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czenzo · 1 year

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On The Hunt – Chapter IV

[ao3] chapter links: [ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 4 ]

summary: After Simon gets bitten in an unfortunate run-in with a werewolf, he and Penny desperately search for a cure before the upcoming full moon can force him to undergo an excruciating transformation. Lycanthropy comes with many other side effects, however – and not only is Simon soon to experience them, but Baz will surely be dragged into the mess, too.

words: 2411 rating: M

notes: me? randomly updating a fic I abandoned for almost a year? it’s more likely than you think! ;D

DAYS UNTIL FULL MOON: 3

SIMON

“How are you dealing with the side effects?”

I don’t properly hear Penny’s whispered question at first. Well – I do, but I’m too busy thinking about how stupid Baz’s hair looked after I dragged him into the lake last night. All shiny and stuck to his forehead. Curled around his ears and clinging to his cheekbones. Slicked back and—

“Simon?”

“Huh?”

Penny waves a hand in front of my face. I go cross-eyed trying to follow it. “Side effects,” she says again. “How are they?”

“Er.” (If Baz were here, he’d say something like “How eloquent, Snow.”)

“You still haven’t been to a single class since the bite.” Her voice becomes a whisper as she says those last two words, and it makes me feel all wrong and disgusting. In the next few days I’m going to transform into a bloody monster – Merlin, I’m even at risk of doing that before the full moon, if I get too riled up – yet here I am, sitting in the library like a lemon as if nothing’s wrong. None of the other students around us know that pissing me off could result in their head getting bitten off. (Metaphorically. Kind of.)

I stand up without realising. I want to get out of here. It’s stuffy and too quiet and so suffocating and I’m digging my nails into my thighs and frantically searching for the closest exit when Penny gently places a hand on my forearm.

“Hey,” she says. Her voice is soft. Not a whisper, but soft in the way I’d imagine a mother would speak to a crying kid. It’s a bit strange to hear it coming from Penny’s mouth. She gently pulls me back down into my seat. “Talk to me, Simon.”

I’m not good at putting my thoughts into words. There’s too much going on in my head and trying to get it all out would probably give me an aneurysm, so I try to vocalise just a fraction of it all instead. Once I do, it’s like floodgates have burst open, and it all pours out in one hissed whisper. “I feel disgusting, Pen. All – I don’t know. Dirty? Knowing that adrenaline could make me just – poof. Wolf out. Just like that. It stresses me out. But then that stress isn’t good, because it’s a spike in adrenaline, and it’s a never-ending bloody cycle. I’m scared I’ll hurt someone. You. Baz.” I pause and make a face. “I don’t even know why he’s helping so much.”

“Your er… situation, with Baz,” Penny says, and it’s clear to even me that she’s carefully choosing her words here, “seems to be improving.”

“Improving?”

“You said it yourself. He’s trying to help you. You’re less preoccupied with uncovering his vampirism.”

“Because I’m busy trying not to accidentally wolf out and rip off his face instead.”

“Still.” Penny shakes her head, and I don’t miss the small smile on her lips. “You’re getting along a bit better.”

I think back to last night again. Baz in the lake. Wet. Playful. He actually laughed when he sprayed me with water. A proper belly laugh.

“Nah.” I drag a random book in front of me and pretend to study it.

Penny’s hand is still on my forearm. The library was warm and I’d pushed my sleeves up to my elbows, and now on the exposed skin she rubs her thumb back and forth. My shoulders relax. I hadn’t realised they were so tense.

“You’re not dirty, Simon. You won’t hurt anyone.” She looks at me with big eyes, and I remember how much I love her. I doubt I’d have survived this long without Penny. “We’ll find a way to sort this out, I promise.”

I smile at her. A proper smile. “Thanks, Pen.”

Once I’m feeling a little less stressed Penny goes back to reading, and I find a book with more diagrams than words, hoping I’ll have a better chance at genuinely understanding it. (Academics always use stupidly long words. The pretentious pricks are supposed to be educating us, not confusing us even more.) (And by ‘us’, I mean me.)

I smell Agatha before I see or hear her, which is a really weird sensation. She smells of that floral perfume she always wears, except it’s one thousand times more intense. It actually makes it a bit hard to breathe.

She approaches from behind me, so Penny spots her first. “Agatha. Hello.”

“Penelope,” she says, moving around so I can see her too. “Simon.”

I hesitate for a second. “Agatha.”

“I spoke to Professor Miti earlier. He happened to mention a possible lycanthropy cure.”

I’m too hung up on the word ‘cure’ to think of a reply. A cure? An actual, honest-to-Crowley cure? I hope Agatha isn’t pulling my leg, because that would definitely mess with my adrenaline levels, and then I’d have no idea what would happen next.

Luckily, Penny isn’t too lost in thought to say something. “Really? He just… dropped that bomb out of the blue?”

“Well,” Agatha says. She glances to the side, leans down a little. “It took a little prompting. It’s fascinating, the information you can glean with a short skirt and a twirl of hair. Quite frankly it would be disgusting, if it weren’t so useful right now. He mentioned in class how he used to closely study werewolves, wrote some papers on them – they’ll probably be in here somewhere – so I thought if anyone would know anything, he would. And he did.”

“Go on,” I finally say. “The cure. What is it?”

“It’s a mix of rather standard ingredients, except for one or two things. It’ll be hard to gather, but should still be doable.”

She slides a piece of folded paper towards us. Penny opens it and quickly skims through the list. “Okay. Watford stocks half of this for classes. Other bits and bobs could probably be found in the Wavering Woods – oh, and this should be by the lakeside. This one, however…” She smooths the paper against the table and stabs a finger at the last thing on the list. “That will be difficult to pull off.”

Blood of origin lycanthrope.

“Blood from the one who bit you,” Agatha says. I only just stop myself from scowling at her. I’m not that stupid, I could figure out what it meant on my own, thank you very much.

“How the fuck are we gonna do that?” I say. “Without dying, I mean.” (Or any of you getting bitten too, I also think, but I keep that part to myself.)

“Baz will be helpful with that.” I can’t tell if Penny says that because he’s a vampire, or (though I hate to admit it) just a really good magician. I don’t bother asking, and Penny doesn’t stop to clarify. “But let’s focus our attention on getting the rest of the list, first.”

Agatha gently clears her throat. I know her well enough to understand it, and wince at my mistake.

“Thank you, Agatha.” I genuinely mean it. “It would’ve taken us ages to find this ourselves.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Thanks,” Penny says. It’s quick and quiet, but I can tell she means it, too. “Are you going to help gather the ingredients?”

She’s silent for a moment, mulling over the pros and cons and the huge list of risks. “Alright.” I raise my eyebrows without meaning to. She frowns at me and continues, “but the second it becomes too dangerous, or any staff get a whiff of what’s happening, I’m out, and was never involved in the first place.”

“Why?” I say. She frowns at me again. “Why help?”

“If I can do something to decrease the risk of you maiming a student who looks at you the wrong way, then I will.”

Even though she’s helping, I instinctively want to say something awful. Penny speaks up before I can. “Simon. Here’s a copy of the list. Go and find Baz, see if he has any ideas on how to go about getting that last pesky ingredient. Agatha and I will start on the others.”

I practically jump out of my seat. Penny smirks. “You’ve been dying to get out of here all morning.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Go. Get some fresh air. You look a bit pale, anyway.”

She doesn’t have to tell me twice.

***

“‘Blood of origin lycanthrope’?” Baz reads aloud. He’s glaring at the list of ingredients like it’s personally offended him.

“Yeah,” I say, falling backwards to sprawl on my bed. Penny dragged me out of it at the crack of dawn today to get back to researching.

His face scrunches up as he reads the list again. “It doesn’t even say how much we need. A drop? An entire wolf’s worth? We have no proof this will actually work.”

“I have to believe it will. Can you help or not?”

“Most of this should be relatively easy to acquire. Wolfsbane is tricker, it’s only in the deepest parts of the Wavering Wood, and its toxicity is bad enough to see any of us off. It’s still doable, though. But the blood…”

“Penny seemed to think you’d know how to get it.” I prop myself up on my forearms to look at Baz. He’s at his desk, with a half-written essay and a ridiculous amount of books sitting by him.

He slowly looks up from the list and stares at me. “And what makes her say that?”

I hold his stare for a moment. “I think we both know why.”

“No. I’d like to hear you say it.”

I scoff. What is this, fucking Twilight? “Fine. I know bloody well you’re a vampire, Baz. You’re shit at hiding it, and I have bigger problems right now. Do you know how we can get that blood or not?”

He’s staring at me again. It’s not as intense as usual, it lacks – what was that word Penny once used? Animosity. That’s it. We keep eye contact for a weirdly long time and I start to wonder if he’s just zoned out when he finally blinks a few times, shakes his head, and straightens his spine. I didn’t even realise he’d been hunching.

“I’m confused,” he says eventually. “Why ask a creature known for consuming blood about how to collect and store it?”

Hearing him openly admit he drinks blood is strange. I mean – I already knew he did. But now he’s confirmed it. Said it out loud. To me, of all people. I wonder who else in his life knows.

“So you’ve never saved some for later?” I say. “You always just… chug it there and then?”

“I don’t—” he scoffs. “I don’t chug. And no, I don’t save it for later. It congeals quickly and I haven’t the correct environment to store it. I know you hate eating gravy with blobs in it – this is the same thing.”

I grimace. I hate gravy with blobs in it. (Why did he remember that?)

“So…”

Baz leans back in his chair. His legs are spread from where he’s made himself comfortable, and his thighs bulge against the seat. I drag my gaze back up and make myself look at his hair instead. It’s down and loose, and every time he moves too much I catch a whiff of it. I know it’s weird. I can’t help it.

“So,” he says, “unless one of us can whip up a mini fridge or a cooling spell that can last long-term, the blood will have to be the last thing we get. It’ll keep it as fresh as possible.”

“Wait.” I sit up straight. Something’s only just dawned on me. “Fuck. Will I have to drink all this?”

“What, did you think it was an ointment? An injection? Yes, Snow, most cures of this nature are for ingestion.”

“Blood. Fucking blood.”

“Get over yourself, it’s not that bad.”

“Easy for you to say!” I rub a hand across my face. “God. How are we actually going to get it, anyway? We have no idea who it is.”

“There’s three days until the full moon.”

“Thank you for that reminder, Baz.”

“Shut up,” he snarls, “you didn’t let me finish. There’s three days until the full moon, so whoever bit you will be getting tetchy and agitated like you are. We already know they’ve gotten riled up enough to transform before the full moon, so they’re probably prone to mood swings, sudden bouts of anger.”

“So?”

“So, if the werewolf becomes too irritated, they’ll be at risk of exposing their true nature.”

“Oh. Oh,” I say, leaning forward. “So if we make a list of people we think it could be, you can go and piss them all off and see if any act all wolfy on you, yeah?”

“Ye— wait. I can go and piss them all off? Why aren’t you helping me?”

“You do it best. Pissing people off.”

He hesitates for a second. “Do I?”

“So many people hate you, Baz. You’re smart, athletic, good-looking, and a bitch.”

“What was that third one?” He smirks. I want to slap it off his stupid face.

“Fuck off. I’m not saying it again. We’ll make a list of suspects, and you can go and investigate them all. I’ll help Pen and Agatha find the other stuff on the list.”

“Agatha’s helping?”

“Mhm.” I grab the nearest piece of paper (I think it’s the back of some homework, but it’s not like I was going to do it anyway) and start scribbling down some names. I’m winging it a bit – I’ve never had to identify potential werewolves before. The lad I sit next to in Magickal History has a shit ton of body hair, so I add him to the list. And then there’s the girl in Elocution who snarls all her words and seems permanently angry. That’s kind of wolf-y, right?

I pause and look up at Baz. “What if it isn’t someone from Watford? Someone we don’t know?”

“It’s more likely to be someone at Watford than someone who isn’t.”

I slide my list over to him. He frowns at it, adds a few more names, and sighs. “I have my work cut out for me.”

I’m uncomfortably aware of the fact I should be thanking him here. Instead I say, “It’ll come naturally. You’ll be done in no time.”

He half-heartedly scowls at me. “You owe me, Snow.”

Yeah. I really do.

#carry on #carry on fic #simon snow #baz pitch #snowbaz #czenzo.fic #on the hunt

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spnshameblog · 3 years

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unpopular or actually possibly controversial opinion re cockles - i think the information that a group of people had seen proof of jensen and misha living together should have stayed within their private chat. and especially that they specifically saw utility bills with both their names. at this point what is the difference between posting the photo of that proof you have and just talking about it? like so many people would have assumed either way that they lived together when misha shared that photo and message, without anyone else implicitly confirming it, but this way, even without a photo being shared, we do have information that was clearly not intended to be shared.

imo a massive difference between assuming from their public interactions (cons, other events, social media) that they're together versus sharing things like how people saw them together somewhere or whatever else someone saw in vancouver or something else they have as proof. im not gonna deny that im nosy and curious and i do like knowing these things, but ultimately i believe it crosses a line.

Yes, i agree that you should never publicise information that wasnt given willingly and i think that people kinda stretched misha's comment about staying in jensen's spare room? a lot of them justified their breaking of silence by saying that misha himself confirmed they had lived together which imho he didnt really? i'm not too mad at them for this, once the floodgate was open there really was no stopping this and i do credit them for keeping a lid on it for that long, but its a leap from having confirmed "misha stayed at jensens place sometimes" to admitting to having known they lived together for years.

i think it would have been worse if they actually shared the documents. yes, they shouldnt have talked about them at all, but by not showing proof there is still plausible deniability, which is fucking crucial. ive said this a lot, but people lie on the internet and by not sharing hard evidence we can still comfortably throw a shroud of secrecy over this. we have to maintain this so please dont go "well now that this info is out i might as well share the papers".

oh and i feel you about the being nosy part. i am a gigantic gossip and i LOVE reading about secret information, but the short rush of euphoria just isnt worth it to me, either. actors have a parasocial relationship with their fanbase, too, and this kind of stuff is a breach of trust. i would feel so unsafe if i knew ppl had seen my private documents and had talked about them online. i respect all the people who decided against sharing anything and i believe that most of them only started talking about this bc a few of them had already jumped the gun and mentioned the proof they had.

i get that people want to back up their theories and are tired of getting called delusional tinhatters ESPECIALLY by j///2 stannies, but its not worth it guys. especially if it leads to ppl actually confronting both of them with our theories.

as far as i'm concerned i will choose to treat the existence of any potential hard evidence as a rumour until we get actual confirmation from either of the guys, but tbh im not holding my breath about that.

