterious ways,” Ahsoka shrugged.

“That it does. I will admit, I do have some questions. Do you mind?”

“Go ahead, Master Jinn,” she said. “I will answer them to the best of my ability, as long as it isn’t, like, confidential or something.”

As they trudged through the partially decimated forests, Qui-Gon learned a great many things. There was a war. It had engulfed nearly the entire known galaxy and then some. And the jedi were fighting in it. His heart became stuck in his throat. How long had he been gone? The enemy, the Separatists, were cruel and did horrible crimes, their army made up of droids. They invaded, enslaved and even massacred entire peoples and planets. The soldiers piped in when warranted, sometimes lending out quips and barbs when the subject called for it. They rather liked making fun of the droids, he found.

The soldiers themselves were light and warm and just a little different than most beings Qui-Gon knew and come across in his life. They felt right, like they were meant to be friends with the jedi. It was both a warm and disturbing thought.

All the talk however, rather led him to the conclusion that he wasn’t in the same galaxy he was before.

He wondered what changed.

The camp they came to looked sparse and it appeared to be packed up to move. He wondered if that was a good or bad thing. Solders ran everywhere. A few didn’t have their helmets. They looked identical…all of them. Before he could ask, Padawan Tano called out. “Master?”

A young man turned around. It had been several years since Qui-Gon had seen this boy in person, but his presence was unmistakable… although a bit lighter than anticipated.

“Anakin?” he muttered, confused.

Whatever the man was holding, he dropped it, turning to stare at Qui-Gon in what could only be construed as absolute shock. Qui-Gon didn’t think his presence was that surprising. They had seen each other around over the years although, granted, not lately.

“That’s not…” the man muttered then strode over, fierce and bright. Qui-Gon suppressed a wince as he approached. Ahsoka noticed. Anakin did not. He enveloped the master in a tight and all-encompassing hug. “You aren’t a ghost,” he murmured, shocked and airy. “You are real.”

“Uh. Yes,” he affirmed, brows furrowing in confusion. “I will admit… I did not expect you to be so happy to see me.”

Just because Anakin didn’t appear to resent Qui-Gon for not training him, didn’t mean that the boy was ever particularly happy to see or be around him. The young man finally pulled back, looking at him so intently Qui-Gon wasn’t sure what he was looking for but Anakin looked nearly as confused as the older master himself. “Why not? You are the one that saved me from slavery.”

Ahsoka looked surprised as she glanced between them. “Wait… he’s…”

“I can’t believe you are here,” Anakin interrupted, returning to a near giddy state. The girl just continued to look flabbergasted, like she was seeing a ghost but she stopped speaking on the matter.

“I am beginning to suspect I am not in my galaxy,” Qui-Gon mused, uncertainly. None of this made much sense, at least in the terms of his own. What little research he had done in phenomena of the cosmic and unifying force had usually been in the realm of prophecy, at least when he was younger. Qui-Gon had very little thought on the matter in the past ten years.

“Or you time traveled,” Anakin teased, bright and happy. Qui-Gon didn’t think so but something was niggling in the back of his mind not to argue. “This is just going to blow my master’s mind,” he grinned and spun his head around, looking. He glanced over at one of the nearby troopers, dressed in blue and white, with a large pauldron that jutted out from his shoulder. “Hey Rex, do you know where Commander Cody and my master are?”

Rex stopped and dipped his head in acknowledgement before gesturing in a direction. “Incoming, sir. From the north.”

Anakin grinned even wider, his eyes sparkling in something amazed and mischievous. “Come on, master,” he urged, looking back at Qui-Gon and pulling him towards the direction the trooper had given him. “This is going to be great. I have so much to tell you.”

Qui-Gon’s legs gave out at the sight of him because, well, it was impossible.

Anakin hadn’t gotten much in, just a bit more about the war when…. when he came in. And Qui-Gon had spotted him right away, he had seen him and heard his voice and felt him – oh! It could only be a wonderful dream. His brain was practically empty with only joy filling it. The disbelief and logic could not quite settle in at the moment, not with the initial reaction of this.

Qui-Gon had dreamed about this.

He was running into the camp, flanked by a myriad of soldiers, shouting out orders with a child perched in his arms like it was absolutely normal. The child was clinging to him, terrified, of course, but rather trusting with their perch. His hair was lighter than Qui-Gon remembered, and longer, a rather neat cut with bangs swept off to the side. He had grown in a beard, which helped hide his natural baby face. It aged him, Qui-Gon mused, but not particularly in a bad way. Qui-Gon wondered if it made others listen and respect him more. With his under tunics, he had pieces of armor scattered around his form. A pauldron had the Order’s symbol on it while his vambrace sported a red and yellow open circle; two halves that formed a whole.

Interesting, he thought. He wondered the reasoning and symbolism behind it.

Despite all the changes, the impossible age, Qui-Gon would know him anywhere. Even if he could not feel that familiar presence and even through the aging. He would know that voice, he would know him.

He would know his apprentice.

Anakin was trying to support his weight, but Qui-Gon was already on his knees, on the ground, staring in absolute shock and awe, leaning against one of the crates they were standing near. “Obi-Wan,” he whispered in disbelief, tears swelling in his eyes. “It’s…impossible.”

“What do you mean?”

He barely registered the young… padawan? Knight? He wasn’t sure what Anakin was at this point, although the Togruta had called him master. He was rather young for it. Qui-Gon couldn’t answer, his brain was running in circles and his tongue was completely tied up.

“General Kenobi!” one of the soldiers called from across the clearing and camp, him and two others making their way to the jedi knight – no, master. It was clear, Qui-Gon could see, could feel, his padawan was a master. With a dazzling grin, Obi-Wan handed one of them the child. The soldier ripped off his helmet and laughed, receiving the gift with such approval and glee. The child seemed to find this transfer acceptable and held on tight, wrapping thin arms around the trooper. Another just huffed but Qui-Gon feel some sense of vague amusement rolling off of him.

“Waxer! Boil! Perfect,” Obi-Wan snickered but he sounded perfectly pleased. His accent was the same as always, although perhaps a bit polished with some sort of undertone Qui-Gon couldn’t identify. Perhaps it was all the time spent with the soldiers that shifted it. “Mind watching this youngling until we can find his parents?”

One soldier scowled, away from the child. He was trying to project his disapproval, Qui-Gon realized, but no one was buying it. “Sir, that was one time.”

“You’re good at it!”

There was some more laughs and the child that was in one soldier’s arms seemed so sense something and jumped into the other one. He caught the child quickly but awkwardly and everyone just kept chuckling.

“We will find the parents sir!” the first soldier grinned.

Obi-Wan continued to smile and Qui-Gon was amazed. He had seen so much destruction and horrible feats in the little time he had spent here, in the battlefield, on the camp with the wounded and dying. He could feel the pain and darkness in the Force, in the galaxy, but somehow, someway, Obi-Wan could find some joy in the little things he had learned with and about the soldiers. They were his friends, Qui-Gon realized. All of this was hitting him like a brick.

Qui-Gon missed a lot of the conversation after that with his thoughts and he could vaguely hear and sense Anakin talking beside him, barely taking into account Obi-Wan’s presence across the clearing, so worried about Qui-Gon. But the older master…he just couldn’t stop staring.

Ten years and all he could do was stare.

Qui-Gon finally got himself to stand, and he felt hands on him, but he just shrugged them off. He had to move. He had to move, move quickly. Stumbling towards his former padawan, he vaguely heard Anakin call after him, but Qui-Gon did not really hear. He didn’t hear anything anymore; it was rather like he was under the harsh waves of the planet he had fallen into, nothing but crashing and nothing to see as water slammed into his eyes. And the only bit of light was that in front of him, the only thing he could see, the only thing he could focus on.

There was nothing but Obi-Wan.

His eyes never left him.

He was so close.

“Obi-Wan,” he whispered and reached.

Qui-Gon somehow stopped himself before he could crash into the now jedi master and leaned against the table before them. Obi-Wan had not turned, had not even reached for his presence, still going over maps and paperwork laid out.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said with a sigh. He sounded so fond with undertones of sarcasm and wit. “You sound as if you thought I would not survive. That is a bit insulting, don’t you think?” he snorted and shook his head. A small smile was creeping underneath his beard. One of the soldiers, a commander, Qui-Gon suspected, along with a few hours were just staring at him, unsure. Obi-Wan just continued to speak, so focused on his task at hand. “I noticed pack up is coming along. I hope the natives have been warned and moved. And delegating that to Ahsoka and your poor Captain is such bad form-.”

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon croaked out again.

“You sound absolutely terrible, dear one, are you…” And then Obi-Wan finally, finally, turned around to face him, the words, dying on his lips as he stared at Qui-Gon, near uncomprehending. Qui-Gon could not see what he was thinking.

“Obi-Wan.”

The young man swallowed, staring intently before he took a shaky breath and shook his head slowly. “Someone please get Helix,” Obi-Wan said, cordially, and Qui-Gon was momentarily confused until he realized Obi-Wan wasn’t actually talking to him, personally. “I appear to be hallucinating,” he explained further. He didn’t take his eyes off of Qui-Gon, just stared and appeared to be studying him.

A soldier ran off. Others just watched. Because even though Obi-Wan had said he was hallucinating, they could all see him. Qui-Gon wondered what had happened that made Obi-Wan think this way, that seeing him was more likely to be a hallucination than real. He was dead, Qui-Gon guessed.

“You aren’t,” Qui-Gon’s voice cracked from emotion because in all honesty, it did not feel real. There were so many emotions wrapped up in all of this. He could feel Obi-Wan’s warmth, see his light and it felt impossible. “But I feel as though I must be.”

He then couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help himself. He reached out and hugged his padawan, wrapping his arms securely around him and oh – he was still shorter than the older master. Qui-Gon could still tuck him under his chin and that he did. He tucked what used to be his little child under his chin and wrapped him so tight like if he even gave an inch back, he would lose him all together.

“What is this,” Obi-Wan mumbled but he accepted the hug, even leaning into Qui-Gon, a bit limp. When was the last time Qui-Gon hugged his padawan? When was the last time anyone had hugged his padawan? He wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted the answer.

“Such a blessing,” Qui-Gon muttered to himself, and he was crying now, tears slipping out silently. He couldn’t believe it. Because this was more than he could dream. He had seen Obi-Wan over the years, in dreams, nightmares, even drug-induced hallucinations (not on purpose) but he had never been able to really speak, never been able to tough and hug and reach with the Force. Qui-Gon, at this point, was scared to. Scared to see what he would find.

“I do not understand what is happening.”

Qui-Gon barely pulled back – barely – just to look at Obi-Wan’s face. He was so tired in a resigned type of way; like the weight of the galaxy had been put on his shoulders. Qui-Gon had a sneaking position something like that was, in fact, happening. “Goodness, look at you,” he said instead, trying to smile because oh, this was the most pleasant dream.

Obi-Wan’s expression turned wary, suspicious. “Me.”

“You’ve grown up so well, my dear,” Qui-Gon replied instead because he had. Obi-Wan looked so good and the older master could only imagine how well he was doing in his studies, in his learning, in what he had done and accomplished and grown. “I like the haircut and the beard, it suits you. I think it makes you look older but not in a bad way, distinguished or something,” he chuckled but then frowned suddenly. Obi-Wan frowned back. “But…you…you look so sad.”

“You can see that?”

How could he not? How could anyone not?

Who hadn’t seen this?

“It has only been ten years, Obi-Wan, not ten lifetimes,” he replied, trying to keep with another smile. “I never knew you as well as I should have…but I know that…weight. I’ve underestimated it, but I’ve seen it.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan mumbled, glancing down and Qui-Gon couldn’t quite read what he was thinking about that. “You kind of look the same.”

Qui-Gon let out a wet, half-hearted laugh and he almost couldn’t stop because that…that was something he would say, although not quite as snarky as the witty teenager Qui-Gon used to think. “One does not often change too much so into life and habits,” he admitted and he projected some type of joy.

“You smell better,” he mumbled and glanced up at him at him, watching Qui-Gon’s face for something. Qui-Gon wondered what he was looking for. “Look nice. It’s trimmed,” he noted, curiously, touching the ends, in some sort of wonder. Qui-Gon just smiled again, his shoulders relaxing.

Qui-Gon hummed. “I kept thinking of you,” he muttered, truthfully.

“This is incredibly strange.”

His note about the hair? Or the scenario? Both? It hardly mattered.

“You seem to be taking the possibility fairly well, however,” Qui-Gon replied.

Obi-Wan let out a light chuckle but there continued to be a hollowness underneath it, like he wasn’t sure if he should be amused or not. Oh, Qui-Gon wanted to know everything that had happened without him, everything he didn’t know. He wanted to know everything because he seemed to have missed so much and he had this strange second chance. He needed make the most of it. Obi-Wan shook his head in some form of disbelief. “Ah, if only you knew all the things we have gone through in your absence.”

“Then I’m sure I’d understand,” he guessed.

Obi-Wan’s eyes were sparkling, partially with tears. “Perhaps…we…we must go,” he added, stepping back and out of Qui-Gon’s embrace. The older man frowned just a bit, he did not want to let go of his child, the one he had lost so long ago. But Obi-Wan kept talking and then Qui-Gon understood the urgency. “The Separatist forces are approaching.”

“The droids.”

Obi-Wan glanced at him, questioning and curious.

Qui-Gon shrugged. “The padawan, Ahsoka, told me.”

His former padawan straightened so much, Qui-Gon thought if he touched him, the man would snap in half. A medic had run up, with a few others, but Obi-Wan waved him off. “False alarm Helix,” he said with some amusement that no one else probably found amusing. “It appears I am not hallucinating after all. It just appears that my former master who was actually quite dead has either been resurrected, time travelled or jumped dimensions.”

“Force shenanigans?” one of the troopers near them grinned. He had scars all over his face and some scruff on the lower half but there was a life to him that Qui-Gon nearly melted in the presence of.

“Yes, Immortal. That is probably the most reasonable explanation,” Obi-Wan replied.

“Clankers are inbound, but Oddball and his squad are ready for bombardment when you give the signal,” another soldier – the commander, Qui-Gon believed – added, stepping in and standing next to Obi-Wan.

“Let’s move out and give Oddball and his boys space to do their work,” Obi-Wan nodded and turned towards Qui-Gon. “We really should get going. Do you mind following us?”

This was currently Obi-Wan’s domain, his galaxy. His padawan may have been at war again but Qui-Gon had to believe there was a reason. There was a reason last time and Obi-Wan did not jump into these things’ willy nilly. It wasn’t something that he enjoyed. He was a creature of duty and compassion and Qui-Gon had spent the last ten years thinking about him and wistfully dreaming of more time. He had it now, he would not give it up so easily. Obi-Wan knew this world, what was happening, what they were doing. And from what little Qui-Gon could gather, he had become quite the leader.

