#than if we had just everything razed to the ground and black and white and dead and dull

[thefirstknife]

What are your thoughts on the critisism that Neomuna, and more specifically cloudstriders, feel "out of place", or the feeling some have that Lightfall has a whole has thematically defied their expecations in a bad way? (insert that comparison of the key art from the BL reveal vs the current key art here.)

Really hard to critique any aspect of it currently before we know more and play it.

A lot of stuff in Destiny can feel really odd and out of place without any context! I remember similar doubt and questions about Lucent Hive for example. For any serious critique, I'll have to see the expansion first, learn more about Neomuna and Cloud Striders and see if their story fits and has something valuable to add to the setting.

So far, I don't think they're out of place. The ECHO ships and surviving human colonies outside of Earth have been seeded almost 3 years ago and I've quite literally accurately predicted how that specific lore is tied to Neomuna. I think it's a pretty cool way to tie in an older open-ended storyline with something new that they need for an expansion.

A story about "survivors of the Collapse" is pretty much a given, as that's something that we've always wondered about in the setting. Could some humans have escaped? Could they have survived? What would've happened if they did and how would've they developed if the Collapse hadn't stopped us? Going there and examining that story can give us valuable information about our past (Golden Age and speculation on what we could've achieved if it continued) and our fall (the Collapse, how it happened, what exactly happened, how to prevent it a second time). On top of that, it's giving us super cool scifi concepts about neo-human civilisations and advanced development through nanotechnology.

And yeah, the original key art was really striking; no colours, grim, very evocative with imagery of a Pyramid eclipsing the Traveler. It was of course simply just a base for the expansion. It was a placeholder. I've seen a lot of people saying that Bungie "robbed" us of something; they did not. They cannot rob us of something that never existed. Concept art is a really long process with millions of ideas being thrown around, especially placeholder concept art.

For what it's worth, from what we know about Lightfall, the base idea for the expansion is still the same. We are very much in deep trouble, especially if we're correct in our predictions that the Traveler is about to run and if the trailer's footage of a massive battle in Earth's orbit is anything to go by. Neomuna itself is under massive siege by a new disciple and the Witness itself. There are new enemies and enemy threats that we haven't seen for a long time acting up again (the Vex).

Is the expansion much more colourful in comparison with a black and white placeholder image? Yeah. But that doesn't remove the danger the system is in. I'm not sure what people expected. Destiny is not a super edgy setting of only doom and gloom. It certainly has a basis of incredibly terrible stuff going on, but it never presents it without a balance. Even in the Red War and Forsaken, things were still colourful and beautiful and had a lot of different vibes packed together.

To me, a massive fleet of Pyramid ships descending on colourful Neomuna is an incredibly powerful image with a really visceral theme of how nobody can successfully escape the Darkness forever. You can buy yourself time, but ultimately it will find you. I think that's a pretty doom and gloom theme. I feel like the only reason people aren't seeing it is because the original was black and white, while the current is colourful.

My only proper concern is that they're introducing a whole new aspect to the setting this late. Introducing it itself is not the issue as much as that we're 2 expansions (including Lightfall) until the end. There's still a lot of stuff to go through and solve and deal with so I'm not sure how wise it is to introduce a whole new set of characters and a setting of this scale. Of course, as with the rest of the question, we can't really fully make a judgement on that before we play.

[obiwanobi]

okay but,, I can't get this idea out of my head of an au where anakin falls early, maybe halfway through the war– but instead of joining sidious or dooku he runs, terrified of himself, and stays somewhere he can't tear the galaxy apart like the darkest part of himself keeps goading him to. and he's there for a handful of months, and he's lonely and scared– until obi-wan comes to find him. and this man who anakin has loved for so long never stopped searching, razed a path through the galaxy (1/2)

I TOLD you all to stop sending me perfect prompts, god, here’s 3k that could be resumed by ‘it’s rotten work’ ‘not to me, not if it’s you’  because I have no self control:

"Anakin."

It's the first time in seven months that Obi-Wan pronounces his name with hope.

The back of the hooded figure visibly tenses in front of him. Obi-Wan can see his hand clenching around his glass, and his head starts turning in his direction but stops before Obi-Wan can see his eyes. Instead, it's in the Force that Anakin looks for him. It's a small, tentative tendril that crosses the space between them, ridiculously shy in comparison to the enthusiastic maelstrom that usually greets him when Obi-Wan extends his mind to Anakin.

But it's him. Too warm and barely controlled, the familiar flame of a burning pyre that Obi-Wan has never learned how to turn his eyes from.

 Headache-inducing and almost unbearable, have been some words used to describe Anakin's presence in the Force.  The most comforting of infernos, Obi-Wan has always thought.

Anakin feels surprised, and something close to joy colours the Force around him for a fleeting moment. Obi-Wan can feel the corners of his mouth turning up as he sighs affectionately.

"De—"

Then it all turns to panic.

He doesn't even have the time to realise that Anakin has retracted his signature behind durasteel shields the second it touched Obi-Wan's, because the man in front of him is already jumping to his feet, pushing the Twi'lek waiter away, and running for the exit of the cantina.

It leaves Obi-Wan stunned, arm still raised toward an empty chair.

Surprisingly, it's not panic that filled him, or even the persistent fear that if he loses Anakin now, after months of roaming the galaxy looking for him, then how long will it take before catching the smallest clue of his location again? No, this time, the worry and dread that has been his faithful companions for so long, now make way for something only Anakin knows how to infuse into him in the most inappropriate of times: exasperation.

"Anakin!" he yells, making the Rodian next to him jump in his seat. 

Rushing outside, his eyes scan the street, trying to find a tall figure in a brown robe at the same time he stretches his senses through the Force to guide him toward his infuriating former padawan. Not used to the brightness of the twin suns and the constant particles of sand and dust floating around, Obi-Wan is almost sure that the glimpse of Anakin's presence he felt for half a second is only due to his inattention and not Obi-Wan's skills. For once, Obi-Wan isn't going to complain about Anakin's lack of focus: he starts running right away.

Anakin goes through three sharp turns, two attempts at climbing a roof and even one force-jump through the window of a shop, but Obi-Wan is determined to follow him wherever he goes. Even if he has to apologise to every irritated person he pushes out of the way.

"This is ridiculous," he says loudly, when he catches the dark brown robe trying to zigzag between stands, "I don't even know why you're running away from me!"

He thinks he can see Anakin throwing him a look, but with the hood over his face and one of the suns starting to set in front of him, can't be certain. It's only when Anakin seems to miss a turn and finds himself a few seconds later out of the streets, at the edge of a cliff overlooking the desert and its endless dunes, that he realises his mistake.

They're out of town now. There's nothing but the background noise of civilisation left behind, a warm wind sweeping the sand between them, and the twin suns bathing Anakin's silhouette in a glowing light.

"An—" Obi-Wan says, trying to get his breath under control. He's not used to such heat, and all the running, Force-jumping and the sweating really didn't help. Still, he takes a step toward him.

"Don't."

Even if it's just a simple word, hearing the sound of his voice soothes a deep ache that has plagued most of Obi-Wan's nights for the past few months.

Anakin is facing the canyon, the dune sea and the suns, a dark form with a double shadow, only showing his back to Obi-Wan. Even if he doesn't show his face, feelings bleed through his shields, as if he's still a padawan trying to get an awkward hold on the Force. There are confusion and anger, most of it directed at himself, Obi-Wan notes, and an all-encompassing veil of shame. Fear is here too, blending the edges of the mess produced by the cacophony of so many emotions clattering against each other. Obi-Wan can feel Anakin realising the flaws in his mental defences, and the spark of mortification before he hastily tries to rein it all in.

For a second, Obi-Wan thinks he's going to jump down the canyon just to avoid the embarrassment of inadvertently broadcasting his emotions.

"I won't stop chasing you now that I've found you," Obi-Wan warns, before the idea comes to Anakin's mind. The jump wouldn't kill him, but Obi-Wan really doesn't feel like tracking him through rocky canyons, tusken traps and krayt dragons. "I won't stop before you tell me why you're running away from me."

Anakin lowers his head without replying, shoulders sagging. Obi-Wan's feet move slowly. His mind reaches once again toward Anakin's, brushing against him in a wordless question. All irritation gone by now, he adds quietly:

"...And why you didn't come home."

Anakin's shields shudder. "You shouldn't have come."

"Anakin, the Separatists had you as their prisoner for almost a month. Rex told me he saw Grievous dragging your body to his ship himself. The Council waited for their terms of release, and when it didn't come, we thought you were dead."

"The Council," he snarls darkly, "they probably were happy to finally get rid of me."

"You know it's not true."

"No, I don't."

"Do you think I was happy, then?" Obi-Wan retorts, trying to stop the need to grab his robe and shake some senses into him. "Do you think Rex and I enjoyed having to plead with the Republic War Council to give us more time to look for you?"

The dark robe in front of him shuffles a bit. "You took the 501st to look for me?"

"Of course we looked for you! We went through every report of Grievous' flagship presence and got every intel we could gather about your possible location. There was no clue in any Separatist outposts we raided," he adds, focusing on his words to stay composed, and not the memory of becoming desperate enough after another fruitless day to check black markets for familiar mechno-arm's parts. "And we were starting to believe that you were truly dead then, until... Until we found an abandoned facility. With a lot of battle droids destroyed, and Grievous and Dooku dead. Force-choked to death."

Anakin stays silent again.

In the horizon, one of the suns has settled low enough to brush against the dune sea. The light has turned to a deep orange around his silhouette.

Obi-Wan takes a step.

"There was a holorecording."

The only answer he gets is the sound of a sharp intake of air, and an intensity in the Force that always saturates the air when Anakin tries, in vain, to calm his mind.

Another step.

"I saw you taking a starfighter. I saw you leaving the facility, free."

Another step.

"Why didn't you come back to the Temple?"

"There was nothing for me there anymore."

The word stops Obi-Wan in his tracks.  Somehow, one sentence is harder to swallow than months of worry. He's always known that he failed to make Anakin feel at home at the Temple, or make him realise that there might not be parents or siblings in names there, but the feeling of kinship remains the same. But to hear him say that the sum of all these years spent there together boils down to nothing to him, still manages to crack Obi-Wan's composure.

The burn in his throat makes his next words difficult to pronounce.

"Why didn't you come back to me, Anakin?"

"BECAUSE I'VE FAILED YOU!" Anakin snaps, throwing his arms up and his shields down, and finally turns toward Obi-Wan in a dramatic movement of his robe.

The hood falls from his head, and even if the sunset at his back prevents Obi-Wan from seeing his expression, hidden in the shadow, he can't miss his golden hair forming an incandescent halo around his face. The Force has erupted in a bonfire within Anakin, crackling around him in warning to anyone who would approach it, white-heat fever and boundless darkness at the same time.

It tastes like ash on Obi-Wan's tongue.

He pulls his own shields a bit tighter around him.

"Why do you keep asking this question when you know what I've done? Why are you even here? Are you here to kill me? Because I failed you, Obi-Wan! I killed them and I felt nothing but satisfaction! I accepted the dark side, I welcomed it even, it burned through me and it's still burning right now, and I'm incapable of controlling anything, not even my own shields, so no, I couldn't come back and pretend I could still be a Jedi. And now you saw it, you saw everything, so I can't even prete— I can't..."

The swirling of emotions comes crashing down around Anakin so violently that Obi-Wan physically flinches, and it looks like the Force is suddenly cutting down the strings holding him upright. He crumples to the ground in a cloud of sand and dust, close, too close to the edge of the cliff.

There's only the sound of Anakin panting for a moment, long enough for Obi-Wan to gather his thoughts, and take another step.

Only he would be foolish enough to want to touch glowing embers.

"It doesn't change my question," he says calmly, like he's always done after one of his padawan's tantrum. "Why didn't you come back to me, Anakin?"

He thinks he can see Anakin opening his mouth to answer, but only a short derisive laugh leaves his lips before he drags his feet in the dust and turns away from him again.

Finally, —finally—, Obi-Wan is close enough. Stopping just a few centimetres from Anakin's back, his hand instinctively reaches for his shoulder but hovers right before touching it. And then settles there and squeezes. It belongs there, he thinks as Anakin makes a small noise at the back of his throat.

He expects Anakin to shrug off his hand, refuse his touch, just like he's refusing to look directly at him.

But he doesn't.

"I couldn't see you," he admits after a pause, eyes closed. "I don't care about the Council, or the Republic, or anyone else, but I couldn't... I couldn't bear the disappointment in your eyes. I didn't want you to leave me, so I left first."

"Oh, Anakin," Obi-Wan sighs, trying to swallow the affection in his voice. He pauses for a second, relishing the feel of Anakin letting him rub his thumb on his shoulder. "I am saddened and upset, yes. When I watched all that anger unleashed and how you succumbed to it, how you crushed Grievous and Dooku so easily that I could almost feel the dark side through the holo, I felt... I felt heartbroken."

The indignation he expected, or any sort of accusations to shift the blame on something or someone else, doesn't come. Instead, Anakin bends his head and pulls his legs closer to him, like he has just been hit.

"I'm sorry Master," he manages to whisper, face hidden behind his arms and hair, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"

"Listen, listen," Obi-Wan begs rapidly, kneeling next to him. His hand moves from his shoulder to the back of his neck, trying to soothe him. "I was heartbroken for you. You were alone, in a terrible situation, being taunted, electrocuted, tortured. It doesn't excuse what you did, but, Anakin, you disappeared for months after that. You ran away without a word, without an explanation, and I couldn't— I couldn't believe you would voluntarily turn your back on us. I couldn't let the thought that you didn't trust us enough to help you go. And then... you called for me."

"No, I didn't." The muffled, petulant tone makes Obi-Wan smiles a bit. His hand moves up along his nape to Anakin's curls, stroking gently, pushing unruly locks behind his ears.

"You did. Unconsciously, probably, but you did. For so long, I couldn't reach you through the Force, but I kept trying every time I meditated, hoping to catch a glimpse of you, anything to make sure you were still alive somewhere. And one day, I heard you. Far, far away, barely loud enough to recognise, but I heard you. Wishing I was with you."

Anakin's hand clenches in a fist at the words. Obi-Wan ignores it, fingers still running through his hair in a rhythmic movement.

"That's why I've spent seven months looking for you, searching the galaxy for you. Because I wished I was with you too."

Obi-Wan didn't expect the wounded noise that escaped Anakin's mouth, and even less that his admission would cause Anakin to throw himself at him in a fierce embrace. Caught off-guard, Obi-Wan topples and falls on his back in a cloud of dust. In the Force, Anakin's shields come crashing down again, but this time, Obi-Wan doesn't draw back from it. Their bond suddenly bursts open, emotions spilling in all directions and showering him with a chaotic jumble of relief-longing-hope, eventually blending together to only leave lovelovelove.

"Anakin," he sighs, with his usual falsely annoyed and secretly fond tone that seems to be the only way he knows how to pronounce his name. Anakin, heavy on top of him now, doesn't respond, too busy nuzzling Obi-Wan neck. "The cliff is right there, we could have died."

"Don't care," he replies, squeezing his arms impossibly tighter around Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan chuckles, and he can feel more than hear him hums in appreciation at the sound, face hidden under his chin.

After months of extending his mind through millions of Force-sensitive beings scattered around the galaxy and still finding it empty, there is nothing more reassuring than being smothered by Anakin's presence in the Force. He tugs on their bond a bit, just to feel it, and when Anakin instantly tugs back, Obi-Wan's hand on his waist pulls him closer.

"Would you look at me, Anakin? Just for a second. I have yet to really see you."

There is a short pause and then a long breath against his neck before Anakin puts one elbow on the ground next to Obi-Wan's face, raises his head, and finally, truly looks at Obi-Wan.

"Hello, there," Obi-Wan whispers, as familiar blue eyes blink at him.

Embarrassment tinges the Force and his cheeks pink, and Anakin seems to promptly remember that his shields are non-existent right now and that he's lying flat on Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan watches, amused, as he awkwardly starts to untangle his legs from him and shifts his weight to get to his knees.

"Now, shall we—"

"Watch the sunset with me," Anakin blurts out, then realises what he just said and starts babbling. "I mean, we're already here and it's almost over now, but it's the only beautiful thing on this Force-forsaken planet."

"Oh, I'm not so sure about that," Obi-Wan grins as Anakin's eyes widen. He opens his mouth, thinks better of it and closes it, looking at anything but Obi-Wan. Taking pity on him, Obi-Wan holds his hand toward him to help him get up. "Also, Anakin, the next time you want to punish yourself, please choose to do it on another planet than Tatooine. I don't think I can handle one more day of the suns trying to roast me like an Endorian chicken."

"Yes Master, your fair skin will be my first consideration the next time I turn to the dark side."

"I'm sure it will," he teases, squeezing Anakin's hand as he pulls him into a sitting position.

Anakin rolls his eyes, but quickly ducks his head to hide his reddened cheeks.

And then it hits him.

Right at this moment, seated next to his former padawan, their feet dangling above the desert, easy banter and the quiet tune of their signatures melting into each other again, Obi-Wan is happy. Even if Anakin is still dangerously close to the dark side, even if the war isn't completely over yet, even if he's not going to get away with deliberately ignoring the Council's messages for the past few months, Obi-Wan feels at peace. Content.

Eyes closed, he whispers his thanks to the Force for not taking another one of the most important people in his life away from him.

He doesn't need to look at Anakin to know he's wondering what he's doing, and his smile only grows before taking his hand in his own. Anakin makes a surprised noise, raising his head to look at him. His expression turns almost alarmed when Obi-Wan cups his face, thumb rubbing lightly against his cheek.

"We'll figure it out, Anakin. I won't leave you."

He's framing his face with both hands now, and can’t resist pressing his lips to his forehead. Anakin's signature turns impossibly brighter at the touch, and between the new uproar of feelings tangled together, Obi-Wan notices a tinge of desire and want, that will definitely be analysed later and probably used to tease him a bit more. This shade of red does look lovely on his cheeks, he notices, pleased.

But he will have time to embarrass him further later. Now, Obi-Wan just wants to enjoy the moment with him.

"...Also because I can't. The starship I borrowed has been making a worrying rattling noise since I left the Mid Rim. It's a miracle I arrived on Tatooine in one piece, and there is no way I'm putting another foot in it before you can assure me that it won't explode the moment I activate the hyperdrive regulator."

Anakin bursts into laughter. "Borrowed? Who did you steal it from this time?"

"I would never—" Obi-Wan scoffs, falsely indignant at the accusation.

"Don't lie, Master, it's unbecoming of you."

"I left a very apologetic note behind, if you must know."

Anakin laughs again, and it warms Obi-Wan's heart like nothing has managed to for the past seven months. He leans on his side to rest his head against Obi-Wan's, bumping his shoulder with his. There isn't any space left between them.

"What would you do without me, Master?"

"Crash and burn, probably." 

Basking in the golden light of the sunset, Obi-Wan tries not to burst with how warm he feels with Anakin messy locks tickling his face and Anakin's breath near his ear and Anakin's hand in his.

The last of Tatooine’s suns goes down in front of them. 

The most comforting of infernos, Obi-Wan thinks as the scorching heat of Anakin's signature clings to him too tightly.

He doesn't mind burning at all.

[waking-dreams-of-harmony]

The Last Dragon

Below the read more I've posted 7 very small sections of a fic that is based on this beautiful and tragic fanvid. I got literal chills watching it. If you wanna sob over our queen and her son wanting to avenge his mother, give it a watch.

I don't think I'll ever go any further, as my writing had an unfortunate run in with a brick wall, which then toppled over it and crushed any urge to write the next bit.