#ask #anon #cockles #m

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renegonbeatrix · 2 years

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i need to find the THING that does it for her.

ive been thinking about it and her loyalty to the alliance won't be broken with time. yes there will be simmering resentment post war, but there's always been simmering, repressed resentment. that won't change. yes she'll have a wider support system. it's not enough. she will justify and justify and minimize her own frustration until she dies of old age.

UNLESS

there's something thats the last straw. and whatever it is, it cant be just surrounding one or a few alliance folks, bc otherwise she'll just be able to say it wasnt the alliance as a whole. and it has it touch on one of the things that will provoke her like nothing else.

it's gotta be something about cerberus. either about cerberus as a whole or someone/some few within it. no matter how unfairly the alliance has been to her or others, beatrix has continually been able to separate it from cerberus. good vs evil. she knows it started as an alliance black ops thing, but its origins aren't enough. she learned that early, and it matters less how it began than what it became. but if the alliance was more in the know, if they withheld certain things, if there was more overt tangible overlap in leadership or connections...

she needs to not have that line between the two anymore. as soon as that line is broken, the floodgates will open and everything will come out. every bit of resentment, everything that rankled her but that she told herself was for the best or above her pay grade or ultimately forgivable.

but the issue is idk what that would be. obviously there's a lot the alliance has done wrong, there's no shortage of that, but the specific type of thing i need im not sure where to find it. especially considering the writing frames the alliance so positively.

so im finally gonna read the novels, im gonna reread the comics, do some digging. bc having beatrix never break free from the alliance is an idea that bothers me, it's an unfinished aspect of her that i havent explored bc i couldn't quite figure out how it would happen. and now that i have, i NEED to find the exact breaking point.

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krisiverse · 3 years

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if your tags mentioning disability infodumping a few minutes ago were genuine, then feel free to go forth and do so (publicly or privately, you can dm me if you want but idk how much later i'll be up)

absolutely genuine!! and im glad u asked bc now i get to open the floodgates

SO i have 3 illnesses (tm) that i get to deal with! all of them are things ive been dealing with as long as i can remember but all have them have gotten much worse in the past year. i have POTS, chronic migraines+light sensitivity, and some unknown joint problem

pots is short for postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome! in laymans terms that means whenever i go upright my heart beats way too fast! this isn't actually a heart issue it's a problem with the blood vessels in my legs not contracting when i stand up like they're supposed to, so ALL the blood goes to my legs and feet and heart goes OH SHIT and works overtime to get it up to my brain cause i kinda need that to live

when i initially stand up this causes dizziness and my vision often gets covered with a grey blur, i have to take a moment before continuing. then if im upright for longer periods of time i start to get brain fog and its harder for my brain to process things- this includes sitting, depending on the day ill be able to sit for a couple hours straight to draw or play video games, with some effect until i lay down, the brain fog and also adhd make it so sometimes i forget to though and THAT'S always a Time, but basically any amount of standing IS going to make me lightheaded until i lay down and take time to recover

honestly pots has very little to do with the heart itself, im not sure why its called what it is

yall know what migraines are so im just gonna say im like. constantly having a headache. im very rarely not having a headache. as a kid i related to psyduck so much bc hey same and it gets REAL bad sometimes, everyone in my family gets severe migraines when theres high pressure weather, its bad BUT i have medication for it so its like. handleable

but the WORST thing is light sensitivity. technically linked to the migraines but not specific TO them, i get hurt badly by perfectly normal amounts of light, as in "sitting in the living room an hour before sunrise is too much for me" no amount of adjustment helps. none. i Have to wear sunglasses to leave my room almost all of the time, and it's not nearly as cool as it sounds, it sucks

the light sensitivity also comes side by side with other vision issues! i also have visual snow which is random noise across my vision like a blanket of static! and not only do i have that i also have misaligned eyes resulting in ZERO depth perception and double images unless i actively focus (imagine if you had to cross your eyes constantly to see stuff clearly) and while TECHNICALLY that and my nearsightedness are correctable by lenses, i have horrible sensory issues with seeing things in sharp focus so i can't even use that lmao! still means im not legally blind though and i may not use a white cane based on the laws in my state

and finally idk what the hell is going on with my joints. i think it might also be based on air pressure but sometimes theyll just ALL decide to hurt, all the time, for weeks on end and it sucks! idk what is going on here, they werent bothering me for a few months but now its baaaaaack ✨

ty for letting me share! this isn't really venting, im not looking for sympathy im just kinda like. man that's wild huh. it rly be like this.

#for transparency's sake I'm self-diagnosed with pots because i went to a neurologist and a cardiologist and they said #1. that it's not their specialty #2. diagnosing pots is really difficult #3. that even with a diagnosis it's just symptom treating so a diagnosis doesn't actually change anything #rez replies

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ghostesez · 3 years

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I’ve been seeing that post going around claiming that FFN is dying. So, I’ve decided to slowly bring my fanfics from FFN/AO3 here to Tumblr as well just so they’re archived in more than one place. They’re all kind of old, but I still want to save them.

This one is probably my best, Atramentous Inferno. Warnings for vivisection/dissection, blood, gore, and implied character death. Word count: 1480

Finally! Finally we caught that damnable specter. Now, we can get to work…

Nice to know that the new guns are calibrated correctly.

—

Danny’s eyes flickered open, struggling to take in even the small amount of light in the darkened room. Around him, familiar sounds and smells filled his head, cutting through his mind like daggers of onyx. Even before his vision fully adjusted, he was well aware that he was in a laboratory. The smell was of latex and bleach, the sounds of clicks a rough dragging of a pen over a roll of paper, no doubt monitoring him. Next to his head, a few feet above, an IV dripped a bright, green liquid through a small tube. The tube wrapped around the pole of the IV machine like a venomous viper before burrowing into his bare arm, the needle taped down snuggly against his skin. The sleeve of his right arm had been cut up to make access to the needle easier, his glove sat on the table next to him.

As Danny’s eyes began to adjust, he took in even more of his surroundings. It soon became obvious that he was not in FentonWorks. This lab was strange, alien and foreign. Danny lifted his head, only vaguely aware of the IV in his arm. He glanced around, observing the computer to his left, automatically logging his breathing and heartrate. Spread out on the desk across the lab was a mountain of paperwork. Scrawled across the papers in hastily, but well thought-out handwriting was a vast array of mathematical calculations and words that Danny could not quite make out. The clock on the wall read a bit past four. Danny was unsure which four it meant to convey.

Danny peered down his body, ready to take in what exactly was happening.

He screamed.

—

Stand back! Something’s happening.

What in the world? Rings? He’s… he’s changing? Oh my God. It can’t be…

It’s a trick. Don’t be fooled by the face. This is some defense mechanism.

It’s… it’s…

—

His suit was shredded, having been cut unceremoniously with dull scissors. The few scraps which remained hung limply upon what remained of his torso. Pins were stuck into flaps of skin, piercing through the flesh below. Grayish bones and greened organs were visible in a hole the size of a basketball. Danny could see the bones of his ribcage move with his expanding and contracting lungs. His intestines twitched as he moved, like a swarm of snakes in his gut. An organ he didn’t recognize was nearly sawn in half, a clean cut, as though the experimenter has taken great care in the slice. Danny felt his heartrate escalate, as the computer next to him confirmed. Danny beat his head back against the stainless steel table which held him, clenching his restrained hands as hard as he could.

What had happened? There was a fight… Skulker? Danny had defeated Skulker, sucking him into the thermos as a white van of the Guys in White screeched onto the scene. It all went fuzzy after that. Danny felt that he could vaguely remember other non-Guys in White ghost hunters being there. A scream in the distance was audible. He recognized that scream… Was it Jazz? No. It was Sam. It was definitely Sam. She had been there. Of course she had been there. It was a routine fight… It was only Skulker. He’d fought Skulker an uncountable number of times before.

Now, everything was silent, save for the whirls and clicks of machines. Danny couldn’t even hear the ticks of the clock on the wall. The clicks in between the silence became deafening. As he twitched, more of his ectoplasm tricked out the gaping maw in his abdomen. His chest rose and fell as he breathed. Everything went dark again and Danny slipped from consciousness into blissful blackness. He was only slightly aware of light pouring in as a door was opened.

—

I don’t care, I really don’t. I just don’t care who this is… or was. He’s a ghost. He’s a monster. We have to do this.

We can’t possibly vivisect him. I don’t understand why you think that we can. It doesn’t feel right… he’s… he’s…

No. He isn’t. This is what ghosts do. They trick you. Demean you. Manipulate you. Don’t give in. This must be done for the advancement of science. For the good of the human race.

How could you possibly…?

—

Danny awoke to a torrential flood of light. A lamp had been placed above his head, searing a brightness into his eyes. He shut his eyes, tightening his eyelids as much as possible in an effort to drown out the blinding incandescence. A squeak was heard and the lamp was pushed away. Danny slowly opened his eyes as a scientist came into view. Even under the complete, white hazmat suit and helmet, he could make out that this scientist was female. She leaned over him, hands gripped the examination table tightly. She made eye contact with him, or at least Danny thought she did. Her goggles were as black as midnight, shadowy abysses in their own right.

The scientist began to move around the room, gathering papers and tapping her pen on various machines. She ignored the ghost boy’s pleas for mercy and questions as to who she was and why she was doing this. In fact, she seemed completely indifferent to the struggling and pained child in the room with her. The blackness of her goggles made even worse to Danny. Not being able to see her eyes made its seem as though she had no soul at all- a monstrous being of pure hate and loathing.

After what seemed like days to the subject, the scientist wheeled over a small table used to hold scalpels. Stopping it a foot from the examination table. Danny began to hyperventilate in fear of what was happening. The scientist said nothing as she picked a blade and cut into his cheek, just below the eye. Red and green liquids alike flowed from the slice, staining his face and shoulder with blood and ectoplasm. The overwhelming scents of iron and chemicals filled the air. The scientist scoffed and leaned over a table behind her, jotting down a few sentences on the papers which were strewn there. After a moment, she chose another scalpel from the tray beside her. She carefully lifted a flap of skin near the top of his gaping wound, slicing further up. She exposed a broken sternum and began to pick away the bones there as Danny shrieked in pain. All he could see was red now, a bright, blinding red of pain.

—

The Ecto-Dejecto should keep him from changing shape again.

Maddie, what if he’s not changing shape? What if…

Don’t think that way. This isn’t Danny. This… thing… has never been Danny. It’s all a trick. Can’t you see that?

I can’t Maddie. I just can’t.

Fine, Jack. Leave. You’re a spineless oaf anyways. I’ll do this on my own.

—

As she chipped away at the bones protecting his heart, the scientist ignored a desperate and bleeding phantom. She stopped only occasionally to scribble on the papers behind her. Ultimately, she ceased chipping away the sternum, and began to break and yank out the ribs which interfered with her work. She took six in total, examining and observing each as she pulled them out. Each landed on the surgical tray as she went. Eventually, her path to the hybrid’s heart had become unobstructed.

Danny pleaded with her, promising to tell her everything if only she would stop. She did not listen, only choosing a new blade in which to use in her experiments. The scientist did not hesitate as the she placed the scalpel and dragged, slicing open his heart. Blood and ectoplasm in equal amounts gushed forward into the maw of his chest like a demented sort of floodgate. As he gasped in his final breath, Danny could make out a pair of purple eyes and a wisp of reddish-brown hair behind those goggles of inky blackness.

#I formatted this on my phone so it might be a bit weird #Danny phantom #my fanfic #ghosty talks

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nitannichionne · 4 years

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Luna IV, Chapter 4: Dinner and Dessert (Cavill Syverson Fanfic)

You take your time cooking. You investigate the kitchen slowly as you go, giving yourself time to acclimate and hopefully get a better grip on your feelings. You can hear Sy stirring about the house, though you don't know what he is doing or where he is inside it, for that matter. You take deep breaths to soothe your nerves, allowing the smell of food to relax you and waft through the house. You are suddenly thankful you spent time with the cook growing up; you can make a meal for two or for a party.

Tears fill your eyes. You never dreamed your imprisonment would be this way. You are ready to fight other women. You are ready to protect poor soul like Gabrielle. You are ready to be in solitary confinement. You are ready for a lot of things, but not this. You simply are not ready for him, your private jailer, your private warden to “train” you.

You assessed Sy even as you bucked against him earlier. He is not a violent man, at least, not toward women. He is a no-nonsense man; you smile, noting your warden's similarity to your father, missing him so, but immediately steel the warm feeling that comes with it. Sy is shorter than your father, smaller, but he looks just as strong...perhaps because he is younger.

You didn't miss that body—Sy looks battle ready even if he hasn't seen it in some time. His eyes are very blue, and you watched the tint change with his mood-steel calm, glints of gray with concern, electric blue when he was lighthearted, a storm at sea when he takes you...stop it, you tell yourself. Don’t drown in those eyes, just learn to interpret them so you can find ways around them, you tell yourself, no matter how beautiful you think they are... That stupid system you hate had picked your jailer, and you have to mentally give them credit: They picked right.

You are plating food as Sy enters the kitchen, reminding you of a beast led by his nose. He stands behind and almost over you as you go about your task, seemingly inhaling the meal that promises to be delicious, but you feel like he is also sniffing your hair.

“Jasmine?” he murmurs.

“What?”

He shakes his head, and swallows hard. “Nothing.”

Your whole body tingles with awareness. He was sniffing your hair. They allowed you to pick your scented soap, which you thought was ridiculous, but now makes sense. And he was right-you used jasmine…and he likes it.

He sits down and looks at the food as you bring it to him. “You can cook.”

“My father had a chef.”

“This will be quite a pleasure then,” he says, still looking at the food. “I have not had a trainee in some time. I am usually in charge of the others to make sure they are not abusive, but they asked me to take you on.”

You have nothing to say to that. You go to the cooling unit and see quite a few choices to accompany the main course. You turn and put your hands behind your back in “at ease” position. “What would you like with this?”

He recognizes the military stance, and tenses.

That’s right, you got more than you bargained for, you tell him with your eyes. You don’t know who you’re fucking with.

His gaze roves over your body and again, the sets the unwanted sensual tension between you. You lift your chin, telling yourself not to care, and await his answer. "I don't care, really."

"May I suggest you eat first, and wait a little on drinking?" you ask as you turn to the cooling unit to make a selection.

"To speed my digestion."

You turn with a fruity but light wine. "Yes."

He smiles slowly. "Thank you, I'll take your suggestion." He gestures for you to sit.

You warily do so, hoping to eat alone, but now you realize he expects you to eat with him. Your gazes lock, neither taking eyes off the other. You realize he is going to be the most formidable opponent you’ve ever had in your life, mostly because he is compatible with you. You work to not allow your gaze to waver. This was a staring contest, but he is already playing dirty, allowing his eyes to smolder as if he has more on his mind than food. A small smirk crosses his features and you realize the flush of your cheeks might have been visible. Damn!