“I will follow your lead,” Qui-Gon vowed, resolute and truthful.

Something softened in his padawan’s eyes, and he nodded, gratefully.

My, what a strange world he had ended up in, indeed.

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whitherliliesbloom · 4 years

Text

hope for the future

[ ffxivwrite2020 ] ★ [ masterlist ] ★ [ prompt #25 - wish ]

[ wol/alphinaud ] ★ [ 1,595 words ] ★ [ post-canon ]

illya skawi & alphinaud leveilleur ♡ occurs an undefined amount of years after canon.

and we will build bridges up to the sky. and heavenly lights surrounding you and i

"They say a prayer upon a shooting star grants any wish."

The navy of his eyes glisten with sanguine as they tilt up to gaze out the window upon the midnight sky. And while he had momentarily been captivated by the brilliance that was the shimmering gems of stars hung upon a majestic pitch black curtain, his eyes were quickly stolen away by the luster he found his fingers threading through. Each strand like the milky way, its pure white hue as radiant as the sun and moon combined. He'd run his hands through her hair from the roots of her silken diamond like hair down to her back, watching as the other half of its length cascaded and pooled around her on the bed.

He'd brush her hair with his own hands in search for a single knot he could gently tug apart - a husband's service to the woman who was his entire world.. and yet even as he'd find none, he continued to stroke her head, pulling the lalafell closer to his chest as he does. He likes this excuse to stay close to her - knew he’s already missed out on a thousand lifetimes of getting to touch her and hear her. He wishes not to miss any more.

The woman on his lap hums, shifting ever so gently to turn her head up and poke the tip of his pointed nose with the supple pad of her finger tip.

"I think I of all people should know if that saying is true or not, Alphinaud." There's a hint of red mischief glimmering in the midst of tranquil violet in her eyes, but he's long learned to not think any differently of her regardless what hue her eyes shone. "I'm an astrologer. The constellations are meant for divining the future."

"Ah, yes. And you are also, among other things, a non-padjali white mage. AND the most dangerous sorceress I've ever had the fortune to meet." Alphinaud's grin widens, and he reflects the mischief in her eyes twicefold as he dips his head down to nudge his head against hers in a manner that reminded her starkly of a needy puppy. "Need I mention an accomplished artisan?"

Sometimes Alphinaud found the mood to tease her - listing the many and more talents she possessed that he'd looked up to as she'd scurry away and shrink herself into a flustered, blushing mess. It had been his foolproof way of eliciting that adorable reaction out of his eternally bonded, and a way to help her curb with her less than ideal self-esteem both.

"Oh, and your singing of course.. how could I forget the voice of the most captivating songbird in all of Eorzea?"

"A-alphinauddd pleaseee..." Darling Warrior of Light is thoroughly flushed in the face now, and she's resorted to burying herself into his chest to hide her embarrassment while he it was all he could but to laugh heartily, and the boyish glee in his voice that rose in volume stirs at her pounding heart even more.

There were many things he loved about his lady, the woman he'd been so blessed to reunite with - so utterly undeserving of her gaze as he was. Even their past lives aside, he was a flawed man who so nearly saw the last grains of sands that was his second chance slip through his fingers and wash away into the sea of souls for good. If Illya had not been courted by a taller, darker, stronger and more gifted person, fate surely would have stolen her light from him.

She bloomed like a rose, beautiful yet laced with thorns. Her spirit was like the ocean, tranquil and still on a calm night, yet her might amidst a midnight storm was dangerous and unparalleled. And more than anything, he saw an angel in her, selfless and ever boundless in her blessings to others.

And in the midst of reflecting back on her many deeds, a finger gently tracing the discolored scars that lined her skin across her collar bone and shoulder, he wondered silently with some amount of melancholy what exactly the world has done in return for their savior. Certainly not enough - not even close.. and he, of all people, has the most to repay her for, a debt he owes her across the span of countless stars.

If she could wish upon a shooting star - just what kind of deepest desires did her heart hold?

“Make a wish, Illya.” Alphinaud whispers, as he leans back against the headboard of the bed and moves his hand to gently clasp hers. His wife moves back ever so slightly to look at him with wide, curious eyes.

“A wish?”

“Aye.. if you could have any wish in the world granted, what would it be?”

The lalafell pauses, pursing her lips as she thought in silence, and glances out the window upon the myriad of glittering stars. She contemplates for a moment, before furrowing her brows and looking back up at the elezen.

“I would wish for eternal world peace.”

Oh, typical. The answer had entirely been predictable, but Alphinaud was no less disappointed after hearing it. Ever the sacrificial hero, a girl who would sooner give her life than to forsake the world even in an imaginary scenario.

But it was odd to hear that whilst she wore her dainty little night gown, feet in woolen slippers and her body held close in the safety of his arms. The room was warmly lit by a mixture of golden light fixtures and glowing pink lily lamps, the scent of lavender and chamomile drifting through the air. And atop their bedside table left a pair of matching aetheryte rings, and a silver locket bearing a glowing amethyst gemstone whose shine was only second to Illya’s eyes.

This was their home - their safe haven.. a place he made doubly sure would keep them safe, and most importantly - make Illya feel at ease.

He didn’t want to hear the wishes of the Warrior of Light - the front of a hero she has to wear every waking moment of her life and the bravery she’s proven many times over to already possess. He wanted to hear the wishes of Illya Skawi - the woman whose smile he swore to preserve for the rest of eternity.

“That’s.. very valiant. But I want to hear your own wish.. a wish you have for yourself.”

Illya tilts her head with a slight frown.

“Wishing something for myself when the world is ever in desperate need somehow.. isn’t that selfish?”

“Illya.. I think you’ve earned every right to be selfish. You more than any other person in the world.” His hand raises to gently nudge her chin up, and he tilts his own head down to plant a gentle kiss upon her forehead before exhaling heavily. His breath tickles her, and he smiles at her singsong giggle.

“But for the sake of easing your constant need for philanthropy.. Let’s say your wish for world peace comes true. What then?”

Her silence is lengthier this time as she contemplates his question, turning to obscure her eyes beneath the shadow of her bangs as she rummaged through a hundred different thoughts in her mind at once, searching for any glimpses of selfishness she has had to bury under a mountain of responsibilities.

She finally thinks of one - a simple and basic wish.. but one she never dared hoped she could attain so many summers ago. And that fear still lingers even in the present, for as ideal of a scenario as Alphinaud proposed, she and he knew that the world will never truly be at peace for long.

But the world was ever wanting for heroes such as they, fighting through as many presents of chaos as it takes - hoping and wishing for a happier, brighter future - much like her own selfish desire.

“I wish we’ll be together forever..” Her voice is soft, sheepish from her embarrassing words, and she presses her face against his neck as she murmurs her remaining words against the warmth of his skin. “To be happy.. and.. for you to be as well.”

It takes a good amount of his will for Alphinaud to not crush her in a tight embrace then and there, and he so nearly does as his arms circle around her waist to pull her closer. His eyes blur for a moment, lips parting in an effort to speak against his speechlessness at her pure, honest wish. But he fights against his own habit of speaking excessively to let the peaceful silence hang in the air, and only when Illya finally looks up at him in a silent request for a response does he finally reply in a whisper.

“Of course we will be... I’ll make sure of that.”

Illya beams up at him, her effervescent smile stealing his breath away again, and Alphinaud finds the corners of his lips curling upwards in turn.

“And what of you? What would your wish be, Alphinaud? In the event of um... world peace, that is.”

“Me?”

The man hums, narrowing his eyes for a moment.. but it doesn’t take long for him to grin brightly once more, before slipping his hand down to rest against Illya’s tummy.

“I already have my wish.” His heart soars as he hears Illya laugh heartily, and he leans forward to speak to his future with a gentle stroke of his hand. “Isn’t that right, little one?”

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite2020 #ffxivwrite #alphinaud leveilleur #alphinaud #illya skawi #we've come so far #fanfic #mine #kiwisffxivwrite2020 #YEAHEYAEHAYEAHEY WOOO WOWOO WOOOOOOOO I FINALLY GOT TO WRITE TEETH ROTTING FLUFF IM WOOOOO

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bidnezz · 3 years

Text

Revenant [2/5]

Pairings: Magnus/Alec, background Clary/Izzy, mentions of past Magnus/Camille

Rating: Mature

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Blood and Violence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Clave Politics (Shadowhunter Chronicles), Downworlder Politics, Betrayal, Revenge, Background Clary Fray/Isabelle Lightwood, Angry Magnus Bane, Light Romance, Mystery, Prophecy, Minor Character Death, lots of death

Summary:

Alec has heard the legends of Magnus Bane. He knows all the tales and he’s read all the records of his downfall. The High Warlock of Brooklyn who became so hungry for power that he began to mistreat the very warlocks who sought his help. It’s been a hundred years since then, and when a sudden rift opening between realms brings an onslaught of lesser demons, so too does it bring Magnus Bane, insatiable and vengeful for the power and people that locked him away in Edom. As newly appointed Head of the New York Institute, it’s Alec’s job to protect the residents of New York from one of the greatest Demons he’s ever faced. Only, he has no idea how, and maybe things aren't what they seem.

Art by the talented: @abby0007

Beta’d by the wonderful: @squiggly-lines-on-a-page

Read on ao3

Chapter Two

A myriad of colors flood Alec’s vision; a blur of purples, blacks, and yellows. The thrum of the portal around him and the pull of it against his core, all-encompassing and loud until finally, finally, it stops.

He stumbles forward gracelessly, all attempts at being nimble lost with the sudden foreign jerk of motion as the portal closes behind him. Behind them.

Magnus Bane, the Greater Demon gone mad, causing all of the destruction and chaos tonight, standing right before him. Because Alec followed him through a portal.

A hundred and one words flood his mind, questions and concerns and the hopeful glimmer of diplomacy all lodged in his throat with no way out. Not because Alec is afraid to speak, not because he’s stunned at the horror Magnus Bane has shown himself to be. His silence is forced. He is prevented from uttering a single word by the rope of magic that clings to his throat and holds him captive.

His fingers clutch at nothing, digging at the tender flesh of his neck where he knows there should be something solid and obtrusive. He finds nothing there, nothing but the bones of his collar and the rapid beat of his pulse, his heavy heart pounding against his ribs in a cry for salvation. A gasp escapes him then just as a noise catches his attention off to the side, barely distinguishable through the rush of blood that infiltrates his hearing, but when his eyes search before him where Magnus Bane once stood, he finds no one.

Has Magnus Bane inflicted him with the slow torturous death of strangulation to suffer all alone?

“To think you could simply follow me into a portal and assassinate me all on your own is the stupidest thing I could have imagined from a pathetic Shadowhunter,” comes the low, grisly voice against the back of his neck, close enough to cause a chill but not close enough for Alec’s hands to wildly reach around to.

No, he wants to say. I’m just here to talk.

All he manages is the dry wheeze as the magic tightens around his throat and the corners of his eyes prickle as tears form.

“I told your kind to stay out of this,” the voice begins again, now to Alec’s right. He’s being circled like prey, watched aptly as he sinks to his knees and the oxygen deprivation pales his face, taking his life in the slow seconds. By the Angel, what a sorry way to go. “If this counts as Shadowhunters starting a war with Edom, so be it.”

Stars dance across the scene before him, a modest apartment decorated in silver and deep colored fabrics, slender legs filtering in and out his sight that leads higher to the Demon above him. Magnus Bane, staring down at him with a look of contempt, disgust curling his lip and the color of his jacket blending perfectly with the droop of Alec’s eyelids as he slips further under and his vision begins to fade.

Another scratch against his throat that meets nothing but raw skin, blunt nails that fruitlessly seek what they will never find, blood that begins to sink into the grooves and ridges of his fingerprints. And one last attempt as his eyelids hang heavy and he catches golden salvation high above. One word, mouthed pleadingly, that he can only pray to the Angels will save him.

Jace. Isabelle. Max.

The faces of his family take over his consciousness, playing before him in slow motion as the last thing he sees before he goes. A life he let pass him by, a life he took a sideline to as he let the ambitions of his family’s reputation take over. Too soon, and too late, and no chance at remedying any of it. Not now, at the mercy of a mad demon and his thirst for revenge.

---

The next time Alec opens his eyes, it’s to the pale light of the setting moon and burgeoning sun that filters through the windows of the same unknown apartment as before. He hasn’t been moved. There’s a hammering in his skull, a steady throb of pain that threads all the way down to the open wound the ravener demon gifted him with, that begets a wince and a groan when he sits up too quickly. Dizziness follows immediately, too much too soon, and suddenly the memories of his last interaction fill his mind.

Magnus Bane.

“Your request for mercy has been granted, but I must warn you that there is a limit on just how long my graciousness will last in the presence of a Shadowhunter.”

The voice, not the low rough voice Alec remembers from before, comes from a lavish chair to his right that houses exactly the person he hopes for.

Fear spikes through him first involuntarily, the instinct to pull out his seraph blade enticing enough, but a recipe for disaster should he actually attempt it. No, that’s not what he’s here for. He’s here to have a conversation with Magnus Bane, to find out his true goal and what that means for the rest of them. Alec curls his fists where he sits, balled against the soft material of the couch he woke up on, and clears his throat.

It’s sore, uncomfortably so, but he bears through the pain and begins to speak.

“I’ve just come to talk,” he offers, his voice foreign to himself, more along the lines of white noise than anything resembling actual words. “I’m not here to harm you, or get in your way.”

If he suspected it would aid his cause, Alec would raise his arms in a show of surrender, too, but Magnus’ sharp gaze keeps him locked in place. No sudden movements for fear of his life.

“As if you could harm me,” Magnus scoffs to himself, though loud enough to be heard.

Alec doesn’t comment on it, or the way Magnus keeps a watchful eye on him despite the casual demeanor he feigns. It makes him itch underneath his skin to be scrutinized like this, to be seen as beneath the person across from you. Magnus doesn’t watch him for his own safety, or because he trusts Alec. He watches him with distaste coating his tongue and lips, as though the thought of Alec dirtying his sofa is a great travesty. He supposes he should expect as much from a Greater Demon.

“For someone who has come to talk, you have awful little to say.”

He’d feel foolish, for sure, if the oxygen deprivation hadn’t clearly left residual effects on his brain. “It’s a bit hard to get my thoughts in order when I’m still recovering from near-death,” he snaps.

Maybe it’s not such a great idea to anger the demon who just spared your life, though Magnus seems unbothered by the remark. “I did what I had to.”

“Is that what happened last night, too?”