It's not too terrible--though it could actually be total shit, I'm not known for my writing 😂--and it was just gonna gather dust on my laptop, so figured I might as well post it. This was one of my ways of dealing with that fucked up last season within the framework of the show. I dont believe this is Dany's end, and I loathe with every fiber of my being what happened to her and her found family. And after seeing that video, the idea of Drogon doing everything he could to avenge the mother he loved more than anything appealed to that anger inside me. So I'll understand if this isnt for everyone ❤

Chapter 1

Mother.

He flies, great black wings carrying them away.

Mother.

Sharp, massive claws curl in gently. Protectively.

Mother is gone.

The cold creeps, burning against his scales the way fire never has.

Mother don’t leave.

A whisper on the wind calls to him.

Mother it hurts.

East, it sighs. It smells of smoke, and fire. Hope.

He follows, wings beating faster.

They took you.

The rage flares, searing away the cold.

They killed you.

The heat of it bursts within him, scaled skin shaking with the strength of it.

Fire and blood.

Jaws stretch wide, and the air burns red with grief.

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

Chapter 2

The sky bleeds red from the dying sun when Drogon reaches Volantis. The whisper that drew him there stops as he lands on an open balcony.

A woman stands before him, black hair and red robes flying up in the gust of wind from his wings. His claw gently opens, Mother’s cold body slowly sliding onto the hard stone.

Crimson, mournful eyes watch the red woman kneel by Mother, pale fingers hovering over her, not touching, for a long moment.

“I cannot bring her back, Drogon,” she murmurs, regretful.

He throws his head back, bellows fury and sadness into the sky. No, Mother, come back. I am alone.

A faint brush at the back of his mind--where Mother used to be, his brothers, the thoughts they shared together--grasps his attention. Makes him look back down at the red woman.

“I cannot give you back Daenerys Targaryen, but I can give you something else.”

His nostrils flair, and his head moves closer.

“I can give you the revenge you desire. As it stands, you may be able to raze the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, turn it all to ash, but that would not be what your mother wanted.”

Drogon growls, lips pulled up in a snarl. Sheep. All are sheep. Betrayed Mother. Killed Mother. No mercy.

She nods her head. Comprehends what he is unable to say out loud.

“Yes, they all betrayed Daenerys, took from her and killed her when her visions grew too great for their small minds. They could not grasp that the Mother of Dragons was above all a breaker of chains. She would have freed us all.”

She pauses, then continues, her voice hard. “They need to be punished. And they will be. But Daenerys’ dreams must be realized. Dragon’s Bay must remain free. The Dothraki cannot return to what they were, raping and pillaging. And the petty lords of Westeros must be laid low. Those who destroyed Daenerys must see their reigns come to an end not only by dragon fire, but by the unification of the people they have ground into the dust, unified against them.”

“A dragon has the power to do great things, but to lead men, to lead armies, that is the one thing you cannot do, Drogon. Not as you are. You must be more. And by the Lord of Light’s grace, you can become exactly what the people need.”

Drogon rumbles in frustration, steam billowing from between his sharp, clenched teeth. He doesn’t understand.

“Human, Drogon. You must become human.”

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

Chapter 3

They take Mother, to clean her, he is told. Remove the dagger, her clothes. Wash the blood away.

The red woman directs him to fly from the balcony, down into an open courtyard below. A large fire pit rages with a towering flame. It warms him, feels like Mother’s hand caressing his scales.

Dragons cannot cry. A mournful moan makes his great neck tremble. Human. Perhaps he can cry when he is human.

People in red robes enter the courtyard, one after another, until they circle around Drogon. His tail twitches. Their closeness agitates him.

The red woman appears, crossing the circle to stand in front of the fire. Hatred fills him when he sees what is in her hands. The dagger stained with Mother’s blood. Coward. The coward’s dagger.

“I am sorry Drogon. It is a necessary piece of the ritual. Soon,” she soothes, “you will have all you need to begin your campaign against the traitors.”

Another voice brushes against that same place in his mind. That lonely place where Mother, Rhaegal, and Viserion once lived. Soon, it too promises.

The red woman turns her head, scans the other acolytes before catching Drogon’s eyes.

“Let us begin.”

Voices hum together in chant, and the sky is filled with an agonized roar.

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

Chapter 4

Drogon.

He groans.

Drogon, my love.

Everything hurts.

You cannot sleep forever, my beautiful boy.

He moves his head slightly. Cringes at the sharp pain.

Wake up, Drogon.

Mother? Why does everything hurt so much?

It’s time.

The voice begins to fade. He reaches out a hand, slowly, to make it stay, and freezes. He has a hand. A human hand.

Fingers curl into his palm, and the nails scratch against his skin, bite into it. His legs scrape against the stone as he slowly stretches out one, then the other.

He can still feel the fire to the side of him; it feels heavier, pressing on his skin but it does not hurt his flesh.

What burns more painfully is the missing weight of his wings. No flight for him now.

Cold fingers brush his shoulder, curve sharply to hold him when he recoils.

“Drogon?”

He doesn’t like to be held, or touched, no one but Mother, and his brothers, but they are gone. Gone, gone, gone…

“Drogon! It is only me, Kinvara!” The voice finally penetrates, and he stops pulling away.

Allowing for her help, he rolls carefully onto his back. Sharp pebbles dig into his skin. No scales to protect him anymore.

He feels her fingers move to his face, tracing the human features. “Open your eyes Drogon. See what the Lord of Light has gifted to you.”

Gift? No gift. Just more pain. Weakness. But he opens his eyes. The fire from the pit is soothing, warm. Warmer than...before. Would it burn him? His hand flinches towards it but he’s not close enough to touch.

He turns his eyes toward Kinvara. She is smiling, eyes reflecting the fire’s light.

She waves a hand towards an acolyte. “Bring me a robe. We must cover our dragon prince.”

Red cloth is laid over him, and two other acolytes help Drogon to sit. They hold him up as the other wraps the robe around him more securely.

Drogon grits his teeth, blood rushing angry and hot.

He tries to talk, mouth struggling to form the human words. “W-We—” He growls, tries again. “W-Weak.”

“For now,” she says. “But you will grow stronger, I promise you.”

Drogon struggles to stay awake, but bone deep exhaustion pulls at him, and his frustration wanes as he slips into slumber.

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

Chapter 5

Four moons pass before Drogon is ready to set sail for Meereen. He was like a hatchling again, unsteady, vulnerable, and he hated it. Kinvara and her priests taught him the ways of his new body, how to eat and walk, to read their words.

Coarse fabric to wear instead of steely scales.

But now it is time. Time to search out Grey Worm. Daario. The Unsullied and Dothraki. Train with them and become stronger. Much stronger.

He knew how to fight as a dragon. Armies and castles were nothing against the heat of his fire. He must learn how to wage war as humans do.

Wrapped in a red cloak, hood hanging low over his face, Drogon is ready to begin.

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

Chapter 6

They are waiting for him at the dock after the sun has set, Grey Worm and Mother’s sellsword, two silent figures who do not move, do not speak until Drogon stands before them.

Daario breaks the silence first. “Drogon?”

He pulls back his hood, unnaturally crimson eyes in a human face flashing in the near dark.

Daario sucks in a breath, then huffs out a laugh. “If the red priests had not sent word ahead, I may not have believed it. But by the gods, here you stand.” He reaches out an arm for Drogon to clasp.

He does so, hesitantly, but with a firm grip. Human greetings still puzzle him.

Grey Worm steps closer then kneels, bows his head bowed, fist pressed against his chest. “Ñuha dārilaros. Bisy qringaomatan īlva dāria. Īlon emagon ossēntan se nāpāstre skoriot pōnta iōrtan (My prince. This one failed our Queen. We should have killed the traitors where they stood.).”

Drogon does not know if he is asking for forgiveness or absolution.

Dragons have no real concept of forgiveness. He should be angry the traitors were allowed to live. But Grey Worm is kin, as the little scribe had been. Mother’s old bear too, and the white-haired knight. Everyone who had been under Mother’s protection, had been under her children’s protection as well. And would continue to be.

“Rise, Grey Worm.” His voice is rough and sharp edged, and it seems to startle the two men to hear him speak. “Those that hurt Mother, that used her and took her life will be punished as they deserve. But I need your help. So rise. Let us repay them with fire and blood. For Mother. For Missandei. For them all.”

He holds out a hand, waits.

Grey Worm looks up, eyes bright with unshed tears. His lips tremble, then firm. He takes Drogon’s hand.

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

Chapter 7

They convene in Mother’s chambers, the map room he would never have been able to fit in before almost cavernous to him now.

Spread out around the table, the three men pull together a plan as they look down at the map.

First, they will weed out the opposition in Essos, solidify their hold in the east. Astapor, Yunkai, they will all come to heel, every slave freed. They would be as clever as Mother had been, keep the number of innocents lost as low as they could. Drogon would prefer to burn through the Good Masters, snap them up and tear them apart, but for Mother, he would be patient, and take the slower path. All the slavers would still die, and their victims would live, and live free.

But for what Drogon had planned, he needed steel in place of claws, armor instead of dragonhide. He needed Grey Worm and Daario to make him as fearsome as a human as he’d been as a dragon. And that would take time.

He ground his blunted teeth together; he hated waiting. Hated it. But let the traitors think they were safe for a while longer. It would be all the sweeter when he ripped that feeling of safety away, just as they ripped Mother away from him. His brothers. His home.

They would feel his pain. And then they would feel nothing at all.

[renaerys]

PPG One-Shot: Mall Santa (Boomer/Mike and Brick/Blossom)

Summary: To earn a little extra cash over the holidays, Brick, Mike, and Boomer agree to help out their buddy Todd at a Mall Santa gig. Shenanigans ensue.

This one is for @snailbutters, @genovah, and @hanaokm. Merry Christmas and happy holidays! Enjoy some Boomike, Blossick, and Capri Sus on me. 

[Cross-posted to AO3]

xxx

There were a lot of things Todd needed: a haircut, for one. His black hair was getting too long for gel and it was really pushing the boundary between greaser sexy and sad trash hobo. Money, for another. But like any other 21-year-old townie with a high school education and two restaurant jobs, he always needed money.

A new best friend, for yet another.

“I’m not your best friend,” Brick snapped as he tied a black tie around his neck. He needed to leave in ten minutes if he was going to be early for his dinner meeting with Oliver Morbucks.

Todd put a hand over his heart like it might fall out of the wound Brick’s words had stabbed there. “Dude, of course you are. I’m totally sorry if I ever gave you the wrong idea.”

Brick grimaced so hard he was sure he’d end up constipated. “No, you idiot. I know you think I’m your best friend. You’ve never shut up about it, even after we graduated high school. I’m pretty sure the whole fucking Peninsula knows it the way you go around shouting it when you’re blasted.”

Todd looked like he’d just received news that his favorite nana wasn’t dying of cancer after all. “Oh, cool. For a second there I thought I really hurt your feelings. You know you’re kinda sensitive, right?”

Oh god.

“What do you want, Todd? I have a really important meeting and I’m not missing it for your bullshit.”

Brick checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror in his one-bedroom apartment in downtown Townsville. It was a shitty hole-in-the-wall kind of place, but Brick was used to squalor. His break was coming, he could feel it. If tonight’s meeting went over well, he’d have a more steady revenue stream and, more importantly, the connections and clout the Morbucks name brought to open doors. All the long days at Red’s Auto Shop saving and scraping by would finally pay off, and just in time for Blossom to graduate from college. It was perfectly planned, meticulously manipulated, all down to this last pivotal dinner.

“Cool, no big deal! I just need to know if you’re free this weekend.”

“Free to do what?” Brick indulged him, because Todd was one of the few people on this planet who wasn’t 100% intimidated by his very presence.

“To help me with this Mall Santa gig I got. Harry Pitt was supposed to be my number two elf, but he ate some bad prawns and they had to, like, airlift him to Citiesville General.”

Brick stopped everything he was doing and glared at his second-to-best friend, which was a key fact because second was not the same as first. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

“I know, right?” Todd knew his way around Brick’s embarrassingly small bathroom, opened up the hair wax, and fixed Brick’s styling job. “Dude always had a weak stomach, you remember. But you don’t fuck with bad prawns. I mean, obviously.”

Brick swatted Todd’s hands away and checked his reflection. It was definitely an improvement. “Not that; the Mall Santa thing, obviously!”

“Oh, yeah. So you’ll help me out?”

“Fuck no.”

“Aw, Briiiiiiick,” Todd whined.

Brick grabbed his dinner jacket from the closet barely big enough to fit a small, starving child. Todd, who had latched onto Brick in the seventh grade like a goddamned barnacle and never let go no matter how hard Brick tried to push him away, followed. “Not if you paid me.”

“You’ll get paid! It’s $20 an hour!”

Brick hesitated over the threshold. “That’s higher than minimum wage.” It was higher than his hourly rate at the garage too.

“Seasonal gigs, man. That’s how you win.”

“It’s seriously fucking not.”

Todd, one of three people in the universe who actually cared about Brick on a personal level even though he wasn’t obligated by blood, made his blue eyes big and wide in a way that reminded Brick of Puss-n-Boots from Shrek, Todd’s favorite movie. “C’mon, bruh. Do your bestie a solid? Just this once? I really need the money and they won’t let me keep the gig without two elves to fill in. So please? Pleeeeeeease?”

And Brick, former scourge of Townsville, a Super with the power to literally raze the planet if it so much as tickled his fancy, and the dictionary definition of the boy every father dreads his perfect, pretty little girl falling for against her better judgment, cracked like an egg.

“For fuck’s sake,” he groused. “Just text me the time and place and get out of my face already.”

Todd punched the air with both fists. “Yes!! Oh, hell yes! I love you so much, dude.”

“Blow me.” Brick checked his watch. Shit, now he was merely on time.

“I’d consider it an honor,” Todd said, probably literally serious.

xxx

Boomer rolled glitter on his cheeks and around the edges of his dark blue eyes with the help of a compact as he huddled behind the North Pole set on the first floor of the Townsville Mall. When he was satisfied that he sparkled like the tinsel-festooned Christmas trees in Santa’s twelve-by-fifteen-foot “forest” themselves, he discreetly re-emerged just as the latest child slid off Santa’s lap.

“Merry Christmas, Dan!” bellowed a red and white-clad Todd behind an enormous, curly beard. “Remember to brush your teeth!”

The little boy ran back to his parents, who were having a word with the photographer about purchasing a picture of their son on Santa’s lap. Before Boomer could follow them, Brick was quick to cut him off.

“Where the hell were you?” he demanded. Sour as an un-sugared plum in his festive, candy-striped elf costume, Brick may have absolutely intimidated the seven-year-olds waiting in line with their parents for a turn on Santa’s lap, but Boomer only allowed him a bemused smile.

“Why, I was making toys for the good little boys and girls who came to visit us here at the North Pole,” Boomer said in a raised voice. He looped his arm through his brother’s and let his power surge with enough force to turn Brick around and face the crowd that was definitely within hearing range. “Isn’t that right, Elf Mursten?”

Brick pushed back with inhuman force, but Boomer held his ground with a smile as bright as the glitter on his cheeks as a little girl in overalls trotted forward.

She giggled. “I like your hat.”

“Thank you!” Boomer gushed, and he tipped his pom-pom-topped cap. “And what’s your name?”

The little girl giggled again. “My name’s Alynn.”

“Well, Alynn, why don’t you step right up and take a seat on Santa’s lap? I’m sure he has a great present for a cool girl like you. Right, Elf Mursten?”

Brick glared medieval torture at him, and he managed a smile that showed too many teeth to be anything other than life-threatening. “Of course, Elf Buller.”

Boomer’s smile tightened.

“Ho ho ho! Come on over, Santa doesn’t bite,” Todd said.

“What a psychotic reassurance,” Brick said soft enough for only the Super brothers to hear.

“Hey, Brick?” Boomer said, just as softly. “Cheer the fuck up.” He gave his brother a bone-crushing squeeze around the arm and broke from him. Brick could be a sourpuss when he wanted to be (all the time), but he wouldn’t mess up Todd’s Mall Santa gig when he’d bothered to show up and actually put in the effort at all. Complain as he might about Todd’s exuberance, Brick had always come through for his best friend since the seventh grade.

Boomer, on the other hand, had been very happy to accept Todd’s offer to work the two weeks leading up to Christmas. The hours were reasonable, the pay was good, and Boomer loved children. It was easy money in between local shows he and his garage band had booked over the holidays.

Plus, the photographer had a nice rack.

“Okay, Santa, Alynn. Look over here and say ‘jingle bells’!” A flash went off, and Mike Believe stood to his full height behind the tripod he’d set up for the day’s pictures. Even in reindeer antlers and a bright, red-painted nose, Mike filled out every fold of his brown Rudolph outfit almost to the point of popping a button. His broad chest puffed out when he put his strong hands on his hips and grinned brightly like he wouldn’t pick anywhere else to be right now.

Their eyes met, and Boomer flushed and smiled like a fool.

When Mike winked back at him coyly, his heart leaped into his throat. Mike had gotten home from college just two days ago, but the three weeks he had off for Winter Break would surely fly by like they did every year, and Boomer was determined to spend every moment together.

A tug on Boomer’s green tunic drew his attention. “Can I take a picture with you? Please?” the little girl asked.

Boomer beamed and scooped her up onto his hip. “Of course you can. Hey, Mike? Can you take one of us, please?”

“You bet! Get in close, now.” Mike readied his camera.

“Oh, wait a sec. Why don’t you take this too?” Boomer removed his festive hat and put it on Alynn’s head. It was big on her, but she laughed happily.

They posed for the picture, and Boomer hugged her cheek to cheek.

“Thanks!” The little girl tried to give him his hat back, but he pressed it to her chest.

“You keep it. Merry Christmas. Remember to be good, okay?”

Alynn’s father was waiting with a hand for her to take when she ran back to him, yammering about how she’d met Santa and his super cool elf friend, and Boomer watched them go.

“You know you’ll have to pay for that hat,” Brick said.

Boomer sighed and ran a hand through his cornflower hair. “You know I look better without it.”

Brick frowned deeply. “Uh-huh.”

“If you keep frowning, your face will stick like that.”

“Moron.”

He always had to have the last word. Brick went to stack the empty boxes wrapped in bright, shiny paper, which was probably more productive than blowing up the entire display. Boomer left him to it. It was time for their mid-morning break, anyway.

Todd got up to stretch. “Man, who knew sitting could be so tiring, huh? Whack.” His phone buzzed, and he grinned when he saw the caller ID.

Boomer, however, had eyes only for Mike as the latter turned off his camera and put a sheet over the tripod to protect it. “Working hard, I see.”

When Mike smiled, his dark eyes crinkled in the corners. He had a face made for smiling. “Oh, you know. Just helping out some friends.”

Like Brick, Todd had asked Mike to help out behind the camera for this gig. Mike didn’t exactly need the extra cash given his lacrosse scholarship that covered his college expenses, but the three of them had been as thick as thieves all through high school no matter what Brick said when he was annoyed. No way was Mike going to bail on the chance to help out a bro.

“This is cute,” Mike said, running a thumb over Boomer’s sparkly cheek.

“If only I could convince Brick to wear some,” Boomer said, lacing his fingers in Mike’s as they shuffled to the side of the exhibit behind a blinking Christmas tree for a bit of privacy.

Mike chuckled. “That’ll take a Christmas miracle. But anyway, I don’t want to talk about Brick right now.”