He lifts the plate to rotate and sniff it. He gives you a look of approval that doesn't surprise you and takes his first forkful. The food melts in his mouth and he closes his eyes for a moment to enjoy it, then opens his eyes and frowns. "Where is your plate?"

"I can eat now?"

He suppresses a chuckle at your sarcastic tone, and you are disappointed that he is not easily irritated. "Of course. I'm no brute." You do not move, and he whispers your name to make you lock eyes with him again. “I’m not.”

That remains to be seen, your glare tells him. Maybe if you stay this way, watch him eat, you will eat alone--

"If you didn't make enough, I will share with you."

Your eyebrows rise at that.

"Yes, I think that's a good idea," he smiles, seeing your discomfort.

You take a deep breath, and close your eyes briefly. He is amused at your struggle to control your temper. You have been trying to prick his and got nothing but amusement from him. Your words are slow and measured: "I assure you—"

“I don’t mind feeding you, pet.” He voice is smooth, seductive, letting the double meaning sink in fully. “Not at all.”

You go and get your plate, almost slamming the platter down, but slowing just as it touches the table. You sit and look up at him, burning with frustration. He had won this round. He raises his fork in salute and you begin eating.

He keeps looking at you as if he wants to say something, ask something, but doesn’t. He is giving you time to adjust and you wish he’d get on with it, give you reason to hate him. "I want you to know that I am not a cruel man, and have never been a cruel warden. I meant what I said: you will determine how difficult things get."

You tense. This whole system is bullshit, you want to tell him.

He doesn’t miss your expression and takes a deep breath as you avert your eyes. "What is it?"

"That may be true, but you are part of a cruel system."

"That may be true, but you killed someone."

Your head snaps up, your eyes sparking. He looks like he wished he hadn’t said that, but he made that mistake-his first. "One that you know of." You swallow hard; there was no victory in that.

He takes a napkin and dabs at the corner of your eyes and you snatch it, angry at yourself for one drop of emotion escaping you. "I realize you seem to have deep seated anger—"

"Seem?" You laugh, but now you feel floodgates threatening to open. The death of your father, being under scrutiny, having everything taken from you, being offered like a piece of meat to a man you barely know and don’t want, only to be convicted for not allowing him to claim you, being humiliated, convicted, jailed. NO! He is part of that system, you tell yourself. You look at the plate, and drop your fork.

"What?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You must eat," he says softly, slowing his eating with concern in his eyes. "You have not eaten in over twelve hours."

"I am not hungry," she smile with a sneer, your voice a whisper. You don’t care if the tears are in your eyes.

He sighs heavily and avert his eyes, only to raise them to you again, his expression soft and pleading. "Please...I want you to stay as healthy as you are now."

Your smile fades. You are conditioned for certain kinds of combat, of punishment, but not kindness.

He pours you a small glass of wine, and leans closer. "Please."

He watches and waits for your reaction. You were going to fight him and the moons?! If he came any closer, it wouldn't be just food you would have to try to fight your desire for. You pick up your fork again, and avert your eyes.

“Thank you.”

Sy finishes his dinner, and you expect him to get up and leave.

He doesn’t.

He watches you eat.

You are nervous, and your stomach probably can't take more than a little at a time right now. Every time you take a bite, he licks his lips. Every time you drink, he stares at your body in building appreciation and lust. You become a bundle of nerves under his gaze. When you finally finish eating, he drinks the last of his wine, and rises from his chair. You exhale heavily, thinking he was going to walk by you but he grabs your wrist, and leads you back to the lounger.

He settles you back against the pillows, taking the dress off you again. "That was delicious."

You squirm under him, unsure if you are trying to get closer or find the chance to escape.

"I trust you can make desserts...with the same skill?" He begins kissing the hollow of her throat, and murmurs your name, urging you to answer.

"Y-yes,” you breathe, the sound of your name from his lips stroking your nerves in a delicious way.

"Good." With that, he kisses you slowly, and you both release a small sigh of pleasure at tasting wine in each other's mouths. He lowers his head to your breasts, gently taking turns on suckling each as he thrusts his fingers inside you, making you gasp and whimper at how wet and ready you are for him, how the ache leapt within you and spread. He uses a slow rhythm on you, calming you yet helping you learn to revel in the satisfaction he can give you. You arch and gasp as your wetness flows over his fingers. "Good..." He lowers his head between your legs, his fingers still in place, and works you again, his fingers thrusting in a slightly faster rhythm as his tongue sucks and laps at you.

You pant and twist, clawing at the pillows around you. He reaches up with his free hand and brings your hand to the back of his head slowly, and you bring the other down to him, cradling and caressing his head as your hips come off the lounger. He moans in response to your cries drinking you as you feel lightheaded. Finally he climbs over you and thrusts into you again. You arch to him, reveling in how he stretches and fills you, and your body instinctively clasps to him as he begins a hard quick rhythm that would satisfy you both.

He begins pounding harder as your body yields everything to him and he holds you in place. Your arms and legs embrace him as you scream. He keeps his piston-like rhythm going, and you pulsate around him uncontrollably as your head fall backs back feeling his seed heat and coat your inner walls as he growls in your ear and then bites your neck softly, drawing small tremors from you.

Sy picks you up, and carries you to bed. He lays you down on your side and positions himself behind you, his hands stroking your limbs to soothe you. "Sleep now," He purrs, kissing your hair. "rest." You want to stay awake to spite him but with all the events of the day, sleep takes you in minutes.He could tell she wanted to stay awake, but with all the events of the day, sleep takes you in minutes.

Let me know if you want to be tagged for this story! Thanks.

#Henry cavill #henrycavill X reader #henry cavill fanfic #syverson fic #captain syverson #superman #geralt #henry cavill cast #romance #passion #prisoner

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lajulie24 · 4 years

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D for hanleia pre esb!! ❤️

Thank you kindly for the prompt, and for your extreme patience with the long time I took to finally fulfill it! This idea ended up racing past drabble and well into fic rather than ficlet territory, so think of this as part 1 of a two-part fic. Also, this will be a long post since Tumblr seems to deal poorly with “read more” links in asks these days. Title is a reference to a line in Abra Moore’s “Four Leaf Clover.”

D. Subtle kindnesses.

Let go of all the big deals

Damn it. Leia really wished Evaan were still here.

I wish Mama were here, her thoughts continued, before she could stop them. Or Winter, or Aria. Papa. Memily. Even Aunt Rouge, Aunt Celly.

It was easier when she didn’t let herself go there at all, but apparently she’d opened the floodgates simply by thinking of Evaan—who was still alive, just elsewhere with the rest of her people, keeping them safe, leading them in the way Leia couldn’t right now.

Evaan would know what to do with this, this mess that had become of Leia’s hair. She would’ve laughed, wielded the comb, helped her work out the little bits of resin that lingered in the strands. A few washings with Chewie’s shampoo had actually done a brilliant job at getting out most of the sticky sap that had exploded all over them, but it couldn’t work miracles.

Leia worked the comb through her hair slowly, wincing as she hit another tangle.

“How’s the grooming goin’, Your Worship?” Han called from outside the door. Frankly, she was surprised he hadn’t sent out a search party for her, given how much time she’d been at this already, but perhaps he had enough experience with Chewie to understand that this was no simple job.

“Fine,” she called back. “Just great.” She took up another section and began working the comb through it, gradually, carefully. This was honestly the longest her hair had spent fully down in quite some time; normally she took it down, brushed it, and put it into her sleeping braid, or pulled it out of the sleeping braid long enough to put it back up in her familiar crown braids. Now that she had spent so much time with it, she noticed not only the tangles and remaining bits of sap, but the split ends.

She hadn’t cut it since Alderaan. She’d been neglecting it, frankly; it had been this length for years, but regular trims helped maintain its health and texture. When she was home, she and Winter would trim one another’s hair. Or she’d get Memily to do it. TooVee could do it in a pinch, but normally cutting hair wasn’t a task you would give to a droid. It was too personal, too intimate for that.

TooVee would’ve claimed it contrary to her programming, anyway. A stickler for protocol, that one.

“Need anything?” Han called. He was actually being surprisingly considerate about this whole thing; somehow he seemed to have caught on to hair = private and had made sure to keep everyone else out of the crew quarters while she tended to this.

There was one tangle that didn’t want to come out. A little nest of hair that defied her, no matter how carefully she worked to unwind it, her efforts achieving nothing but a sore scalp. Such a sad little knot, she thought. A little snarl of hair and resin twisted all within itself, about two inches from the bottom.

She tried again. Nope. It wasn’t coming out.

Surely Han had something she could use. What did Chewie trim his fur with, anyway?

“Han?” she called. “You still there?”

“Yeah, you need something?”

“Do you have a scissors? I’m going to have to cut this bit out.”

“Sure thing.” Footsteps left down the hall, and Leia busied herself trying the knot again. Just like her, continuing to work at something even while it was hopeless. Optimism? Stubbornness? A little of both?

The footsteps came back, and then the hatch opened enough for Han’s arm to slip in, a beard- and pelt-trimming scissors in his outstretched hand. Leia took it. “Perfect, thank you.”

The door closed again, and after a slight pause—

“Ah, you need any help with that?” Han’s voice sounded tentative.

Leia considered that for a moment. She’d figured she would probably have to just cut out the offending knot for now and figure out how to fix it later, because she definitely was not going to be able to even it out all the way around by herself. But she also knew from experience that having one bit of hair that didn’t match the others would be a real pain. And it did desperately need a trim—

You could ask Han to do it.

“Uh, maybe?” she answered, stalling for time while she thought this through.

She wasn’t sure why she felt so weird about asking Han to help trim her hair; she respected her culture’s hair traditions, but she’d never thought she was personally all that attached to them. Certainly she’d had it down in front of others before. She’d even had it down in front of a man before.

Yeah, a man you were involved with. And it was kind of a big deal when you did that. And that had been before, when her planet and her culture were not in danger of extinction.

But also, that had been before. She had been doing a lot of things lately that she hadn’t done in her life before.

Like asking random men to cut your hair for you?

Except Han wasn’t some random man, not at all, as much as some of her colleagues on High Command might think of him that way. As casual and as brash and as infuriating as he could be sometimes, he was her friend. And he had seen her at some of her worst already—narrowly escaping death by being crushed in a wet trash compactor could do a lot to help you bond, right?

Then she remembered the other thing he’d done that day, the thing that told Leia that there was more to the man than swagger and bravado and a frequently professed love of money. The thing he’d done quietly, and without ceremony.

It was after they’d escaped the TIEs, after he’d scoffed at her assertion that the Imperials were surely tracking the Falcon to Yavin IV, after she’d dismissed him as a mercenary and strode off, leaving him and Luke to gossip or whatever it was men did. They’d all stunk of garbage, so later Han had offered use of the real water showers and the autovalet.

After Han had gotten Luke set up in the ‘fresher (with Luke still both fascinated and terrified by the newness of cleaning with a continuous spray of water), Han had quietly approached Leia.

“Hey,” he’d said, “you’ve had a hell of a day.”

“Yes.” That was an understatement, one she was trying not to think too much about.

He’d beckoned toward the corridor. “We got a medbunk. I c’n help you get fixed up. Might not be much time for that once we land.”

“I’m all right,” she’d said.

“Yeah, I know,” he’d agreed. “But who knows what was in that garbage. Don’t want those wounds to get infected. Really drag down your revolution.”

She’d stared at him for a moment.

“If you want, I can get Chewie to, uh, chaperone or whatever,” he’d said, obviously misunderstanding her silence as mistrust of his intentions. Honestly, she’d just been surprised at his mention of the wounds hidden by her white dress—how did he even know they were there?

“No, that’s all right,” she’d said. “This way?”

It was unexpected, how gentle he’d been as he’d cleaned and applied bacta to her injuries, somehow knowing exactly which spots would have been hit by the droid and other devices. At the same time, she’d been relieved to find him casual and matter-of-fact about the whole thing. No pity or patronizing, just care, like they were comrades in battle. And when she’d asked him—how did you know? he’d answered simply. Used to be one of ‘em. Long time ago. Another life.

“Another life,” she’d repeated.

If she could trust him with the wounds from the worst day of her life, when they barely knew each other, she could certainly trust him with this.

“Uh, yeah, could you come help?” she called, and a moment later, the door slid open.

Thank you for the ask!

#ask lajulie #myfic #quarantine drabbles #han x leia #hanleia #star wars #leia organa #han solo #anonymous #thank you for the ask!

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ilikemymenhurt · 3 years

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I don’t know if people are still interested in Skyrim OCs, but I’m really proud of this bloodline of heroes and this art piece, so I’m sharing the first hero: Haldir Andeberg Dreyerg: leader of the Dark Brotherhood, or Sithis’ Hand.

“Come on, Haldir, this isn’t you,” Mi’ara said, holding out their hands in an attempt to comfort the man who kept both knives in his hands poised to strike anyone who dared step closer.

“Isn’t it?” Haldir seethed, something dangerous in his only good eye that glared its own daggers into her.

“No, it isn’t,” she confirmed passionately, “you’re better than this”

“Better than this?” He demands, “I’m a fucking monster, Mi’ara. I AM this.”

His eyes were wild and crazed, and they could hear the thunder booming in the night, the rain pouring down on the two with the strength of a hundred floods.

“You don’t have to be!” she said, hoping she could get this man to understand. “Why can’t you see that?”

“Because I’m a monster! I’m nothing but a worn-down murderer just waiting to do someone’s bidding! I manipulate and betray and lie! I lie to you every day. Every day that I put on the mask, every day when I act nice and pretend I care. Because I can’t!” A shouted, still holding the weapon.

“What do you mean you ‘cant’?”

“I DONT FEEL ANYTHING, MI’ARA!” He bellowed, “I FELT NOTHING THAT NIGHT! IVE TRIED SO HARD, BUT I CANT!”

Mi’ara was silent for a few moments after the heart wrenching confession, trying not to flinch when Haldir slammed his blade into anything that would leave a mark.

“Leave,” he growled after a few moments, his hands fisting his black hair, not facing her.

“No,” she stood her ground.

“I SAID GO AWAY!” He roared.

“You do feel things, Haldir,” she said, “you may not believe it, but you do.”

“It isn’t possible, Mi’ara!”

“Why did you stay, then?” She challenged, stepping forward; a risk that could likely cost her her life, “if you didn’t care, then why didn’t you slip away? Why did you make me breakfast that morning? Answer me that.”

He had nothing to say to that, growling under his breath as he brushed his hair back, and with how stiff his fingers were, she was expecting claws to crawl through his nails, “I don’t fucking know.”

“You can feel,” she said, “you just never allowed yourself to. You’re as human as anyone else here.”

Haldir laughed. An unsettling laugh that was anything but sane, even if it was choked up.