The golden eyes that watch him reduce themselves to barely visible slats, and Magnus’ lip curls in anger. “You would be wise to remove the judgement from your tone, young Shadowhunter. You know nothing of my goals in this wasted realm.”

Alec swallows carefully, the metal of his seraph blade burning against the holster that houses it, begging to be used in the presence of danger.

“Then tell me.”

Magnus’ brows knit closer together and Alec feels magnified under his piercing gaze. Uncomfortable. “You want me to divulge all of my plans to some measly little Shadowhunter who’s going to run off and recite it all to the Clave as one more reason to help banish me again? I think not. You’re in no position to make demands.”

“I’m Head of the Institute,” Alec announces emphatically, hoping that his status will garner him at the very minimum an ounce of respect. “A bit higher on the chain than just some ‘measly little Shadowhunter,’ I’d say.” Then again, who would respect someone equivalent to a bug they almost squashed with a fraction of their power?

Magnus doesn’t respond in any timely manner, choosing instead to look Alec up from the sole of his combat boots, to the wayward strands of hair haphazardly resting on the crown of his head. He’s sure he looks a sorry sight with his dirty, bloodied clothes and roughed up features, but there’s no helping it. Pulling out his stele would undoubtedly cause more harm than it would be worth to heal and stabilize himself properly.

After more than a moment’s observation, Magnus summons himself a drink and stands from his chair.

For the first time since he regained consciousness, Magnus looks away from him to watch the city skyline from the window. It’s a poor view, Alec notices. Nothing attention-grabbing or worthwhile to see from his seat, and he’s sure Magnus’ can’t be much different. A Greater Demon with all the power in Edom and the expensive tastes Alec remembers connoting with Magnus Bane could surely set up a base in a better location than this. The top floor, perhaps. With lots of gaudy accessories to spruce it up, not the muted reds and blues and metallics that sparsely decorate it now.

For all this mental evaluation of Magnus Bane’s base of operation, Alec doesn’t miss the solemn sip he takes from his martini glass, or the way he seems to let it sit on his tongue before swallowing. Contemplating.

“Last night was… Necessary.”

Alec waits for more, expects it. But a hesitant silence fills the space between words instead. He stands carefully, unsure if this will have an unexpected reaction from Magnus, and when it doesn’t, Alec takes a step closer to the window. “Why?” He asks, to the point.

Another swig of liquor leaves the glass, this one bigger than the last and going down with a near audible gulp. “Camille needed to be the first, or she would have been the last, and I’m not sure I would have had the will to go through with it by the end.”

It’s a moment of raw honesty that Alec isn’t expecting. He knew Greater Demons had the capacity for human emotions, but he didn’t suspect to this extent.

“Camille was close to you, I gather?”

The way Magnus’ eyes shoot to him with disbelief makes Alec visibly step back. “Have you not done your research, Shadowhunter? Do the Nephilim take pride in going into battle headfirst and unprepared?”

Stubborn anger begins to bubble inside of Alec, but he pushes it away as he always does, and tries to remain as professional as possible in this situation. “I admit, I do not know a great deal about you. Only what I’ve gathered from Clave documents, although there’s hardly anything of substance written in them.”

Those eyes, cat-like and sharp, shift in their intention from anger to curiosity, something more appealing than talking about the revenge Magnus is here to carry out, piquing his interest. Alec makes a mental reminder to circle back to Camille later. “Do tell me more.”

“Alec,” he offers on instinct. The corner of Magnus’ lips twitch.

“Alec,” Magnus corrects with a nod. “Go on.”

With the spotlight on him now, the room feels a bit hotter, and the unhealed wound on his shoulder flares with the need for attention. He ignores it, if only for a little longer, and dredges up what he can remember from this evening’s research of Magnus Bane.

Has it really been less than 24 hours? Time feels stretched, as if it’s been days since everything started, since Magnus Bane became an actual figure in Alec’s life and no longer just a cautionary tale to ward off greed for power. That’s all his legacy had been reduced to, really. A fable.

“Your existence according to Clave records goes back centuries, but there’s not actually much information on you. Just what the Clave perceived of you: dangerous, sly, hedonistic. You partied constantly through the 1800’s before you rose to power and became High Warlock of Brooklyn. Despite what the Clave thought of you, the Downworlders must have respected you enough to give you that power.” Alec’s thinking out loud at this point, he realizes. So he lets one more thought escape. “Why did you do it?”

He’ll never know when in all of his talking Magnus turned to face him, or when his features softened to the point he looked more human, but he’ll never forget the way Magnus’ small smile slips and the reminiscent memories floating behind those golden eyes plummet back down into stoic indifference.

“What exactly is it that you think I did, Alec?” Magnus’ voice floats quietly between them.

“You sought more than you had, you became hungry for more power than you had,” Alec states, matter-of-fact, forcing down the uncertainty behind his words. “You began to abuse that power and summoned what you could from Edom. You gallivanted around as a Warlock, hiding what you really are the whole time.”

“What am I?” Magnus questions solemnly, as though he doesn’t already know.

“A Greater Demon.”

The stiff tilt of a head, and another sip of martini, and then Magnus is turning back to the window with pursed lips. “Is that what Clave history says about me? The terrifying wonder of Magnus Bane and his downfall, consumed by greed and lust for more power, a Greater Demon in hiding.” Magnus inhales deeply, holds it for three precious beats Alec can’t help but count, and then releases it with a defeated slump. “What a story to tell.”

Alec takes a timid step closer. “Are you saying it’s not true?”

At that, Magnus strikes him in place yet again with a sharp look. “Did the Nephilim become so stupid in the hundred years I was away? Did no one think to question the lunacy of the assumptions wrapped up in Clave history with a neat little bow? Should I summon my father to show you what a Greater Demon truly looks like?”

The words are hissed with such spite that Alec begins to question them himself, to re-evaluate his own upbringing and knowledge of the past learned through years of training. Who is he to question the past? The Clave wouldn’t change the passages of history intentionally, that would surely go against the Accords and everything Alec knows to be true.

There must be a mistake.

“You summoned power from Edom, you-” Alec falters, just for a moment. “You pretended to be a Warlock to gain power among the Downworld. You were banished to preserve the Accords, and because you couldn’t be stopped unless drastic measures were taken. The Downworlders banded together to stop you, Bane.”

Magnus downs the remainder of his drink and rolls it around his tongue, letting the words sit and marinate in the spirit.

“I was there when everything happened, Alec,” Magnus scoffs, “obviously.” In a flash of grandeur, Magnus turns from the window, away from the pinkening sky of the city. “History has a tendency to change over the years. Word of mouth, tales of skepticism, those in power feeding their lies to those who don’t know any better. And you lot,” Magnus shakes his head, “you gobble it up like the little birds you are, waiting to be fed by your mother. What would the Angels think of their Accords now, I wonder?”

The topic at hand is territory that begins to feel unsettling. The words Magnus speaks of imply known lies from the people Alec trusts the most, the people who guide and direct their entire lives. What would Isabelle and Jace say if they were to hear the same words? It would incite anger, surely, outrage and disbelief. It would start a war with Edom, at the very least, and go against the shreds of diplomacy Alec has worked towards.

So why doesn’t Alec feel the way he knows he should? Why are the words of this Greater Demon in front of him sowing seeds of doubt into his mind where none have ever taken root? Is it having a face to the name that makes it all the more real for him? Is it being able to see the way those words are uttered, the nuance and enunciation of each and every one?

“So you’re not a Greater Demon?” Alec questions, hesitant. Not to ask, but to hear the answer he knows will follow.

Magnus catches his eyes and stares between both pupils, seemingly taking in all of the emotions hidden deep down inside of Alec, buried so far below where not even he chooses to acknowledge. Magnus searches and searches but for what, Alec’s not sure. He delves and prods with those eyes that Alec can’t tear his own gaze away from, Magnus resolute in his endeavor until whatever he finds is enough, must be enough, because soon that swirling golden gaze is pulling away from him.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not the Greater Demon you were hoping for.”

Something sinks low in the pit of his stomach, acidic and bubbling and causing so much discomfort Alec takes a step back to catch his breath with his body tucked into the cushions of the sofa. He’ll ask his mother, he’ll get clarity back at the Institute, and he’s sure it will make sense. It has to.

Until then, he needs more answers. Different ones that won’t affect everything he thought he knew.

“Camille?” He tosses out, and Magnus catches without missing a beat.

“My former lover.”

Former… lover? “Then why did you kill her?”

Magnus’ back straightens from his spot in front of the window, and his shoulders sit rigid. “As I said before, it was necessary. Camille is - was - a master of the fine arts, and manipulation was the medium she chose to wield most proficiently. If I let her live any longer, she’d have found a way to send me back to Edom, or get me to do it myself.”

“I gather she was the one who rallied the other Downworlders against you, then?”

A hum flits between them, and Magnus lifts a hand to his chin where idle fingers rub against the silver that decorates them as he sits in thought. “Not entirely, I believe. Although with her soul gone I suppose I’ll never truly know.” It rolls out so nonchalant, Alec can’t help the chills that run up his spine. “I’ve had nothing but time in Edom to try and make sense of that day. It was Warlocks, friends and foes alike that banded their powers together to silence me. They weakened my defenses, abused the trust I blindly allowed them, and when my back was turned, they took a knife to it.”

“Everyone betrayed you? Why would they have done that?”

“Not everyone,” Magnus sighs with a genuine soft smile. “My two dearest friends of course would never betray me. They tried to warn me numerous times and I regret every time I did not listen to them. Every instance I shrugged their worries off was bathed in my overconfidence of my own prowess. I was foolish and naive. I believed I was untouchable to most, that I was respected and loved by my own kin enough that these worries were fruitless.”

Pain mars Magnus’ face and the kneading of his fingers stops. “Nothing is guaranteed in this world, Alec. There is always something darker lurking in the shadows, something more sinister than any Downworlder or demon you can imagine. Greed and jealousy can change a person, can make them capable of horrifying realities. The only guarantee we have is that there will always be someone else who wants what you have.” At that, he motions towards Alec with a wave of his hand. “You’re in a position of power, Alec. You should know just as well as I the dangers that lie below.”

It’s a chilling thought, to think of the faces of Shadowhunters he’s grown to know over the years, Shadowhunters he’s met along the way here and there, and wonder if anyone might one day try to take him down the way the Downworlders took down Magnus.

“There must have been a reason,” Alec inquires.

“I’m sure there is,” Magnus sighs, lifting his other hand to twist the silver band across his wrist. “Camille, for how easy she was to read when she was begging for her life, gave me very little to go off.”

The way he casually throws out Camille’s death unsettles him again, and this time Magnus takes notice.

“It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, Alec,” Magnus states, a forlorn expression cast across the shadows of his face as the sun lightens the room. “I loved Camille for hundreds of years, and I don’t doubt I’d have loved her for many more if she hadn’t betrayed me. Locked away in Edom I had no choice but to quell the ache in my heart that she caused, and truly see the wickedness she commanded. For all her beauty and charisma, she was not a good person and I hate that it took me this long to see.”

Alec swallows the lump in his throat and nods. It hasn’t been an easy path for him, but Magnus must have prepared himself for the grief he would feel afterwards. For that, Alec feels a hint of guilt that he’s holding hostage this time of mourning Magnus likely needed.

But it had to be done. Alec needed these answers, he needed to hear what Magnus had to say tonight, and he’s only surprised the words came so willingly, with very little cost to himself.

Well, not entirely free. His neck still feels scratched, bloodied and bruised, and the slow leak of the Ravener demon’s wound continues to spread blood against his clothes. For the information he’s gathered, and under the flag of diplomacy, it was well worth the trade.

“I seem to be doing most of the talking this morning,” Magnus mentions lightly as he adjusts his position in his seat. “For someone who is very much at my mercy, I’ve heard little of your plight.”

What is his plight? With everything he’s learned, everything Magnus has trusted him with, he’s not even sure where he stands anymore. His world has been spun on its side, and until he can take a step back and properly think, get an actual unbiased look at things… he has no idea.

“In my mind, there were only three options. One, I could sit back and watch as you destroy Downworlders, the Shadowhunters left out of it to observe. Two, I could intervene, try to gather whatever defenses I could and prepare the Institute for the war with you that would be inevitable once I made my decision known. Or three, I could try to,” Alec pauses, searching for the right word, “reason with you, be as civil as I possibly could with a Greater Demon.”

At Magnus’ pointed stare, Alec corrects himself.

“Alleged Greater Demon.”

“Hmm,” Magnus exhales into his steepled fingers. “The first one would have been the safest option. I would have stayed true to my word, assuming no Shadowhunters tried anything funny. The second one would have been the total destruction of the New York Institute, no doubt about it, clearly.” Magnus offers a faint smile that Alec almost feels himself returning, but forces himself not to. “The third brings about a whole round of further questioning. What does being reasonable entail?”

Alec’s furrowed brows and the way he rests his balled fists in his lap must give way to the overwhelming uncertainty he feels in this moment. He doesn’t know what it entails, if he’s being honest. He knows what it did entail, which was an attempt to get Magnus Bane to back down and return to Edom. A chance for him to see the error of his way, and correct it.

But then Clary had stepped in, altered it and put ideas in Alec’s mind of helping Magnus, before he even knew for sure all of the minuscule details of the situation. She suggested they help him, that they find out why he’s here and fight this battle with him, unsanctioned by the Clave.

A truly terrible, horrible idea.

Yet, now, the most compelling.

In a reciprocated moment of honesty, Alec reveals this to Magnus. “At first, I wanted to guide you into returning to Edom, to try and find a way to avoid all of this death and destruction. But then it changed. The Clave didn’t want me to concern myself with you, they wanted me to stay as far away as possible, to be less of a threat to the rest of the Shadowhunters, I suppose. So if I couldn’t reason with you, if I couldn’t get you to go back to Edom without the damage… Maybe I could help you.”

Alec releases an anxious breath and allows himself the chance to peer over and meet Magnus’ wide golden eyes. It’s just a second, maybe two, or perhaps three that they keep contact, searching and afraid and so deeply confused by each other. Eventually, Alec turns away and focuses down at the scuff that covers his boots.

The sun is rising higher with each minute that passes, and time seems to drag on forever, but Alec sits patiently and waits. He’s always been good at that.

“I could kill you with the snap of my fingers,” Magnus whispers, after what feels like hours.

There’s a creeping feeling along Alec’s neck, the slithering tendrils of magic that he unmistakably catches. They’re not quick to whip around his neck this time, rather, so gentle and curious that it almost feels taboo to let them continue. A prickle of heat remains where the magic brushes by, growing warmer and hotter with each pass until the remnants of pain subside and the self-inflicted wounds close up and heal. “You could,” Alec responds with a low voice that he isn’t sure he can equate to the tenderness of his throat anymore. “But I’m trusting you not to, Magnus.”