Their kiss was soft and mostly chaste, considering the venue, but Boomer didn’t mind at all. He rose up on his toes to lean into his boyfriend’s superior height and smiled into their kiss. Even in the middle of the Townsville Mall with shoppers mere yards away, for a few seconds Boomer got lost in the fantasy of the forest and the snow drifts, bright lights and magic that came around only once a year and had always touched his heart in a way nothing else quite could.

“Babe! You got here quick!” Todd’s excitement and a small commotion around Santa’s throne drew the lovers’ attention, and Boomer reluctantly broke the kiss. His Super hearing quickly picked up on what was going on.

“What is it?” Mike asked.

Boomer smiled wryly. “That Christmas miracle you wished for. Come on.” He took Mike’s larger hand in his and pulled him back toward the front of the display, where Todd had scooped up a very small, very fashionable Asian woman in his arms.

“Oh my god, don’t do shits in front of the innocent children, Toddy.” Hana patted her high bun and smoothed out her oversized black jacket once Todd released her.

“Hey, I just missed you is all,” Todd said with a genuine smile like he had really, truly missed his girlfriend since this morning when they had last seen each other.

“You guys are too cute,” said Bubbles with a giggle. As usual, she was adorable in blonde twin tails and a holiday-appropriate sweater dress. Shopping bags hung from both her arms, also as usual.

“Right?” Hana said, her deadpan façade melting completely as she beamed at her closest friend.

“No contest.” Bubbles set down her small nation of shopping bags. “Oh! Hi, Boomer!” She dashed to hug him in a flash of blue, and he caught her easily. “Oh my gosh, I love your glitter. You look like a supermodel!”

Boomer laughed and hugged her back. “Thanks for letting me borrow it. I really owe you.”

“Don’t worry about it. Oh, but you definitely need some touching up. Here, let me just…”

Mike had wandered over to Todd and Hana. “Hey, Hana. Are you staying for the holiday?”

Hana shrugged. “Yeah, my art show isn’t until after New Year’s. You know, I’m always looking for more models.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively.

Mike laughed. “I’m honored, but I’m really nothing special, honestly. You might try Butch.”

Todd guffawed. “Oh man, Butch is, like, one of her top models! She painted him for what, six weeks last summer, babe?”

“Seven,” Hana said, dead serious.

Mike smiled nervously. “That’s a lot of inspiration.”

“He is very inspiring,” Hana said, deader and more serious.

“That dude is goals,” Todd said, totally unironically.

“I guess I can’t argue with that,” Mike said.

“Aaaaand done.” Bubbles stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Honestly? You’re the most beautiful elf the North Pole ever employed.”

Boomer snickered. “Don’t tell Brick that.”

“Don’t tell me what, now?” Brick emerged from his useless empty box stacking task, glitter-less and severely lacking in Christmas cheer.

Bubbles gasped, right on cue. “Brick! Where is your glitter? Get over here.”

Brick made a weird face. “What are you talk—hey!”

Bubbles all but accosted him with the glitter pen. Hana cheered and applauded, and Todd joined in because he liked to cheer and applaud in general.

“What are you—get off!” Brick shoved Bubbles hard, but a flash of pink caught her before she could crash into anything.

Blossom peered around her totally unfazed sister, a tray of lattes in one hand and her perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised. “Brick,” she said.

Brick swallowed. “Blossom.”

She looked nice in leggings and a sweater dress that matched Bubbles’ style, except where Bubbles’ was white, Blossom’s was a scarlet that rivaled the shade of Brick’s eyes.

“I brought you guys coffee,” Blossom said, her eyes trained on Brick even as she held out the tray.

Mike took the tray before it could become collateral damage in whatever was going on between the two of them.

“Here you go.” Mike offered one to Boomer, who gratefully accepted it.

“Thanks!”

“I thought you weren’t getting home until tomorrow,” Brick said, as if he and Blossom were the only two people there.

“Change of plans,” Blossom said. “Problem?”

Brick seemed to remember what he was wearing and snatched his elf hat from his head. He bunched it up between his hands like that would hide his imagined shame. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine, clearly. But it wasn’t Boomer’s place to intrude. He would have been extremely happy for it to end there, but sadly Blossom, like his brother, had a flair for the dramatic and an affinity for the center of attention.

She sauntered up to him and smeared the bit of glitter Bubbles had managed to draw on his cheek before he’d shoved her off. “Good,” she said, half an invitation and half a challenge.

Brick didn’t bend easily. Boomer knew his brother as well as he knew himself, and he knew Brick didn’t relent, never gave in unless he was well and truly beaten, which was rare. But he slackened now, lips parting and eyes falling. Even though his arms stayed stubbornly at his sides and he didn’t do something as scandalous as hold his girlfriend’s hand in public, he melted under her touch and attention.

“All right! Bloss, you’re back early! This is massive, like, supernova massive,” Todd said. “Hey, I know! Let’s throw a party at mine tonight! Brick said you weren’t coming back for another couple of days, so this is like a cool early Christmas present to all of us.”

Bubbles gasped. “Oh my gosh, yes! Let’s all go to Todd’s tonight, just like we used to. I’m calling Robin right now.”

“We can make it a real Christmas party,” Blossom said. Somehow, she’d gotten ahold of Bubbles’ glitter pen and now smeared a generous amount on Brick’s cheeks until he gleamed without suffering a nuclear meltdown. A Christmas miracle, indeed.

“You’ll wear the Santa suit,” Hana said. Demanded.

“Ho ho ho! You got it, babe.”

“That thing’s a rental,” Brick said. “And it’s, like, 75 degrees outside.”

“If he gets too hot, I’ll hose him down,” Hana said.

Brick smartly decided not to press her on that one.

“I like your elf costume, Brick,” Blossom teased. Maybe.

“I’m burning it as soon as I get paid,” Brick said.

“I thought it was a rental like Todd’s?”

He hesitated, trapped by his own logic, and she laughed softly and kissed the side of his mouth. Brick froze and played it off like it didn’t affect him, but his eyes were drawn to Blossom’s lips for the next six whole minutes. Boomer really didn’t get why he had to make everything so damn complicated.

“Hey, hombres, our break is up and I see a super cute kid waiting to sit on the softest lap in Townsville,” Todd said, sinking back onto his candy cane throne and patting his lap.

Brick visibly cringed.

“It could be worse,” Mike whispered to Brick. “At least this time we get to keep our shirts on.”

Boomer smiled at the memory of Todd’s last seasonal gig he’d roped Brick and Mike into over the summer. The shirtless carwash had admittedly been one of his more rewarding part-time jobs, and Boomer had the photo evidence to cherish the memory extremely fondly.

Blossom and Hana retreated behind Mike while Bubbles finished up her phone call with Robin and Brick admitted the next child on set.

“Welcome to the North Pole,” he said with all the cheer of an old tire. Nonetheless, his cheeks dazzled. “What’s your name, kid?”

She looked up at him but didn’t say anything. Boomer noticed her shyness and decided he better intervene.

“Hey there,” he said, taking a knee so he could be on her eye-level. “Merry Christmas.”

That alarmed her even more, and she hugged Brick’s leg.

“What the—” Brick put his hands up like he didn’t know what to do with them. “Great.”

The girl’s parents were busy talking to Mike about the picture packages and didn’t seem to notice what was going on.

“Uh,” Boomer said, ready to flag them down before the little girl got scared or started to cry. They’d been lucky this morning with only one child throwing a temper tantrum out of the tens they’d seen.

“All right, kid. I hope you have a good grip.” Brick floated off the ground with the little girl clinging to his leg and flew over to Todd’s throne.

Boomer was so flabbergasted by his brother’s gross disregard for this child’s safety in front of her parents that he was momentarily stunned where he kneeled. It was over in about two and a half seconds, with her parents none the wiser and the little girl still in one piece, miraculously. Brick peeled her off him and dropped her on Todd’s lap.

“Name,” Brick demanded. And then, reluctantly: “…To check you off the Nice List.”

The little girl looked up at him with wide-eyed wonderment, or maybe fear. “Morana.”

“Morana. Super. Tell Todd—I mean, Santa—what you want. And smile for the camera.”

Todd didn’t miss a beat and wrapped his arms loosely around her to hold her safely in place. “Morana, that’s a pretty name. Wanna tell me what you want for Christmas?”

Morana pointed at Brick. “That one.”

Brick turned as red as his messy man bun. Todd wheezed.

“Oh, yeah? Well, that one’s taken, but I bet I can get you a picture together. How ‘bout it?” Todd asked.

Boomer was up and moving in a blue flash. “That can be arranged.” He shoved his brother with a healthy burst of Super strength, and Brick all but fell on his knee next to Todd’s throne. Boomer waved back at Mike for the picture.

“Big smile now!” Mike said cheerfully, and snapped the picture.

“What the hell is up with these kids?” Brick asked when Morana skipped back to her parents and started chattering at them in a language Boomer didn’t recognize but assumed must be all good things from the way she grinned from ear to ear. “They get bolder every year.”

“Or you’re just getting softer,” Boomer teased.

“Yeah, right.”

Blossom laughed at something Hana said on a nearby bench, drawing both their eyes.

“Whatever you say, man,” Boomer said.

xxx

Todd’s party was a nostalgic and long-overdue affair later that evening. Unlike Boomer, who had to make do in a small studio apartment on the outskirts of Citiesville where the rent was more manageable and his commute didn’t matter when flying anywhere took only minutes, Todd lived in a big house he took care of for his often absent, globe-trotting parents. Blossom, Bubbles, and Robin had taken the initiative and strung up Christmas lights, while Boomer created and managed the playlist for the night. They had a good crowd with old friends from high school and new ones from work and college gathered for no excuse other than to have a good time.

Butch, Buttercup, Mike, and Todd had set up beer pong in the basement, where most of the festivities were taking place. As usual, the shit talking and macho bravado had soared to ludicrous heights.

“Come on, BC,” Todd goaded. “Money shot, right here.” He fluffed his Santa beard, the ends of which were damp with beer. Buttercup had one cup left to hit.

“I’m about to straight-up tea bag you with this ping pong ball, Todd, I swear to god.” Buttercup tried to focus on her aim after too many beers and the distraction of Todd’s stupid Santa beard.

“Do it, fucking do it,” Butch said, bobbing on the balls of his feet and slightly manic with the competition and holiday cheer, probably.

“I’m gonna fucking do it!”

“I don’t think you can fucking do it,” Mike said.

“Ohhhhh!” Butch hollered when Buttercup lost her temper and threw the ball too hard. It bounced off Todd’s beard and fell on the floor, leaving the last cup untouched.

“Mike, you cheater!” Buttercup shouted.

Mike burst out laughing.

“All riiiiight, the Toddster’s final shot. You filming, babe?” Todd asked.

Hana, across the table from Boomer, had her phone out and poised. “Kick their asses, Toddy.”

“Yeah, bring it on, Toddy,” Butch jeered.

“Oh, it’s about to be brought.”

“Oh god, please, you peaked in high school,” Buttercup said.

“Hey, he plateaued,” Mike said. “There’s a difference.”

“Just take the damn shot!”

Todd shot, hit the rim of the solo cup, and missed. Buttercup and Butch threw up their hands and whooped. They were still in the game, and the stakes were even higher now.

Boomer squeezed Mike’s arm in a silent excuse and went to change the music…only to find Brick and Blossom making out in the hallway like it was their last night on Earth.

The music was fine, he decided. No need to interrupt Brick and Blossom trying to fuse with the wall and face his brother’s cock blocked wrath. Discreetly, Boomer snapped a picture on his phone and texted it to Bubbles.

[Boomer: Shooketh]

Bubbles’ reply was lightning fast.

[Bubbles: More like shattered!!]

[Bubbles: Better get out of there before they catch you lol 💀]

After another hour (and Brick and Blossom’s reemergence from the wall in one piece with not a hair out of place because god forbid), Boomer and Mike decided to head out early. They went back to Boomer’s apartment, where a very excited Pomeranian welcomed them home.

“Hi, Pumpkin!” Mike brightened like the sun and scooped up his favorite girl, left in Boomer’s care while he was away at college. “Who’s ready for a walk?”

They walked Pumpkin and let her tire herself out running around the suburban neighborhood where it was too late at night for any cars to be out. A half hour later, they were curled up on the loveseat with Pumpkin snoozing in her fuzzy bed at their feet and an old black-and-white Christmas movie playing on low volume on the television.

“Hey,” Boomer said, lifting his head from Mike’s chest to look at him properly.

Mike set aside the hot chocolate he’d been drinking and pulled Boomer up by his waist. “Hey, you. What is it?”

Boomer smiled. It was silly, really. “It’s nothing.”

“Oh?” Mike returned his smile and leaned closer. He smelled like soap, a hint of chocolate, and something else that made Boomer want to bury his face in his neck.

“Just happy,” Boomer said.

“Really? I can’t tell.”

Boomer sat up a little higher. The neck of Mike’s old lacrosse jersey he wore dipped down his shoulder, too big on him and softer than a cloud. He pressed a chaste kiss to the underside of Mike’s jaw. “How about now?”

“Hm, nope, I don’t think I quite got that.”

Boomer threaded his fingers though Mike’s short, dark hair at the nape of his neck. Feeling coquettish, he gave his ear a nip. “How about now?”

Mike shifted on the couch and pulled Boomer’s bent legs onto his lap. His voice was as warm as the hot chocolate he’d been drinking. “I think I’m starting to get a vague understanding.”

Boomer laughed and painted a trail of kisses along Mike’s jaw, up his chin. He pressed a strong hand to his chest and put a little power behind it. Centimeters apart, he could taste the lingering heat of the hot chocolate on Mike’s breath. “And now?”

Mike’s eyes drooped and darkened. His hands slipped around Boomer’s waist, under the jersey, a silent entreaty. “I think you can do a little better than that, Angel.”

The secret nickname broke Boomer’s resolve, and he kissed his boyfriend full on the mouth with all the confidence and shamelessness he couldn’t give him that morning at the mall surrounded by children and their parents. Mike’s shirt soon found its way to the floor along with Boomer’s borrowed jersey. The loveseat was too short to accommodate Mike’s height comfortably, and after a few moments Boomer held him close and flew them to the bed in a flash.

“I’ll never get over how hot that is,” Mike said, breathless.

Boomer blushed, unable to help it. He was careful with his strength around Mike, but sometimes the X bonded to his bones pushed him to the raw, carnal boundaries of humanity. Mike’s hand on his cheek drew him out of those spiraling thoughts.

“I mean it,” Mike said. “I love that part of you. And I trust you completely.”

Words did not come easily, nor did they seem appropriate in that moment. Boomer bent to kiss Mike again and pull him as close as he could get. Wrapped up in the warm sheets and each other, Boomer’s silly little thought that he had never been happier grew and swelled to heights he never could have imagined before Mike. They lay there together, lazy and sleepy, as the credits of their forgotten holiday movie played on the television.

“One more semester,” Mike said, “and then I graduate.”

“I can’t believe you’re almost a college graduate,” Boomer said. “It feels like you left ages ago.”

“Four years is a long time, but it’s not forever. And you should get ready.”

Boomer looked up at him. “Ready for what?”

“To move, of course.”

“Move?”

“Hey, I love how cozy your apartment is, but I’m pretty sure Pumpkin would appreciate her own room once we’re living together full time.”

Boomer sat up properly. “You… You want to move in together? With me?”

“Of course! The only question is, where do you want to go?”

Boomer covered his mouth. Of course he had thought about getting a place with Mike, but that always seemed like the distant future. What if they didn’t stay together? What if the long distance was too hard? What if Mike met someone else at college? Brick didn’t talk about it much, but after a few too many drinks one night the year Blossom and Mike both left for college, he’d confessed how afraid he was that he would lose her forever. How can the old be exciting and fun compared to the amazing, new adventures she would be having?

But from the way Boomer had caught them all but absorbing each other at Todd’s tonight, Blossom seemed perfectly happy to keep him. And Mike…

“You’re serious,” Boomer said.

“I’ve never been more serious.” Mike took his hand and kissed his knuckles carefully. “I can’t wait to start our lives together.”

Boomer could have cried. He almost did. Life was hard, even for a Super like him. With endless bills to pay and the occasional monster to dispose of, sometimes he felt like he was being pulled in too many directions without anyone there to help pick up the slack. But this… This was his.

“Me too,” Boomer said. “And I don’t care where we go, as long as it’s together.”

“Well, cool. In that case, if you’re not opposed to it, was thinking farther north, like Metroville. There are some great photography jobs there that I want to apply for, and the music scene is bigger than it is here—”

“Yes! A hundred percent yes, let’s do it. When do we leave?”

Mike laughed. “June 1st, as soon as they hand me my diploma.”

Six months. It had a date now. Unthinking, Boomer threw his arms around Mike’s broad shoulders and hugged him tight. “I’ll mark my calendar.”

“It’s a date.”

Incidentally, they did not get much sleep the rest of that night.

xxx

I told myself I wasn’t going to do a ton of fluff, but damnit all, Boomike is SUPER CUTE and I couldn’t help myself. Let them have the happy ending they deserve. Thanks for reading!

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 41

Read on AO3. Part 40 here. Part 42 here.

Summary: You need Kylo Ren to understand. He needs you to understand, too.

Words: 3900

Warnings: an attempt at emotions

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: Is this angst? Is this how you write angst? Is it angsty enough? Hahaha.

Thank you all very much for reading. Only four chapters left, and I am honestly terrified! Haha. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, I tend to like the ones where I can attempt something new. I want the emotional beats to feel correct. 

I love y'all very very much. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU. 

You were awake.

Your bed was stone, a slab that poked through your flesh into the bone, forcing adjustments between tired sighs. Even though this movement exhausted you, you found it impossible to sleep.

It couldn’t have been the baby. After all, it was blueberry-sized at this stage, a time when most women didn’t even know they were pregnant. And it couldn’t have been pain, as most of it had subsided, or faded to a pleasant, ambient hum in your nerves, far more comforting than distressing. It couldn’t have been hunger, either--at least not anymore. Sneaking food from the kitchen after sunset had quelled your raging stomach.

But you still found it impossible to sleep. 

It was obvious, of course, why you couldn’t, but it was a memory you wanted to avoid processing. Johana’s tattered voice, gleaming tears, her admission--I give up, you won--played in your head like a busted cassette tape, rewinding with a sickening click every five seconds. Your Commander’s decision, his cruelty, that remained unprocessed too, a willing rejection of his apparent reckless obsession. You would not, could not consider just how deep, how desperate this obsession was, would and could not consider the urgency of its terrible course.

If you considered it too long, you would feel its twin, the ache in your blood, the silver pulse of your own mirrored need--and know its depth and its desperation as easily as you knew to breathe.

You sat up in a sigh. Beyond your porthole window, the quarter-moon was an opal shimmer over the garden, and the only stirring residents outside were crickets, grasses shifting with the whispered wind. If you were going to be awake and miserable, you could at least gaze into something other than your own empty ceiling--so you rolled out of bed with a groan, deciding bare feet and a nightgown were plenty appropriate for a time where you planned for no one else to see you.

On your tip-toes, the creak of wood could be mistaken for the settling of an old home, your fingers skimming the walls for stability while you crept down the steps and through the darkened halls. You weren’t sure what time it was, but you knew your Commander to be a man of little sleep and littler compromise--seeing him was the last thing you wanted at this moment. When you reached the back door, you held your breath, flipping the lock and easing the knob to the left, prying it open, only to be greeted with a huge black shadow.

“Jesus Christ!” You bit a scream between your teeth, stumbling back--as your vision focused, heat rushed you. It was a Knight Templar. “Um. Hello.”

“What are you doing here?” This was Ushar again--you recognized his voice from earlier--and you relaxed, slightly. Your awkward moment with him was already addressed. “You’re not permitted to leave the premises.”