“But that’s where you’re wrong,” he chuckled, looking back at her, and she could have sworn his red eye glowed as he inched closer, “I’m not human anymore. I am weak. I am what everybody else thinks I am. I am what all of the little kids are scared to see under their beds. I am a broken, ugly thing that can’t be fixed. And I like it that way. Because humans wouldn’t dream of doing the things I’ve done, and someone needs to make the choices that no one else has the stomach to make.”

He towered above her now, and she refused to give in to her fear. Because this was the Sithis’ Hand that made the air deathly thick with terror: one that could clear an entire room with a single look.

“So leave this beast to his solitude and make a life for yourself before Sithis calls for you.”

“No.”

His hand was around her throat, more surprised than she was hurt when he dragged her to the nearest wall and slammed her against it with a strength that shook her to her core. Then a blade is against her throat before she could comprehend what just happened.

“I could kill you right now,” he hissed, “press a little further into your neck and it’s all over.”

“You won’t,” she resisted.

“Don’t be so sure,” he threatened, “I’ve done worse.”

“You’re human, Haldir,” she repeated, “and you know it deep down.”

“STOP TRYING TO SAVE ME!” He bellowed with a roar that shook the earth, ”I DONT NEED YOUR HELP, AND I DON’T WANT IT!”

Yet the hand holding the blade to her throat shook, and his face was pinched with more than rage. Because even the rain couldn’t hide the shine in his eyes he was attempting to hold back.

“Call me a monster,” he ordered, “or a psychopath, murderer, or mutant or freak. I want to hear you say it.”

“I won’t,” she refused.

“CALL ME A MONSTER!” He commanded, pressing the knife just far enough in her neck to make her breath catch in fright, “DO IT!”

“You know I can’t lie,” she strained.

“SAY IT!”

She kept her mouth shut, because it seemed Haldir seemed to be tearing himself apart all on his own, his expression cracking as his true feelings began to peer through.

“PLEASE!” He begged, the knife at her throat too shaky to keep its pressure as he started to slouch.

“Please..” it crushed her hearing how small his voice was now that everything was collapsing, “say it…”

Mi’ara reached her hand to his rain soaked face, feeling him flinch at the unexpected touch. She brushed the drenched strands of black hair out of his face, seeing one red eye looking down at her with pools of tears building underneath them. Even the other scarred eye that faded to an empty white long ago spoke of so much pain, so much tragedy and guilt behind them. His face scrunched at her gentle gesture, and almost like opening a floodgate, it was all freed, the broken man breaking down into a fit of broken sobs, slumping like he couldn’t carry his own weight anymore.

When Haldir dropped the knives in his hands, Mi’ara didn’t run to safety with the freedom. Instead, she wrapped her arms around the man’s large frame, gently leading them both to the ground. And when their knees met the stony path under them, Haldir truly broke, crushing her in his desperate grip, his hands that had been carrying knives now fisting the back of her shirt as his weary head rested on her shoulder.

There they sat amidst the pouring rain, Mi’ara gently shushing away the names he gave himself as he let out decades worth of grief and sorrow that had been buried so far down that it could have lay forgotten. The way he held her said everything that his mouth couldn’t: that he was waiting for her to take it all back, bracing for the moment she’d push him away and call him weak. Yet she stayed as long as Haldir needed her for the first time in a very long time.

#Skyrim OC #elder scrolls V #tes #original characters #hurt/comfort #angst #otp

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padfootagain · 5 years

Text

Always With You, Always With Me

This new Clone Wars trailer got me so fucked up, I had to write something for my precious baby Ahsoka!! So here we go for my first piece for her!

This is 100% of the fluffiest fluff, I am making my own heart melt with this.

Gif not mine

Word Count : 2069

It was the same and yet it was completely different.

Same pain. Same violence. Same blood spilled.

Different war.

You remembered the Clone Wars well enough, you were a teenager then. Some had called what had followed as a "new peace", but it wasn't. It was the war changing its shape to better linger on.

There was a lot that you had lost since the beginning of the Clone Wars. Actually, there was little you had left at all. But if there was one thing in this messed up galaxy that you wanted to protect and keep, it was the woman lying by your side.

When you met and discovered who Ahsoka was, your first thought was that a former jedi was the last thing you needed. Stars, how you had changed your mind in just a couple of years…

Ever since you had lost your family, you had promised yourself that you wouldn't get attached to anyone again. Love was too much risk to take during a war. And then, Ahsoka had stumbled into your life: an exhausted, out of breath, wounded woman all wrapped in a long blooded cloak. Helping her back to health was the best terrible decision you had ever taken in your life.

Outside, the rising sun painted the tired ruins of Yavin IV with gold. Most in the base were already wide awake. You had signed up long ago as a pilot for the rebellion, and Ahsoka had always been tracking down Sith Lords and fighting for the light, although, most of the time she came to Yavin, it was to see you. She was visiting you here now and then, while she wasn't travelling through the galaxy herself for some obscure reason she always kept hidden from you. Stealing a few moments together whenever you both could was all you could ask for. And as you looked at her sleeping under the golden sun, you were grateful for this moment you shared.

Deep down, you knew it would be a lot to ask to the Force to get another morning like this one. Still, you made the prayer.

Sounds of voices reached you, coming from the corridor. You checked the time: two hours left before your meeting to brief you on your next mission. Two hours left, you wished there could be an infinity instead. Ahsoka seemed to finally wake up by your side. She stretched, very much like a grumpy Loth-cat would have, and the thought brought a tender smile to your lips.

She hadn't opened her eyes yet, but her hand travelled across the bed nonetheless, looking for you through the sheets. Your smile widened at the sight, and you took her hand.

She smiled, turning on her side to face you, her eyelids still closed. You snuggled across the bed closer, until you could kiss her sleepy eyes.

"Morning, beautiful," you whispered, your voice a little raspy with fatigue.

"Hmm… mornin'," she mumbled back, playing with your fingers and moving her body to press against yours, skin against skin.

"Slept well?"

She chuckled.

"Don't recall there was that much rest involved."

It was your time to laugh, but you couldn't deny it, she spoke the truth.

There was still noise coming from the corridor, but you blocked it away from your mind. You had two hours left with her, you didn't intend to waste a single thought on the outside world.

You raised your hand to caress the white forms drawn across her features, and she wrapped her arm around your waist to pull you even closer. She smiled as your fingertips travelled across her forehead and then her cheek. The sunlight made the white areas of her skin golden, like the sky, her eyelashes catching yellow droplets too. She looked so peaceful, so beautiful like this, bathed with dawn.

"So… are you gonna keep your eyes closed all morning then?" you teased, and were not disappointed by her cheeky grin.

"Maybe," she teased.

"That's very cruel of you. What if I want to see your eyes?"

"I guess you'll have to convince me to open them."

"I could carry out a very violent tickle attack. That could do the trick."

She chuckled, her fingertips tracing circular patterns on the small of your back, delicate caresses that made you forget all your scars and all your pain and healed every inch of your broken soul.

"You wouldn't dare. You know how terrible my counter-attack would be."

"I'm reckless, haven't you established that by watching me fly yet?"

"Oh, I know you're reckless, flygirl."

"And you're unable to follow orders."

"Hey! Only unfair ones!"

You both burst out laughing.

"But I think that a kiss would be convincing enough, no need to threaten me with your terrifying tickles," she said mockingly, and if you hadn't loved her that much, you would have been annoyed by that smug tone. But then, you did love her that much, so instead, you complied and kissed her lips.

Which… turned out to be a little more than only one kiss, and more to be a lot of kisses. But then, it was to be expected with the two of you.

Over the kisses, you shifted position and as you finally pulled apart, Ahsoka rested her head against your heart, and listened to its steady rhythm.

Life. Beating. Pulsing. Strength, energy, existence bursting through your veins thanks to this tiny piece of muscle that she was listening to and was all hers. She could feel the force flooding through you, she had always felt it steady and peaceful around your frame. Some used to say, when she was a padawan, a lifetime ago, that the force surrounding a person could show the deepest part of their soul. She was not surprised to find out that yours was full of light.

You remained like this, cuddling, for a while, merely enjoying being together as minutes flew by. But eventually, you had to break the soothing silence that had settled in.

"When are you leaving?" you asked in a whisper.

"Probably when you leave for your own mission."

"Where to?"

"The stars."

That was always her response. The stars. In the end, you knew it would be to do something against the Empire, more or less. You didn't know what, you didn't where. It didn't matter. She just couldn't tell you.

She couldn't tell you how fast she was running. She couldn’t tell you what her former Master, this man she trusted, and loved, and admired, had become. She couldn't tell you that she felt like it was partly her fault, that for countless nights she had stared into the shadows of her room and wondered what would have happened to Anakin if she had remained in the Order as his padawan. She couldn't tell you she was running from her past just as much as she tried to repair whatever she could because she felt like it was her who had destroyed it all. She had always felt like it was her fault, maybe because she was one of the few jedi still alive, at first at least. But then she learned about Anakin, and the guilt gnawed at her soul with renewed strength. You knew the truth though, you knew who Vader really was, under that mask and buried beyond all that hatred. You were the one to pick up Ahsoka's pieces and put them back together when she had learnt the truth during that duel. Nevertheless, she had never mentioned it again, and didn't intend to. You were the bright side of her life, she longed to let her demons behind thanks to you. Just like you hoped that by loving her, you would escape these ghosts that followed your every thoughts.

But then, you were there. Bright as a sun, tough as kyber. A strange combination of love and rage. You longed for peace, and wanted revenge. You were not afraid to admit the two sides of your soul. Maybe it was what had attracted her to you so much at first. How fiercely you wanted to destroy the Empire, to avenge all those you had lost, but also to save the ones who remained. You were fierce, just like her. A bright woman too selfless for her own good. Throughout these past couple of years though, you had been more than that to her: you were her home.

She couldn't stay for long. She was too afraid Vader would find a way to trace her back to you, and she would never forgive herself if anything happened to you because of her. She couldn't imagine how to live without you now… But still, she loved you too much to stay away forever, she needed you like she needed air, you were a part of her flooding through her veins, a constant presence more soothing than the Force itself.

She had been trained to avoid these feelings. She had heard what it was supposed to feel like to love someone so much that one's own self wasn't important anymore, only the other. To love someone so completely that your life depended on this love. She hadn't thought it was true.

And then, she met you. And now, despite the risks, she couldn't live without you.

"I'll come back soon, don't worry," she reassured you. "Just… be careful during your mission, alright?"

"Alright. But you ought to be careful too, yes? Investigating Sith Lords business can't always be easy. And I know you won't tell me anything, but I'm also not an idiot, and I know perfectly that's what you're truly up to."

Your voice was a little shaky. She chuckled.

"Worried are we, Ms. Y/L/N?"

But your expression grew more serious, and she knew you weren't trying to joke when you answered.

"Yes. Very."

She gave you a tender smile, moving up to rest her forehead against yours.

"We made a promise to each other a long time ago, I intend to honour it."

"Me too."

"I'll always come back to you."

"And I'll always come back to you."

Before you could add anything else, she was kissing you, deep and slow and loving, making sure to pour all her feelings for you into that kiss. It was like opening floodgates for love to run free. It was opening the door to let out the deepest secret of one's soul, and it was all love and light and care, and you wanted to cry before so much beauty offered to someone like you.

For years you had been certain that all you were was an orphan, one of billions that the wars had created, a fighter in a larger army, only one expendable pawn set on a game of chess the size of a galaxy. You had never thought your life important, not since you had lost everything. You thought you would end up dying alone, forgotten among the count of victims, and you were fine with it. But then Ahsoka had come, and she looked at you with so much love, and so much pride, and so much care, it was painful the way she made you feel so loved. It was too much for your untrained heart to take, this beating organ in your chest that had known nothing but pain for years wasn't ready to be adored. It still felt like all this love was too much, that it made your heart swell and almost burst, almost break your ribcage with all these feelings, to a point that your lungs didn't have enough room in your chest to let you breathe anymore. Like your life mattered all of a sudden. Because she loved you, and if someone like her could love you, then it had to mean that you were someone special too, after all.

You had thought for years that you weren't meant to be loved. But then, Ahsoka had proven you wrong. You reckoned that the best you could do to thank her, was to love her back just as fully and unconditionally as she loved you. And it was the easiest thing you had ever done.

"We'll always be together, right?" you asked her in a breath.

She ran a hand through your hair, offering you the softest of smiles.

"Yes, Y/N. We will. Even when we're apart, I'm always with you, and you're always with me."

**************************************************************

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wevegottogetaway · 4 years

Text

Whirlwind Part IV - Khamseen

DAY14

The energy shrouding the air of Godspeed’s is much different from what it was for Induction Rave a couple weeks ago. The place is still one of high spirit but the loud euphoria that permeated each of its nook and cranny in celebratory cheers, is now replaced with liquor-prompted laughters and light conversation melting into a mellow background noise. The music seems to have taken the same cue, its lowered volume simply adding to the mesh of sounds of the bar and no longer pulsing baselines into the heart of its patrons. Even the number of clean tables surpasses that of sticky ones for once; a rather improbable phenomenon for such an establishment.

Sitting in a corner booth as he nurses a bourbon in his hands and a scowl on his face, Harry is the embodiment of sulkiness. Feeling drained despite having the rare day off, his shoulders are stuck in a permanent hunch. They bear the pressures of being in the most competitive Navy pilot program in the world only to be met with disillusion once partnered up with someone who traded trust for contempt wherever he was concerned. Not to forget, he is still grieving the loss of his best friend. The sharp memories of the accident have yet to depart his mind whenever he closes his eyes or sits in a cockpit alongside a certain daredevil lady. A lady who haunts his nights by dragging him out of whatever peaceful place he’s escaped to, her crestfallen face appearing just as Morpheus’ arms reach out to him. And Aella always wins his attention no matter the weariness in his bones or how appealing a good night sleep might be.

Entranced in a meticulous reenactment of their last mission, involving pistachios as makeshift aircrafts, Dazzler and Tigger are seating across their subdued friend. They brushed off Harry’s taciturn disposition as they’ve come to be familiar with it, and instead proceed to do as usually ever since the accident: offer friendly companionship whether he decides to actively partake or silently tag along. He’ll start sharing again when he’s ready, they figure. No use in prying and pocking; any person who’s ever been around Harry would know. A closed book he may not be, but rather, he remains selective as to who can leaf through his essence and more importantly, what they may uncover as well as when they get to do so.

"Need a refill?" Dazzler asks Harry as he comes to a standing position hovering over the table, two beer-less pints in hand. The person of interest looks down at the drink cajoled in his hold, a couple sips away from dryness. A nod and a soft ‘please’ is all he offers his friend before returning his focus on the glass in his hands.