Perhaps it’s the fact that Alec is using his name for the first time, or the fact that he’s putting the power so willingly in his hands that Magnus winces at the words, and the recession of warm magic around him leaves Alec feeling suddenly hollow.

“Trust is not something you give so blindly, Shadowhunter.”

“I don’t give it blindly,” Alec corrects. “You’ve told me your truth, and I want to help you. After everything you’ve been through, isn’t that the right thing?”

A flash of anger crosses Magnus’ face, and he offers a dark, crooked smile to Alec. “What do Shadowhunters know of the right thing?”

“Magnus - “

“I appreciate the sentiment, truly, but I did warn you that my graciousness would only last so long. You’ve overstayed your welcome.”

With that, a portal is summoned beside where Alec now stands in front of the couch, a movement he doesn’t recall even making. The static of the portal is loud in his ears, and his jacket flaps viciously in time with the wind.

“Magnus,” he tries again, but Magnus raises a finger and shakes his head.

“It’s kind of you to feel I’m owed the satisfaction of my revenge, but for your safety, and the safety of keeping the Accords in tact, I must refuse your offer. Be well, Shadowhunter,” Magnus articulates through the rush of the portal, completely unfazed.

A flick of his wrist, and fiery red magic shoots towards Alec, propels him forward and through the portal that he knows will take him back to the Institute.

Bright sunlight burns his eyes when the portal dissipates behind him, and he stumbles forward yet again, catching himself just in time to not fall onto the concrete sidewalk. People walk by him, blissfully unaware as they meander along the paths that pass by the Institute, oblivious to the death the previous night brought upon the Downworld. Ignorant to all of the inner machinations that go on inside the Institute, free to live the life they choose, as they see fit without having to answer to a higher authority in what’s the right thing to do.

For just a moment, Alec feels a sting of jealousy towards the Mundanes that walk around him.

Jealousy and greed, he remembers Magnus’ words.

The next step is unclear to him, he realizes as he heads towards the tall wooden doors that greet him, the same doors he knows so well. Everything feels the same, standing here in front of the Institute, but at the same time looks so foreign to his eyes that feel awakened by the conversation that just transpired.

He thinks of Magnus, drink in hand, staring at the high-rise of absolutely nothing important in the humble apartment he temporarily resides in. Magnus, with all the power in Edom, and all the clarity of a spurned Warlock cast out by his own people for reasons still unknown to Alec. Magnus, opening a world Alec never knew in front of him, a world hidden in shadows and secrecy. Hidden by the Clave.

But now, standing on the steps of the Institute, Alec begins to doubt again. The Clave wouldn’t hide the fact that Magnus was a Warlock this entire time, would they? To knowingly transcribe fallacies into their proud history, to crown an innocent man as a monster that should be feared…

With the shake of his head, Alec places one hand on the door of the Institute and pushes it open. Whatever questions he has, he’s going to figure out the truth. Even if it means disappointing his mother and seeking out an uncooperative Magnus Bane.

#shmb2021 #shadowhunters #malec #malec fanfiction #magnus bane #alec lightwood

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amandlas · 4 years

Text

almost gone (in these little moments get your cards out)

tfota | jude x cardan, she doesn’t come back au, no smut, hurtful and punishable tbh (ao3)

entry to jurdan week 2020 by @jurdannet - day 7: wild card! a what-if au had jude tried to make a new life in maine (don’t worry, cardan shows up). heaps of angst. little payout. sorry in advance. trigger warnings: violence, guns, shooting, and death mention.

[canon divergence from twk ending. title from “lay your cards out” by poliça]

gone. she’s gone. avulsed from her land, never hers, and her lover, never loved. the mortal world welcomes her with wide arms, arms that are shorter than she remembers, a little less homely, much less magical. after all, how can the ordinariness of television, powder tea, and surround sound compare to the true magic of faerieland?

vivi says it will be well. of course she does. why wouldn’t she, with her strong blood and pointed ears.

jude stares and stares at the tv. at the window. at the door. she’s not so stupid as to believe it will allay her want, but like programming, she follows the routine nonetheless.

two months. oak is recalcitrant to her teachings. vivi is buoyant in her obliviousness. they do not see her. she cannot see herself. the closest thing she has to a mirror is miles away, attending a new husband and parading with stars dangling from rounded ears. if taryn were to come, jude thinks she wouldn’t recognize either of them.

she is ashamed to watch her pillowcase blotted with tear stains at nightfall.

it’s more embarrassing than waking up the first time to menstrual blood staining her sheets, two stories up in madoc’s estate, knowing not what it meant or what to do.

jude duarte avoids as superfluous emotions as sadness or hopelessness. being a mortal in faerie, those sentiments would wash her out of focus, riddle her with doubt, and with a certainty would so far as kill her.

but, she thinks, i am not in faerie anymore. i am no longer in a place where blood is a better find than tears. where eyes are dry and swords are sated by throats and bellies.

perhaps in her native world it is safer. that’s what jude wanted this whole time, was it not? safety. if she were meant to feel relief, she should feel it now.

survival feels wet against her cheek.

he keeps slugging his damn arms. jude tugs oak roughly to her, fixing his stance, and urges him to strike.

“will i still be king someday?”

as per usual, he tries deflection to talk out of a combat lesson. jude is unmoved. “yes.”

“are you sure?”

she shifts her weight to her other leg. “there is no other way.” his form is poor. she identifies his weaker side and rounds slowly to it. “the crown answers to blood. raise your elbow higher. protect your face.”

oak listens for once. his voice is shrill still. “so there is no one else?”

of course there’s someone else. another bearer of the crown, another royal to lead their nation. but jude grits her teeth and resorts to her best asset: lying. “no. no one else.”

her little brother pauses, their lesson half-present in his mind. intrigued, she watches the scrunch of his brows as he formulates a thought. “unless cardan has a child. then there would be another.”

if he sees her freeze, he doesn’t mention it. the scenario turns her thoughts errant, threatens her with a conniption. some sick part of her wishes to linger on the possibility, but with oak before her and posed to fight, she cannot allow herself that masochism.

oak stands expectant, his arm growing weary and slouching. the least she can do is not lie.

“i suppose.”

he remembers none of the stance the next evening.

“no word from dad. taryn either.”

jude lifts her face to catch vivi rummaging through envelopes of mail. “what, were you expecting miracles? a shift in the weather?” she scoffs, coming back to her task. counting money. hard-earned cash from late shifts of all services and flavors. espionage, theft, the occasional sparring match. the underground fae crime ring taints the soul, but it pays in fifties.

vivi interrupts her quick fingers. “he liked you best, you know. dad always gave more of himself to you than to me or taryn.” she notices her brother sitting at the couch, leans in to rumple his hair. “or oak.”

jude shoots vivi a cruel look, an exasperated look. “what good that did to me.”

her sister’s eyes are fierce as a growling cat where they pin her in place. “quite some good, your highness.”

jude does a fucking great job at not screaming.

she hates to think of the name.

what could his true name be, she wonders? if she commanded it, before the brokering of their epically failed marriage for his release, jude asks herself if he’d given it. if he’d hated her that much more.

her mind swirls with reminders of midnight black eyes, of fingers against her lips and the abstruse feeling of possession by another being.

she won’t think of it. she won’t dream of it. she won’t aerate the two syllables in a whisper of dark sky. she certainly won’t be pelted with the scariest word, the four letters she refused since childhood to allow a place in her. the word that died with a blade on its back as it ran to the kitchen. the word that meant a certain foolishness, a certain danger. she won’t. it’s her new mantra: she won’t, she won’t, she won’t.

falsehoods have always been her strongest asset.

“we shouldn’t be watching this shit,” heather sighs between mouthfuls of red licorice.

they’re leaning on the couch, lined up like soldiers catching their breath amidst pilgrimage to battle. the television blares high. jude notices heather has shifted her free hand to cover oak’s eyes.

she inspects the playing show more closely. one second there’s a wide shot of scenery, familiar in its medieval setting, and the next there’s a person. a striking young woman with silver hair like new iron falling in tresses across pale shoulders.

the figure is so intimate it nearly makes jude jump. “a princess,” she murmurs.

heather shakes her head. “no. oh no. well, sorta.” oak squirms in her hand, breaking free of her hold, to which she sighs and acquiesces. “sure, i guess, but more than that. it’s complicated.”

from her place next to oak, jude nods. “royals tend to be.”

her sister’s lover, or ex lover (certainly an ex something), barrels on. she uses hand gestures to further her explaining. “her father was the mad king, but she was only a baby when he got dethroned. she was exiled from her home, far across the sea. then she married a powerful man, leader of a tribe, and sorta grew into herself. after he died, his rivals and his people tried to disbar her. turns out she had more in her arsenal than was believed.” heather wags her eyebrows at the show.

jude couldn’t be more confused until a huge, black winged creature crosses the screen. “are those…”

“yup,” heather confirms. “the mother of beasts. and her husband’s people, they followed her. even though he was gone, and was their real ruler, and it was unacceptable that she rule on the basis of who she was, they still accepted her as leader.”

jude stiffens. “really.”

they made it seem so close, so easy to reach. the princess-who-wasn’t-a-princess straightens her spine, amplifies her voice. when she speaks, people heed.

heather slices her reverie. “because she has magic.” she points to the overflying monsters. “badass.”

ah. because. she. has. magic.

a non-magic girl slouches back in her non-magic couch, watching a non-magic box, consumed by baneful imaginings.

unprepossessing. that is what they called her. ugly, if wine or fury loosened their vocabulary. how had i let someone who called me that touch me at the collarbones? kiss my throat? call me his sweet villain? jude has no answer. she replays and loops the plethora of adjectives her dear husband and company had called her. wormfood. unsightly. repellent. direful. unbecoming. synonyms alike to the same derivative, final word.

mortal.

the circle of worms, she and taryn. daughter of dirt.

she wishes she were nobody’s daughter.

it takes her three nights after that to realize now she really is nobody’s daughter.

her exile hits the half year.

bride of faerieland. the mortal queen.

a fugacious dream, she finalizes. no more than a fleeting child’s wish. had she remained at home, no, in faerie , she’d never have been queen. not without the people’s approval and not with her mortality. a hollow crown, a fool’s wreath.

she cements it into her brain, sears it to memory. she never. would. have been. a true. queen.

oh, but what a vision they would’ve been. jude, stiff boned with graying hair, and cardan beside her, youthful as ever and tethered to her with ball and chain. unescapable. a fresh minted prison for him. he’d be gagged to ask for her kisses, much less beg for them. when her skin sagged and time plundered her heart, how quick he’d be to run from her. a bat out of hell.

when it processes that she’s thought of his name, written it to existence in the myriad of her thoughts, she breaks into a cold sweat.

she won’t call her exile a blessing. there’s many descriptors for the singular event that redefined the last leg of her fleeting teenage life, and blessing won’t cut it. recently, however, jude has had the chance to add timely to the list.

jude kills a troll. he’d been preying on humans the same time as her abscond to the human realm. this particular troll began his horror streak after developing a taste for the helpless glaze in their eyes at final moments before teeth sunk into shoulders, the way they rolled back or if the occasion came up that the eyelids would fall crookedly. the funny look of a drugged, passed out, mindless loon. except these were dead loons, victims to the desire of a beast. these humans had been lured into the abandoned subway tunnel, but jude had strolled there all on her own.

“that bitch carries the devil,” commented one of the fae. gathered in a ring, stealing glimpses of her over their shoulders.

waiting for her pay, jude kicked the tip of her boot into the solid ground, arms crossed. “that bitch can hear. i may not have fae hearing, but i’d abstain from testing me were i in your shoes.”

the fae she had spoken to was of the sea, and was barefoot. irony not lost on her.

sooner than expected, jude duarte developed a reputation. successful runs, frightening recounts of what she did to earn her money, it swiveled up and circled around her like a tornado. some fae considered testing if the legend was bigger than the person, and some fae had lost the use of a limb. she knew she’d been strong before, but this new world taught her what an unstoppable force she was. had always been.

they give her a nickname. fearful of evoking the name given to her at birth, though being human it had no effect on her. still, shadows shivered at her wake, watching, consuming jude duarte’s trail of defeated foes. in the damp, cold streets of maine, in a world she long since had cut true tethers from, she’s reborn as the wrath.

in her mind, somewhere in the bowels of the elfhame palace, the court of shadows laugh up a storm.

oak grows less querulous and more capitulant to his role. jude in turn decides to do the same with her old-but-now-new home amidst mortals.

she watches tv. repaints her bike. buys new clothes. eats toasted waffles with peanut butter and honey.

when heather mentions a museum across town, jude no longer stares at her blankly. she doesn’t fumble or grasp for words. her foot’s planted on the ground, steady and strengthening.

she becomes inclined to music. an old trait, now in a new ambient. vivi glamours money to grant her a gift, a small excuse to cheer her up. the gadget fits most of her hand, sensitive to her tact and bright during the darker hours. heather hauls her laptop once in a while to upload new songs onto it, teaching jude how to sift through the list.

music player in her hand, jude sheepishly assembles a queue of songs that she likes. tunes that have replaced bards in taverns or notes plucked from lutes.

an aggressive song by a vexed wife goes first, the one with words that hit jude harsher than she wants to admit, the title saying not to hurt yourself. another one called once upon a time. a wedding song turned rock, a “strong electric guitar” according to heather, the singer belting about being loved tenderly. paint it, black by the stones that roll. where once her fingers would’ve stumbled over the gadget’s buttons, today she masters with ease.

the stunted child, the wraith of a human girl she once was rears her head in jude’s dreams. she gains color with each passing day.

by the time her exile hits eight months, jude begins the transition. she intends it to life, gives it air to breath.

i, jude duarte, will be happy in the mortal world.

she wills herself to change on a molecular level. when the desire of faerieland hightails back, she slams it to the back of her mind. she transforms the pain into power, into will. the scar left behind from her banishment becomes fuel for her new life. for the transformation into who jude could truly be in this wide, marvelous, enormous human world.

they don’t want you. they have not once wanted you.

he doesn’t want you. not like you do him.

doesn’t

want

you.

move on, she begs herself. move on. move on. move on. stop chasing after ghosts.

the wrath is elbow deep in a goblin’s guts. he swindled bryern a bagful of gold coin. it came down to her to rescue it back, and assure the impediment of a repetition. that’s when she met her.

“hnnnnggg…” moans a figure across the room.

jude ignored the drugged out junkies on her way in, leaving them in the back burner while working through the bulk of her job. but the turncloak goblin is dead, and was that noisy mound moving?