Another sigh escaped you, and you crossed your arms. You would’ve felt more embarrassed to be only in your nightgown if he hadn’t already seen everything else. 

“I’m not leaving,” you replied. “I just want to be outside for a second.”

Ushar glanced into the garden, then back to you. Or at least, you thought he did. Helmet and all of that. “It’s late. The Commander will expect you to be sleeping.”

“Well, to be honest, I don’t really care about that right now.” You went to push past him, and he side-stepped to follow you. “Oh, come on,” you said, “why are you even here? He’s home, he shouldn’t need you.”

“We’re on duty until his meeting with the Council tomorrow.”

You blinked. “Oh. I thought all of that was today.”

He shook his head. “Preparation. Tomorrow is execution.” A pause. “Figuratively speaking.”

Dread sank its tiny teeth into your stomach. “Or maybe literally, knowing him.”

Ushar cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “Well.”

Silence settled between you. Strange, to speak with a man who had, less than 24 hours ago, stood in a circlejerk to spatter you with sperm, and stranger still to converse casually with him about the fact that your mutual Commander’s preferred solution to any issue was to blow its brains out.

“Well.” You cleared your throat, too, as if this would ease the tension in any meaningful way. “Look. I just want to walk around the garden a little bit. You can stand and watch me the whole time.” Half-grinning, you held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh. Um. Boy Scouts?” Your shoulders sagged. More heat at your face. Perhaps the strangest thing of all was the reminder that anything and everything familiar had been razed like a forest by Gilead’s flame. “They were like. A thing. Before…” 

“Never heard of them.” Ushar paused, and pivoted to the side. “Go ahead. Don’t be long.”

“Thank you.”

Pinching your lips between your teeth, you slipped outside, neglecting the stone pathway and cutting into the grass. The little blades were fuzzy at your feet, wedging between your toes, and the air cleaned your lungs, the sky a lonely galaxy beyond the hedges and the yard. Gold twinkle lightning bugs flickered between the flowers, hovered above the pond, the sole source of light outside of the sterling moon and stars. You peeked over your shoulder at your sentinel--but he was motionless, observing you in silence.

Your feet carried you past the bench into the mini-maze, catching sight of the birdfeeder, the bag of seed. The Marthas hadn’t gotten to it, yet--not that they would have had time to--and in its day and a half of neglect, the bag had toppled over, spewing seed onto the ground, the feeder abandoned in two pieces by its side. It seemed almost rude, now, to see this mess and decide it was a job for someone else. With a shrug, you strode over, heaved the bag onto its bottom and started scooping handfuls of tiny kernels, dumping them back in.

They spilled like water through your fingers, raining onto your feet and the dirt--you seemed no closer to your goal with the next scoop than you had with the one previous. Another one, and another, and still the seed scattered, palms empty before you reached the bag. Sighing, you gave up, choosing instead to grab the feeder and pop on its top. As you gathered both halves in your hands, the backdoor opened, and you froze. 

“Where is she.”

Your throat thickened. You dropped the feeder. He was here.

“She’s beyond the hedges, sir,” Ushar replied. “She just--”

Scuffing soles on stone cut him off, storming toward you--and you remained, unflinching. Even if you wanted to run, there was nowhere for you to go.

Kylo charged the corner into the maze, still dressed in black, his shirt unbuttoned low enough to expose his clavicles, which you hated to acknowledge. At the sight of you, he stalled, capturing you in his gaze, focusing on your figure, curves draped in your white nightgown, your breasts unbound, your hair wild vines over your shoulders. He swallowed, air rolling through him, attention drifting to your face. The muscle under his eye fluttered, his fists furled.

“You weren’t in your room.”

You knew hadn’t imagined it--the tremor in his voice, the quiver at his chin. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded scared.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Kylo took a single step--the distance between you seemed at once too great and too smothering, and he stopped, drawing a long breath through his nose. He stared, held it, chest rising, then released it, hands relaxing as he exhaled. His gaze slid to the hedge, tracing the woven ropes of leaves through the trimmed branches, wandering to the grass and landing there. The crickets hummed in the void. You would’ve asked why he had headed to your room if he hadn’t made the answer so plain to your eyes.

“The first time we met here,” he began, “I said I wanted to know you.”

You offered a slight shrug. “We’ve definitely become more familiar.”

“I do know you.” He glanced up. “I know that there’s a part of you that wants to stay.”

“Really.” Frowning, you shifted on your feet, ignoring the warmth at your cheeks. “You know that.”

Kylo stole a step. “Yes.” Another, and another. “I do know that.” Two more, and his long legs had brought him within arm’s length, his pupils wide in the night. “Because there’s a part of me that wants to leave.”

Oxygen escaped you, and you shook your head, averting your gaze. Crackled embers glowed in your heart; given his hesitations, his strangled frustrations, and your own inability to find resolve, this had been a part of him you’d already known. But to hear it from his mouth, given life on his lips, it was palpable. Tangible. You met his eyes again, paralyzed by their power--they were endless, brimming with emotion even you yourself had never been asked to name. 

For a second, you forgot to speak, wondering how you could snatch this moment like spun glass in the air. Then you stepped closer, and grabbed his large, strong hand.

“Then why don’t we?” you murmured. “We can go. Just be. We can forget all of this.”

Kylo fled--for only a millimeter--before steeling himself, curling his hand around yours, and bringing it up to his face. He examined your thumb--now scabbed, but still sore, and stroked it with his own. Satisfied, he wove his fingers between yours, pulled you to his chest. 

“All of this,” he said, “is under my control, now. I can keep you safe.” His other hand cupped your cheek, fingers coasting over your skin. “Make you want for nothing.”

Staring into him, into the vortex of his gaze, you tried to swallow the thickening desire to admit the only thing you did not want him to know.

“You keep saying that,” you replied, tugging his hand from your face. “But as long as I’m in Gilead, I will never want for nothing.”

His hand squeezed yours. “There’s more I need to do.”

You shook your head again. “Well, even if you could make that happen--”

“I can.”

“Even if you could.” You unwound your grip from his, stepping away. “What about everyone else?” The Resistance, the car chase, Poe’s head, Snoke’s mansion, the dress, the party, Tera Jackson, the Widows, the Wives, Johana--all dangled above your brain, a broken mobile composed of the casualties of your affair. “It’s not enough, it’s not fair to change my life when it makes everyone else suffer,” you said. “Why not just live a life where you don’t have anything you need to change?”

He raised a brow, as if he hadn’t understood the question. “Because I need to.”

You sighed. “But why?”

Kylo’s gaze broke from yours, aiming beyond you as his tongue traced his teeth in thought. A soft exhale, and his attention returned. “The world was flawed, before Gilead.”

“Gilead has only made the world more flawed.”

He grumbled. “Do you understand what happens to those without direction?” he asked. “Without order?” You were silent, waiting for him to continue--he speared you with his stare. “Chaos.” A tension in his throat. “Suffering.”

“Those without direction…” Head tilting, you searched his face. Puzzle pieces shifted close, edges locking--his rage, the graveyard, his terror, his Wife’s own words. “If the world wasn’t flawed, you wouldn’t have been abandoned,” you said. “That’s what you think.”

His eye twitched, jaw rigid. “It made sense.” Blowing air through his nose, he paced around you, fingers curling in and out of fists. “Snoke made sense. At first.”  He huffed. “But he was just as flawed.” Steady and still, you watched him, watched his thoughts race through his mind, watched while he struggled to match them with words he had never had to speak.  “Only I understand the consequences of chaos. Only I have the capability to perfect this.”

It emptied you, his hopelessness, his resignation that the only way out of his depthless hatred was to drown it in a void of control. You knew another way--knew it was nested within the words you couldn’t say.

You sighed. “You think that will fix it?” you asked, folding your arms over your chest. “You think that will make you satisfied? More whole?”

Kylo rounded, shoulders pinned back, a predatory curve to his spine. “Were you satisfied with life before Gilead?” he asked. “The loneliness. The uncertainty.” He drew closer, trapping you in his gaze. “Falling asleep empty. Waking up in agony.” Inches from you, he clutched your shoulder, turning you toward him, brushing your hair to your back. “I know your life, little bird.” His hand pinched your chin, his tone tinged with ire. “I know it because it was mine.” 

Heat flashed through your spine. “It still is your life,” you growled, swatting his wrist and backing away, “you’re still miserable. And it’s still my life too, and it will be as long as you keep me!”

“You’re miserable,” he said, following you step for step. “You are the one who said you wanted all of me.” He was chasing you, stalking you as you retreated further into the maze, eyes rimmed gold in anguish. “And now you want to leave. Like everyone else.”

Your heart fractured. “Kylo--”

“I will end the Council if I need to.” He was black-winged in the moon’s shadow, a luminous Lucifer. “I will tear out every tongue that threatens your life if it will keep you here.”

A branch caught your sleeve, and you stumbled for only a moment, chin stiff. The threat was not hollow, but it was equally not wise. In his wrath, Kylo Ren did not believe there was a fight he could lose. In your sanity, you did not believe there was even a fight to be had.

“You can't do that. You know you can't.” A curly finger of the maze tugged you into the vines--you shrugged it off. “You know you won't be able to keep me safe forever.” There was no cease to his advance, no glimmer of cessation. “Johana is right.” The words flew from your mouth in a bid to convince him. “The Council won't stand by this. There's no such thing as divorce--”

“I don’t care.”

“--there’s no such thing as living with your Handmaid, I mean, do you expect us to get married--”

“I don’t care!”

Rapt in his gaze, you stumbled again, back flush with a wall of leaves, and Kylo consumed you, a silhouette against the sky, swallowing your sight. One hand grasped your wrist, the other pressed to your cheek, his palm smooth, your skin hot at his touch. You resisted the urge to melt into it.

“I want you,” he breathed, your name a ghost on his tongue. “I need you.” His lips trembled. “You are the only thing that makes sense.”

You were trembling too, quaking as you struggled to restrain the inevitability forming in your throat. Kylo Ren had been your Commander, the architect of your suffering. And he had been the only one in over three years to stir you, save you, see you--to care if you lived or died, to truly and genuinely desire not just your mouth, but the thoughts that came with it. 

He had found you. You didn’t want to be lost again.

“I want you, too.” You nuzzled his hand, and he led you closer. “I need you, too.”

Kylo gathered you against his body, the hand at your wrist sneaking to caress your back, his fingers carding through your hair. There was no vacancy in his eyes; they were flooded, overflowing with warmth, with worship. You felt it--the thump of that silver pulse, the genesis of a clandestine reality you wanted, with every screaming cell in your body, to speak into existence--felt its weight as an echo on his tongue. His lips parted, his focus falling over your face. 

Words would damn you. So you thrust your hands in his hair and pulled him into a kiss instead. 

He enveloped you, mouth meeting yours as if it’d been years, a tender groan cresting in his chest while his grip clung to you, seeking your flesh through cloth. Humming in bliss, you sketched over his scalp with your nails, basking when he gasped and shivered at your touch, your tongue slipping past his teeth and sliding over his own. He moaned into you, pressing you to his frame, breaking off only to kiss you again, lips touching once, twice, before his full, plush mouth massaged yours and his tongue returned. There was no fury, no primal insistence--Kylo cradled you and contained you, held you like a man who was terrified to lose you, terrified to let you go.

Soft lips skimmed yours, and he stepped between your legs, pressure digging the hedges into your back. You whimpered in shock--he stopped and snatched you to his heaving chest, seeking the origin of your pain. It almost made you laugh, this protective urge, when you still bore the bruises and bumps from the previous night. Grinning, you eased away, catching his face in your hand and forcing him to meet your gaze. His eyes swam, spinning oceans, eager and alive. Your breath hitched. It left your mouth without even trying.

“I don’t want to leave you,” you said. “Leave with me.”

Kylo paused--you could almost see his mind reeling--as he stared at you. His chest fell with dejected air, and he held you closer, tighter. A strong hand returned, cupping your face again. His head offered the tiniest shake.

“It’s too late.”

Your heart fractured further. “No, it’s not.”

His hold left you, then, comfort torn like skin from your bones when he stepped back. In summer air, you froze, icy without his embrace.

“What I’ve done…” He glanced to the side, pacing away, steps taking him a slow circle while he gazed into the corners of the mini-maze. “What I’ve done cannot be undone.” Looking back to you, the knot in his throat bobbed. “Even if I wanted it.” His hands clenched, unclenched, and he approached you again. “If I leave,” he said, “it won’t be with you. I will be arrested.” The severity in his expression petrified you. “Or I will be dead.”

Perhaps, in the back of your head, you’d always known this, always known that escape was not a simple solution for a Commander, and certainly not a man like Kylo Ren. But to hear him acknowledge it too, to seal himself to his own inexorable conclusion--it decimated you.

“Oh,” you said, as it was the only sound you could make for a moment. “War crimes.”

Kylo’s head dipped in acknowledgement. “Yes.” A pause, and he turned, thoughts cast across the yard, before swiveling back to you. “To stay is the only way,” he said. “For you to be mine.” He gestured to the garden. “For this to be ours.”

You frowned. “Ours?”

His hand dove into his pocket, plucked his wallet free. Stone-faced, he flipped it open, fished into the slot and produced a folded piece of paper, presenting it to you as an answer. Cocking a brow, you pinched an edge, looking between him and the little note as you unfolded it.

One corner was swathed in smooth, swooping ink, the opposite end festering with wobbly attempts at leaved-lines. In the middle, they met, blooming into a tiny Eden--beautiful, borne from the hallowed recognition that suffocated, unspoken between your mouths.

“Kylo…” Chin quivering, you suppressed a laugh. “You think,” you said, “after all of this, what I want is,  is… to what, control this with you?”

“No.” His tone was serious. Sincere. “You want freedom. You want me.” Stepping toward you, he took your hand, dwarfing it in his own. The heat of his body choked you. “But we don't get to choose what we're owed, little bird. Destiny decides it for us.” His attention flitted to you and the drawing. “I know what roles we are meant to fulfill. This is not just mine.” His gaze bored into you, chaining you in a plea. “It’s yours.”

Kylo Ren did not want to leave. He wanted you with him. In power. In whatever capacity he decided. 

The offer was not only disappointing, it was insulting. To think you would want to stay in a land where you’d watched women hang, to remain in a nation where, without him, you could never hope to survive. No matter what route you chose, with him, you lost. There would be no agency for you in a world where you reigned standing on cadavers. And for your child--there was no purity coming home to a burial ground. 

You glanced at the drawing, mapping it to memory, imagining it in his pocket while he met with Council members, ferreted threats, worked late into the night--pictured it tucked away at his hip in the Audi, stowed somewhere safe on the Buzzard when he was with his men. And your fractured heart splintered into scarlet shards.

Meeting his eyes, you shook him free, taking the sheet in two hands. Without a blink, you shredded it in half, layered it, ripped again. You caged him in your stare, unflinching, as you turned the paper into flakes, tear by tear, and littered them across the grass. Kylo watched, carved from redwood: large and flushed and eerily still, until his gaze dropped to the ground. He was speechless--and the inevitable words burgeoned, a tangled mass in your throat again. This time, you said them.

“I hate you.” 

His eyes snapped to yours, struck black with horror--but before he could think to respond, or you could take it back, you fled, sprinting through the maze with your nightgown hiked to your knees. 

There was no sound behind you, not even the crunch of boots, and you were grateful for it, grateful as you skipped past the pond and up the stone path, as Ushar veered to the side, as you pounded the halls and up the steps to the annex. You were grateful that you hated Kylo Ren, grateful that it would not hurt when you rended him from your heart, grateful that whatever route you chose, without him, you’d win.

It was gratitude, certainly, you felt when you opened the door to your room, an empty hole and empty bed. It was gratitude, too, that flooded you when you collapsed onto the mattress with a groan, and gratitude that stung your sight, flowed past your cheeks, stained your pillowcase. Thank God, thank God you hated Kylo Ren, thank God he was so easy to hate, thank God you would not ache when you left him behind, made a home without him, or gave birth to his child. 

A tiny knock on your door. You stopped, cries arrested in your chest, as you cranked your neck to the threshold. Were it not for this timid request for permission, you would’ve ignored it in belief it was the only person you did not want to see. Clearing your throat, you straightened and hopped onto your feet, wiping your face clear--not of tears, but gratitude--while you turned the knob and cracked it open an inch.

Johana, cloaked in a frilly blue robe, stood anxious in the hall. Her face twitched with fear, her eyes stark, her mouth tight. In silence, she held out her fist, and opened her palm. 

The switchblade.

[inviouswriting]

Lich’s Puppet AU

It goes without saying this one is going to be a bit darker.

Mentions - @snow-covered-moon​ ‘s Shuri and polyship with her.

Warnings: I won’t cut these ones because there are some themes here. Mostly forced to drink something, and paralysis, mind control, and body modifications.

Perhaps she was careless, she tends to think she can’t be harmed, yet she still has weaknesses. She is a spirit, and a spirit can still be lured under greater magic to be enslaved. She had thought she had great immunity, that nothing would control her the way Vanth did.

Yet she can’t remember the last time she couldn’t control herself. While conscious of everything she is doing. She knew better than to leave Vanth unchecked, the necromancy in Tam-Tara should have warned her of a presence. That the worse of her nightmares to come again was happening.

His magic still has deep roots within her, there will always be that stain in her as much as her right wing. Her entire body is on fire, it feels like acid slowly eating away at her, the flames of the undead were something she hated. They burned the very soul and scarred it. Her eyes and hair matched the form Vanth wanted.

Skin almost greenish to her brown, lime green eyes and white hair. She isn’t even sure how she was snared. All she remembered was going on another mission for the scions. To check a tower in Coerthas, she could get close without alerting others. Or so she thought.

She had been chased down by a lunar Garuda. She knew the primal was fast, but given the alterations, the lunar alone caught up to her in no time. Kivera looked away from in front of her, till she flew pass the threshold of a tower. She had never been inside them, she felt dread from being in vicinity. Like Vanth’s magic scared her years ago. 

Inside she had seen Ixal trapped to the walls, being used to empower the lunar primal. She keeps her feet from the ground, seeing it as fleshy matter more than an actual ground. She likens it to one of Vanth’s creations. Every part of her screams to leave, but she couldn’t with her exit closed. 

“What a surprise. Who would have thought you would be here.” Kivera freezes down to her spine, her feathers stand on end, bristling at the voice. She knows this voice, deep, hollow and raspy. It does the same thing regardless in chilling her to her soul. 

“What are you doing here...” She keeps her hover even more for fear of what would happen if her feet connect with the ground. She had forgotten about Garuda, it seems the primal disappeared from her entirely, or was laying in wait. She was no longer her worry. What was, is the lich who she had thought she rendered deep in the pit she had made. The furthest deep of Tartarus that she had named it Agitazione, land of the unsuffering dead. 

“Why are you so surprised, you knew you can’t kill me. Even with your awakening. Not even the power you command from above could do anything. I will always come back. It took a bit of time... you left me in ashes.” Kivera turns to see the being. Vanth. He had taken a form that allowed him to blend in with others. An older elezen, with graying hair. He looked like a holy man, but Kivera knew him as far from that. What he did was horrid to both heavens and underworld.

He enslaved the dead as puppets. He led the slaughter on hundreds if not thousands of women and men during the Salem trials, one that she remembers as her first cleanse to end an entire city. She couldn’t touch the souls after Vanth took over their minds. Thanatos had instructed her, nothing good comes from a necromancer, and they did not want the souls tainted by a lich. They could not rest, nor would they ever. They chose blood magic and a great taboo together. Raising the dead is an unforgiveable sin among the underworld, tied in with enslaving the spirits was something that she was specifically trained to take out without hesitation.