As Dazzler approaches the bar effectively out of earshot, Tigger turns to the laconic man seating as his table. For once, his instinct tells him to candidly check on his mate, the absence of Dazzler’s overjoyed nature perhaps giving the moment a tone better suited for confidence. "Got a lot on your mind Styles?" He asks as softly as his voice will let him.

Harry’s eyes lift from their aimless target on a crack of the table to finally land on Tigger’s inquisitive face. They remain unwavering for a second too long as if gauging whether now was the time to exteriorize some of his sorrows. Wasn’t the headache throbbing hard enough already? Didn’t he reach his last thread when Aella and him both shot their last chance at a peaceful partnership? Be that as it may, there is so little space left in Harry’s brain for pondering purposes, he’s just desperate to get some sort of leeway.

"You could say that, yeah" he says to his bourbon with a humorless chuckle.

"Anything involving a certain someone?" Tigger tentatively inquires whilst inconspicuously fiddling with the nutshells scattered across the table. They both know the identity behind the certain someone, and the mere mention is apparently enough for Harry to warrant another mouthful of inebriant. The gesture effectively empties what was left of the liquor, but it’s all the troubled pilot needs to open the floodgates of his censored mind.

"She’s driving me nuts, Tigger. We can barely stand to be in the same room, how are we supposed to fly together?" The piercing green eyes always had this magnetic pool to them. In friendly conversation, they were meant to make the narrator feel like the center of the universe. But right now, under the bar’s dim lights, their glow is shaded by an unhinged quality as if this time their owner was looking at the sun because his world had fallen off its axis and needed fixing.

"Maybe…I don’t know…have you guys tried talking about it?" Tigger doesn’t have much faith in the anticipated answer, but he’s a firm believer that communication can resolve anything. Proper communication, that is.

"Right." Harry looks at his poised friend unimpressed. "All the ‘talks’ we’ve had end in the same way. We scream at each other till we’re blue in the face and we say stuff that leaves us worse off than how we were." His mind takes him back to their last squabble 3 days ago, the way they had completely blown off at each other’s scowling face with crude words escaping their mouth. Like a reflex, he reaches for his drink in a vain attempt to erase the taste of malice still lingering on his lips, only to be met with a teasing drop idling around the rim.

"That doesn’t sound like talking Harry." Tigger retorts with a pointed look. His friend his better than that. Better than the excuse no doubt about to come is way if Dazzler wasn’t making a reappearance with two foamy pints and a bourbon.

"Oi, what’s the chitchat about?" He asks with a beaming smile at the idea that his tortured soul of a friend is finally coming out of limbo, or - at least - back to his talking self. The grin is enough to reprieve Harry from his tiresome thoughts for a second as he looks up to Dazzler and thanks him for the amber liquid placed in front of him. He’s always thought that Dean earned his callsign because of that particular smile: all around contagious, and well, nothing short of dazzling…

He is quickly brought back to the matter at hand by Tigger though. "Just talking about Harry and Aella’s inability to hold a civil conversation together and their propensity to rip each other’s head off." He says, not beating around the bush whilst watching with a raised brow as the seemingly defeated man across from him promptly indulges in his replenished drink.

"Right Styles, what’s got you so riled up about our lovely Aella anyway?" Dazzler bluntly asks once he’s comfortably back in his seat. The term of endearment is not lost on Harry’s ears, however, and the reminder furrows his brow some more.

"Fuck, I forgot you lot were friends with her." He sighs. How is he supposed to vent to his friends about another friend of theirs without coming off has an asshole? He’s positive that ship has already sailed though, without much to be done about it. "Look I’m not saying she’s a bad person, but you guys don’t have to work with her." He tries to soften the blow with a subtle deflection but in his defense, he says it all genuinely so.

Harry doesn’t really know Aella. Doesn’t know what kind of friend she is, how caring she might be with those she cares for, or how witty her words become when prodded by the right person. He does know, however, that any compatibility they may have ends at the gate of any Navy base. He knows she’s more daring than she ought to be when she’s high above the clouds and high on adrenaline. And he knows she can be downright contentious, not to say bitchy when she doesn’t get her way. So no, Harry doesn’t consider Aella to be a particularly good pilot, at least not in a tandem set up. She’s too quick to set his nerves on fire like she does everything else, to make him think otherwise.

"Damn straight I don’t work with her! Coz Tigger’s stuck with my annoying ass until the day it’s too flabby to sit in a Tomcat. But I still don’t get it, man. From what I’ve seen, she seems pretty fucking brilliant to me." Dazzler once again shows his luminous colors as he senses the conversation is about to get much somber.

"Completely reckless you mean. Half the time she’s suggesting moves that’ll send us crashing faster than I can say emergency ejection." Harry has abandoned any cushioning tactic at this point. His resentment has taken control of his speech and his body tightens in accordance: jaw so defined, the contracting motion could be spotted from across the bar, his shoulders stiffen underneath a slightly oversized shirt and his knuckles turn a few shades whiter at the pressure exerted around his already half-empty glass.

The look his two comrades share across the table in silent conversation does nothing to alleviate his frustration. Instead, it makes him feel like a kid about to be given a talk by his parents. And the way Tigger hesitantly speaks up next, voice as easeful as he can muster, makes Harry think he’s not so far off the truth.

"Harry, do you think you might still be processing what happened with Fox?"

The mention of his deceased best friend sends a shiver down Harry’s spine, an indescribable coldness seizing his body that no alcohol could shake off. On the defensive, his guard soars up and the same chilling tone is now clouding his words.

"And what’s your point exactly?"

Dazzler is quick to elaborate on his friend’s suggestion as tactfully as one Dean Marshall is capable of. Subtlety was never his strong suit. "Come on, mate. It’s kinda common knowledge that Fox was a bit of a stuntman himself. But that’s what made him such a great pilot, Harry."

"It’s what got him killed." The retort comes harsh, triggered by an array of emotions still festering in every far enough corner of his being, because he can’t quite fathom how to face them yet. It’s an out-of-body experience in a way, a disconnection between body and mind, that makes him a mere bystander of his knee-jerk reactions. Surely the words are not his. Surely some kind of demon is hijacking the headquarters of his mind and turning him into a sourpuss who can’t reign in his spreading misery. Pretty ironic for someone who used to spread kindness every time he was given the chance.

"Now, you know that’s not the whole truth." Dazzler tries to reason, admittedly slightly shocked by his friend’s outburst. The things grief can do to one’s temper…

"Whatever. She’s still impulsive and she doesn’t know how to fly with a partner." Harry’s quick to dismiss the subject of Fox, he’d rather have a slumber party with his new nemesis before reminiscing the circumstances of his friend’s premature death.

"That’s probably because she’s used to flying solo." Tigger rightfully points out. "See, you’d know that if you two talked like decent human beings."

"Well, she doesn’t have to be a bitch about it." Somewhere, a muted part his brain is considering Tigger’s statement, but it’s not enough to sweeten his bitter thoughts. It’s not pride getting in the way; Harry’s not a prideful person, or at least not in the ways that would blind him from admitting any wrongdoings. His mind is just too fuzzy to reason from both exhaustion and the booze he’s been continuously sipping on this evening. The mockery seems to be the last straw for Dazzler, however, and for once the wrinkles on the usually chirpy lad’s forehead are not caused by laughter.

"Jesus Harry! I love you mate, you know that. But stop acting like a prick, it doesn’t suit you." Green eyes immediately widen at the admonition, and before he can even think of defending himself, he’s being told off some more. "And before you say anything, no I’m not on her side. I just want to help you. Both of you. And believe me, she’s been given the same speech a handful of times, but I’ll be damned if one of you listened for once."

"Daz, you’re getting carried away." Tigger says, once again acting as his partner’s counterbalancing act. He also doesn’t want to end the night with a fall-out. Losing another friend is the last thing Harry needs.

"Damn right I am." Dazzler quips back, his index finger pressing on the table. "I’m tired of your childish antics. Fuck! Since when am I the most grown up of the bunch?" He asks in disbelief, not able to resist throwing humor in an otherwise tense conversation. "I’m your friend Harry, and sometimes friends are here to kick your butt when you’re acting like one." He gets up from his seat before opening his arms wide in a taunting gesture. "So watch me Styles. This is me kicking your goddamn butt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’re out of pistachios." And just like that, he’s off on his new quest for a fresh bowl of snacks. They all know it was more so a way of withdrawing from the conversation before it got too heated. And perhaps to prevent Harry from having a chance at a comeback, but he wouldn’t admit that anyway…

"He’s right you know." Tigger softly breaks the silence that had filled the space. "You two need to sort your shit out because we’ve still got 3 weeks left and I know for a fact you’re not a quitter. Besides, TopGun is not the kind of program you can just give up on. You can still make it, Harry."

He can’t quite figure out if his hopefulness has reached the moping man on his left, especially when all he gets in a response is one more bourbon sent down the drain, followed by a "fuck, need anothe’."

DAY 15

Leonie Forbs was born to teach a group of overzealous navy pilots about the riveting matter of astrophysics; or so is Aella convinced. She is poised, calmer than the sea before the storm, yet when a bunch of bullheaded students does storm in her class, her collected and no-taking-shit nature still prevails. Quite the paradox for such a frail looking woman, but she’s made it clear since their first session that her place at TopGun was not to be questioned and that she could not only handle herself but also the 16 adrenaline-driven aerialists sitting in front of her. Aella admires that a lot; she can only dream of receiving the same kind of respect around base these days.

Even more baffling to her, is how Leonie still inspires kindness and confidence within her students. Mastering the rules of the universe in no cakewalk, but with every explanation and encouraging word she provides, Dr Forbs has managed to make it that little bit easier on them. Come to think of it, she somewhat reminds Aella of Berks and his fatherly yet firm lead. The way they both seem hellbent on making her feel welcomed without giving her any free pass either, is enough of a sliver of hope to outweigh all the anguish Rex’s clique has been giving her since she joined the program.

She doesn’t know if it can counterbalance her own partner’s though.

"Last point we need to discuss before your test today comes from the Pentagon itself," Leonie declares as she leans back against her desk, arms casually crossed around her middle. "Intelligence services have discerned a flaw in the Russians’ new MIG 22 flight tanks system. Their negative G push overs are out, so they operate zero to one G only." She scans the room, watching as they all process the new information.

"What happens if they don’t?" One of the students Mason Homes - or Ace, as commonly called around base - bluntly asks.

A pregnant pause ensues before Aella promptly answers her fellow comrade in a bored tone. "They risk flaming out."

"That is correct." Leonie interjects with a quick glance toward her star pupil, before turning her face back to Ace. "Even below one G, the internal fuel tanks are placed too far off ahead the plane’s center of gravity to keep it stable." The explanation immediately falls out of her lips, concise and simple to comprehend, before her attention extends to the whole class. "Now that this precious intel has been handed to us, we need to exploit it. So what’s your take on it?"

Harry is the first one to speak up as everybody seems to mull over the enigma formulated by their professor. His voice is poised, the answer definite and confident. "Concentrate on low altitude, push boosters to +3.5Gs and negative Gs alternatively."

"Very good." Dr Forbs praises in a smile, uncrossing her arms for her hands to hold onto the desk behind her. "Much like their predecessor, MIG 22 have excellent fast-climbing interceptors, so keeping it low will put their tanks at high pressure. Their endurance is very limited, so you would also be right to keep them on their toes and make them really work for it. Chances are they won’t be able to pace up or they’ll run out of fuel."

"What about using after-burning turbojets in inverted thrusts?" Aella challenges. While she doesn’t deny Harry’s tactic would prove adequate, she thought of a different way around the puzzle. Once again, the conventional route didn’t cut it in her opinion. It was too predictable, something she makes sure to always stay clear of.

"I guess it could work on paper, but your range and scope would be infinitesimal." Leonie responds truthfully after giving the proposition a thought. In the past couple weeks she has come to understand and appreciate Aella’s unorthodox thinking. She knows it comes from a knowledgeable place as opposed to one of attention-seeking. Aella doesn’t defy the MOs of traditional naval aviation to drop jaws or get a round of applause. She’s simply driven by her own curiosity and in all straightforwardness, it’s just the way her brain operates. Conjures up the unexpected first like some kind of survival instinct, but in her book, predictability is the first step towards failure. And in her profession, failure usually means death.

"Not if you push the compression to 50%, then their scope is smaller than yours, and that’s enough to put you on their six." Once again, Aella made the laws of science her greatest ally. The plan may be venturesome but her calculations make it also airtight.

"Very avant-garde of you, Lieutenant Lonethorne, I shouldn’t be surprised." The professor admits with a knowing smile and glowing eyes. "If well-executed then yes, the maneuver would prove successful. However, Lieutenant Styles’ approach is just as valid and much less risky." She adds for good measure. Even though she values Aella’s mind dexterity, her purpose is not to bring this groundbreaking side out of her students. Harry’s answer is the one she had expected all things considered.

"But more time-consuming." Aella retorts to drive her point home. She doesn’t think outside the box for the hell of it. There’s always a reason, a worthy advantage that her partner always seems to overpass because of the riskiness of it all.

"I won’t deny that. Both tactics are absolutely potent in their own way; what matters is the situation in which they come to play. And that’s your job to determine." Dr Forbs reminds her fervent student that being a navy pilot can be a long list of pros and cons at times. What maneuver will result in what outcome and for what gamble. Knowing all the possibilities at any given moment is a great skill to have, one that Aella seems to have down to a T. But the real excellence of a pilot shows in the way they can make the right choice out of those possibilities.

"Alright, I’m gonna pass these exam sheets around. Once you’ve been handed yours, you have two hours to complete them. Please don’t forget to provide explanations to your calculations, this is not a math test." Leonie explains with a pointed look before sharing an encouraging smile. "Good luck to you all."

The next two hours are then filled with the sound of pencils scratching paper and frustrated sighs that only increase in volume as the clock ticks closer to the impending time allotment. As there is only two remaining questions waiting to be completed on his exam paper, Harry breathes deeply and takes a look around the room. Most of his fellow classmates are immersed in deep reflection, various level of frowns hardening their face depending on their advancement on the test. His green eyes then settle upon his co-pilot. She’s scribbling furiously on her paper as though her fingers are straining to put her racing thoughts to ink. Whirlwind on paper, is what he thinks.

His musings are further strayed away from applied physics as Harry recalls his conversation with Dazzler and Tigger the night prior. He certainly did a lot of thinking since then, but his mind is still fuzzy when it comes to Aella. He’s been juggling with the thought of giving her a chance, talking things out as Tigger suggested, but for some reason the idea has him terrified. Certainly a repeat of history would crush him for good, but at the same time he knows he’ll never be the pilot he longs to be again if he keeps being the person he is with Aella. They decidedly need to find a way to be at their best together, because this bringing-out-the-worst-of-the-other business is not doing them any favor.