“help…” she hears.

jude rarely considers herself so altruistic. but the meekness of the plea pulls her across the room, tugs her legs to the sprawled person.

human. a girl, dirty blue hair all too reminiscent of nicasia, but not so polished as to pass for a sea princess. no, this girl appeared on the edge of a precipice, thin coat of sweat across her body.

“more,” the girl begs.

like clockwork. jude squats down to get closer. “want me to get you out of here?”

weakly, the girl nods. “she’ll find me.”

“what’s your name?”

the stranger smacks her lips, eyes rolling in her head. “lolli.”

lolli turned out to be an easy haul but a terrible map. jude exasperatedly dragged her through alleys and corners, hearing the laments of her companion through the journey. lolli got sidetracked from her ride-or-dies, see, shot up a bit too much powder - something she called never - and had an urgent need to return to the clan.

jude’s self-preservation rang high when she knocked on the selected door and met a fae two heads taller than she. his red skin shone bright in the doorway, his glamour invisible to jude’s geas.

“thank you for bringing pop back to us. i’m qylin” he says across from jude, having invited her in and given her a once-over. “uh, you mortal?”

she’s declined a drink, but accepted a chair. “as they come.”

qylin moves closer. “and you took out melbor? pop’s supplier?”

“is pop meant to be lolli?”

“her full name’s lollipop.”

“oh. i see.” a red flush runs across her face. “melbor huh? didn’t catch his name. i did catch both his kidneys though.”

qylin whistles. “damn. a mortal.” he pronounces it with wonder. nothing like she’s used to. it falls with disbelief in her ears.

“that’s quite a might you got in you. here.” in an outstretched hand, jude finds a tiny acorn that no doubt has a message inside it. “if you ever quit meandering for coin and want to run with the real wolves, i’ll answer.”

wolf. she’d been a girl and she’d been a mortal. then she’d been wormfood and after that she’d been a queen. couldn’t say jude once considered herself a wolf, or imagined running with them. then again, she had become so many things far from her imagination.

the ward. the mortal. the queen. the wrath. her list of faces ran endless, each mask pressing heavier and heavier on her fragile composition.

in the beginning, vivi congratulated her like a preschooler with a trophy. “look at you, making an effort. i told you home wasn’t so bad.”

months later they’ve turned to “you are too far out” accompanied by the tapping of her foot, a face riddled by concern. “you’re jumping into danger again.”

vivi didn’t know how jude missed being afraid.

if she dreams of cardan, the sting pulls her awake and breathless into the chirping crickets of the dark hours.

ninth month. her exile is a baby somewhere, born and breathing. a marking reminder of her incipient rule cut short.

jude duarte makes a decision. she steps outside of the girl she used to be, the teenager latched to a world that had not once been hers.

the acorn is light in her hands. she splits it open, unrolling the paper inside, and when she sees the address and phone number it takes her a total of eighteen minutes to pack.

saying goodbye without telling them it’s goodbye cracks a new wound in her already shattering heart.

oak thinks she’s going to the gym. vivi thinks she’s babysitting oak. heather might’ve had a clue, but she kept silent while jude hugged her, muttering a quick thanks for watching her brother while vivi came from the post office.

it appears, after years, she’d learned to say farewell to all things that were close to her.

qylin refrained from asking questions, just as jude liked it. she watched, studied, learned, kept to her rank while scheming for more. the room and cot qylin offers is as home as any she’s had.

when she urged cardan to inveigle the princess of the undersea, it led them to a hidden alcove draped with vines, to a couch where she’d bared more of jude duarte than she had in her entire life. the memory is both a memory and the dream that recurs most in her sleep. their tryst, their unculminated tumble, their fumbled connection, whatever people would want to call it. in her sickest hours, jude allowed herself to think of it with a tender gaze, with a pink shiny filter, with the dreaded word she’d been on the run from for years.

that you hate me. tell me that you hate me.

“i hate you,” jude whispers. “i hate you and i married you and i hate you.” the two phrases weren’t mutually exclusive.

lollipop has been gone for weeks, but her junkie spirit is alive.

the wrath evaded nevermore like cats did water, but the gradual acclimation to qylin’s ring fills her with misplaced ease. it took them damn near six months, but jude finally surrendered her arm.

it pricks, the needle, like the pinch on her finger when cardan stabbed her for the salt in her blood. for the antidote to faerie fruit.

she’s high. she’s at a revel in new york and she’s vulnerable and she’s high.

it doesn’t take long for jude to cement her decision to never do drugs in her natural life again. but once that’s been engraved in her think tank, the world turns mellow and technicolor. it tells her to enjoy while it lasts.

she’s surrounded by leaves, platter of fruit, dancing pixies and slender fae. painful reminders of the home she direly tries to forget.

in a mirage, she pictures black curls under a golden crown of flowers. cruel lips forming a smile.

as if underwater, ears plugged with chlorine liquid, jude hears a seductive voice to her side. “what a pretty thing.” a woman. tall and thin, fae ears and slit green eyes. eyes that fall down to jude’s chest. “busty.”

not all quite there, jude struggles but succeeds in recognizing the tone coming from her courtier. and before she can respond, to her surprise, a second woman emerges from the back of her new companion.

she’s got beautiful straight teeth and straighter talons. “careful. saphine can bite.”

after being called hideous half a life, this come-on douses jude awake like a bucket of water. she studies the two girls and the raking nature of their eyes. she thinks perhaps if she paid more attention she could’ve recognized that in cardan’s eyes. could’ve told it apart from the hatred, the arrogance and the disgust.

without preemptiveness, without pause to think it over, jude tugs both girls to her. her body busts in sensation.

she remembers cardan in a maze, draped in languor and gold faerie drug and girls. black shark eyes watching her while horned girls had their way with him. one kissed his neck, she remembers, and another his knee.

“here,” she scoffs, pushing down sapphire or whatever’s head to her knees. “above my boot.”

a chuckle. “feisty, huh?” she hears, and she truly doesn’t care.

next, jude unceremoniously pulls the second girl up to her neck, leading them exactly where and how she wants them. she’s a constellation of heat and brief spikes of libido.

does cardan think of her? when he’s in bed or bedding someone new, whichsoever activity he performs at night, does jude cross his mind? does he remember her? sometimes in the ridiculous seclusion of her mind she thought cardan would be faithful to her once upon a time. she could slap her own cheeks for such foolishness.

his face appears stark in her memory. deep hollows on his collarbones, raven black hair and eyes devouring her like fruit. his lips, they’d been so soft.

jude leans her head back and laments her ghosts. she inhales sharply.

after the hot spell passes, after jude feels the trickle of tongue make its way up to her thigh and another down her chest, she pushes them away.

why? she doesn’t know. jude is only sure of the fact that she’s tired and doesn’t want this and instead wants a glass of water then maybe a bed.

saphine tilts her head, rolls her eyes, and waves her off, moving along. jude is thankful, for the first time, at being so easily discarded.

a month later makes two years since her infamous exit.

“unless cardan has a child,” oak said. many moons past.

the memory of him brings upon a dream. the opposite to her listless, watered-down dreams she grew used to having.

she sneaks through the palace, it’s name near forgotten to her, crawling against walls or chasing shadows.

he’s there. he’s in many of her dreams and he’s there in this one. hair astray. tilted crown. reclined on a couch, his tail freely swishing left and right.

if he remembers their pact of marriage, he doesn’t bother to show it. no mourning, no sadness, no desperation. unlike the other dreams of him, in this he’s placated. joyful, even, in a way so seldom his character.

jude’s understanding is little.

something squirms in cardan’s arms. when she gets closer it nearly takes her breath away to a fault, threatening to kill her. it’s a baby. older than a newborn but small enough to fit in his arms, to paw at his chin and gargle.

no test could prepare her for this sight.

and cardan. he’s absolutely changed. reinvented in the light of this babe, this creature jude hasn’t seen the face of. because that is his spawn, the tiny tail swishing from its rear indicates as much. that, combined with the black tresses, leaves no doubt that she is looking at a king and his heir.

in the depths of her shriveled dignity, jude duarte senses another break, another disgusting branched crack.

her husband is inconsolable in love. his bright smile slashes wide across his face, softening his sharp cheekbones. he lifts the baby to his face, pressing their noses together, cooing. she hardly recognizes him. but she recognizes the lack of a need for her.

this was a nightmare.

cardan lets the child descend, adjusting them in his lap with heartbreaking gentleness. to her horror, the toddler turns and pierces jude in place with raven black eyes.

she runs cold all over. the child has the look of a girl.

her coloring is unique, darker than cardan’s and any fae’s. it’s closer to… jude’s own. and below the black curls, which she realizes now is actually dark amber brown, there’s ears. rounded, untipped, human ears.

jude is utterly unmoored. the scene melts. she wakes up to hands descending upon her, to frightened questions of why she was screaming and that she’s woken up half of the gang. they cannot get a straight answer from her, and after plowing her with cups of water and aspirins from a quick run to the mini-store, the most they get from jude duarte is a somber face and a fall into her pillow.

jude becomes a gallery of girls. she’s judy, and she’s martina, and she’s amelie with the occasional latika. running in qylin’s underworld gang requires her to. police don’t catch her, fae detectives don’t either, and if by chance she needed to run an errand the name she gave was one of a basinful of fake i.d. cards.

“i once had a twin,” she offhandedly told someone.

“what was her name?” they asked.

jude slurped from a tall gas station soda cup. “doesn’t matter.”

three years. the earnest smile she’d lost a number of winters ago returns tenuously but surely. as a sliver, as a tiny reminder, as a planted seed showing the very smallest evidence of root.

a pixie joins their ranks. young and limber. her cerulean skin reminds jude of a blue court under the sea.

“fand,” she greets the mismatched group. “newborn nomad.”

jude welcomes her by the form of a nod, turning back to the display of headshots splashed on the table, organizing it into a semblance of order.

she feels fand dance around her, suspicious to her presence. she thinks for a hot minute that fand might want to cause trouble. jude focuses her attention to the knife hidden between her breasts.

the pixie stares at her, unabashed, and right as jude thinks to reach to her chest, fand grows the courage to ask. “you. do i know you?”

the question falls flat. “i don’t believe so. there’s little chance our paths crossed.”

fand squints. “well, i’ve just left elfhame. finally broke from that unruly mess.”

lightning forks in jude’s chest, attacking her nervous system. an old phantom possesses her body, causing her to still.

the pixie moves closer, inspecting. “your look, it’s so familiar.”

jude understands in a minute.

taryn. fucking taryn. always, forever, impossible-to-be-rid-of taryn.

summoning years of falsehoods and acting experience, jude breaks eye contact to laugh and feign offense. “all mortals look the same to fae, i’m sure.”

that is not a lie. she learned that from the wickedest prince himself.

when fand slips away from the gang two nights later, jude forces herself to block it from memory.

she’s almost twenty-one. in faerie she might have died since she was eleven.

here, she’s got a family. a rough knit circle of confidants, people she rarely thinks twice about trusting anymore. her music keeps her company, and her growing arsenal of skills, of wins, it warms the smallest piece of her soul.

how could she have hated such a place?

“counterinsurgents. we calculate two dozen below the bridge,” jekka, qylin’s second, explains over a map.

jude’s focus is precise, uninterrupted.

the years, the lack of practice from a simple lack of need to, makes it so that she doesn’t religiously check the perimeter, doesn’t spot a green face. his dark tuft of hair and hooked nose, spying from the window, hidden among leaves and wind.

if she had seen him, she might’ve remembered her old friend. if she’d seen him, she might’ve broken down in tears, or begged for a word, or done none of those things to help jekka figure out their positions for the next day’s raid.

“watch for the sniper!” one of her gang yells.

jude ducks, experienced muscles leading her across the space, the shielded street with broken streetlights. abandoned houses repurposed for criminal night creatures sprawl one after the other. they’ve chosen one a stone throw from the river, so close they could taste the salt while counting bloody fae or human scalps.

five, six, seven leaps and she’s out of shot, crammed into a wedge in the building. she took down three counterinsurgents already. the wrath ran rampant today.

another figure jumps out the window, two yards from her, and takes off running through the backside of the house, the one facing the water. swift as the wind, jude pursues in fervor.

bam.

first the noise like thunderclap. then the pain.

oh.

when they screamed sniper, she expected an arrow. she expected a taut bow and a sharp, easily removed tip of metal. not a bullet.

in the end, jude has been a galaxy of abridges.

she’s had abridged parents, gone before her eighth birthday. that led to an abridged innocence and an abridged life in their rudimentary home in maine. she’s had an abridged relationship with her sisters. an abridged sense of belonging.

she had an abridged romance with a prince and king. that chapter being severed short was, as they all were, not her fault.

she had an abridged marriage. an abridged kingdom rule.

to be culminated in an abridged life. thin and meager.

she hopes no matter how small her garden has been, that each poison flower and cherry blossoms she’s sowed has done its best to enrich the tiny piece of universe allotted to her.

she should’ve known when she saw the river.

in water all began, and in water it ends.

there are no screams. no chaos. the gang has left her, chasing their foes further up the street, looking to corner them. jude? she’s going for a dip. a passage to the next life. she’ll float to it. gargle on the last of life.

“huh,” she whispers.

the ache is pungent in her back, the bullet hitting close to the spine but not quite. deadly, though. deadly for sure.

she wasn’t queen of nothing. she was queen of death, the hierophant of misery. her whole life has been a string of it. well, no longer.

jude duarte reaches the water’s edge, using each fiber of her strength to not fall in quite yet.

in the haziness of all that she’d done and all that she’d run from, he comes to her. in dream, in flesh. she’s not yet in the water.

“jude.”

this has to be the mark between. the straddling line of life and death. because somehow, impossibly, she hears him.

“jude!”

or?...

her brows scrunch in confusion, a naked toe in the river already. she wants to turn, but the seeping life at her back won’t allow it.

she doesn’t need to. long arms surround her, someone moving in front of her to read her face, to see what lies there.

it’s him.

jude’s lids droop. her back is on fire, and she burns in the flames. he’s barely changed. matured into his looks, if she had to put it into words. his tar eyes, slender lips, pointed nose and legendary black curls suddenly remind her of being seventeen.

there’s so much in his face she can barely read any of it. “is it you? is it really you?” he demands.

she’s always been jude. who jude became, that was a different question. one she no longer cares to ask.

“i found you. i finally finally found you.” his voice is incredulous.

is he the harbinger of the beyond? was that his role to play this entire time? her thoughts eddy and murk the more time passes with a hole in her back.

it is an arcane thing, in truth, to be held by a creature she’s craved and despised. her body responds on its own by pressing closer, seeking warmth.

he might be crying. could also be the angle of the sun.

“please,” he whispers.

she hasn’t said his name in years.