Vanth was the reason she had lost two dear to her. Divinity at first when she was human, then Damien. Kivera realizes how in over her head she is. Yet she knows her loved ones, and the allies she has gained would not be able to fight someone like him. Not yet, Kan-E-Senna could, she was blessed in holy and light.

Kivera was not either of those, and she could feel her nerves on fire the longer she is lingering. In her shock she fails to notice the fleshy tendrils that creep up seeking aether energy. Kivera being full of it. All the bits had to do was connect with skin and start leeching her. How lucky would Garlean be if they score her as an ally. A powerful destructive force would raze everything. Vanth knows this, he always knew of her location, she is still a creature of habit, she clings to those that show her love.

Kivera remembers herself, and looks down to see the floor moving, arcing up towards her feet. The ends resembling a swarm of worms, making the reaper feel sick at seeing them move like this. She moves higher, and it is there that Garuda shows herself slamming full force into Kivera from the side, sending her into the nearest wall. 

Kivera is fast to rebound but the walls have that same fleshy material. When she connects many tendrils surge to coil around an arm. Kivera burns them off and kicks her feet on the wall to get away from the, rubbing the others off her arms as they break apart. 

Vanth just stands back to watch, keeping his control on the matter around. The imprisoned ixal reach to grab Kivera whenever she was close. The reaper not having a place to stand or rest without something trying to snare her. It will take one careless mistake on her part. One moment of weakness. Something Vanth knows every being to have. He just had to figure out where she will land to think she is safe.

Kivera fights more with Garuda, sending bursts of fire, while Garuda sends wind. They scrap together, talons and claws ripping at feathers, Kivera burning wings and biting her. Garuda using her feet and claws to grasp her target. She snares Kivera and soon pins her to a wall.

Vanth sees his chance, and swarms the tendrils onto Kivera. Each touched with a bright lime flame. Kivera feels something she hasn’t felt in ages. Pain. Pure pain. The tendrils leech life while replacing with lich flames. The color in her skin greenish but stays brown, the black of her hair turns white, and her eyes that convey her emotions stays a pure bright lime color with a glow to them. She looked the same but altered in her appearance.

Kivera couldn’t scream with the claw around her neck keeping her still. All she could even think was sparing those she loves. She rends her connection to Shuri, Estinien, Divinity and any of the children. Scions, she will never forgive them for sending her on this mission. 

Vanth claps and Garuda lets Kivera down, he tests something snapping his fingers for Kivera to raise her arms. She does, there is a look of horror to her eyes at being controlled. Vanth approaches her and lifts her head. The elezen face he had chosen gives a sneer at such a prize he obtained.

“There we are. What should have happened all those years ago. If only Damien was more compliant, you could have had both, him and this life.” Kivera only glares at him, her face the only thing she has control of. Garuda leaves disappearing now that the threat is over.

Vanth circles around Kivera keeping her standing straight, he notes her glaring. He needs her more compliant. Two ixals approach Kivera from behind and take an arm while Vanth gets her to kneel down. Ignoring the hissing under her breath. She doesn’t take her eyes off of Vanth, unsure of what he is planning to do. He fishes an elixir like bottle off a belt he has, one he has safeguarded for the rare occasion he captured Kivera. 

Kivera tightens her mouth knowing the liquid is for her. It is black in color, and she has seen it work once. When he used it on a maid girl back in Salem. It is to control her, it erases the mind, leaving it blank. Kivera is prided in her strong mind, but even she won’t be able to do much if it is in her system. He brewed it specific for her. A catalyst potion.

“This will go smoother if you comply. Not like anyone is going to come save you from this. By the time they even get news of you missing, you are aware they’re use to you going off and doing your own thing. They also know how powerful you are. They wouldn’t think you would be overcome so easy. Yet you did put up quite a fight against Garuda. But it shows even a god slayer like you can still slip up against them.” Vanth raises Kivera’s head, and she attempts to bite him, he uses the opportunity to hook his thumb into her mouth to keep it open.

Quickly he presses the bottle already opened with a flick of the cork off. Kivera wants to turn her head but can’t from his control and the ixal. The liquid burns, like liquid fire in her body, searing from the inside out. With the bottle emptied and cast off to break somewhere. Vanth waits.

He kneels in front of her. He was always a tall man, he might have chosen a roegadyn for their height better. But they didn’t fit the elegance he still holds. And would have raised suspicions. He had been around since Thordan’s end, leading people to follow him from the outskirts of Coerthas, those that disapproved of Aymeric still to the day.

How easy it is to lure people with the idea he can change things back the old way. Even more when he came across Fandaniel, giving him an idea of how to snare Kivera. Earning an ally through the ascian if it meant she would be dealt with.

Kivera feels white hot through her head, like everything she thought and knew was disappearing. It hurt to think, and it pained her to swallow, she tasted that bitter potion and she wanted to drag her tongue across the dirt. Though the only thing available would have been the fleshy floor of the tower. That disgusted her more. 

Her last thoughts were to her loved ones. Sending apologies through the links as she burns them, her last chance to make sure they are safe.

“I am sorry... for what I am about to do. I have no choice. Please know... that the being that you will face.. is not me. Kill her.” Her laments to Divinity, she relays the same to Estinien, then too to Shuri. She ends the link before she loses herself, severing them entirely. They will feel it, like a piece of them is ripped out. She can see Divinity collapsing into tears, and the confusion on Estinien and Shuri following Divinity. 

Kivera has told them endlessly, that things that a lich touches must be destroyed. That includes. Herself. It means a new cycle of spirits to begin, more tragedies to unfold. Kivera wishes even more that she could have used her former abilities. She lets her last thoughts be of the loved ones.

When she opens her eyes again, she looks up to Vanth. Her voice hollow and echoes in the tower. 

“I am at your command.” One final touch to her, a bone wyvern rests on her. A gift but also a symbiote parasite to keep her under his control. Vanth folds his arms.

“Good, I won’t have you attack yet. We need to wait a little bit per Fandaniel’s request for a better opportunity. Now come with me. We have much to do.” 

[dorkyungsoowrites]

Eros

Pairings: Kyungsoo x You

Genre: Fluff | Jane Austen AU

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.4k

Description: Ancient Greeks insist that there are eight different kinds of love, each given a name that holds special meaning…Eros: passionate love.

A/N: Requested by someone whose name is lost to the ether (I’m sorry I hope you find this. I remember it was “Kyungsoo x Reader by a lake plus neck kisses”), and inspired by a post @monicaexol​ made here. Also because you seemed excited, @j-pping​.

| Storge | Eros | ?

There is strict protocol for how a lady's morning is carried out. There is fairly strict--but not as strongly enforced--protocol for her schedule the rest of the day on most occasions afterward. And there are supremely stringent rules to educate them with proper manners and etiquette, usually through classes. At last there are the most dangerous and exhilarating rules cultivated and given by society to every girl as she rises into a woman to prepare them for the rigors and wiles of men. One learns most of these by proxy. If one is blessed with a doting mother, or in fact perhaps sisters were the best teachers second only to the honest and civil conversation with a gentleman, one could be moderately informed of the absolute blunder that fondness breeds on first approach.

So was the path of all affairs before engagement. Gossip and whispers and rumors flew faster than a lark, and the bird that flew it there held the biggest sway in reputation. Promoting each attendant of a party at least a week before the occasion, with each household choosing their favorites. Particularly of the young men and women who were eligible for their matchmaker gambling. Encouraging men to dance with particular women to line their pockets with pride.

That was how most couples met. It was how you met your sweetheart. Your family tittered about the gentleman that had come to visit the hosts of the future soiree for the summer. Japing about his reputation for being curt and austere. In truth you had been intrigued by the tales of his character for it seemed that you should not wholly trust the word of the birds alone.

It was most wise to hold back judgment for when you arrived at the gathering, for you were afflicted in the heart the moment of introduction. Mesmerized by his dark, severe eyes; striking you immobile with but a moments gaze. The memory was as clear as glass in your mind. The shape of his eyes, the intelligence and intensity in his irises, the way your breath tightened as your bosom inflamed. Longing, lusting, light-headed. You'd never seen such eyes.

So were the eyes you sought out a month after the party. The morning had been much the same as any other; your handmaiden helped you dress. First was your shift; a plain cotton garment you often slept in. Then the simple clocked stockings, secured with ribbon garter at the knee. A petticoat was necessary for warmth and modesty. Then the stay was laced around your torso with a wooden busk center front for posture support and to keep the figure once the dress went on. Next were pockets which you enjoyed stashing trinkets in to take to your secret affairs. After a hip pad was added, the outer layers could go on. A petticoat, a white neckerchief that was tucked into the front of the stay to protect your neck and chest from the sun, and the actual gown. As the off-white material was laced at the front you gazed down at the pattern on your long sleeves. Little blue flowers were speckled everywhere, and you lamented the season of falling, an autumn's blush in the trees and on your cheeks. Lastly was the silk apron to separate you from the workers of the household, and shoes with little silver buckles. All together the outfit was quite hardy, and you were able to slink away after lunch past the garden and through a narrow wood to a lake.

It was often as a child your siblings would swim during the sweltering summers there. It was well secluded from prying eyes and ears, but the waters were far too chilled that time of year. The stillness reflected the trees encompassing the grounds, and in the center, the purest blue called out for your heart to shine with it; luminescent and alluring. Letting your mind wander. It was in those moments that the voice that had been torturing your thoughts smiled behind you.

"Would I offend you, if I were to admit how long a time I've watched you?"

A grin stretched your lips, turning to see him approach. A hand was lowering the hat from his head, allowing the short, silken ebony locks to shine under the brightness of noon. The black and white suit he wore was proper, however devoid of accessories it was. And he had dained to switch the regular coat for something of thicker cloth and longer gait, the hem brushing his calves. It was a navy hue, highlighting the horrifically vivid and ethereal glow to his tawny complexion. Your heart could not be tamed at his approach just as the ocean would never cease to reach for the shore.

"Instead I would offer a warning," you replied. "For you shouldn't stare at the sun too long."

The hat was discarded, forgotten on the grass as saltwater embraced the sand and tarried. A wry smirk twisted his lips as his eyes focused on yours. Always intense and enchanting, and the light reflecting enhanced the color within, the sun swimming among his whiskey irises. Intent on getting you drunk.

"Then let beauty blind me and allow my last sight to be of everything that is precious. You are the sun and stars. You are the mountains, and the fields, and rivers and lakes. Always to be cherished. Never to be violated. Only to be loved...vigorously."

Words which you had never thought would ever leave a mouth as pretty as his, let alone become a bastion for fondness; his lips tender on your neck after his stark proclamation. Air became a rare commodity, catching in your throat. The bawdy action sent ripples of excitement through your body, and you clutched him closer. The indecentness would serve as a warning but for the sentiment in his heart.

Their families had made different matches for one another before the night you met; smarter matches they would tell. It only revealed their ignorance on the subject of affection. For if there was never a coupling such as yours for the next century, then not another couple would suffer as greatly in a century if you were parted.

The pressures of high society had been choking him and you. The birds, and the parties, and loquacious old women so sapped of their own vitality in their dull lives as to make interfering with others' their sole hobby. There never seemed to be a caring hand; someone who didn't only seek the ends. Get married; nevermind the adventure in courtship. Nevermind reveling in the company of a kind intellect. Nevermind celebrating the magnificence of life steeped in wonder while laying entwined in soul, spirit and body. Nevermind love.

He was of a mind to yearn for conversation and contented silence with a partner. To stroll away and earn peace and happiness without a crowd or extraneous clothes and property. You wished the same, and in the space between, your passions collided; coalescing into something greater. Being wanted solely and completely as yourselves, you may be able to break through that foul and ugly mist that had strangled you both.

"Shall I never tire of your winsome character," you elated.

A gust of wind dusted your cheeks with chill and fluttered your skirts. His mouth stole another taste of your skin before pulling back to greet your gaze once more, inadvertently shielding you from the cold. You were acquainted with a mien he intimated was rendered by you unwittingly; warm and soft with a smile that could raze even the strongest of wills.

"The days after our meeting," he said. "I spent walking through gardens hoping they would drive away the heavy thought of care, and perhaps it worked as such for I am here, with you now...without a care in my heart but for you." Your mouth opened, but his words carried on before you could reply. "Despite what our respective relatives might assume, this hasn't been some summer dalliance for me, and as I know I must return home before we are beset upon by winter, I know I would be leaving my heart here with it. Therefore, with all my soul and self bared vulnerable, I would disclose one more thought...nothing would make me happier than to escort you home alongside me as my betrothed."

"Is...this a proposal?"

"With an answer that is yours to give as you please."

The lake's reflection rippled under the wind. He lifted a hand to your face and it betrayed his calm; trembling as fingers fondled stray locks of hair and moved them aside. Tumultuous tenderness as his drunken eyes studied every heartbeat.

To leave all you knew to venture with all you wanted to know. Rational thoughts absconded from your mind. To pretend you required to rationalize this at all was folly. You knew the answer, and when your love collided with his in a kiss, he did too.

[adjure]

Chapter 1 - The Child Born of Rebellion Dedicated to @phen0l, thanks for being a constant Magi superstar. :D

This fine evening, you are a guest of the great Kou Empire. Honored in a wicked way, escorted into the throne hall by two guards within a palace you could get lost in; a place that is much too grandiose for the likes of you. 

Nothing separates you from the emperor ahead. Nothing except for however many steps it takes for your legs to carry you there. But they are shackled by chains and weights at the ankles, and your wrists are bound behind your back. The armored guards hold your arms, swords sheathed in a deadly promise. All that is left is for you to do is drag your sore, bare  feet along the clean, revered path of the dragon’s den. Aching body the least willing sacrifice to be made, defiance present in the very breaths you take.

You will never bow your head. Never.

The metal chains clack against one another while your chin cants upwards with careless abandon– or perhaps with the dignity you refuse to let go. Wavering neither when faced by the armored guards shoving you in, nor the moments you stood among the blaze of Kou’s ruined military outpost in the south, your limbs blackened by soot and ash.

Between clusters of clamorous rukh, red hot with unbridled anger, you are forced to kneel by the foot of the throne on scraped and bruised knees, wearing tattered clothes painted with mud and blood. You glare with fiery eyes, indignant enough to warrant your immediate beheading here upon the pristine tiles of Kou’s grand throne hall if he wishes for it.

If he so wills it, then your death comes in one simple gesture. That is what your life amounts to; the flick of a wrist, an order from a pair of lips that should not be different from any other. 

But it is. And what makes his words different from yours, or from the people his army has slain– what makes his words different from the ones born in the slums, the ones bent under his feet, the ones who cannot speak– is that he has robbed the power, the freedom, the rights and liberty of his subjects. Giving nothing but a wash of false security in return under the guise of crafty laws.

This existence of an unbending power looks down upon your ragged form, a man solely crafted to mock people like you; the one who holds the crown, the throne, the glorious warlord risen from what small country Kou used to be. His gaze is sharp and precise, expression betraying nothing.

A mockery to your inability under his overwhelming force.

You see him from behind disheveled hair, a figure wearing dark, silken robes lined with golden, soaring dragons climbing up towards the heavens. The headdress dangles over his face, casting shadows when he moves, a long beard resting on his chest. Two pillars erect on either sides, two generals stand to his left and to his right. They are the emperor’s arms and legs, fingers gripping their spears in unfaltering prowess. 

There is no warmth here in the middle of a merciless winter for you. Although the flames continue to burn, alighting this hall and all its glory, your breaths don’t fail to come out in puffs of fog from parted lips. Ones that curl into a dry, teeth-baring smile. Perhaps closer to a snarl of a cornered beast, whose fingertips are freezing and body trembling with neither fear nor apprehension.

It is raw, gut-wrenching wrath that seizes you when you try to scream, try to stand, only to be slammed down onto the floor. Your jaw and ribs ache, breaths trembling, yet you do not stop struggling. If your blood is to be spilled here– if your corpse will roll here and soil this sacred palace, then your rukh will stay as their reminder and it will be your victory.

At this moment, your voice is nowhere to be found. Hoarse and gone from the screaming, tied by a gag of cloth too fine for you and a knot too tight for comfort. You do not find solace here, as a young child barely thirteen of age, held beneath a man twice your size. And, in a twist of irony, granted an audience by the lord of these lands while being treated worse than a slave.

You are the seed of rebellion that needs to be trampled before your roots grow too deep and too strong.

Emperor Hakutoku is known to be wise and just, powerful and frightening, the perfect figure to stand as both a leader and a father to his citizens. He has conquered many lands, the man to topple Kai and Go and brought them all together. Hailed as a hero, a ruler beloved by all.

Only if they submit.

You? What are you but nothing more than a prize for the royal princes of Kou who have successfully quelled the rebellion of the south? Trekking even the most hazardous of the mountain ranges, maneuvering their soldiers with expertise that exceeds even the greatest warriors of your tribe. No, it was not raw power your people lacked.

It was the fealty Kou soldiers had for the glory of their empire. It was the perverted sense of justice that your tribe lacked as the bloody battle was waged and exhausted your brethrens one by one, while the imperial forces continued to rain down as hell incarnate and razed everything to the ground. Everything replays in your head, vivid as day; clear in the forefront of your skull.

“That’s enough, release the girl.” Suddenly, the weight on your back is no more. Hakutoku’s deep, rumbling order did nothing to gain your gratitude. Only a scoff as you lift your body with a heaving grunt. A snake ready to strike.

But something else strikes first.

“His Imperial Highnesses Crown Prince Hakuyuu and Second Prince Hakuren have requested an audience with the Emperor!” A eunuch’s shrill voice announces the presence of Kou’s two princes from outside of the hall’s gates, causing the silence that has already laid upon you to feel heavier than before. As if you needed more weight on your shoulders. As if you needed it to be harder to breathe.

“Let them in.” Emperor Hakutoku’s order is concise. And soon, two pairs of footsteps– those of trained soldiers, light yet present all the same, march across the long stretch of the gate to the throne. They don’t spare you a glance, and you keep your spine straight where you kneel.

Head up high. Eyes ahead. Chin lifted. Your fingers curl till the knuckles turn  pale.

For those who lived and lost, you keep your trembling body still.

It is then that the princes stop ahead of you on either side, with the younger one (whose wide, pale blue eyes remind you of a bright and cunning fox when he looks your way) to your left. Ren Hakuren stands impressively, sinewy muscles apparent as the fabric of his sleeves roll back as he bends his elbows and clasps a fist within a palm to greet the emperor. The off-white garment is decorated in black and silver, contrasting his elder brother’s darker robes.

And him . Ren Hakuyuu, the owner of a gaze as cold and sharp as iron, piercing like the finest of blades forged during the darkest of dusk. A mirroring pair of blues yet paler than anyone else’s, it catches you the same way the worst of snowstorms would. The crown prince stands there, a silent blizzard with poise befitting of the dragon’s son. And you swallow emptily as they bow in respect towards their royal father.

“Father,” Prince Hakuyuu begins, a voice that naturally demands attention pouring out of those lips like the smoothest of Go liquor, “I implore you, please do not kill this child.”

The short, guttural laugh that comes from Hakutoku twists your guts. A part of you believes bile would rise from your throat to empty your already hollow stomach. “Kill? What makes you think I would?”

“By our own laws, rebels are to be executed.” Hakuyuu’s stance is firm, unbending even as he lifts his head. Hakuren follows. “You are a just ruler, Father, forgive me for being improper but I ask you to break this law.”

Hakutoku’s hand, roughened from decade long scars, stroke his beard. “For a simple child?”