Harry is about to refocus on the problem at hand when Aella suddenly stands up, all 6 papers of her exam gathered in her hands in a neat pile. She cooly makes her way to Dr Forbs as quietly as she can, as to not disturbed her class, before handing her work to the teacher. Their exchange remains silent but Harry doesn’t miss Leonie’s small head gesture and yet another smile she addresses his partner. It’s not the first time he’s noticed one of his superiors showing that kind of recognition for her work. Time is running against him though, so he shoves the note in a far corner of his mind and goes back to the task at hand. Partner differences is a can of worms that will have to wait to be opened.

The ocean has almost entirely enveloped the setting sun as Harry wanders along San Diego’s Crystal pier. Few people decided to roam the promenade, probably too busy on this brisk and not to mention, week night. Harry is just glad the urge to come here wasn’t sprung on him on a Saturday evening. The experience would have included much more elbowing and people dodging than tolerated for reflective purposes. But as his feet tread the wooden structure, gaze glowing over the breath-taking view, his mind feels clearer than it has been in weeks.

He’s let it go too far. The angst, the animosity, this bottomless gap edged between Aella and him, as well as between his truthful self and the bad-tempered doppelgänger that seems to have replaced him. He’s become almost desensitized to it, too riddled with grief to really care, but the way Dazzler put him in his place the night before served as a good wake-up call. This petulant and dismissive person isn’t him, or as his friend no-so-gently worded it, he is better than that.

He can’t ignore the pit forming in his stomach though. Can’t blindly hand over his trust, forget about his doubts, and relinquish the reins to the woman that put said doubts in his mind in the first place. And that leaves him one only option really: talk to her about it. But while Harry’s never been one to shy from divulging his feelings, usually the person at the receiving end of his disclosures is already part of his trusted cycle.

Just as a runner passes him on the side, he lets out a long sigh at the prospect of such a heavy conversation. How is one meant to deliver the most vulnerable parcels of their character on a silver platter to the person they are the most scared of? Harry can’t help to see it as yet another test the universe is kindly throwing his way. The only thing stopping him for cowering away is the fact that she might have to shared equally vulnerable parts of her in the process. Perhaps it’s the only way they may align to finally be a working team: weaknesses and susceptibilities all out in the open.

The end of the pier is slowly coming to view, a couple of benches providing the perfect front row seat to the Pacific’s show. The sun has now completely gone MIA, faint lanterns scattered along the path dispersing small beacons of light that pale in comparison to their predecessor, but it’s enough for Harry to notice a silhouette standing ahead. Based on their movements, they seem to be caught up in a yoga or stretching session, one foot placed upon the wood railing as their upper body folds over the extended limb. Harry distractingly takes note of their suppleness but as he finally reaches the end of the dock and the mysterious athlete stands back up, he quickly realizes the soul he’s sharing the pier with tonight, is not so mysterious.

The uniform has been traded for a light hoodie, combat boots for a pair of neon trainers and long legs usually hidden under protective layers are now bare to any curious eyes as the only piece of cloth ‘covering' them up is a pair of light running shorts. Harry comes to a sudden halt as he realizes the very reason of his torments and spontaneous walk is now standing a few feet away from him. He finds himself at a bit of a crossroad: he can either stay and get on with what feels more and more like the only option he has, or turn around and delay the inevitable for one extra night. The choice is stripped from him anyway when Aella turns around as though guided by a sixth sense and her eyes cross his in confusion.

"What are you doing here?" She can’t help but ask.

Harry is at lost as to what to say, he didn’t expect to confront her so soon after deciding confrontation was their only saving grace. All he can do, is look at her questioning eyes that for once, are void of any hurt or resentment. He’d like to keep it that way if possible, no matter how unlikely it might be.

"Just walkin’, enjoyin’ the sights I guess," it almost comes out as a question.

"Oh. Well, I was just gonna go so…bye" She has trouble meeting his eyes as she nervously readjust her running attire and prepares for a quick escape.

"Wait!" She’s interrupted by Harry’s voice and her whole attention is brought to his tall figure awkwardly standing in front of her, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. She raises a brow when he takes too much time elaborating on his request for her presence. "I just…thought we could…talk, you know? Like, we kinda need it, don’t we?" His stance is not the only thing manifesting awkwardly it seems.

"Um, right now?" Aella suspiciously inquires, her eyes swiftly bouncing to the sea on her right and back to Harry.

"’S good time as any, innit?" Is all Harry says in response.

Aella seems to gauge him for a second as if becoming aware of the meaning of this upcoming conversation. She knows it might be a tipping point in their partnership; if they want to make it work, that is. And the moment took her by surprise sure, but will there ever be a right time? There usually isn’t, after all. "Right then" she agrees with a quick tilt of her head towards the benches as an invitation to sit. For a minute or so they remain silent while they try to figure out a way to start the conversation.

"I’m not the sexist prick you think I am." Harry eventually says, looking at his hand on his lap.

"Right." She answers not convinced. He certainly didn’t go out of his way to make her think otherwise.

"I’m not, I swear." He briefly looks at her before settling back on the lathes paving the pier. "I know I haven’t given you much reasons to think so, but I don’t have anything against you as a woman."

"Ah my bad. You just think I’m a worthless co-pilot then." Aella spits out as she stands up, ready to run back to the safe space of her home. This was a terrible idea…

"You remind me of him." The words immediately bring her to a halt, half because she’s intrigued by their meaning, and half because of Harry’s searing pain obviously laced through their utterance. She turns around and looks at his hunched body, elbows now resting on his knees, glossy eyes still fixed on the ground. "You remind me of them both."

Aella swallows the lump in her throat before hesitantly asking "and who would they be?"

At that, Harry looks up and painfully answers,"my dad and Fox."

Taking her time with the new information Aella takes a deep breath, drawing strength from the two blue immensities surrounding her. Slowly, she goes back to her seat next to Harry, though she leaves a decent space between the two of them. "How come?" She encourages.

"Fox was my partner before you came into the picture. But he was also my best friend." He starts explaining without losing an inch of his composure much to his surprise.

"I know about Jonathan." Aella softly answers and Harry momentarily looks sideways at her from his bent position.

"You know of him, but you don’t know what kind of person he was." He argues with a shake of his head, short curls fluttering on top. "Fox was passionate. He was the strongest force to be reckoned with and he was fearless. And he was my best friend, but one day he took it too far and we got into an accident." Pause. "I survived, he didn’t." It surely is a condensed version of the whole story but that’s all she needs to know at the moment.

Aella is slightly taken aback by the confession. She knows lieutenant Evans lost his life as a pilot, but she didn’t think Harry had been part of the equation, picking himself up as he watched his best friend stay down. She can’t really fathom the trauma that comes with such an incident, having flown in tandem for a very short period of time and with someone she isn’t particularly sympathetic with. Until tonight maybe.

"Harry, I’m sorry about what happened…but I’m not him." She tries to reason.

"I know, I know." He is quick to acknowledge, taking his face in his hands before brushing them through is hair. "But the way you fly, or want me to fly is just…" He struggles to find the right words. "Look, I let him take all the risks when we were partners and he died for it. I’m not about to let that happen again. To you, me or anyone that sits in the same airplane I do," is what he settles for.

Aella doesn’t know what to say. Her brain is the one running now, faster than she ever has, as it pieces together the puzzle that is Harry Styles. She doesn’t necessarily approve of his conduct but she understands it better now. Understands the moody attitude and the resentment at her expend. Most of all, she is relieved that his supposed hatred for her has nothing to do with her gender nor her person and everything to do with his troubled past. It makes it somehow easier to stomach though she’s not about to mold herself up to his safety-appreciative standards.

"What about your dad?" She asks instead, redirecting the subject at hand. Once again, the inquiry has Harry looking back at her. Except this time, he unfolds his torso to let it lean against the backrest of the bench, crossing his arms instead. Aella tries to overlook the way his biceps seem to pop out underneath the sun kissed flesh. She’s positively compelled away when he lets out a long sigh and dives back into the night’s confidences.

"I actually don’t know much about my dad," he starts with a humorless chuckle. "He was a Navy pilot too, gone most of the time, but he was a hero at home. He died a hero too. Left for a mission one day and never came back. I was 12." He pauses, needing a break and when he turns back to assess the weight of his words on her face, he’s only met with compassion and her undivided attention. "And all I’ve ever from anyone the wiser, is that he went into an ambush, knowingly, because he thought he could save a comrade. See the pattern?" He asks bitterly before he can help himself, but Aella knows it’s not really aimed at her.

"I get it Harry. You’ve been through some trauma, and I’m just a breathing reminder of it. But I know what I’m doing." She says its conviction as her eyes cling onto his emerald versions. "I would never suggest something that would put you in danger; not matter how much I want to kill you most of the time." That earns them both a chuckle, and the weight on Aella’s heart is alleviated some, upon the realization that this is it, this is their turning point. The moment that can break or make their duo, seal their fate and pave their path. And by the sound of it, the future looks promising finally. "I know it looks like I’m crossing the line at times, but I spent the last 10 years of my life up to my neck in books. I never got to do the fun stuff during Navy School. The parties, the raves, the bonding… I was just the girl deluding herself into thinking she could make it, stealing a perfect spot from a more adequate man to take. And since it was just me, I studied all I could, and then when I run out of books to read I studied some more anyway." It’s now her turn to gaze at the ground while Harry listens carefully. "My choices up there, they’re not a way for me to prove myself. They’re just the possibilities I got from all the things I’ve missed out on since I enlisted because of who I am. And that’s fine. I’ve always been fine with that. But now, I have a partner and I can’t do my job properly if he doesn’t accept the possibilities he doesn’t see yet."

They both look at each other then, letting the words resonated into the night, in tune with the sounds of the crashing waves. The cards have changed, weakest ones at last laid out on the table whilst they still hold onto their kings and aces. But their fate is yet to be determined. Letting go of their blatantly mutual distaste might bring them one step closer to being a unit but they’re still ways from flying as one.

Rome wasn’t built in a day though, and Aella still has half a run to complete. She figures it’s best not to push whatever progress they made that night, so she calmly stands up, about to resume her training when Harry softly calls out to her.

"See you tomorrow partner." It’s faint and simple, but Aella understand every ounce of its meaning.

It’s a peace offering, an olive branch shyly extended from the tip of his fingers; a vow to try and figure this all thing out not as co-pilots but as equals. And that’s all the promises Aella needs to mutter back a ‘goodnight Harry’ and run back to her place in record-breaking time with a smile etched upon her face.

Tomorrows have finally regained their wonder.

#harry styles writing #harry styles fic #harry styles series #enemies to lovers #pilot!harry #Whirlwind #part4 #ofc #Khamseen #creative writing #harry writing #TopGun!Harry

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ardentmuse · 5 years

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Hello love!!!! I'm so excited for this celebration and all the fics top come out of it. Could I get 16 and 48 with my love, Eggsy? I feel like his hugs would feel really safe and comforting,,,not like I've thought about it when ive had a bad day or anything. Definitely not... okay I definitely have. A lot. I just love him a lot. ANYWAYS Congratulations and I hope you and the family are all doing well ❤❤❤

Gawain and the Galahads

Kingsman - Eggsy x Hart!Reader

16. Ugh, of course your hugs are amazing.48. I’m going to hug you because I love you. And because you feel just as alone as I do.

Wordcount: 1.6k

Warnings: talk of death, talk of depression and grief

Masterlist

A/N: He’s got the perfect build to give good hugs too. Something about the arms to shoulders proportions. You’d just be engulfed and have just the right amount of space to make his shoulder a pillow. I like this image. ☺ Also hi! We’re doing great and I hope you are, too! I am making my own gifs for these so they all fit with the stories. I hope you enjoy them!

Fourteen months had passed since you watched the image from your father’s glasses turn black. Fourteen months since the silence filled the room, the air between you and Merlin so thick with unspoken anguish that it practically pushed you out the door. You didn’t have a conscious thought the entire time you wandered the streets of London, when you snapped your glasses into as many pieces as you fingers could manage and tossed them in the Thames, the length of your journey across the ocean to the United States, the two months you spent painstakingly tracking down every lead on the ground in Kentucky, or the year you spent wandering the vastness of the American west trying to piece together the parts of yourself that died along with Harry Hart.

No, you hadn’t really had a conscious thought in all that time until this moment; here, in a bar in Santa Fe in the early afternoon, with Eggsy – the only man you ventured you ever loved more than your father – standing before you in the suit and tie of a true Kingsman, the cloud of your brain lifted for the first time and somehow the only thing you realized you’d been missing out on was pain.

“Nice suit,” you said over your drink, not bearing to look into those soft eyes, ones that might call you out on how you simply ran away – a coward in a world full of heroes.

“And nice glasses,” you added with a swirl of your straw. “Hey, Merlin.”

The bar was mostly empty, but Eggsy’s eyes still shifted around carefully in concern at your casual tone. You remembered when your gaze was trained for such things. But that you seemed so far away.

“Do you know how long I’ve been searchin’ for ya?”

“Given Kingsman resources, I’d say… um, three hours?” you asked as you lifted an eyebrow in teasing question. His nose flaired at you, like he didn’t expect your snark to still be so directed at him after all your time apart. But he liked it. The smile he was clearly trying to hide was his dead giveaway.

“What? Three and a half?”

Eggsy spit out a laugh. He paused. But now with the floodgates open, he laughed full and earnest, moving himself to lean on the bar beside you.

“About three days,” Eggsy confirmed. “Though I searched for weeks on my own before Merlin made me stop. He said you’d had left a trace if you had wanted me to find you. That I should respect your wishes.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. You didn’t know if it was true, but it felt nice to think someone, especially Eggsy, cared enough to look.

You took a big swig of your drink to try to shove down the butterflies threatening to rise at the thought of Eggsy’s care and now his close proximity.

“So what happened three days ago?” you asked, realizing there had to be a reason Eggsy was here, disrupting your grieving. “Did Arthur lose his favorite umbrella? Or perhaps Roxy couldn’t –“

“We found your dad.”

Eggsy’s hand upon your arm had paused your rambling. His eyes locked on yours in a way that was so serious, so sincere, that you realized he had been hurting just the same as you. He knew your defenses. The weeks he had spent training beside you, and the whirlwind romance that had come along with it, were enough for him to realize you were two peas in a pod. He hid his emotions behind charm, flirtation, and occasionally anger and you behind snark, levity, and just a hint of pragmatism. But this Eggsy, this Eggsy was seeing you, seeing the raw, unrepaired part of your soul and matching it with his own – no sweet pet names, no winks, no grazes of his hand down your side. This was Eggsy, a person – vulnerable, real and scared – begging you to show yourself.