“cardan.”

his eyes fall closed.

her mouth repeats the motion, recognizing the familiarity of his name. cardan. once her king. her husband. the sight of him brings forth a wave of emotions, cascading through her like a waterfall.

cardan tugs her close to a punishingly tight degree. “i thought you dead.” he speaks into her ear. “we searched for years. i thought you were gone. gone, jude.”

the word pulls her back, creates distance between them. jude lets herself get lost in his eyes, those splendid eyes, bottomless and infinite, a serene look on her face as she responds:

“almost.”

the fractious prince too arrogant to be a ruler does not stand in front of her. this man is similar, but a sense of strength she hadn’t seen is forefront and shining. jude wishes she could appreciate it.

if only this weren’t the last time.

“so it is you.” she says it with wonder, with a detachment that lets her turn away from his arms and face the river.

cardan’s intake of breath indicates he has finally seen her wound. he twists his neck, shouts to someone far back, hidden in the houses. “shes hurt! SHE’S HURT!” his voice is raw and desperate.

jude walks into the water.

a hand at her arm stops her, keeps her in place, but she shrugs it off with newfound confidence and turns around. cardan’s incredulous face sparks memories of faraway lands and kingdoms.

“what are you doing?” he demands.

jude’s lips break into a smile. how she missed his voice. she walks back until water reaches her waist, then her chest, then the crown of her head.

“stop!” she hears.

the layers of the girl she was, who she is, who she could’ve been, they merge. yes, she had missed faerie. yes, she had wanted cardan. yes, she had wept tears of rage at knowing she could not have either of them back. if she cried now, her tears would turn to river water, melding into the beautiful greater whole.

a hand grips her chest. another tugs on her neck, urging her up, up, up.

air. sweet air in her lungs.

jude gasps, her plans interrupted. the bulletwound at her back sears at the salt water, the sensation so intense it actually numbs her and leaves her feeling very little.

cardan presses her flush to his body. he raises her up, and his face is marked with horror and betrayal.

“how could you?” he weeps. his features are anguished, desperate. he’s shaking her by the shoulder. “how could you?”

jude smiles a wet smile. “remember when you pushed me into the rapids? and you forced my twin to abandon me and kiss your cheeks? i can’t remember a time when i’ve been warm since then. the water, it was cold. like a leech.”

“the roach is gathering for a salve. jude, you will be okay. you need to get out now.”

she realizes there’s something wrong. “wait. no. that’s a lie. i am a liar.” she tilts her face to his, eyes meeting. “you were warm. behind the throne room and in your bed. you kept me warm. but you ripped me from my home and i've been cold since.”

cardan does something she didn’t imagine him capable of. he didn’t do so when balekin beat him. he didn’t do so when his family was slaughtered. he did so this moment, with her encircled by his arms. cardan sobs.

maybe this is when he understands he’s been forever her herald. the marker of her death. their destinies, interlinked, but only for this.

as he bares himself open, jude candidly studies his face. there’s freedom in allowing herself to admit she missed him. missed all of it. her kingdom that never was.

“i’ll heal you,” he implores. his hand runs down wet and shakingly down her face. “you’re my queen. we’ll use our magic. we will, jude, if you stay with me. don’t you get it? the exile was fake. i never meant for you to vanish. i’m begging you, please, help me heal you.”

her forehead falls on his. waist-deep in water, she feels his short breaths fall on her cheek. “you held hatred for me once.”

slowly, miserably, cardan shakes his head. the motion makes her pull away but he doesn’t let her, staying together. “love. i held love, jude.”

love

four letters.

years of running. and it caught up to her all the same.

his words hit her worse than the sniper did. she staggers in his embrace.

“hold.” he says the word with intensity. “i hold, jude.” cardan refuses to let her go, won’t let her fall. “you walked away with my heart.”

thoughts swirl in her head. they swim around like the fish crossing in between their legs.

“hold,” she says weakly.

hold love. he loves me.

impossible. and true.

“huh.”

“hold me,” she asks him. and he does.

he does.

he appears vacillant to his actions save for holding her.

jude can’t remember a time when she wasn’t running. from her parents’ demise. from madoc’s threats. from the cruel fae. from her sister’s betrayal. from cardan’s torments and, apparently, his ministrations of love. from her own shadow.

they haven’t moved from the water. it’s been a minute. it’s been four years.

jude feels her body slag, the water making up for the new deadweight.

“i wish you’d never left me,” he murmurs.

gratingly, she lifts her hand to trace a finger along the hard, straight line and point of her husband’s ear. “cardan, are you here to ask me for a divorce?”

his face breaks. she’s fully leaning on him, his long arms cradling her to his chest. amidst their soaked clothes, she feels the thudding of his heart against her cheek.

jude’s eyes flutter open and closed. “i want to tell you i will. i want to tell you i’ve waited for it. i - ah…” a jab of pain causes her to pause. “i want to tell you it hasn’t been eating me alive to be apart from you. i want to tell you… so… many… lies.”

through her misty vision, she sees cardan shake his head. “you are not leaving me.” the conviction in his voice draws a laugh from her.

“oh, cardan.” it’s the last good breath in her lungs. in the distance, she feels the ripples of someone entering the river, racing towards them. she sees only pitch black eyes. “i already have. i already have.”

they are esoteric, rendered in numinous light. from their entwined bodies in the water, there grow white flowers at the riverbed, their petals straining for the sun.

#jurdanweek2020 #jurdan #jude duarte #tfotaedit #cardan greenbriar #he's kinda scattered in this fic tbh but i promise there is SOME sort of follow-through to the angst #if you survive getting there #this took me all night and now its 9am HELLO THANK YOU FOR THIS MADNESS HOLLY BLACK #note: this will be my last tfota fic fellas #nicky writes #mine #mine:tfota

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rosheendubh · 3 years

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I’m so sorry...more art man-oops...

From a mess of outline involving StarWars and Firefly-Serenity—Lattice of Infinity...maybe it’ll coalesce into something coherent oneday...

Marvel supplies some fine character inspire—

*BlackWidow-a lovely MaraJade—pretty much as herself-in Kaarde’s organization-crossing paths with a certain Jedi-leading to a discovery that threatens the fate of all life in the galaxy...

*This Loki is apparently “Jotun-Loki”-ie, GrandAdmiralThrawn in my AU, rewritten canon through the Thrawn trilogy...but symbiotically transfused with an ancient protogenome seeded by a DarkEntity as elemental as the Universe’s formation defying atomic forces of time and space...which ties to Reaver (Firefly Reavers)-Clone hybrids, controlled by Thrawn, but their savagery increasingly unpredictable, requiring the power of psionic genetic manipulation to counter the deleterious effects of rapid rate cloning on complex higher brain functions within mass populations...

*LukeSkywalker is...LukeSkywalker-a little more rakish-earthy-defiant of authority from an increasingly bureaucratic RepublicAlliance-still a Jedi-but an active military fleet commander now (roughly 4 years after Endor) vs ZenBuddhaJedi-drawn into the search for the source of biohacked genome sequences whose mystery seems connected to a renegade medic, with a past intimately connected to Palpatine’s inner-court, and an origin from across a Wormhole connecting 2 quadrants thousands of light-years apart...

*White-haired lass-OFC-Rhyanon ferch (daughter of) Garowen-(think Daenerys-crossed with Marvel’s Valkyrie-and some ScarletWitch...)-a woman whose past carries a dark history of death, loss, and betrayal- intent on tracking down the reason for her sister’s brutal death from years before-outfall from the Massacre of Geis-which led to Yana’s apprehension into Imperial custody and ultimately service to the Emperor-freed on Palpatine’s death-having sought refuge amongst the Witches of Dathomir as she tried devising a wormhole capable ship with the aid of one of the Imperial garrison prisoners-intent on returning to her home quadrant (Terran Federacy-Star-system of Celtica) after years of absence-she’s shot down by a certain Jedi while trying to flee during the campaign against the Warlord Zinj, falling into Republic custody-her powers of biokinetic molecular manipulation (aka, a psionic human CRISPR) become the key coveted by Thrawn in his designs for galactic domination-and the only hope for defeating the threat presented by the ShadowPower intent on drowning the star ways in eternal horror and darkness-a crusade Luke can’t resist-particularly when she escapes Republic security driven by her search-a journey that takes them across myriad worlds-and through a convoluted clash of wills even as hearts and souls weave a love of cosmic proportions-(“I’ve loved you across oceans of time”—ties to other canons of mine involving 2nd century Britain/Artorius Castus-5th c post-Roman Europe and my take Uther-Arthur-Guinevere/Venaura/Theodric the Great-/and late 18th c PreRev Paris and the New American Republic-involving Thomas Jefferson-a Scottish lady physician-and a reworking of the original Frankenstein‘s monster based on Nogeret’s tale from 1791-95, w/Comte St Germain...)-leading to the spatial conduit connecting their distant quadrants-and eventually crossing paths with of rebel crew of smugglers/traders evading the TerranCoreParliament-bent on their own crusade, and guided by a girl (RiverTam) whose own powers of mind hold the promise to the puzzle Yana must solve if she is to halt Thrawn’s Ragnarok...and save the Jedi who becomes her lover from the clutches of (doom music) the Dimensional Rift...

*All this set to a soundtrack of rock-NewWave-metal-goth-rockabilly-spanning the 60s to the present day...

*It‘s a mess...

#Star Wars #Luke Skywalker #Mara Jade #Rhyanon ferch Garowen #grand admiral thrawn #Crossover

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superbonbon · 4 years

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“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”

Several anons’ boldly ignorant questioning of the motivation--or lack thereof--for creators to create during A PANDEMIC has me bristling and ready to hop on my soapbox. Instead, I’m running defense for these fantastic folks whose work, however frequently published, has kept me grounded during COVID’s oppressive reign.

I have no idea what I’m doing here. I’ve never published a fic, and haven’t read one since Vampire Diaries was first a thing. But what to do when ur a mom stuck at home with a preschooler, navigating pandemic life and some of the not-so-ideal realities that come along with it?

Coming off of D+ releasing The Mandalorian and the most recent trilogy, I rediscovered a love for these stories, the expanded universe and the fandom--WOW!! What’s been so surprising and invigorating for me about this latent discovery is the myriad ways this franchise has given people the capacity to dream, and to create; to obsess. I mean, I just came here to browse the blogs for Daddy!Mando content and ended up sticking around for the stunning range of Star Wars smut fan works and discussion.

For better or for worse, my soul is forever altered --or, at least my thirst is. And here before you is my fumbling attempt to pay fealty to those who have truly captured my heart. This will either be great and earn me some frenz or make me a pariah, but I can’t sit idly by while some dum-dums say dum-dum things anonymously about folks who choose to share their writing online.

In no particular order, here is a list of writers I’ve been stalking on the Tmblrs. This list is by no means exhaustive, and I’m still learning how to use/navigate the app. Also..there are SO MANY more amazing writers here and on other platforms (shoutout AO3). I’m just old and tired and I have trouble keeping things organized these days.

Without further ado, I present my dissertation.

@plexflexico - for thrilling action infused with exciting sci-fi elements and grade A+++ smut, but alongside such achingly tender, human moments. I thank you kindly for such robust content across the board. These stories are a balm for my soul and give me tummy butterflies. ***Saving the latest installment of Bad Batch so I can actually get some sleep tonight.

@no-droids - for capturing and exploring the idea of desire so exquisitely while also carrying out a compelling narrative that moves the story forward and keeps us pining for more. Ugh I just want to cry with this. Rough Day, gahhh!!! But also, every other work in your published canon, let’s be honest. This is Next Level. ***Not touching this Poe fic yet bc see above.

Fucking @concussed-to-pieces . I scream! I cry! I turn into a puddle and slide onto the floor. Also, kudos for accomplishing the kind of crossover so seamless (Of Gorgons and Gardens, I’m lookin at you) I’m left to wonder how these characters ever made it without each other. I’m shook. So appreciative for the P3dro content, but almost convinced I need to get into wrestling so I can indulge in the rest.

@stubbychaos - I am fully invested in Saviin’ika and the health and well-being of these characters. I will follow them until they find true happiness together (and let’s be honest, even if they don’t bc I’m here 100% for this torturous angst). Dear God, make it stop. But don’t stop, seriously. And even if you think it’s too long. It’s not. The meandering pace really serves what is often the true nature of human interaction.

@leo-moon - I will always revisit your Masterlist; so much so that my kid accidentally hearted it bc it’s probably always open in my phone. But I won’t consider it an accident because the Migraine series is a real treat. Yes, like a headache, I am longing for a release from the tension we’ve been left suspended in, but the readers will be here if/when you continue it. And even if you don’t, it’s fiction, and it’s beautiful, and I’m grateful for what we’ve gotten so far.

@jangofctts - With the small snippets of Boba we actually get on screen, I am also very grateful for the variety of Boba we get in fics, but most especially for this characterization you’ve presented in Last Favor. It’s so damn perfect how you ride that oft-attempted line of dubious consent that so few writers can achieve successfully. I’m dyin for someone to call me “rabbit”. Also, I always come back to your Poe fics. Short and sweet. Like Poe.

@bobafvtt - See above re Boba content. And to expound on this, Fuck--I’m so broken up for reader and Boba in Warmest Color that they’re just so damaged with this relationship. But man, the fleeting moments where they figure it out - that dynamic is so tender and lovely. I live for those moments.

@magichandthing - Thank you for inspiring a dream AU in clan leader!Mando. This is an idea I can most definitely get behind. And in. And on. And not to blow up your spot or anything, but the Mando sando is a pretty nifty idea as well.

And on the subject of sandwiches, I can’t thank @beskars enough for the maul x reader x savage fic that really made me feel some type of way.

@primarybufferpanel - fuuuuuck. When you write that capital “S” Soft, I melt. My stomach churns. Didn’t know I needed a soft Maul in my life quite like this, but damn, run me over with that shit. Huge props, too for OFCs that are believable and badass.

@huliabitch - I think your one-shots were some of the first “good good” Mando content I came across. Now you’ve got me sweating and pining for CL!Mando with Unheavenly Creatures. So much so, I think I need to find myself a thigh chain. Feelin’ this developing romance in a beautifully-imagined setting, feelin’ Shayr’la, and feelin’ myself. I thank you.

@aunty-ren - one more for the clan leader - The Offer is going places that I’m very excited about. This is worldbuilding, folks!

Again - this is my opinion, which is probably worth fuckall, so this is slightly less of a fic rec list and more a huge THANK YOU. Still so much out there for me to process. I haven’t even embarked on the Javi train, but I’m so very open to recommendations there and elsewhere.

I’m mostly just stoked to be here!!