“Father, if I may speak.” It is Hakuren who perks up, tone lighter than Hakuyuu’s ever stern one. Hakuren is earnest, his voice bright. And he lives up to his name, carrying a grace and purity like lotus flowers would, hidden deep in murky waters of the Kou Empire’s expanse.

“You may.”

“Thank you, Father. Brother Hakuyuu and I believe that she would be a great friend for Hakuei. Our sister is still young, but she has yet made any friends with the other princesses.”

Interest piqued, Hakutoku ‘s hand stops and both brows raise high on his forehead. “Then why not ask the general’s children? Or one of the official’s?”

“They might use this opportunity to use Hakuei as their pawn in order to gain your favor.” Once again, Hakuren clasps his hands true to Kou’s greeting and bows his head. “This child has no connections to Kou’s internal politics, and we can keep a close eye on her if she is by Hakuei’s side.”

Hakuyuu says not a word, simply standing there as he glances at you. The exact moment he does, all pairs of eyes present in this room are drilling into your figure, as if willing you to collapse. Your knees and legs have long gone numb, and you dare not close your eyes.

“…I see.”

It is very simple indeed. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Young as you may be, you have known what it is like to kill a man, to bury a knife deep into the chest of a soldier as you try to protect those dear to you– feel blood roll down your arms, and another body go limp.

For someone who has grown with war, you have not known peace.

But you know how precious it is to live.

“I will make sure she can do Hakuei no harm,” Hakuyuu adds.

“Then I will entrust you to this, Hakuyuu.”

The process of bringing you from the throne hall to a quiet, desolate corner of the palace far from the main hustle and bustle of imperial activities is much different to the process of hauling you in. The guards had been dismissed some time ago, and you now walk along between the two princes who are keeping up with your excruciatingly slow pace. Your lips twist.

After a long stretch of silence, Hakuren tries to converse with you. He cheerily asks, “What’s your name?”

You don’t answer.

“I don’t think she will talk to either of us, Hakuren.”

“Ah,” comes the sheepish laugh as Hakuren scratches his cheek. “I know, but I thought I’d try. She seems… well, I can’t help but feel a bit pitiful.”

At the word pitiful , you shoot him a glare. Hakuyuu’s lips part when he sighs, and Hakuren simply smiles at you. Seems like you’ve fallen to some trap of his. This cunning second prince.

“A negative reaction is better than none at all!” comes the cheerful announcement as if Hakuren has nothing else to worry about in this world. You clench your jaw and stagger forward, feeling the pricks on your legs that threaten to topple over. Oddly enough, neither asks if you need help.

Whether it’s because they think you are too filthy to touch or they respect your dignity, you are glad either way. There is nothing you’d like more but to owe no debts, especially to Kou royalty.

There are no maids to take care of you here, as expected. The three of you arrive in a forgotten part of the Crane Pavillion, a good long half an hour walk away from the central palace where the emperor resides. Through gardens and less-trodden stone paths, winding about even worse than a maze, you begin to realize the magnitude of this palace. It is larger than anything you have ever seen; a city within a city.

Yet this place still carries an air of serenity. Well-kept, by the looks of it. Artificial outcrops and trimmed grass line the path towards a gazebo that rests in the middle of a manmade pond. You see shadows of fat kois swimming in it, hiding beneath floating lily pads. But it’s too dark to admire what otherwise would be a slice of heaven in a tumultuous world.

“You will stay here for now,” Hakuyuu orders, his figure partly a silhouette from the warm lanterns lining your surroundings. “Food and clean clothes have already been provided in your room. I will send you a handmaiden come morning.”

What? You turn to him, and your lips turn thin. Whatever expression you have on your face seems to communicate your apprehension well enough to the princes.

“Make sure to clean yourself properly, kiddo,” adds Hakuren as he makes a scrubbing motion. He grins. “You’ll be our little sister’s playmate after all.”

Wanting to rebut his statement, you realize that your voice still hasn’t returned. Only a dampened whistling noise comes out when you try to speak, causing you to frown.

“Go now,” Hakuyuu ushers you through the sliding doors, closing it to give you some space. And from your shoulders, just peeking between the space before the door shuts entirely, you can see Hakuren waiting for his brother in the gazebo. He waves when he catches your gaze.

Then, they’re nowhere to be seen.

You know that they’re still out there, as you hear faint voices conversing too far for your ears to pick up words. Instead, you finally let yourself crumple onto the floor by the bed, legs shaking. In the confines of a cage that disguises itself as the sky, you are now nothing more than a bird whose wings are clipped. But clipped wings are better than none, and one day, you will learn how to fly again.

Now, you curse the neither condescending nor demeaning attitude of the princes who led an army to siege your home. From the beginning, they have neither treated you like less nor more. Just like everyone else, they see you as human.

And you hate it.

[anarchy-lives-eternal]

The Nicest People

Have you ever heard the saying “the nicest people are the scariest motherfuckers when they’re angry”? Well, Angel Dust had never really thought much about it over his century of existence. However, on this particular day, that would all change.

Angel, even having grown up in a crime family, never thought much about that old saying. His family were scary to other people. Hell, Valentino was scary, but he was never nice in the first place!

Charlie though, the demoness who had brought him off the street after pissing off Valentino one too many times, who had actually cared about him and did her best to help him, was the kindest person in his little world. He didn’t so much as breathe a word of his appreciation to anybody, but he knew that Charlie knew he cared about her. Angel likes to think that his small affections and their Friday night “movie and cuddle” tradition they had started over the last few years showed her that much.

That being said, Angel had seen nearly every emotion pass over the demoness’s face. Joy, sadness, fear, anxiety, she even got annoyed sometimes! But the only emotions he had never seen in those impossibly wide doe eyes, that now were narrowed slits, was disgust and...

Pure, carnal, rage. After all, Angel and most of the others thought that such a thing was impossible.

Until, that is, during this years purge. An angel had barged into the hotel lobby where everyone was crowded together, Alastor trying to comfort Charlie with wacky little songs, or cute little cheek kisses. The other occupants were there seeking comfort either in the presence of those who had become their friends, or in the cheap booze that Husker mixed up. Angel and Vaggie in particular were there to help Alastor comfort their friend and boss.

When the angel had burst through the front door, there had been a dead silence that permeated the room. Every sinner froze, eyes wide, unsure of the reason for its presence.

Charlie, teary eyed as she was, was the first to step forward, asking if one of the sinners had been redeemed, and if not, why they were here.

The angel had cocked its head, mask firmly in place, and its simple reply had been what sent Charlie off the deep end, “Redeemed? No, I’m simply here to take care of a vermin problem.”

Before anyone could process that an angel actually just fucking spoke, Charlie was already in front of it, nose to nose. Her hair had broken from its usual band and was flaring wildly, her horns, instead of pointing straight to the ceiling, were twice their normal width and curled backwards like her mothers, her irises poison yellow, and her sclera glowing bloody red. Her teeth, while still a gleaming white, were even sharper than Alastor’s, “Then get. Out. Before I show you why I’m the next in line for the Fallen Throne.”

“Move, demon. This is a job, nothing more.”

Charlie snarled before moving faster than any of us could track, wrapping her clawed hand around the angels throat before bodily throwing him back out the front doors.

All of the residents of the hotel were still in shock, but snapped out of it quickly when Charlie began stalking forward slowly, changing even more with each step. Her height beginning to rival Alastor’s, and three pairs of black feathered wings sprouting from her back, each wing tip decorated in a gleaming talon and the end feathers looked more like black razor blades, ripping apart her shirt and leaving her in only a bralette with her suspenders.

As Charlie walked outside the hotel, everyone had rushed forward to watch from the doors, Alastor being the only sinner bold enough to walk outside.

“Hey Smiles, what do you think is gonna happen? I’ve never seen Charlie this fuckin pissed before.”

Alastor couldn’t tear his eyes away from the beauty in front of him. His smile hurt his cheeks, “Why, my effeminate fellow, I do believe that we are about to witness the death of an angel,” he paused, “you might even be able to call him angel dust soon enough.”

Angel rolled his eyes at the horrible pun on his name. Before anything else could be said though, they all heard a groan from the ground where the angel laid. The sounds of screams around them nearly drowning it out. All eyes returned to the fight about to start before them.

Charlie allowed the angel to stand, her eyes casting an eerie orange glow upon the white dressed being. She stood tall, elegance emanating from her even in all her fury.

“How dare an abomination such as you lay hands on me!”

“Correction: it was only one hand. And it laid upon you for threatening me and MINE.”

And suddenly the ground around the two erupted, magma and hellfire whipped into a frenzy by the Princess’s temper.

Angel noticed another movement out of the corner of his eye, Vaggie had finished whispering something to Razzle and Dazzle, and the two disappeared into the shadows.

Charlie stretches out her wings for the first time in centuries and felt something inside her sigh with relief. ‘This is what you were born to do. This is what you were meant for. Destruction. Razing the world. Punishing sinners’

Charlie’s snarling grin could cut diamonds at this point. She could sense everything around her. Each angel that was invading her territory. Trying to hurt her people.

It was time they leave.

Just as the angel reached for their weapon, Charlie moved. She sprung forth with all the fury within herself. Two sets of wings helped propel her, the third set reaching forth alongside her claws, ready to slice into holy flesh.

The residents of the hotel watched in horrified awe (well, Alastor was quite gleeful) as their princess made well known why she was to be feared and respected.

Moments. That’s all it took. Moments before the angel was slammed so hard into the cracked earth that it created a crater, and it’s head was torn from its body. Blue blood splattered across Charlie’s face as she rose from the crater on her wings.

That’s when five other angels showed up, brought by the sounds and commotion.

“Do you wish to challenge me as well?” Charlie asked them all at once. Her eyes burning into the masks of each one as she tossed the decapitated angel to the side, licking at the blood staining her black lips.

Before anything else could happen, another figure entered the clearing, bearing a striking resemblance to Charlie herself, only this one was male.

“Looks like daddy Luci decided to join the party...” Angel murmured.

“My little fallen angel, it’s been centuries since you lost your temper. It’s rather refreshing, I must say. As for you five, what say you to leaving? Do you truly wish to feel the ire of two fallen angels? I can guarantee that you won’t survive should you decide not to leave of your own accord.”

“Your monstrosity has committed a high crime, Lucifer. She must be punished.”

At this, Charlie laughed, “You call me a monstrosity, yet your brother tried to exterminate sinners who are working towards redemption. What would the Heavenly Father think? After all, these sinners are trying to repent.”

The angel who had spoken tilted his head a bit, “Is this true?”

Finally, Alastor decided to step forward, to act as a “neutral party”, “It is true. We had all gathered in the hotel to comfort and support one other on this... difficult day. The angel in question entered the premises and mocked the sinners seeking redemption, calling all ‘vermin’ to be ‘dealt with’.”

Lucifer, with a grin similar to Charlie and Alastor’s own, turned back to the angel, maliciousness dripping from his voice, “You see? My daughter only acted in defense of her people. Not to mention, your angel broke the rules. No angel is allowed to enter any home or establishment in Hell.”

The angel mulled over the new information for a moment, and everyone held their breath except for the three demons facing them. Lucifer and Charlie were in no way fearful of the angels. They knew that they could take on five with no issues, and Alastor simply stared adoringly to Charlie, not a care in the world that five angels stood before him. That’s when the bell signaling midnight rung out through the bloody night.

“Very well. The bell has tolled. You shall all live another year. May those seeking redemption find it.”

They all turned to fly away, but Lucifer called out once more, “Oh, and Michael.”

The angel that had spoken, now identified as Michael, stiffened and froze in place before turning only slightly to look at Lucifer.

“If I ever catch an angel breaking my simple rules again, I will take great pleasure in killing every single one of them. Even you, dear brother.”

“I can assure you that no such thing will happen again. I give my word. Oh. And Father says ‘hi’.”

Lucifers only reaction was the narrowing of his eyes.

_______________________________________________

As all of the remaining angels vacated Hell, Charlie and her little motley crew remained outside. Finally, she lifted up her hand and sent the usual signal for the end of the cleansing into the sky, and demons from all around came to investigate what they had heard. Once many got a good look, they quickly retreated to a safe distance.

Alastor and Lucifer both approached Charlie, who was still in her full form

“Here, my darling/fallen angel” both said at the same time, then glared at each other as they each went to hand Charlie their coat.

Charlie took Alastor’s coat, not putting it on yet, before glancing at her father, “What? You can’t answer a call, but you hear about a fight and you come running? Do you still think I can’t handle myself?”

Lucifer looked away, seeming almost apologetic, “Charlie, while I admit that I have been rather callous, I have my own reasons for not supporting your idea. I know you could fight every angel in heaven and win, but that doesn’t mean that I wasn’t worried. I should have been... more understanding. I realize that now.”

Charlie’s eyes widened. This was the closest to an apology as she was ever going to get. That didn’t erase her anger though, and her wings shifted of their own accord, showing her irritation.

“Darling, not to interrupt, but I do believe that you are making our local population a tad nervous at the moment.” He handed her his handkerchief to wipe off the blood, and she took it gratefully, her form shrinking to her normal state while she wiped her face.

“You missed a spot, Sweetheart.”

Charlie looked confusedly at Alastor when he reached out and swiped a finger at the corner of her lips, bringing the drop of blood to his own and licking it off.

Charlie just rolled her eyes, “You couldn’t resist, could you?”

“Why would I even try my dear?” Alastor said with a staticky laugh.

Charlie chucked as she put Alastors coat on.

Lucifer looked suspiciously between the two, “And what is your relationship with my daughter Radio Demon?”

Alastor laughed again, “I’m her Beau, of course! I simply couldn’t resist the charms of my little belle!”

“What! But Charlie—!”

Charlie raised her hand, palm facing her father, and used the same stern look she remembered her mother giving on multiple occasions, “Dad, you haven’t got a leg to stand on right now. I’m happy. He treats me right.”

Lucifer looked almost like a kicked puppy, muttering that his sweet little fallen angel had a new man in her life and didn’t need him anymore. Then he stood straight once more, “Well, I suppose that’s all I really need to know,” he turned to Alastor, “just know, Radio Demon, if you hurt her, I will not be nearly as merciful as my daughter.”

That’s when the moment was broken, by Angel of course, “Merciful! Babes just tore that saps head off! I ain’t ever seen her so pissed!”

The field went silent, but it was broken with a small chuckle that turned into full blown laughter. Charlie doubled over, her guffaws bringing tears to her eyes.

After near five minutes of her laughter, she stood upright again, wiping her tears away, “Yeah, I guess you weren’t down here the last time I lost my temper, huh? But you see, that’s why I try so hard to be kind, and to help you all. I know exactly what I’m capable of, Angel. I know I could raze all of hell if I wanted to. Because if I’ve learned anything, I’ve learned that true kindness is only true when you are capable of true cruelty as well.”

That seemed to resonate with the sinners. After witnessing her fury, they finally understood why she was so pure. It wasn’t because she isn’t capable of depravity, it’s because she is, and chooses a better path.

“Well! Not to diminish the moment, but shall we go inside? I’ll even ale my mother’s famous jambalaya. How does that sound, love? Alastor held out his hand to Charlie, who took it, smiling widely beside him.

“I think that sounds grand.”

[sareyen]

A Machine Without Feelings: A Jane Eyre AU (Part 10/11)

Read on ao3

Chapter 10

Charles kissed Jean and Ororo’s cheeks in that sequence, the women both squeezing his hands for good luck. Jean murmured that they would be waiting here for good news – because, they refused to believe that things would go badly. Charles was grateful for their positivity in a time when his stomach was tying itself up in knots.

Charles left Jean and Ororo at their hotel in the town just outside of Ironfield, the same town that Charles had been walking to when he met Erik for the first time.

It was now almost a year later that Charles has returned, and the day was bright and sunny, unlike the day he ran away. Many things had changed in that time; Charles was older and wearier, even if he did not look it. His soul, a soul that was as much Erik’s as it was his, was tired and withered. The string tied beneath his left ribs tugged painfully, but as the carriage had neared, he could feel it knotting itself back together.

People that loved each other would only part if one of them wished it. Charles had always been the one who, naively, thought that Heathcliff’s words had been beautiful. It was funny how he was the one to have caused the pain those words warned him about.

Charles had heard nothing from Erik, not that he had tried to contact him recently. Part of Charles held a fear that Erik had moved on. Unlike Charles, Erik had been in relationships with women before, and many more than one. What if Charles was just another one? One of his mistresses that he fleetingly loved because he abhorred his mad wife?

But Charles couldn’t bring himself to believe that, not when he knew Erik. Erik had withheld things from Charles, yes, but the parts of himself that he did let Charles see, they were real. Erik had shown Charles that he loved him, even when he hadn’t told him everything. While Charles still loved Erik, he was sure that Erik still loved him.

‘He’s still calling my name, I can hear it,’ Charles thought to himself, heart hammering as he hobbled out of the hotel with the aid of the walking stick Logan had made for him on his nineteenth birthday.   

The dirt roads leading up to Ironfield were impossible to traverse on his wheelchair, and Charles was resolved to get there on his own. Charles limped his way to hail a carriage from the front of the hotel, which soon dropped him off at the closest stop along the road to Ironfield. Charles paid them, before beginning the trek up to the grand house.

Charles had always enjoyed this walk, and remembered how he felt when he and Erik would walk it together in the light of dusk. Erik would sometimes tug him behind a stocky tree and press him up against its trunk, sealing Charles’s red lips with his own and kissing him until he couldn’t breathe.

Now, the walk was laborious, a little sweat building on Charles’s brow as he hobbled down the familiar road.

It was when he drew close enough to break through the veil of overlying trees that Charles stopped dead in his tracks, walking stick clattering to the ground.

Ironfield Hall, his home, was a ruin.

What had used to be battlements that stood tall and proud against the horizon were charred black and crumbled, revealing burnt exposed rafters that splintered into jagged pieces. Ironfield no longer had a roof, its walls now mere slabs of broken stone on the ground.

It looked like fire had razed Ironfield to the ground, and Charles suddenly couldn’t breathe.

Charles fumbled to pick up his discarded walking stick before hopping and dragging his maimed leg forwards and forwards, numb to the pain as he stared with wide eyes at the remains of the once-grand mansion.

Crows squawked around the caved-in roof, Charles pushing his way through the non-existent door, which had been reduced to black coal.

The inside was as bad as the exterior, if not worse. It looked like no furniture had been spared from the inferno, the wooden banisters of the staircase mere twigs on the ground. Charles wobbled forwards, heart growing more and more frantic as he realised that the estate, the estate where he had fallen in love and had his heart filled and broken, was a wasteland.

“Oh, God,” Charles choked out, falling into Erik’s downstairs study. It had also been touched by the fire, and was devoid of its books and souvenirs from abroad, his desk black and empty. It seemed like, apart from the fire, looters had ravaged the place bare.

‘Where is Erik? Moira? Alex? Where is everyone? What happened? Oh God, I’m toolatetoolatetoolate.’

“Who goes there?!” a sharp voice called out, Charles whirling around at the sound of the voice. Footsteps rushed forwards, before bursting into the study. The man who tore through the room skidded to a stop when he saw Charles, stumbling back with a double take that would have been comical in any other situation.

“Charles?!” Scott yelled, rubbing his eyes like he had seen a ghost. It was indeed Scott Summers, looking different but the same. While before he had always worn a coachman’s garb, he now donned a fine suit and spectacles. His hair was neatly styled, longer than it used to be – he no longer looked like a young coachman, but a wealthy lord. Like someone who finally married a wealthy woman like Emma Frost.

Charles was speechless and in shock, Scott recovering first and rushing towards him.