You felt the tears prickling at your eyes but swallowed them away.

“If this is a weird way of requesting my attendance at a funeral, I don’t think—“

“He’s alive,” Eggsy said as he moved his hand up to your wrist, holding you in place. “Harry’s alive, Gawain, and—“

“Don’t call me that!” you practically screamed, ripping your arm from his grip and almost falling off the barstool. You were standing now, backing away from the man in front of you with careful pacing. All the sadness that had been building in you caught fire, rage consuming you internally, burning at your throat. “How dare you come here and tell me lies, Eggsy! What sort of sick trick is this?”

Eggsy was charging you before you could put up your defenses. A year out of the field meant Eggsy could overpower you instantly. You expected to be tackled, maybe a tranquilizer dart pushed into your neck – after all, Eggsy was clearly the enemy now – but that wasn’t what happened.

He flicked his glasses off his face, moved swiftly around your shoulder and, from behind, slid them down your forehead and upon your nose. The familiar weight upon your ears felt nice somehow and the graining pixels across your vision comforting.

You had expected stats on the side, some notes from Merlin or a couple of Eggsy’s vitals but the thing that took up your entire vision was a live feed of some sort, a simple room with a cot for a bed and a sink along the edge, like a cage more than a suite. But upon the bed, with a sketchpad on his lap like you remembered for when you were a kid, sat your dad, his brown hair a muss and his left eye donning an eye patch.

But it was dad. It was most certainly dad.

No words left your mouth. Tears just began rolling down your face at the sight of him moving, safe, existing somewhere in the world. You weren’t a lone Hart in the world any longer.

You felt Eggsy’s hands come around your shoulders and you ripped yourself away. These emotions, they were all too much at once, and Eggsy was simply overwhelming. You only then, as Eggsy slowly blocked the view, realized that the few other patrons were staring.

“I’m going to hug you, Y/N,” Eggsy said slowly, his hands up like approaching an animal. “I’m going to hug you because I love you. And because you feel just as alone as I do.”

And when you didn’t protest, Eggsy’s arms scooped you up against his chest, curling his strong forearms around your shoulders and pulling your head flush against the crock of his neck. The hug was tight and warm, soft and strong all at once, and in that moment you realized it had been fourteen months since another human had truly touched you.

“But we aren’t alone, love. We have each other. We always have. And now we have Harry. And, sweetheart, he needs you. More than you know.”

Eggsy’s hands ran the length of your back, soft circles into your spine and soon you were melting against you, your tears coming out in earnest now that you finally felt safe. You almost didn’t want to close your eyes and lose the sight of your father but you had to. You had to let yourself into this moment, to reconnect with Eggsy, a man who loved you still despite your fleeing, a man whose touch was home when you had only known wandering.

As you sniffled a little against the soft cotton of his jacket, you felt your spirit returning to your limbs. You were shedding the zombie that was your flesh all this long year, all thanks to Eggsy’s perfect embrace.

“Ugh, of course your hugs are amazing,” you whispered into his neck, not willing yourself to let go.

Eggsy just laughed against your scalp.

“And there’s my Gawain back,” he said with a quick kiss to the skin already pressed against his lips.

His words hit your brain weird. You were once Gawain but were you still? Could you simply put back on the clothes and simply be that person once again? You were rusty but you were you, and you had Eggsy to guide you every step of the way.

With renewed resolve, you pulled yourself away from his shoulder. You straightened your spine and you shoulders, trying the ‘gentleman’ in you out once more. You were stiff but in some ways it felt like riding a bicycle, all coming back just by committing to get on.

“Whatever Galahad needs, I’ll do it.”

Something like tears shined in Eggsy’s eyes and you couldn’t tell if it was pride or joy. He grabbed your hand, interlocking your fingers in a gesture that felt right, even after so long apart.

“That Galahad,” Eggsy said with a nod to his glasses still on your face, “and this Galahad,” he added as he stepped closer to you, toe to toe, and began to run the backs of his fingers, down the side of your cheek, “both need you.”

All tags: @fangirlandnerd, @aerdnandreaa, @thisisbullshytt, @cancerousjojian, @whovianayesha, @themarauderstheoutsidersandpeggy, @luna-xxxxx, @sleepylunarwolf, @starryrevelations, @potter-thinking, @all-by-myself98, @bananafosters-and-books, @cutie-bug

Kingsman tags: @allonsymexgirl, @eiensteiner, @thecaptainsgingersnap, @madamcadaver. @doct0rstrange, @ratwrites

#ardentmuse almost 2k celebration #kingsman imagine #eggsy x reader #eggsy unwin x reader #eggsy imagine #eggsy unwin imagine #kingsman #kingsman x reader #eggsy #eggsy unwin #reader insert #x reader #cucumberinmyass #lia talks

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third-rail-vip · 4 years

Note

*Bursts into your inbox* Happy Fic Writer Friday!! Would you be willing to share a bit about how you came up with Ivy as a character? AND (because I'm greedy), maybe tell us about a scene or wip you're most excited about writing/sharing? 🙂

Happy fic writer Friday to you too!! Come in, make yourself comfortable. I’ll put the kettle on 💜 I’m on my phone, so organisation out the window, I might go a bit off piste rambly

I am always happy to talk about Ivy! For anyone who doesn’t know, Ives is my sole survivor and I��m writing about her and her relationship with MacCready in Then I Met You, which I’m doing as a series of one shots.

She is my first and only fallout oc, so she started developing as I played the game. I had no preformed ideas before I set out with her, but coming out the other side of the character creator it was like oh look, I baked a cinnamon roll! Ivy came out looking like a sweetheart and that was my jumping off point. I guess tied into that, hope is a big motivator behind pretty much all Ivy’s altruistic actions (yes she does selfish things and shady things too, but she’s an overall chaotic good girl). I must say hope is something I would definitely benefit from more of some days, so there’s something comforting in creating a glass half-full mindset character, despite the trauma I’ve put her through she’s been through who still sees hope and potential for better in the world around her. She’s kind of grown from there - gentle but determined. Honestly she evolving every time I write about her and every time someone asks a question that sparks inspiration for a new aspect of her.

Me juggling the 3 fics I need to finish and the notes for future wips and scenes popping up in my head:

As you know, yesterday I had a breakthrough in plotting scheming something that I had been battling in my head to get right for months (thank you @asaara-writes for being an absolute gem and helping me talk through it). Now brain floodgates have been opened and notes are pouring out for ready for Mac and Ivy finally getting together - we’re still a few one shots always, but shifting that block has finally let me start forward planning! The first thing my brain handed me was that first kiss. I’d been unable to decide when/the circumstances for months, but now I’m sure. I am equally excited to write and share it and dreading getting it right.

#fic writer friday #i’ve probably done a really bad job of answering this #ivy kendrick #then i met you #answered #adventuresofmeghatron

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thran-duils · 4 years

Text

Devils Look Like Angels (Ch. 4)

Title: Devils Look Like Angels (Chapter 4) Summary: Fem!Reader x Psychotic!Castiel. An unhinged, criminal, supernatural artifact collector extraordinaire… and the reader caught his eye. It will not take her long to realize that beneath the charm and mystique is a crazed killer who will go to great lengths to woo her. Words: 2,139 Warnings (for the fic in entirety): Stalking, angst, death/murder, violence

Author’s Note: I have reset my tag list. If you want to be added back, please DM or send me an ask!

Chap 3 || Chap 5 || Masterpost || Fanfic masterpost

“What the actual fuck?” Dean demanded, gripping the steering wheel furiously.

The three of you had been quiet after getting the people safely home. You were all trying to process what had happened. As soon as you had gotten back to the car and sat inside without the car on, no one moving, the floodgate opened.

In a fluid motion, he turned, throwing his arm over the back of the seat in order to see Sam in the passenger side and you in the back. Mostly to see you. Sam looked at you as well.

Defensively, you threw your hands up in defeat at their piercing stares. “I don’t know!”

“He sure as hell seems to have taken a liking to you,” Dean retorted.

“What are you accusing me of?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, Y/N.”

Sam cut in, “I think the question is, what is his deal? What does he want?”

“Apparently a fan of Y/N,” Dean responded. “And killing innocent people for entertainment!”

“How did he even know we would come? This is far from Vermont,” Sam asked.

Closing your eyes in frustration, you leaned your head back on the seat with a sigh. Of course it was too good to be true that a normal, well spoken man would have interest in you. Why had you not been more concerned when you met him at the café? There were red lights all over the place, the biggest one being that he happened to be in Lawrence of all the cities he could choose in the country and happened to be at that café at that exact moment.

“What?” Dean asked after a pause. “What are you thinking about?”

Seems you would need to divulge that you had had contact.

Opening your eyes again, you leveled them with a stare. “We are pretty close to home. Only a few hours away.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look, Sam venturing, “And? And how would he know that?”

Adjusting uncomfortably under their scrutinizing gaze, you cleared your throat. “He, uh…” you paused, the words getting stuck in your throat as the guilt crept in. How could you have been so relaxed about that meeting? “I ran into him at the coffee shop on the corner of Crescent and Fifth.”

“What? When?” Sam asked, genuine concern lacing his tone.

You shrugged, “A couple weeks ago at most. It was when I brought home lunch from Sopranos. We just bumped into each other – almost collided, really. He recognized me, apologized for almost running me over, and bought me something to eat.

The words were rolling out of you now.

“We ate, had some small talk, where he told me he was a journey salesman which is why he was in Lawrence –”

“And you believed that?” Dean interjected. “Y/N… Jesus. He followed you from freaking Vermont back to Kansas!”

“I’m quite aware. It is painfully obvious now. But he admitted to me that he procures and sells supernatural artifacts. Which is why he hadn’t been as surprised about the banshee as a normal person should or would be. And he is not looking for something in Lawrence. My first thought when he mentioned artifacts was the bunker; if he was trying to use us to find it. But he didn’t seem to know. He was talking about Topeka, Ottawa… and somewhere else.”

“Anyway, Lawrence is central to all three of the places. And when eh explained it like that, it made enough sense. Then, Sam called shortly after. I excused myself, we exchanged numbers –”

“He has your phone number?” Sam interrupted.

You admitted, blushing, “Yes.”

“Jesus,” Dean swore again.

“Well, at that moment, I didn’t know he was off his rocker!”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Dean quipped.

“Alright,” Sam cut in or tried to because Dean pressed on.

“No, not alright. You know what?” He reached his arm toward you. “Give me your phone if you have his number.” You shook your head immediately and he rose his brows. “You don’t have his number?”

“I do.”

“Then why can’t I call it?”

“Do we really want to be antagonizing this guy, Dean?” Sam asked, staring Dean down. Dean tried to argue but Sam held his ground. “It’s not smart. Now, if he doesn’t seem to know about the bunker – and even if he did, he can’t get in – that seems to be all the more reason to not reach out to him. If you do, that could give him the wrong idea.”

“The asshole already has the wrong idea!”

“How do we not now he won’t follow us home?” you asked. “I mean, it’s dark. We won’t be able to identify what a car looks like behind us if one starts trailing us.”

Dean exhaled annoyed at the thought of that.

Sam suggested, “Let’s get a hotel then. Not towards Lawrence, let’s go further out. And we can take turns keeping watch. If Dean drives, I’ll sleep until we get there and then he can rest while I stay up. And then Y/N can get up to relieve me.”

Shaking his head, Dean muttered, “I don’t like this.”

“We don’t really have a choice given our situation.”

Silence filled the space, Sam’s words sinking in. What he suggested was smart and would ensure the group of you would feel more safe than potentially leading Castiel back to the bunker.

Suddenly Dean turned back around to face the steering wheel and threw the key in the ignition. “Fine. But anymore contact and I’m calling the bastard. Antagonistic or not.”

<> <> <>

Groggy, it was almost impossible to open your eyes. The room was a blur; bright but blurry. You did not believe you were at home, it did not feel like home. Your eyelids were so heavy, your body felt like cement. Why were you so tired?

There were voices, hovering around you. You could not make out the majority of what was being said, only catching words like ‘blood’, ‘damage’.

Darkness crept in again, flooding from the outside in. You did not hear anything anymore.

<> <> <>

When you came to next, your vision was still unfocused. Your body felt heavy still, weighted down by…

You focused on the IV drip as it came into focus, hooked up into your right arm. Weighted down by medicine.

A voice drew your attention to your left. Mustering much more effort than it should require, you turned your head to the source.

Through your haze of sleep and medication, you still startled at seeing Castiel sitting there by your bed. He was staring at you with concern, leaning forward towards you, his large hand resting on yours.

You tried to jerk away from him but your moment was sluggish, although you were becoming alert much more quickly at this turn of events. Where were you? Why was he here? Where were Sam and Dean?

This had to be a dream. Why else would he be here? Next to your bed? But this was not your bed. Where were you? You thought again frantically. It looked like a hospital room. You racked your brain, trying to remember.

“Y/N,” Castiel tried again, drawing you from your frightened thoughts. “How are you feeling? It looks like the doctors got you stitched up alright and have your pain controlled.”

Stitched?

It came back.

You were in West Virginia or at least you had been. The Wendigo. It had gotten you cornered and slashed your thigh. You did not remember much after that besides Sam and Dean carrying you to the Impala.

“Y/N?”

“What… what are you doing here?”

“I do not know if that –”

“What,” you repeated with more force, trying to scoot away. “Are you doing here?”

You quickly took note that the door was closed. You had to have a call button to ring for help.

Castiel tsked you, ‘Now, now. Do not go getting yourself worked up. You have been through enough and you need to rest with minimal – preferably no – stress. I am not here to hurt you.”

“I don’t know that!”

“You are just going to have to trust me.”

“How can I? You killed innocent people to lure me in for a ‘game’.”

Holding up a finger, Castiel corrected, “To be fair, I did not kill the people that lured you in. That was my friend.” He paused and added, “I did kill two people as a safety net, yes. I new you were not going to fail and I did not want my friend losing his temper if he was not given the two more hearts as promised. I killed those two people for your safety. I will kill for you. But, then again, I do like killing.”

“You are not helping your case,” you told him coolly.

You had found the call button remote underneath the blanket. Your fingers closed in around it.

Lips tight, Castiel leaned away from you in order to reach your bed side table. He picked up a cup and held it out to you. You saw it was ice chips but refrained from accepting the offer.

Shoulders slumping ever so, Castiel sighed. Lowering his arm, he placed the cup back on the beside table, ‘I suppose I am just going to have to earn your trust.” The call button was not responding, your anxiety beginning to rise. “Y/N, as I have expressed, I am enamored with you. The light in your eyes, your quick wit. You also have a very lovely smile which is an extra bonus in the package for me.”