#uh oh #momlife #what am i doing with my life #fanfic #star wars smut

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kopykunoichi · 4 years

Text

The Legacy of Star Wars: An Open Letter to the Writers and Creators of A Galaxy Far, Far Away

“Suddenly the Rebellion is real for you. Some of us live it. I’ve been in this fight since I was six years old!” ~ Cassian Andor

I saw a great meme once that played off that quote, meant to depict an older fan describing to a newer fan how they had been invested in the story of Star Wars from childhood. I could relate. Though I am not old enough to have seen the original Star Wars movies in theater, they were a significant part of my childhood. I remember renting the original theatrical VHS from our local video store all the time when I was little. Then we bought the digitally remastered Special Edition VHS Box Set and I spent the next decade wearing them out! We would have popcorn and Star Wars marathons all the time. My friends and I would always pretend we were in the story. My swingset was the Millennium Falcon. I was that 11-year-old girl who would argue with my friends over who was hotter - Luke or Han. (The correct answer is Han, of course!) My mother would read the Expanded Universe novels to me in the afternoons and we would talk about the characters. All my spending money went to Jedi Apprentice books and 6 inch action figures. In short, I loved Star Wars.

I was 13 when The Phantom Menace hit theaters, and I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to get to see new stories from my favorite fictional universe play out on the big screen. Though I struggled a bit with some of the acting, the story was absolutely amazing to me. Star Wars felt all the more real to me with the amazing graphics and intense action sequences - not to mention the layers of politics and the complexity of the story. I watched Revenge of the Sith several times in theaters, and though it broke my heart to see Anakin’s fall, I never considered it to be a sad ending overall, when taken as a whole with the original trilogy.

When the Clone Wars aired in 2008, I was ecstatic. Here was an Anakin I could actually get into (sorry, Hayden). I loved him. I adored Ahsoka. I wanted to marry Rex. The character development and the plot deepened my attachment to that era, and made me question everything I had previously taken for granted as good and bad. The whole system was flawed - the Republic and the Jedi. It wasn’t just a matter of mistakes being made and the wool being pulled over their eyes, there was deep rooted corruption in the side that I once felt was “good”. The light side and the dark side were not as black and white as I thought. I found myself strongly disliking some of the “good guys” and deeply sympathizing with some downright detestable people (I don’t know how you got me to care for Maul, Filoni - but well done). While the series had not yet ended, we knew where it was going. But still, we had already lived through the pain of Order 66, and we knew that the story would eventually culminate in a victory at the end of Return of the Jedi.

I couldn’t believe our luck when the first installment of the sequel trilogy hit the theaters in 2015. It had some of the feelings of a reboot, but I was beyond thrilled to have a series of Star Wars movies that I could now share with my children, as my parents had shared them with me. Though it was hard to say goodbye to the first love of my life, Han Solo - I just knew that Ben would be redeemed and Han’s sacrifice would be worth it...

2016 brought us Rogue One. We knew how that one was going to end too, but we still ate it up. I fell in love with a whole new set of characters, only to see each and every one of them die in the end. Talk about tragedy. But Leia’s line about hope reminded us that five minutes later, a whiny little farm boy was about to have his whole life upended in the best sort of way...so it was okay. Sort of.

Four years of Rebels ended in 2018, and it was so, so lovely - but it hurt so, so much. My perfect, beautiful space family had been torn apart with Kanan’s death. Ezra was missing. Rex was a 29-year-old man who should have been in his prime, but was instead struggling with the wear and tear of a 60-year-old body. Ahsoka was separated from him - AGAIN - and then she left with Sabine to look for Ezra. The ending still held the promise of the fight to come with the Empire, but the majority of our characters were left in a place of grief and brokenness.

2019 brought an end to the sequel trilogy. Once again, we had characters who pulled at our heartstrings, and an interesting struggle between “light” and “dark” that reminded me of the complexities introduced in The Clone Wars. It became more apparent than ever that balance in the Force did not mean the light triumphing over the dark, but instead a harmony between the two. At least, that’s what I thought. Until I watched every person I loved from the original trilogy die, Palpatine come back (and die) again, and the same exact ending of Return of the Jedi played out before me - except not as happy. Why? Because Anakin’s legacy had been reduced to ashes - his rise, fall, redemption, and sacrifice rendered null and void. The last Skywalker was redeemed and promptly killed, just like his grandfather. But because Rey Palpatine decided that she identified as Rey Skywalker, it was supposed to be okay. She then went to go hang out (or live?) alone on Tatooine because that’s where it all started. I was dumbfounded. This was the satisfying, hopeful, ending we were promised? How?

Believe it or not, I’m not here to trash the sequels - I enjoyed them very much - right up until the last 20 minutes. But in that space of time, the entire legacy of the Skywalker family went up in smoke, and the legacy of Star Wars along with it. Since Return of the Jedi, there have been no happy endings to a Star Wars movie trilogy or TV show. And with the ending of The Rise of Skywalker, that one happy ending we did have was ripped from us as well. Star Wars is now a never ending series of tragic endings. The lessons we are left with: Don’t fall in love in Star Wars, it will end badly. Your actions ultimately result in failure. As soon as you turn good, you die. There is no balance in the Force, just a pendulum swinging back and forth for all time.

Then The Clone Wars finally got her last season. I didn’t think Order 66 could have hurt worse, but Filoni set out to prove us all wrong...and succeeded. I’m still not over it. And once more, the bitterness I felt over the ending to the sequels (which had begun to subside) flared up all over again. What was it all for? All that pain. All that sacrifice. No happy endings.

I still love Star Wars. Nothing can take that away from me. No amount of bad writing can change that. And there are still plenty of good writers and creators working on Star Wars content. But good writers spinning tales of tragedy and endless pain negates the power of good writing. The Star Wars of my childhood is not the Star Wars of today. We wore out those VHS tapes because we loved the stories and the people. But my kids are not going to wear out DVDs where everyone they love dies or ends up alone. They aren’t going to queue up those digital movies and series over and over - because who wants to subject themselves to that kind of torture?

Just about the only safe space for Star Wars fans right now is fanfiction archives where the people who love the characters are busy writing fix-it fics to squeeze some sort of satisfying ending out of the canon content. The Mandalorian is literally our last hope for a Star Wars story that has the potential to end well. I swear, if Din Djarin ends up dead or alone at the end of this series, I’m going to lose it. The overwhelming sentiment of the Star Wars fanbase - from original trilogy fanboys to Tumblr blogging Reylos, and everyone in between - is that of dissatisfaction with canon content (with the exception of The Mandalorian). So much so, that many fans are just saying “screw it” and churning out a myriad of fanfiction AUs because there is no way to salvage what has been written. Half of Tumblr is in therapy after The Rise of Skywalker ending and the last episode of Clone Wars - but they weren’t exactly stable to begin with. The other forums and social media platforms are not much better, though.

It’s not just about the quality of writing - because Filoni and co. have done exceptional work with The Clone Wars, Rebels, and The Mandalorian. It’s the tragedy, guys. We can’t take it anymore. Is this really what we want the Star Wars legacy to be? Sadness? Despair? It’s a story about war - people are going to die. I get that. Victory comes at a price, but the cost can’t be worse than the victory. I want to sit down with my kids and watch Star Wars over and over again. The Mandalorian has given us a taste of that - but I’m almost afraid of where it will go. We’ve been burned so many times, I’m beginning to know what Anakin felt like on Mustafar - writhing in agony and screaming “I hate you” to someone he once loved.

I remember happier days when Luke and Leia and Han were laughing and smiling with their friends while Yoda, Obi-Wan, and Anakin looked on. I want that back. Filoni. Favreau. Creators. Writers. Producers. Directors. You are our only hope for canon content. Use The Mandalorian wisely. Use Din’s story to bless other characters. Here’s some ideas:

Let Din have a happy ending! Preferably with someone he loves and respects at his side (like Cara).

Let Cara become a Mandalorian - and put Paz Vizsla in charge of her training (we need to see them spar).

Let what’s left of the Tribe establish a new Mandalorian colony - and let Sabine Wren lead it. And give her that Darksaber back - she earned it.

Let Ezra come back from regions unknown with a deeper understanding of the Force, and have him train the child in the new colony.

Forget the Jedi and Sith, let’s start a medical training center/hospital run by Force users who can help heal people when modern medicine fails!

Ahsoka can use her talents for that too.

Find the rest of the child’s race and bring any of their Force sensitives onboard.

Let Boba Fett and Din have their epic showdown, but then use a sample of Boba’s unaltered DNA and some mystical Force healing to restore Rex’s body to what a 43-year-old should be (and then he can marry Ahsoka so we can have the Clone/Jedi couple we always wanted...thanks to you, Filoni).

Let the Mandalorians partner with the New Republic in the Outer Rim as law enforcement instead of bounty hunters, so they can get their reputation back.

They can train new recruits and pilots, just like Fenn Rau trained clones.

Let them keep their autonomy and traditions, while helping keep the New Republic honest.

Let them be a force for good in the galaxy, for once.

The Mandalorian could serve as the vessel to give a lot of characters with unresolved or tragic storylines some closure and better endings. If not The Mandalorian, then other new shows. My 6-year-old daughter wants nothing more than to be Ahsoka Tano. My 3-year-old son asks me to watch The Mandalorian every day. My 18-month-old daughter walks around in her brother’s Mandalorian helmet babbling “Way”. Please let me share the Star Wars legacy that I grew up loving with them. Let me show them the happy endings I enjoyed. Let me show them that even in the midst of conflict, not every life has to be ruined. Let me show them a Star Wars story with a satisfying ending. Hope. Redemption. Love. That’s what Star Wars means to me.

May the Force be With You (and your pens),

Rebekah, A Star Wars Fan

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erricdraven · 5 years

Note

hey, dia. i was just wondering if you would consider writing more deaf alec? or just sharing some more thoughts about deaf alec? i really enjoyed your fic and i re-read it all the time

re: (truth is i’m used to) making it up on my own

hi sweetheart, thank you so much for this it really means the world to me. i was really nervous to share that piece for a myriad of reasons, so it warms my heart to know someone could enjoy it so much!

i would absolutely consider writing more deaf alec because i really did enjoy playing around with how else he represents himself non-verbally, and how he contemplates his world. at the moment, i don’t have a solid idea for another piece, and i’m in the middle of writing a wip, but should the inspiration strike, i would totally be open to it!

as far as sharing more thoughts about deaf alec, you bet i can do that lol i hope it’s okay if i give you a little behind the scenes in-depth look at my thought processes behind the fic…

the most common thread that runs through a lot of my thoughts is that he’s totally self sufficient and complete the way that he is. we see him as a headstrong and independent person, sometimes to a fault, in canon, and i think being deaf wouldn’t change that. i’ve been around many deaf people who were born deaf that don’t feel a sense of longing for what they never had because they’ve acclimated to the way their world is palatable to them, and that’s how i see alec. he doesn’t lament what he never had. it’s natural to wonder from time to time though just like we all think about what if my life was like this instead.

i’ve always been totally in love with the idea of alec and izzy as parabatai and i couldn’t resist the opportunity to make it happen. and izzy is alec’s number one–always has been and always will be–so of course she is always working on new gadgets to improve the aids alec does use. she’s never seen him as lacking anything; in fact for as long as she could remember she’d thought of him as superman. if she was going to put her life in anyone’s hands, it would be her parabatai. he is one of the most adept and proficient fighters in the new york institute because he’s learned to depend on so much more than his hearing counterparts.

while he is not a social butterfly, alec is tremendously empathetic and aware of those around him. he’s become a master of reading body language and intent in the way people express themselves, and picks up on so much more than most people do. this serves him well as the head of the institute, because diplomacy is a cornerstone in politics. he learned quickly that people often don’t say what they mean and being blunt about intentions was often the best course of action. he wants to make changes in the shadow world, even if they don’t come easy, so he dedicates his time in the political arena to working to creating a union between all factions.

he’s not often vulnerable about his disability. it’s never been lost on alec that people are very aware of the way in which he’s different. he makes people uncomfortable sometimes, makes them grateful they’re not him other times. he is who he is, and all the magic, angelic and demonic alike, couldn’t change that. he made his peace with that as a child. he finds solace in reading, though–there’s a whole world full of stories about people who feel the way he does. the institute library certainly doesn’t have many but he takes what he can find. his favorite is jonathan livingston seagull by richard bach because he understands jonathan–finding his own path to conventionality but still not finding satisfaction in it. embracing who and how he is is the only way to truly be able to reach his potential in life. magnus helps him to do that, and he’s the first person to want alec to open up about it all. he wants to see more so that he can love more.

when it comes to magnus, alec has never felt so exposed but it’s never really felt like a bad thing, something that needs to be fixed. one of his favorite things to do with magnus is to turn the stereo up loud enough that alec can feel the vibrations in the floor so they can dance. he’s never danced for real, but magnus is exquisite and he wants to be part of it. they laugh and kiss and stare at each other with stars in their eyes, and it’s beautiful. they go on dates to art museums and restaurants and parks, places where there’s no inequality in their experience. intimacy is a religious experience for alec–and he doesn’t give a flying fuck if it’s blasphemy to say. he never feels more safe and loved than when he’s naked in bed with the love of his life. time and time again, he’s closed his eyes and let himself fall, and time and time again magnus has caught him. and at the end of every day, alec gets in bed next to him without his hearing aids in, and magnus kisses him goodnight first behind each ear, and then on the lips.

#i got hella carried away i'm so sorry lol #ask #anon #re: (truth is i'm used to) making it up on my own

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killswitchwrites · 6 years

Text

Take It All Back

Dean x Reader

Summary: Strength can look like a lot of things. Sometimes it’s being strong enough to walk away. Other times it means sticking it out. In Y/n’s case, it means a little of both. Sequel to One Last Moment.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: Canon level violence, blood, angst, and language.

Beta’d by: @pinknerdpanda & @trexrambling

A/N: This was written for Ang’s “Fierce Females in FanFiction” Challenge. My prompt was, “you made your choice and I made mine. Just because you can’t live with yours doesn’t mean you can shame me for living with mine.” It’s bolded within the fic. This is a continuation of my fic, One Last Moment.

Sorry it’s so close to the wire @atc74 , my muse has been an elusive bitch.

“Exorcizamus te omnis immu-”

“I’m really going to enjoy taking everything from you,” the demon snarls. The cheerful pastel of her outfit makes her threat seem absurd.

“Lucky for me, I don’t have anything to take. Not anymore.”

“Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. You know, lying to a Sunday School teacher is extra bad,” she giggles.

A knot forms in my gut. She can’t possibly know about him. I’ve covered my tracks. I know I’ve covered them, but a small wisp of doubt creeps into the back of my mind. Maybe. Maybe someone couldn’t keep their mouth shut.

“I can’t wait to wear his skin-” she gargles the blood in her mouth before spitting it at my feet- “so many perfect little freckles,” she finishes with a hiss and a maniacal smile.