“Charles, is that really you?” Scott asked frantically, pulling at Charles’s cheeks, like he expected his hands to go right through him. When Charles yelped at the pain of having his cheeks pulled so harshly, Scott jumped, apologising profusely. “Charles, what are you- Why are you here? When did you return? We thought we would never see you again, we thought you had perished, we didn’t know…”

“Scott, what happened here?” Charles asked, hand holding his walking stick shaking desperately. “Scott, where is Erik? Is he… He can’t be…”

Charles’s mind reeled back to the night he had saved Erik from being consumed by flames in his bed. Erik had left that incident unscathed, healthy, safe and whole, but this time… If this time Erik had died in a fire, when Charles had left him…

Charles felt sick, and swayed on his feet.

Scott saw him begin to topple over, quickly rushing and catching the former tutor, snagging his arm before he fell to the ground.

“Charles! What happened… oh, your leg,” Scott said, noticing the walking stick and the way Charles didn’t put any weight on his left leg. “Never mind. Here, let’s go to another room. The drawing room is one of the only rooms that is still functional. Let’s sit there, and I will explain what happened.”

Charles weakly nodded, letting Scott help him down familiar yet broken halls to the drawing room he and Erik had shared many chess games together. When Scott led him through the doors, he could hear the clink of their glasses, the scrape of wood against wood as someone moved a chess piece, an occasional laugh, an impassioned voice as they argued, the soft press of Erik’s lips against his.

Scott lowered Charles into his old seat, which appeared to have remained in the same spot beside the chess set. There was no chess set in sight, though – it had been taken by looters some time ago as well.

Scott was about to take the seat opposite Charles – Erik’s seat – but he must have seen the pain cross Charles’s face, and stopped part way. Scott coughed, standing up to lean against a shelf instead.

“Where do you want me to start?” Scott asked, Charles licking his lips. He wanted to know if Erik was alive, but he was afraid to ask the question. If he asked, and Scott said that he had died…

“The beginning. From when I left,” Charles said, voice shaking. Scott nodded, rubbing his face and taking in a deep breath.

“We found out that you had left when we heard Erik scream out your name. He had gone to your rooms at around ten that morning, wanting to talk to you again, to try and explain himself. He had knocked on your door for a long time, until he felt like something was truly wrong, and that you weren’t just ignoring him. He burst down the door, and that was it. You were gone. He had screamed out name over and over, we could hear it from the other side of the mansion.”

‘He had been calling for me, and I had heard him.’

“Erik… Erik was beside himself, of course,” Scott said, Charles growing pale. “He ordered us to look for you, and took off on his horse himself – but by then, you were long gone. He locked himself in your chambers then, for two weeks straight. Moira had to bring him all his meals, and even then, he seemed to have no appetite. He began to eat more when we all… well, at that point, we weren’t afraid of losing our jobs anymore.”

“He recovered physically after that, and on the outside, he was the same Mr Lehnsherr. Maybe more bitter and snappy, but his mood had always been changeable. Inside… inside he wasn’t the same. We all know why you left, Charles. The master did, too. Before you ask, no, he never blamed you for leaving. He knew he had done you wrong, and he believed that he was paying for his mistake. He never stopped loving you or waiting for you, though. Moira caught him praying, every night – and you know that the master was no Christian.”

‘He never stopped loving you,’ Charles repeated, stomach twisting. Why does that make it sound like he…

“It was about a month after that. His wife… Creed’s sister, she escaped one night and took a candle from a sleeping Anna-Marie. She set fire to all the curtains, to the beds, to everything. She burnt Ironfield Hall down, Charles, but before it was completely destroyed she climbed onto the tallest battlement and threw herself off it.”

Charles gasped, somehow able to picture it clearly. The ghost – Clara Creed – with her long blonde hair and white night dress, bare footed and wild. He could see her leap through the air, thinking that she was a dove, and falling until she hit the hard stone below. She would have died instantly.

Scott paused, letting Charles stomach the news, only continuing when Charles nodded slowly.

“Moira and the other girls escaped in time, but…” Scott’s voice grew thick then, and Charles knew what was about to come. “Peter was trapped in his room, terrified. Alex and the master looked for him, and the master found him and got him out. But Alex… Alex became trapped when the rafters collapsed. He… my brother. He passed that night,” Scott coughed, overcome with emotion. “We held the funeral for him the week after.”

“I’m so sorry, Scott,” Charles said, voice shaking as he closed his eyes. Apart from Moira, Alex was the person Charles was closest with amongst the staff. Alex, the first person he had met when he arrived at Ironfield Hall. Alex, who had smiled at him and made him feel welcome, who had told him that ‘so you love a man? What is so wrong with that? Someone people never love at all in their life, and is that not worse?’

“Thank you. It was six months ago now, Charles,” Scott said, trying to give Charles a reassuring, thankful smile. “We have begun to heal. Alex… Alex considered you a close friend. Everyone did. After you left, we all missed you, and talked about you often. We all prayed for you to be safe, but we never knew where you had gone, even when Erik had hired investigators. It was like Charles Xavier had vanished off the face of the Earth. Where did you go, Charles?”

“Past the Moors, to a small parish there. I… I was taken in by the inhabitants at Eden House,” Charles said softly. “Two of them came here with me today.”

“We’d all be glad to know that you weren’t alone,” Scott said, stepping forward now to gently place his hand on Charles’s shoulder.

Charles had to ask the question now, unable to take it any longer.

“Scott, is he alive?” Charles asked, the man blinking.

“He? Oh. The master. Yes, Charles. Yes, he’s alive. I should have told you that from the start, I’m sorry,” Scott said quickly, Charles releasing a breath he did not know he had been holding, letting out a choked laugh.

“Oh, thank God,” Charles shook, folding over on himself, dropping his head into his hands and wiping his wet eyes before turning to Scott again. “Where is he then, Scott? I came back for him. I… I heard him calling for me.”

“When Ironfield burned down, we could no longer live here. He relocated to his second, smaller residence a little further into the country. It is called Genosha Manor,” Scott explained, and Charles’s legs, even maimed as one was, itched to run there immediately.

“It is small, and didn’t need many people to maintain it. Only Moira and Lorna went with him and Peter. Moira has written to me recently, though, and it appears that the master has sent Peter to school. Now, only Moira is there to tend to him. Angel found a new situation, and Anna-Marie… Anna felt guilty about not being able to stop Clara, and couldn’t bear to work for the master any more. She found new work a few shires over, for a family that lives at a place called Westchester.”

Scott jumped when Charles let out a shocked, incredulous laugh. Coincidence, or fate?

“How far is it to Genosha?” Charles asked, Scott beginning to smile now.

“Only a few hours by carriage. If you leave now, you can get there in the afternoon,” Scott said, Charles nodding, gripping his walking stick tightly with newfound determination.

“Thank you, Scott. For everything,” Charles said, Scott nodding and helping Charles to stand.

“I have to tell you though, Charles. The master, he is not the same man. When he went to save Peter from the fire, he did not come out unscathed,” Scott said, and Charles just shook his head, patting Scott’s arm.

“Neither am I. Neither of us are the same, now – and maybe, that’s why we will be fine this time.”

***

Scott did not accompany Charles to Genosha, since he had to return to his and Emma’s own home. Emma was currently with child, and Charles did not want to take him away from her side during such a critical time. He had only been at Ironfield to try and salvage what the looters missed, but found that he was too late. Scott had been too kind, still offering to escort Charles to Genosha when he saw how poorly his leg was. Scott only gave in when he met Jean and Ororo when he dropped Charles off at the hotel. Charles doubted that Scott would have left him in anyone else’s hands.

Charles told Jean and Ororo about what had happened, and they had held Charles’s hands the entire coach ride. When they arrived at Genosha Manor, within the boundaries of the afternoon as Scott had said, Charles was suddenly frozen in fear as he took in the unfamiliar building.

It was no Ironfield Hall, and was a simpler country house, though Charles knew that it would have costed a hefty price because of the sprawling lands that came with it. The manor itself, however, was small compared to the extravagant Ironfield.

The manor was made of a warm-toned stone, in contrast to the dark greys of Ironfield. Rustic glass windows spanned the walls covered with climbing ivy. The manor was not imposing compared to Ironfield, and in fact looked inviting and warm from the orange glow the early sunset was beginning to cast upon it.

Charles breathed in and out with every step Jean took as she wheeled him across the gravel walk way to the manor.

Ororo knocked on the door, before stepping to stand beside Charles, clutching his hand.

Charles’s breath quickened when he heard footsteps reach the door, the sound of a lock unlatching loud in Charles’s ears. The door soon swung open inwardly, revealing Moira, who was dressed in a dark black dress. Her hands froze mid-motion, the door only half open as she stared at Charles, like he was a phantom.

“Hello, Moira,” Charles said, Moira’s eyes immediately filling with tears as she opened the door fully, cupping Charles’s face with her hands and letting out a sob.

Moira opened her mouth to say something, but was cut off by an achingly familiar, cold and brusque voice.

“MacTaggert! Send whoever they are away! I don’t want to be disturbed!”

“Erik,” Charles whispered, Moira letting out a quiet laugh, wiping her eyes.

“Charles, you’ve come back,” Moira said, taking all of him in. “I knew you were alive. Others thought that you maybe… But no, no. That doesn’t matter anymore. You’re here now.”

“Yes,” Charles said, Moira looking away from him then, finally noticing that he was not alone. “Moira, these are two of the people that cared for me while I was away. They are like sisters to me. This is Ororo, and behind me is Jean. And this is Mrs Moira MacTaggert, my dearest friend.”

Moira beamed, eyes a little wet again, and she smoothly curtseyed at Ororo and Jean.

“Charles’s family is considered my family,” Moira said, smiling at them warmly. “Come in. Charles, as you probably heard, Mr Lehnsherr is…”

“In one of his moods, like always?” Charles supplied, Moira letting out a laugh, a wondrous sound, like she still couldn’t quite believe what was happening.

“Yes, exactly. And I suspect, like always, you have a remedy to temper such a mood?” Moira said, eyes twinkling.

Charles nodded, mouth curving upwards.

“Of course, Moira. Now, where is Erik?”

***

Erik sat outside beneath a shaded tree with Magneto lying at his feet. He couldn’t see what the tree looked like, and didn’t know whether its leaves were whole and green or yellow and sparse. He could hear the wind run its threads through its branches, though, and the rustling was loud.

Whole and green then, he pictured in his mind’s eye.

It had been months since Charles had left; almost a year, now. Erik didn’t know exactly how long it had been, because the loss was still as raw as it was that first day. Erik could still feel the gaping hole in his chest when he had kicked down Charles’s locked door and seen the wide-open window and billowing curtains. The room had been so cold and so empty, so devoid of everything that was bright.

It was also hard to count the days when every day was cast in darkness. After his wife had burnt down Ironfield, Erik had gone blind. He no longer witnessed sunrises and sunsets, and simply spent his days sitting in the library or outside under this tree that he had never seen before.

Erik did not know why he spent so much time in a library full of books he could not see. Maybe it was because the room smelled like Charles, like ink and parchment, or books and dreams. Sometimes when he closed his eyes, his vision not changing at all, he could imagine that Charles was sitting next to him.

But Charles was not. If Charles was here, he would have let Erik rest his head on his thighs, gently brushing a hand across Erik’s eyelids, comforting his broken eyes. If he were here, he would clear his throat gently and read Erik passages from Brontë, or poems by Donne. He would read about Heathcliff, and Erik would have made a sarcastic comment about it. About how Heathcliff pined, and how Catherine left him.

Erik had never liked Heathcliff, but he could maybe understand him a bit more now.

Charles felt the breeze change, growing chilly. It would be around now that Moira would come to fetch him for supper, even though he was not hungry. She would offer him her arm, to guide him through thicket and the shrubbery, and he would snap at her for belittling him. She wouldn’t say anything, but would make sure her footsteps were loud enough so Erik could follow.

So, Erik sat there beneath a tree that he could not see, waiting for a person that he wished was someone else.

***

Charles saw Erik from afar, and his breath caught in his throat. Scott and Moira had told him – warned him – that he was not the same man that Charles remembered. That he was blind and hurting, much like Charles was.

But, when Charles saw him, he did not see a broken man. No, Erik was still beautiful to him, in every way. His hair was overgrown, falling over his eyes that could not see any way, and his beard was thick and messy. He did not bother wearing a neck tie these days, frustrated that it was difficult to tie without eyes, and he apparently always wore the same brown pants and the same white shirt. What did it matter, now that he couldn’t see it? What did it matter, when Moira was the only person to ever see Mr Lehnsherr, the fallen former master of Ironfield Hall?

Erik may have looked different, but the way he made Charles’s heart quicken and squeeze was very much the same. Charles still loved him, that had not changed.

Jean wheeled him as close as she could take the wheelchair, the contraption unable to weave between the bushes and thicket. Charles thanked her softly, and she gave Charles a smile, before retreating with his chair back into the manor with Moira and Ororo.

Charles gripped his walking stick, and began stumbling back to the man that he still loved, even when they were worlds apart. Even when the string between their left ribs was stretched, making their hearts bleed, it had not snapped.

No, it was still there, drawing the two closer and closer together, until Charles was standing before him.

Magneto smelled Charles before he saw him, and immediately recognised the man. Magneto rose to his feet immediately, letting out a happy bark, racing over. Charles smiled quietly, bending down to rub the dog’s head, the creature barking again.

Erik’s head snapped towards the noise, hearing his companion bark and the snapping of twigs under a human’s feet.

“Magneto, down. It’s just Moira, Christ,” Erik snapped, his dog’s barking too loud. Magneto listened to his master, but licked Charles’s hand once more, trotting with glee back to Erik’s side, sitting there with his tail wagging while looking at Charles.

Charles smiled a little at Erik’s snappish tone, glad that the man had not lost all of his fire and passion. Charles just hoped that, somewhere buried under all of that pain and hurt, there was still a man that could smile in that singular way of his that showed too many teeth.

Charles grew closer, and Erik’s unseeing pale eyes looked in his general direction. While his eyesight was no longer with him, his other senses had heightened. He heard the crunching of twigs and fallen leaves, but the steps were too heavy, the rhythm unlike Moira whom he heard every day. There was no swish of a skirt against the ground, and Erik tensed his muscles at the intruder.

“Who’s there?” Erik asked, Charles’s heart fluttering. When he didn’t answer, Erik’s eyes narrowed, the man shifting where he sat. “Who is that?”

Charles sucked in a breath, taking in the man in front of him, before finally speaking.

“Magneto knows me, Sir.”

Erik’s hand immediately flew out and grabbed at the phantom-like being, unseeing eyes widening. Erik’s hand slapped Charles’s wrist, making the man laugh a little, before reaching out to meet Erik’s touch half-way. Erik’s hands sought Charles’s, wrapping around his palm and his digits, running his fingers through them with an unmistakeable tremor.

“I know this hand,” Erik breathed out, pulling at Charles’s hand until it was close enough for him to press his mouth against, breath shuddering against Charles’s skin.

“I would hope so, Herr Lehnsherr.”

Erik let out a choked noise, kissing the hand in his before dropping his forehead to it, breathing heavily.

“Charles,” Erik whispered, the owner of the name letting out a sob-like laugh, falling to his knees, his legs unable to keep him upright any longer. Charles let his walking stick fall to the floor, using his free hand now to cup Erik’s cheek, feeling the unfamiliar beard beneath his fingers. Erik’s cheeks were wet.

“I am come back to you, Erik,” Charles murmured, craning his neck upwards to press his mouth against Erik’s. The kiss was not perfect, not in the slightest; Erik’s lips were shaking, and Charles couldn’t breathe. But, it was a kiss that was real, as real as it could be.

“Are you really here, Charles?” Erik demanded to know, letting go of Charles’s hand to grip his face, thumb smoothing over the familiar slope of his cheeks, nose, lips. These were Charles’s features, real and warm under his fingers. “I’ve imagined you like this so many times, but…”

“I am here, Erik. I’ve come back to you,” Charles assured him, kissing him again, and Erik finally kissed him back after loosing a wrecked sob.

“I thought I lost you,” Erik choked against his Charles’s mouth, Charles letting out a noise from the back of his throat. Charles shook his head, their noses bumping.

“Never, Erik,” Charles said, pressing his forehead against Erik’s. “I heard you calling for me. You never lost me. I’m here, and I’m not going to leave.”

Erik was too overcome with emotion to speak, his body, heart and soul filled to the brim with relief, thankfulness, disbelief, love, passion, everything.

So, Charles just kissed him again and again, before pulling back only a touch, to whisper;

“And don’t forget, my love – you still owe me wages.”

Erik laughed, for the first time in a long time.

And, for the first time in a new forever.

Next chapter (11/11 epilogue) →

[ask-valerian-40k]

The Climactic Fight of Saturnine

Spoilers, obviously 

* * *

Two Termite wrecks smouldered in Mortalis Kappa, surrounded by the corpses of the Sons of Horus they had tried to deliver. Haar left his men checking for survivors, and walked through the arch into Mortalis Lambda, where another Termite wreck lay surrounded by a ring of black-armoured dead. Garro was standing with Bel Sepatus. The two kill squads, along with Garro’s remnants, had combined to meet the three simultaneous incursions.

They had been mercilessly precise.

‘One hundred and seventy-five kills,’ said Haar with a grin. ‘Biggest haul yet, and only nine of ours lost. You know, I wish I was able to see the dismay on their damn faces as they stepped into your sights.’ He paused. ‘What?’ he asked.

Sepatus was listening to his link.

‘There’s a stray one,’ Garro said to Haar. ‘Got through into operations. Trickster is assigning a kill team.’

‘Just one?’ rumbled the Riven Hound.

‘Mournival,’ said Garro.

‘Even so,’ Haar said. ‘He can’t get far. He might as well be dead already.’

Sepatus looked at them. ‘I have requested we be permitted to deploy and join the hunt,’ he said.

‘And?’ asked Haar. ‘I fancy getting some Mournival red on my fist.I hear they make the effort worthwhile.’

Garro snorted.

‘I am waiting for Trickster to give the word,’ said Sepatus, glancing at them both with a lofty air. ‘If the main board remains clear of target tracks for another five minutes-

‘The bang of decompression drowned out his next words. They were bathed in frosty light.

Sons of Horus snapped solid out of the air all around them, in the midst of the two kill teams, throughout Kappa and Lambda.

Cataphractii. First Company. One hundred brothers of the infamous Justaerin Terminator section, the most feared and notorious warrior elite of the XVI.

One hundred warriors, and First Captain Abaddon.

Havoc ignited.

* * *

* * *

The battle in Kappa and Lambda zones never left the limits of those joined killing chambers. It lasted thirteen minutes. It was close, tight-packed, immediate, with no cover and no room for evasion: the Justaerin, regarded as the most mercilessly able of the Sons of Horus, a legacy that had been remarkable even in the time of the Luna Wolves, against the Praetorian’s two hand-picked kill teams.

There was no quarter. No limit. No hope that any of them would walk away unscathed. The kill teams fought for Terra, and for honour, driven by a deep hatred and long-held yearning for vengeance against those who had betrayed them. Abaddon and the Justaerin personified that.

The Justaerin and their First Captain abandoned any dreams of glory or famous victory within nanoseconds of arriving. They could plainly see their gambit had failed. The loyalists had outplayed them, and were waiting for them. The exhilarating promise of their ruse had evaporated.

They fought for nothing more complicated than survival.

Mutually assured surprise. Mutually assured destruction. An instantaneous orgy of raw and savage killing.