“I would love for you to join me. I think my experience and yours as well, we would make a formidable team. Now, I understand we do not want to be making any rash decisions. I am open to giving you time to consider, I really would like it to be a sound decision. It is always so much more practical when we come to the table together, both willing.”

“I would be disappointed if you turned me down. But I think if you take the time to really consider it, you will see how magnificent this agreement would be for both of us. Freedom to travel and discover riches and have adventure. Together.”

Leaning forward again, he told you, “So, really, kitten, hurting you is the furthest thing from my mind.”

He went quiet, gauging your reaction.

You had to say something.

“Thank you for considering that time is needed.”

He smiled, pleased at your appreciation. “Of course, of course. I do not want to rush a good thing. You deserve time.”

Looking to the door, he sighed, “Now, I suspect those two brutes you have around will be coming back. That blonde one, Dean, can put food away but even his stomach must have its limits. I should make myself scarce.” Standing from the chair, his hand brushed yours. “I am glad I stopped by to check in on you, kitten. I am relieved you are doing alright.”

He made it halfway to the door before turning back to you. His gaze fell to your concealed hand holding the call remote. “by the way, I would ask them to plug that back in for you. I do apologize but I needed some uninterrupted time with you to share my admiration. Please forgive me. I will be in touch.”

With that, he swung the door open and strolled out.

Your eyes were glued to the doorway, afraid he would return. He swore he did not want to hurt you but… unease still crept. If anything, it sounded like he was developing an unhealthy attraction.

Sam and Dean’s voices reached you before you saw them. You pushed yourself up to a sitting position in anticipation.

As soon as they walked in, they saw the fear in your expression.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asked alarmed.

“Castiel,” you said hoarsely.

“What?” Sam demanded. “Here?”

You nodded and Dean’s face set in stone before he made a beeline for the hall, searching.

“Dean, he’s gone. It’s been a few since he left,” you called after him, leaning forward in the bed. You winced at the tug on your stitches.

He came back into the room and you recalled the last ten minutes, stumbling through what he had said. When you got done, Sam meant to sit in the chairs next to your bed but stopped suddenly. He picked up a small box that was adorned with a lace bow. His jaw set when he read the tab.

“It’s for you.”

You opened it warily. Inside was a diamond bracelet. Balking at it, you held it up and whispered, “Is… is this real? This must be worth a fortune.”

Dean snapped, “Are we all still against calling this asshole and setting things straight?”

~~~

CASTIEL FOREVER TAGS: @willowing-love @perseusandmedusa @greenappleeyes @afanofmanystuffs @earthtokace @shikaros-blog @marisayouass

#castiel fic #castiel x reader #spn fanfic #au spn fanfic #au castiel #psycho!cas #my shit

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aegor-bamfsteel · 4 years

Note

As Daeron, how u would have dealt with Daemon ?

You opened up a floodgate, anon.

The chances to neutralize Daemon (as opposed to other rebels/groups of rebels like Aegor, Fireball, Gormon Peake, Eustace Osgrey, the best knights of the realm, the marcher lords including House Yronwood, believers in Da3ron Falseborn theory, those who supported Daena as Queen, basically everyone else) as a threat to Da3ron’s rule are so numerous they’ve been a source of snark between me and @godihatethisfreakingcat for years now. The amount of missed opportunities Da3ron II had to make a friend/ally out of Daemon for me undermine textual claims of his kindness and intelligence. I’m going to try to prove in a 2000-word meta of counterfactual history that Da3ron never attempted to treat Daemon and Rohanne like part of his family or with the respect they deserved, but like inconvenient cast-offs he wanted out of his sight, but still not in a place where they’d gain any high position.

Starting scenario: The year is 184 AC and I am Da3ron Targaryen. Aegon IV has died, but I, loathing my slowly rotting father, refused to come to the capital until 2 weeks after his death, which meant I could not contest his decree legitimizing his natural children. One of those children is the son of Princess Daena, newly legitimized like the rest, but still a Waters and landless. My father promised the Archon of Tyrosh a dowry for the hand of Rohanne, probably a relative of his. What do I do?

Pay the dowry, but wed Rohanne to one of my sons instead. Breaking a betrothal is serious, but keeping the betrothal and switching the groom (after the other died or was disinherited) isn’t unheard of: Rhaelle Targaryen wed Ormund Baratheon when her brother Duncan was to marry his sister, Catelyn Tully wed Eddard Stark when she was betrothed to his brother Brandon, Sansa Stark married Tyrion Lannister (though Lancel was a possible spouse) after she was betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon. Aegon may have wanted Daemon to wed Rohanne, but if Fire and Blood is any indication, a close female relative of the Archon is a match worthy of the heir to the Iron Throne—Rogar Baratheon wanted Jaehaerys I to wed the Archon’s daughter, and the Archon sent his sister to the 134 Maiden’s Day Ball in hopes of her marrying Aegon III. A landless natural son is far below Rohanne in terms of status, and the dowry the Archon was asking for probably reflected that. Perhaps Baelor was too important to wed to anyone but a Stormlander, but Aerys or even Rhaegel certainly would have been a better match for her on paper than Daemon. We don’t know how old Rohanne was (although I’m certain she was a few years older than Daemon), and Aerys was born between 172-76 and Rhaegel between 173-77, but bride-groom age gaps have certainly been larger, especially in this series. If my sons are already betrothed or this betrothal is too disruptive for my policy, I might be desperate enough to consider betrothing Rohanne to Brynden (Aegor gets no royal match as he’s a traitor’s son. I may be nice!Da3ron, but I’m still Da3ron), who I implausibly trust not to rebel. Super desperate would be trying to broker another betrothal between Shiera (or Mya or Gwenys, if they didn’t die in infancy) and the Archon/his ally, as was sort of floated around when Baela Targaryen might have been betrothed to Tyroshi admiral Racallio Ryndoon. If I can’t or won’t renegotiate the betrothal, I can:

Pay the dowry or part of the dowry in order to keep peace with the Archon, but have the High Septon annul the betrothal: I’m sure Rohanne as a Tyroshi didn’t keep the Seven, so the High Septon would be inclined to protest the marriage anyway. I would still need to pay a bit of that dowry or risk the wrath of Tyrosh, since in real life border wars have started due to dowries from stalled betrothals (Richard the Lionheart raided the county of Vexin though it was the dowry of his betrothed, Alys of France, because his parents refused to let them wed. He never got the Vexin, as Alys married Count William of Ponthieu). However, the Tyroshi-Targaryen alliance was originally thought up for Aegon IV’s future war with Dorne, and giving it up would signify to the Dornish that neither I nor my relatives had any intention of making war on them. So a bit of money (of which I have plenty of, see the “Rohanne and Daemon stay in the Crownlands” section) spent on the Archon’s goodwill seems like a wise investment.

With Daemon unmarried and now with no standing betrothal, the best place for him is the Kingsguard. He’s the youngest knight of the realm and the wielder of Blackfyre, so he’s definitely skilled enough to join. We know he takes his knightly oaths very seriously, and the Kingsguard oath to protect the king is about as serious as it gets (Olyver Bracken and Raymun Mallery betrayed Maegor I by rebelling in favor of Jaehaerys I, but Jaehaerys still sent them to the Wall for violating their oath). Better yet, the Kingsguard is a celibate organization, so Daemon will not be able to pass on his claim or the Targaryen’s ancestral sword to his children.

If appointing Daemon to the Kingsguard doesn’t fit in with my policy, then I might send him to Sunspear, possibly with a betrothal to Roxana Sand (Born 162, so of marrying age with Daemon) who is Maron’s uncle Rhodry’s illegitimate daughter according to the MUSH RPG (which becomes more canon with each supplementary tie-in GRRM publishes). It took two years of negotiations for the Maron/Daenerys match to take place, and having Daemon there possibly betrothed could be used to gauge the popularity of a Targaryen/Martell match on Dornish soil. Prince Rhodry was an infamous separatist who killed King Da3ron I at the peace conference, so wedding his natural daughter to Daemon also helps quiet the ‘Keep Dorne Independent’ movement that is still ongoing, of which the Yronwoods were some of the biggest supporters. Amidst Da3ron’s strongest allies and wed to them by blood, Daemon would doubtlessly be loyal.

If I think Roxana is too old, I use the Daemon/Daenerys relationship and make him her sworn shield, then send him south to prepare for her marriage: Not an especially good idea as he’s still unbetrothed, and it might cause the Martells to raise some eyebrows, but it gives those two a chance to be around each other and be happy (not being so was likely the source of the semi-canon clashes Daemon and Da3ron had), and no doubt Daemon would be a faithful protector. The illegitimate children of nobles have guarded Targaryen royalty before, with Jonquil Darke being Queen Alysanne’s sworn shield. The same idea of the Martells keeping Daemon loyal still applies, although I’d watch out for any Yronwoods asking about his betrothal status.

If the Daemon/Rohanne marriage must go on:

While Daemon is still young and newly-married, I’d send him and his wife on a diplomatic mission to Tyrosh (it worked for getting Aegon IV out of the way) where he can hone his politicking skills away from any rebels, or fight for the Archon in the Disputed Lands. If he makes friends with the Tyroshi and seems to have integrated into their culture as Orryn Baratheon did, he can stay there with his family.

If he expresses vocal discontent after 4-5 years—considering Da3ron in the OTL named Brynden to the Small Council when he was around 20–I’m calling him back to Westeros and giving him some court position depending on how well he performed his duties. If he didn’t do so well, he can take Quentyn Ball’s old job as master-of-arms where I can watch him at all times. If he rose to the occasion (given Daemon’s penchant for making friends I’m sure he would be a fine diplomat), he gets either a position on the Small Council—perhaps Master of Ships as he’s been in the naval power Tyrosh for some years?—he becomes leader of the City Watch—he was raised in an urban environment, his mother had connections with the smallfolk, he’s an amazing fighter and decent leader, if Prince Daemon is any indication it’s a position for somewhat wayward family members—or he substitutes as a Warden if the Stark, Arryn, or Lannister heirs are too young to lead armies (not Tyrell given the Reach’s general support for Daemon in the OTL, although Leo Longthorn was obviously of age so there’s no need for a substitute Warden), which is a prestigious but largely ceremonial position in Da3ron’s time of uneasy peace. If I’m super-desperate to give him something to do that won’t cause much trouble, I’ll revive the position of Warden of the King’s Mint, since I know from OTL that he minted his own gold coinage and so displays some interest. I’m sure that his Aunt Elaena would be delighted to work with him as she’s de-facto Master of Coin.

If for some reason I don’t want Daemon at court but don’t want him in Tyrosh, it’s going to cost me dearly to give him and Rohanne suitable lodgings in the Crownlands: but I must be improbably loaded despite my father’s wastefulness if I’m building Summerhall and completing the Sept of Baelor, so I can pay! None of that “give Daemon and Rohanne a piece of paper saying they can build a Keep in the Crownlands” that we see in canon; Rohanne is a bride worthy of a legitimate Targaryen prince and some lazy document with no funds or castle attached to it is just insulting her family. Either give them an abandoned and renovated Keep (there could be some after the Dance/Da3ron’s War), or construct a new one like with Summerhall. Illegitimate sons of kings in England and France were either Dukes or Earls, so that Keep is going to be a lordly seat (people call Brynden “Lord Rivers”, they can do it for Daemon even if it’s just a ceremonial title).

But at least one Daemon’s children are getting sent to court once they’re old enough, as cupbearers or pages or eventually squires for boys. I’d consider betrothing Calla to Matarys for more permanent loyalty since he’s not expected to inherit and they’re roughly the same age, which would certainly appease Rohanne’s family some.

If I want to keep the Blackfyre family like they are in canon—in the ephemeral keep they built themselves in the Crownlands, with no royal positions or betrothals—and not change any of the other character motivations like Aegor Rivers’ or Quentyn Ball’s (since it’s not stipulated in the question), it’s going to be difficult to prevent a war with Daemon at the helm. We know so little about the circumstances of Daemon’s crowning and arrest on potentially trumped-up charges that it’s hard to tell who started what. But if I had to do anything, it’s:

Stop trusting Bl00draven so much. Start questioning his motivations and methods. How does he know Daemon crowned himself? From whom? Did he torture that person? I seem to know that torture isn’t reliable since I ended the office of Lord Confessor! What does he have to gain from Daemon being arrested? What does Daemon have to gain from being crowned? What do I think will happen to his family if he is arrested successfully (there’s a chance Bl00draven will have them killed and then torture the confessions out of a fall guy)? If I think Bl00draven is a danger to Daemon’s family, doesn’t that give Daemon the “rebel or have my children die” non-choice if I order his arrest? What the hell is going on? I don’t want rumors; I need proof!

For much needed proof, I’d use Princess Elaena’s connection with both of us to find out what’s happening. Daemon would never hurt a lady, especially not close kin. Have her meet him or a nonviolent representative (Rohanne?) and see if he’s crowned himself. Have an escort (all traveling great ladies seem to have them) wait for her in a location a few hours away with orders to sound the alarm if she doesn’t return by the next day. If he hasn’t crowned himself, she’ll report back to Daeron that the rumors were false, and make it look like a friendly family visit. If he was thinking about it, she could talk him off the ledge as his aunt. If he did crown himself, she can report back and have Da3ron call the banners. If he crowned himself and somehow Elaena was prevented from delivering her report (Daemon wouldn’t hurt her since kidnapping a woman is the height of dishonor, but it’s clear some of his supporters had fewer scruples), take that as the act of war and have her escort call the banners. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s better than letting civil war break out on the say-so of the Shadiest Man in History.

But there is one difference between me and Da3ron that makes all of these alternate scenarios impossible in canon: I actually like Daemon Blackfyre. I like his mother, the courageous Princess who gave up her chance to be queen to raise him in her home. I like how hard he worked to be the best knight ever when he was just a young boy. I like how, despite marrying an older foreign woman at age 14, he enjoyed one of the happiest and most fertile marriages in Westerosi history. I like how he gathered a great coalition of men and women who had every reason to hate each other behind him, including the neglected and traumatized Aegor Rivers (I even like his potential friendship with Brynden Rivers). I like how he demanded his opponent get medical attention after dueling him for over an hour. I like how his last act was running into a field of arrows trying to save his oldest son. I like Daemon Blackfyre and his family. I want him and Rohanne to grow old together, to have their sons and daughters mature into strong men and women without the fear of death hanging over their heads, to have a chance at happiness in the home Daemon knew or even where Rohanne lived. Da3ron II had so many opportunities to give Daemon and Rohanne long, peaceful lives...and he wasted them all on incoherent policies, irrational grudges, and hypocritical distrust. For that, he will always have my disappointment.

#ask #asoiaf #asoiaf meta #asoiaf headcanon #anti daeron ii #daemon blackfyre #Rohanne of Tyrosh #daemon x rohanne #angry

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