When I found this demon, I had high hopes of sparing the possessed woman. His perfect face flashes into my memory. If I save the woman, I risk losing him forever.

I force myself to take an even breath before asking, “Who?”

“A lady never kisses and tells.”

“If you talk, I can make this quick for you.” Moonlight glints on the blade in my hand. “If you don’t…”

The demon squirms. “Where’d you get that?”

“I love thrift stores. You just never know what you’ll find.”

“You found an angel blade-” she shifts in her chair- “at a thrift store?”

“So what’ll it be, quick or slow?”

“I’ve always liked it slow,” she purrs.

___

Three times. That’s how many tries I make at unlocking my phone before I realize there’s too much blood on my hand for it to recognize my fingerprint.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Six years ago I turned my back on the only man I’d ever loved, the only man who had only ever loved me. I was done. I got out.

I finally get my phone unlocked and dial by memory. My heart beats faster with each ring. Just when I’m positive my heart will explode, Siobhan answers.

“Blessed b-”

“Cut the crap, Siobhan, it’s me.”

“Oh. What do you want? I’m a little busy.”

“Someone in your coven has a loose tongue, and I plan on cutting it out.”

“I’m positive you are mistaken. We’ve held up our end of the deal. It’s become apparent that you have not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Irene is dead. Her daughter made it back to tell us of her untimely demise before succumbing to her own wounds.”

“Did she know the doer?”

“No. She only said that they used witch killing bullets.”

“I’ll find who’s responsible and take care of it. In the meantime, up your warding around the house and keep an eye out.”

I don’t even need a full hand to count the number of hunters that know how to make witch killing bullets. One is me. The other two I had never planned on running into ever again.

___

“I’m telling ya, Sammy, I got her. It’s only a matter of time before she bleeds out.”

“That’s just perfect, Dean. If it weren’t for the fact that we needed her to find the coven.”

“Ok, fine, it’ll take a little longer than we planned. But hey, at least there’s free cable.”

Their bickering carries through the thin wood of the door. I kick back in my chair and prop my feet on the table, trying my best to sell the nonchalant vibe I am most certainly not feeling.

Dean shoulders through the motel door, freezing when he sees me.

Sam curses under his breath as he collides with his brother. “What the hell, Dean?”

A myriad of emotions rapidly shift Dean’s features before he settles on feigned indifference. “Get your dirty boots off the table, Y/n, people eat there.”

“Y/n?” Sam swipes the hair from his eyes and tucks it behind one ear. A face splitting grin amplifies his dimples. His smile quickly falters when I don’t return it.

I stay where I am. Feet propped up in defiance. “You guys need to leave town.”

Dean walks behind me on the way to the mini fridge, pulling on the back of my chair as he goes.

I pinwheel my arms and slam my feet to the floor in order to keep from falling over backward.

Sam nearly smirks, but manages to catch himself in the nick of time when I shoot him a glare. Dean, however, outright barks a laugh.

“Listen here, you ass.” I feel my cheeks heat. “I’m not here to play games. You’re not welcome here and you need to leave. I’m not going to ask again.”

“Doesn’t really seem like you’re asking, Y/n.” Dean cracks open a beer and throws the cap in the direction of the sink. “Besides, we kind of like it here. Don’t we, Sammy? And leaving is more your sort of thing. If I’m not mistaken,” he adds with an icy glare.

Clenching my fists, I dig my nails into my palms and focus on the sharp sting so that I can keep my voice from wavering. “If you ever loved me, Dean, you’ll leave tonight and never come back.”

All of the color drains from Dean’s face.

“Are you in some sort of trouble, Y/n?” Sam asks, finally finding his voice.

“It’s trouble that I’m trying to avoid, Sam.” I head towards the door, pausing to rest a hand on Sam’s chest. “Please. Get him as far away from here as you can.”

I beeline for the door, hoping to make it back to my car before the tears burning my eyes fall. I make it exactly four steps across the parking lot when I hear the scuff of Dean’s stride behind me.

“Tell me why.”

I freeze, midstep. “Because,” I weigh my next words carefully mustering as much venom as I’m capable of, “because everything you touch dies.”

I turn to face him, and his pained look is more than I can bear. But I press on, I have to. The stakes are too high for me to give in. I add the final nail to my coffin of lies.

“You’re a curse, Dean Winchester, and I wish I had never met you.”

I don’t stay to witness the fallout, but I imagine it looks the same as my shredded heart feels.

___

“It is done?” Siobhan drawls.

“I took care of the hunters. They’re not going to be a problem anymore. Do we still have a deal?”

“Your child will continue to receive the benefits of our protection. For as long as we have yours.”

I release a sigh. “How is he?”

“He grows in strength and beauty every day.”

“You know that’s not what I’m asking.”

“He remains unaware of his lineage.”

There are so many more questions I want to ask, but the less I know the better, the safer he is.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I answer it without checking the ID.

“Don’t hang up!” Sam blurts.

“Sam? How did you get this number?”

“That’s not really important right now. Have you seen Dean?”

“Not since this morning.”

“He went out to grab a drink, and he’s not picking up his phone. I’ve been to every dive bar in town. I can’t find him.”

“He’s probably just shacked up with some floozy for the night. I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Sam. He’ll probably roll in in the morning, no worse for the wear.”

“You don-” he sighs-”he’s not like that anymore. Not since you left. Please, Y/n, just help me find him and I’ll never bother you again.”

My heart twists. “Have you tried tracking his phone?”

____

“You’re positive this is the place?” I take in the gothic architecture and broken stained glass. It’s not technically a church anymore, but it’s still the last place I’d expect to find Dean on a Saturday night.

“This is the only place near the tower his phone pinged from just before I lost the signal.”

“Maybe his phone just died. You know he forgets to put it on the charger.”

“It was off, and then it was on, and then it was off again. Something else is going on; I know you can sense it too.”

“I think you’ve watched Star Wars one too many times, Obi Wan, because I’m not sensing anything. Other than the extreme dissatisfaction that I haven’t been able to remove my bra for the night.”

Sam snorts a laugh. “One quick sweep of the place.” He checks the clip on his weapon and chambers a round. “And if I’m wrong, you’ll be home in your pajamas in no time.”

I double check my weapon before following after him with a grumble. With my luck, he’s probably right and this night is going to go tits up real fast.

Sam waits for me by the heavy wooden entry doors. All merriment has been stripped from his face and replaced with grim calculation. With a tip of his head he motions to the trail of blood that disappears under the door.

Stepping over the gruesome trail, I pull open the door and pray it doesn’t creak and give us away. Sam slips through and I follow, nearly colliding with him.

I step around him and follow his line of sight. At the front of the church, behind the pulpit, where usually there’s a sculpture of Christ on the cross- there’s Dean. He’s been stripped of his shirt and suspended upside down. There’s a puddle under him, and fresh blood drips from the wounds on his chest to join it. He doesn’t appear to be conscious. He better not be dead. I’ll kill him for being so reckless.

Sam nudges me, and I split off to the right while he takes the left.

The only place for someone to hide is the confessionals, and I quickly clear them. Whoever did this is in the wind.

“Dean?” Sam whispers, reaching his brother.

Dean responds with a low groan. The sound sends relief flooding through my system, and I rush forward to help Sam.

“Hold on, man, we’re gonna get you down.” Sam’s voice is tight with worry.

By the time we get him loaded into the car, we’re all covered in his blood.

“I’ll sit in the back with him,” I offer, sliding into the backseat and settling Dean’s head in my lap.

Like it’s second nature, my fingers stroke through his hair to comfort him. “Just hang in there, Dean, we’ll get you patched up.”

Dean nuzzles into my touch and drifts off. I close my eyes, and I can almost pretend it’s just like old times. His pained grunt when Sam hits a pothole reminds me that it’s not. Everything’s different now. Everything’s wrong.

___

Sam and I get Dean on his bed back at the hotel where we silently work to piece him back together. Most of the cuts are superficial, intended to elicit pain, not death.

“Who would do this, Sam?” I ask while double checking the tape on the dressings.

“It’s not like we have a shortage of enemies-” he pauses- “though we did just take out a couple of witches. This could be retaliation.”

“It’s not them,” I mutter.

“Wait, you know the coven we’re tracking?”

“Huh?” Shit. I exhale. “They’re not bad people. I have a deal with them. I offer them protection and they do the same for me.”

Sam’s look is cold. “I never thought you’d be the type to work with witches, Y/n.”

“Well neither did I, Sam, but a lot of things have changed that I never thought would.”

“What else have you guys been hunting in the area?”

“Nothing. The coven is what brought us here. You?”

“I found a couple of low level demons sniffing around. I handled them.”

“By the looks of Dean it would seem that their buddies are a little pissed.”

Dean groans in his sleep and, instinctively, I reach to comfort him.

“Looks like not everything has changed,” Sam points out.

I withdraw my hand. “Some habits die hard.”

“Dean never told me why you left.”

I shrug. “I couldn’t do it anymore, Sam. The ones we couldn’t save kept piling up.”

“Yet, here you are.”

“Yeah. Here I am.”

Sam stifles a yawn.

“Why don’t you grab some sleep? I’ll sit with Dean.”

“Are you sure you wanna stay?”

“I need to. Just until I know he’s okay.”

“I’ll go grab something to eat. Dean’ll be hungry when he wakes up.”

Once Sam leaves I slip beside Dean, laying close enough to feel his body heat but not close enough to disturb him. The constellations of freckles on his shoulders and chest peek out from the edges of the bandages. I still remember the names I gave them the last time I laid in bed with him.

A tear rolls down the side of my nose and silently lands on the pillow. I scoot a little closer to him and rest my head on his chest, over his heart. I focus on the steady rhythm beneath my ear, and it quiets the chatter in my head. I’d almost forgotten how still my mind could be.

Dean nuzzles into my hair with a sigh and, for one split second, I wish with everything in my soul that I could take it all back. All the hurt. The pain. The fights. The lies.

Even though he remains still, I feel him wake up. “I’m so sorry, Dean,” I whisper.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, I know you didn’t mean it. You’ve always been a crap liar.”

“Have not.” I sit up and discreetly dab my nose with my sleeve.

Dean chuckles and then quickly sucks in a breath with a grimace.

“Serves you right for teasing me.”

An uncomfortable silence fills the space between us. Dean is the one to break it.

“Mind telling me why the demons you pissed off came after me? And why they’d think I’m hiding someone for you.”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“I nearly lost my spleen. I think I deserve to know why, Y/n.”

Panic writhes like snakes in the pit of my stomach. “You’re right.”

I suck in a breath and move a little farther from him. “I need you to know I never meant for any of this to happen, and by the time I found out it was too late. I’d already left and it’s not like I could go back. I couldn’t ask that of you.”

“Spit it out.”

“It’s easier if I show you.” I dig my phone from my front pocket and swipe to the film reel before handing over the phone to Dean.

“His name is Thomas, and he’s almost six.”

Dean’s eyebrow knit together, and then his eyes blow wide. “What is this, Y/n?!” I scramble to move away from him, but he grips my wrist to keep me right where I am. “How could you?”

“I didn’t mean to,” my nose runs freely and I ignore it, “it just happened, and I’ve wanted to tell you so many times. But I just… couldn’t.”

“You had no right,” he growls.

“I had every right, Dean.” I wrench my arm from his grip and stand on wobbly legs. “I may have left, but you let me. You made your choice and I made mine. Just because you can’t live with yours doesn’t mean you can shame me for living with mine.”

“Choice?” he scoffs. “How could I possibly make a choice when I didn’t have all of the information?!”

Dean jumps from the bed, quickly doubling over.

“Just perfect. Now you’ve pulled your stitches! Get back in bed!”

I shove him towards the bed and he slaps away my hands.

“No! I want to see my son.”

I shove again and he collapses with a heavy thud. “You can’t see him. Not now. Not ever.”

“Bullshit. You don’t get to make that choice for me. Not anymore, Y/n.”

“He doesn’t even know you exist!”

Once again, Dean looks like I stabbed him directly in the heart- and twisted. “You didn’t even tell him about me? Where does he think his dad is?”

“You died in a car crash when he was just a baby… and so did I.”

“What?” he whispers, shocked. “You… abandoned him?”

“I didn’t abandon him, Dean. I gave him up to people that could protect him.”

“Where is he, Y/n?”

I suck in a breath and wrap my arms around my stomach. “He’s with the coven you and Sam are here hunting.”

“You gave our child to witches?!”

“I didn’t have a choice! From the moment he was born it was like he was a beacon to everything that went bump in the night! I couldn’t keep him safe. I wasn’t enough.”

“We could’ve kept him safe. Together.”

“Yeah, because you would’ve given up hunting, bought a house in suburbia and, what? Punched a clock for the rest of your life?”

“I don’t know, okay! I don’t know what I would’ve done!” He runs his hands through his hair. “But I would’ve done something.”

“Well, I did do something. I found people strong enough to protect him. And as long as I protect the coven, they’ve agreed to shield his essence.”

“So we’re supposed to, what, forget about him?”

Hesitantly, I move forward and sit on the edge of the bed. “We do what our parents couldn’t do for us. We keep him as far from this life as we can.”

“But,” tears spring into his eyes, “it’s not- it shouldn’t be like this.”

I take his hands in mine and twine our fingers. We sit in the painful silence surrounding us, both afraid to speak- afraid of the words we might say.

When I can take it no longer, I slip my hand from his. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, Dean.”

He opens his mouth to speak, rethinks, and then closes it.

I jump to my feet and rush out of the door before he can say all the hateful things I know I deserve.

My stupid hands are shaking so badly by the time I get to my car that I can’t get the key in the door lock. “Dammit!” I punch the roof of the car, first in frustration, and then again because the pain it causes momentarily distracts me from the pain in my chest.

Warm arms that I immediately recognize as Dean’s encircle me, and I collapse into them with a sob.

Quickly, he spins me. Before I can register what’s happening his lips are pressed to mine. The salty taste of tears mixes with the taste of Dean, and I melt against his chest.

When he gives a pained grunt, I remember his injuries and pull away.

“Shit,” I gasp, checking his bandages. “Your stitches.”

“Screw my stitches,” he mumbles, pulling my hands back around his neck and pinning me against the car with his hips. “I’m not letting you leave, Y/n. Not again.”

“Bu-” I start to protest, and he silences me with another press of his lips.

Dean swipes his tongue along the seam of my lips and all thoughts of protesting flee my mind. I’m going to kiss him just like I’ve dreamed of kissing him every night since I left.

I don’t know what the future holds for us, perhaps no one does. But for tonight, at least, I’m going to pretend that we found a way to take it all back- and just maybe, if we’re really lucky, move forward.

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