There was no range of any sort. Warriors found themselves pressed together, face to face. Weapons blazed anyway, in circumstances that the doctrines of any Legion, no matter their methodology, would have ruled for close-quarter combat. Bolters roared, point-blank, detonating men whose physical debris injured those around them like shrapnel. Plasma weapons and bulk lasers blasted against plate, their scorching beams passing through two or more bodies at a time. Assault cannons were pressed to faces or the sides of heads, and fired. An entire quarter of Kappa was filled with fire, as a flamer gouted in the thick of a throng. Space Marines died standing up, Cataphractii plate locked out, frozen like smashed statues. Space Marines died explosively, burst apart with such force only scraps of them remained.

The Justaerin quickly tried to dominate through the brute power of their Terminator exo-plate, swinging demolishing fists and scything blades at anything and everything, overpowering and smashing legionaries in more conventional suits of warplate. Heads crushed, limbs snapped, bodies tore. Some warriors died from three or even four simultaneous blows from as many opponents.

But the kill teams had the likes of Garro among them, with Liber-tas, which could cut anything, and Haar, whose size and power fist wrecked Terminator panoply like foil. They had Bel Sepatus, and his avenging Katechon Paladins, who did not flinch, and who had longed for a worthy combat.

Bel Sepatus, in the thick of everything, believed he had found the glory his genesire had predicted. He killed two Justaerin Terminators in the first second and a half with the gleaming edge of Parousia.

Abaddon killed with astonishing speed and meticulous efficiency. For the first minute of the fight, he merely tried to centre his thoughts and reconcile the sudden reverse of fortune. For the next three, he began to believe the Justaerin could prevail. They were the Justaerin, after all. They were the best of the best, Angels of Death beyond compare. They had never failed. They had never been overcome. There was no stage of war on which they could not triumph. He began to calculate the logistics: how they would break out, where they would go, how they would secure, what the next step would be. Into the Palace, into the Sanctum Imperialis. Divide up, run terror strikes to damage the citadel. Conduct solo missions. It would take time for Dorn and Valdor to run them all to ground in a maze like the Palatine. Perhaps the original spearhead mission was doomed, for none of them could reach the Throne Room alone, but there were other plans they could improvise. Other targets. The Sigillite. Valdor. Dorn. Bhab and the Grand Bastion.

By the fourth minute, he had decided on the aegis. There was no question. That should be their target. They would break clear, leaving this rabble dead in their wake, and bring the aegis down. That would be enough. That would end the Siege of Terra. The Palace would be open to bombardment from the fleet. Great Lupercal would raze it from orbit. The Vengeful Spirit would send down monumental beams of high energy, and annihilate the Palatine and the Throne within.

In the fifth minute, Urran Gauk was decapitated by one of the Katechon. Abaddon quickly hacked the killer apart, but the loss was psychological. His schemes seemed to recede, like ghosts, like dreams departing at sunrise. His vision of the Palatine bombarded and ablaze grew distant, and smaller, and out of reach.

In the sixth minute, killing without pause, Abaddon began to re-evaluate. The skill and tenacity, the rationally brilliant approach to warfare that had carried him every step of his long career, and made him First Captain of the finest company in the finest Legion, the first among firsts, a name taken seriously by even primarch genesires, centred him like an axis. They were cornered. They were trapped. They were being killed by the dozen. Not even the Justaerin, not even they, could prevail. Loyalist reinforcements would be coming. Even if they killed every last bastard in the chambers, their hope was dashed.

He voxed retreat to his surviving men. Activate homing beacons and get out. Pull back to the Mantolith. Retreat now.

Yes, the Sons of Horus were not above that. They were wise warriors, not fools. They knew to read the flow of a fight and act accordingly. They were no good to anyone dead. Damn the Imperial Lists and their simplistic ‘no backward step’. Only a fool never took a backward step. The Sons of Horus were more like the barbarian White Scars. Those heathen primitives got that much right, at least. ‘Withdraw to advance’. There was always another day, and that other day might bring victory instead. If you stood your ground like a yellow-armoured fool, you couldn’t live to see it.

By the seventh minute, Abaddon realised he was going to die.

They had sent the homing signal repeatedly. Once every three seconds, standard protocol. Extraction ordered, urgent.

No flare had come.

Their signal might have been blocked. The Mantolith might have withdrawn from teleport range. No, the damn thing’s grid had jammed. That was it. Abaddon could picture it, the filthy tech-adept scum, frantically scurrying around the Termite cabin, trying to repair a burned out grid, his beacon signal flashing on their consoles. The teleport had failed so many damn times on the approach. The magi had blamed it on bedrock, on energy obstruction, on everything but themselves.

It was their own shoddy, miserable incompetence. They’d barely managed to get Abaddon and his men to the target. Now the inadequate bastards couldn’t get them back out.

In the eighth minute, Abaddon decided that if he ever got out, if he did manage that somehow, he would track down Eyet-Good-For-Nothing-One-Tag, and kill her. He would kill her and her whole shitting linked unity at the Epta war-stead for their ineptitude. He would hack off their hands and feet, and load them into a teleport grid, and transfer them, unprotected, into hard vacuum. Or the heart of a star. Or on an unset, diffuse pattern so the organic drizzle of their remains rained down over multiple sites at once.

By the ninth minute, bleeding from a dozen wounds, two of them critical, he had resolved to kill the Lord of Iron too. If he got out. In that dream of escape. He would find the great Perturabo and kill him. This had been his great idea. Perturabo had seen the flaw, the Saturnine fault. He had toyed with it, cooed over it, revealed it to Abaddon furtively, like some pornographic image. He had gulled Abaddon into this. He’d used the First Captain, with his reputation, and his authority, and his unrivalled connections. He had used Abaddon to make this happen. Perturabo, damn his soul, had played First Captain Ezekyle Abaddon like a fool. He had tempted him with glory, made him feel smart and noticed, preened his ego. Made him feel like it was all his big, clever idea. The bastard had even made Abaddon beg him to let him do it. The Lord of Iron, lord of shit, had manipulated Abaddon into using his influence to draw resources from the Sons of Horus, coerce the Emperor’s Children into playing along, broker the help of the Mechanicum. He’d made Abaddon do all the work and take the credit, so if it failed – if it failed – if it failed like it was failing now, Abaddon would be to blame.

Perturabo had deniability if it turned to shit. Perturabo could claim ignorance if three companies of the Sons of Horus, including the elite, not to mention how damn many of the Emperor’s Children, failed to return.

In death, Abaddon would be blamed for the disaster, and his memory dishonoured. In death, he would be disgraced. Called overreaching. Called ‘that fool Abaddon’.

Abaddon would find the Lord of Iron, in that dream escape from this hell-pit. He would annihilate those damned war-tometa with meltas. He would face Perturabo, and tear his skull off his spine, and ram the haft of Forgebreaker down the stump of his neck, and keep ramming it until the bastard’s body split like a rotten gourd.

In the tenth minute, Abaddon arrived at a point of calm. Of serenity. He accepted his onrushing death, which was surely only seconds away. It had become a game, a contest, like the old practice cages. How many of them could he kill before he was bested? Some? Most? All? Some were fine warriors. Sepatus, he was magnificent. Haar was a brute, but an interesting challenge. Garro… Abaddon fancied his own chances in an even match, but the man’s sword was a piece of work, and so was Garro’s skill with it.

He realised, as he killed, and killed, and killed, that he owed the Lord of Iron a genuine debt of gratitude. Abaddon was a warrior. He’d always been a warrior. It was his life. His purpose. He excelled at it. The warp was a distraction. It was just another weapon. Those who knelt before it and pledged their worship, treating it like some kind of god, they were fools. All of them. Magnus. Lorgar. Fulgrim. Fools. Horus was a fool. The warp was nothing.

Being a warrior was everything. It defined him. The skill of combat. The lessons of defeat. The joy of triumph. That was his sacrament. Let them worship their false gods and giggling abominations. This was what he had wanted. The chance to fight, like a man, not a daemon. The chance to take the Palace, and claim Terra, the old-fashioned way. By force of arms.

He had wanted to win as a warrior. Perturabo had let him try. He owed the Lord of Iron thanks for that.

This was everything, he realised, as he entered the eleventh minute, with almost everyone dead. This moment. Its simplicity. Skill and courage, tested to the limit, for no other reason, to serve no grand plan or devious ruse… just tested for the sake of skill and courage.

This moment was his life in its purest form. His life distilled. He fought Katechon, and Imperial Fists, and Blackshields, and Cataphractii Terminators, and Tactical Space Marines, for no other principle than to find out who was best. There were no sides. No good or bad. No rebel cause or loyalist alliance. No Warmaster. No Emperor. No point to anything outside the broken, blood-smeared walls of the killing chamber.

Just war. Only war. The binary test of the galaxy, that you passed in triumph, or failed in glory.

Death, rushing closer, was immaterial.

How many could he take? How many more times could he prove his prowess?

He was Abaddon. Let them come. Let them all come. Find more, and bring them too. Bring anyone. Bring everyone.

He would take them. Or he would die. Either way. It didn’t matter any more.

In the twelfth minute, Nathaniel Garro reached him, cleaving through one last Justaerin to close with him. They duelled, blade into blade, munitions long since exhausted. Garro was good. His sword was remarkable. He dealt Abaddon two wounds that would have killed lesser men. He drove Abaddon back, boxing him against the chamber’s ancient wall. Good tactics, but a mistake. When Abaddon pivoted, it was Garro who found himself boxed, his back to the stone. Abaddon threw a punch that smashed Garro against the wall. The man slumped, dazed, chestplate cracked. Abaddon swung to finish him.

Bel Sepatus blocked his descending blade. Sepatus. Now, a proper test. A dance of equals that carried them into the thirteenth and final minute of the fight. Their blades clashed and parried with such speed. It was joyful. The Blood Angel was amazing. The deftness of his skill, the precision of his strokes, the intensity of his address. Sepatus produced nuanced swordplay that Abaddon could barely turn back. There were skills here to learn, tricks to appreciate and copy. And the Kheruvim’s attack was absolute. A miraculous degree of murderous focus.

Abaddon was sorry to kill him.

His blade cut Sepatus in half.

The Riven Hound slammed Abaddon into the wall. Bricks shattered. Abaddon fell bones break and organs rupture. Haar was size and brute strength. There was no skill to speak of. Just beautiful fury, like one of Russ’ pack-dogs, or Angron’s thug Kham. A wall of strength that crushed everything before it. The Blackshield had him by the throat. Haar took six or seven of Abaddon’s kill-thrusts in the belly and chest, and refused to die. Just refused. His strength seemed to grow as the blood wept out of him. Haar’s power fist, like a siege ram, hammered at Abaddon’s head until his helmet broke and deformed, and Abaddon’s face was a mess of gore.

One more like that. One more and it’s done.

But Haar was a dead weight, pinning him to the wall. Abaddon’s blade had found Haar’s throat and slid in, up into the brain, and out through the back of the Riven Hound’s head.

Abaddon couldn’t move. He could barely see. Endryd Haar’s dead mass was slumped against him, crushing him against the wall. Abaddon tried to get free. There wasn’t time.

Garro was back on his feet. That sword of his, gleaming.

Garro raised it.

This was it then. 

One downward slash from a sword whose edge cut everything. This was it.

Abaddon wanted it to never end. Ever. Ever.

The end came anyway.

* * *

Garro lowered Libertas.‘No!’ he yelled. ‘No!’ He punched the wall.

* * *

Haar’s enormous corpse shifted and fell away as the teleport flare faded.

‘My lord!’ the Mechanicum adepts cried. ‘My lord!’

They carried him to the arrestor seats, and tried to peel the bloody visor of his helm away without taking his face with it.All the other seats in the Mantolith’s compartment were empty.

‘We tried,’ a magos said. The grid… We had to reposition the Termite to fire the grid again. It took time. I am sorry.’

Abaddon murmured something.

‘What is he saying?’ the magos asked.

‘We are returning,’ one of the others told Abaddon eagerly. ‘Full rate. The motivators are running. We are exiting the fault, lord, ahead of the enemy’s attempt to seal it. The medicae will be waiting for you.’

Abaddon’s mouth stirred again.‘My lord?’ the magos asked, leaning in to hear.

‘Let me go back…’ Abaddon whispered. He was weeping. ‘Let me go back…’

* * *

Saturnine by Dan Abnett

[fanficimagery]

Imagine being sister to Thor. Having fled your home after your mother's death, you went on a mission to find yourself. Then landing in Midgard, you lead a life of normalcy. That is until you fall for one of Midgard's Mightiest Heroes. He can only keep his secret for so long, but yours, on the other hand.. you're going to keep it as long as possible.

Steve X Reader

Midgard was dreary compared to Asgard. There were a lot of rude and obnoxious people, but for every one of those there was a kind or courageous individual. It really depended where on Midgard you were, but you were willing to deal with it since it was your choice to leave home.

Some places in Midgard were quite peaceful, while others were colorful and loud. Las Vegas was a little too wild for your tastes, so the next best thing was New York City- the same city your adopted brother once nearly razed to the ground with an alien army. There were many pros and cons about the city, but you managed to settle in quite nicely and find your own little niche after converting all the Asgardian money you had smuggled out with you into American dollars.

Almost a year in and you could pass for a local midgardian.

Sitting outside at your favorite cafe, you enjoy your breakfast while simultaneously reading George R.R Martin's latest novel in the A Song of Ice and Fire series. You finish your first plate of food and then enjoy a couple cups of coffee while reading before ordering your next plate of food (this was the only reason the cafe tolerated you reading and taking your time; your Asgardian appetite gave the cafe a lot of business). And it’s midway through your second plate that your senses go into overdrive and you realize you're being watched. 

As you slow your eating, you subtly glance around your surroundings to find who the culprit is. Spotting the stranger almost immediately, you realize he's staring at you before glancing down at some sort of journal. He has a pencil- or was it a pen?- in hand and it furiously moves over the paper before he glances up yet again.

Finishing the rest of your food, you then ask for your table to be cleared. Once that's done you ask the waitress, just loud enough for the stranger to hear, where the bathrooms are even though you know exactly where they are located. But instead of actually using the bathroom, you ask for a to-go cup of coffee and pay your bill.

As you head back outside you see the stranger still seated and his attention solely on his book. So gathering yourself, you walk up to his table and take a seat across from him. When he glances up, his eyes subtly widen and you quirk an eyebrow at him.

"Hi," you muse. "Why were you staring at me?"

The man gapes as his cheeks flush at being caught. Up close you notice the man is quite handsome- from his stylish trimmed hair, to his beard, and blue eyes. "I am so sorry, ma'am." Ma'am? That's new. "I did not intend to make you feel uncomfortable."

"No?"

"Not at all," he's quick to assure you. "I was just- I'm an artist," he blurts. "And your hair, the braids caught my attention. More so the streak of purple against your nearly platinum hair that's weaved in and out of the one braid." He angles his book towards you and sure enough there's a sketch of your side profile. He paid a lot of attention to your braids and while the sketch is mostly black and white, the only color on paper is the purple streak in your hair. The man has some major talent.

Internally you're grateful it was nothing sinister, but on the outside you cringe. "Oh. You're really talented," you say as he lays his sketchbook back down. "And I'm sorry for thinking you were a creep."

That startles a laugh out of him. "You thought I was a creep?"

He's grinning and it's your turn to flush. "Well it is New York-"

"Fair enough."

"-and you just kept staring. I didn't know what to think and you sketching me didn't even come to mind as a possibility."

"Again, my apologies." You smile and his grin turns a little mischievous. "Then again it is your fault. If you hadn't done all those neat braids in your hair I probably would have been doing a crossword puzzle."

"My fault!?" You laugh softly to let him know you're honestly not upset at all. Amused is more like it. You shake your head, sipping your coffee.

"I'm Steve, by the way," he then introduces himself.

"Y/N," you return. Silence momentarily reigns over you two and you suddenly feel like you've overstayed your welcome even though Steve is still grinning. Pushing your chair back, you stand and offer him one last smile. "I really should be going now."

"Oh. Okay."

"If I see you around again, I expect to see a sketch of a new stranger."

Steve huffs a laugh. "Sure. It was nice to meet you, Y/N."

"You as well, Steve."

After pushing your chair back in, you take your leave. Then before you turn the corner, you glance back and see Steve still watching you. He waves and you salute him with your cup of coffee, ignoring the all too warm feeling in your chest at seeing his smile directed at you.

Over the next few weeks you run into Steve at the cafe and once at the park. The two of you always ended up sitting together and talking about anything and everything, so it's no surprise when he sheepishly asks you on a date.

You agree to the date and then to the four after, and it's really no surprise when the two of you become a legitimate couple. What is a surprise, however, is the third month of dating you find out he's none other than Captain America. There's a brief moment of panic because he's apparently friends with your brother, but fortunately it seemed like Thor hadn't even mentioned he had a sister. Steve seemed nervous when he let you in on his secret, but his story hardly fazed you. He was grateful you didn't seem to make a big deal out of it.

And after seven months of dating, the two of you move in together.

The smell of bacon is what wakes you and after blindly feeling around the bed you realize it's empty. Reluctantly you get out of bed, heading for the bathroom to fully wake yourself and freshen up before seeking out Steve.

Your boyfriend is scrambling eggs while the bacon sizzles when you sleepily walk up behind him and wrap your arms around his waist. Steve chuckles as you nuzzle the middle of his back and your hands find their way under his shirt to lightly scratch at his abdomen.

"Mmm. Food and abs. What did I do to deserve you?"

"A lot, sweetheart," he muses. "For starters, you accept me for me- shield or no shield." He scoops the bacon out of it's own grease and plates it on a paper towel to soak up the rest. Then turning off all burners, he moves the pan of eggs to the back cold burner. "And you put up with my creepy staring when I'm in a sketching mood." Turning around in your arms, he lightly grasps your face in his hands and kisses your forehead.

"S'all good. I do a lot of creepy staring myself. You're pretty."

"And you're still half asleep." He kisses the tip of your nose and you laugh, and then Steve walks you backward until the back of your knees hit a chair. Lightly pushing you down, you grunt as your bottom meets the seat of the chair. "Don't pout," he muses. "Eat your breakfast and then we can laze about all day on the couch. We don't have anywhere to be today."

"Yeah, yeah. Just give me the bacon."

Breakfast is then eaten at a leisurely pace, Steve chuckling every time he has to kick at your ankles when you nod off mid-chew. You kick back, grunting and whining when you miss and your toes smash into a table or chair leg. And then when you're all finished, you happily clear the table and load the dishwasher while Steve heads to shower off from his early morning run.

After a while Steve emerges and the two of you fall onto the couch. Finding a marathon of murder mysteries on TV, you leave it there before snuggling into Steve's side. Hours pass with the two of you barely moving and then around lunch time Steve's work phone is blaring it's emergency ringtone.

"Nooo," you groan, hugging him a little tighter.

Steve chuckles. "Sorry, sweetheart. Duty calls."

"I know. Before careful." You reach up and peck his lips just as he answers his phone.

Steve gets a brief rundown of what's going on as he moves from room to room gathering his suit and other necessities to shove in a duffel bag, and then he's giving off coordinates for a place to be picked up at since your cohabitation wasn't exactly known among his friends. You pick up his shield and place it in it's own personal bag before handing it off, you giving him another kiss but this time lingering a little longer.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," he says. "Aliens decided to pay a visit again."

You sigh. "You're going to be busy all night." He smiles guiltily and you press a kiss to chin. "Hurry back, but please be careful."

"Will do. Try not to watch the news."

"As if," you scoff. "I'm going to be glued to the TV as soon as you walk out our door."

He sighs. "I figured you'd say that."

"Yep. Now get out of here, babe. The world needs Captain America."

"Yes, ma'am."

The moment Steve is out the door and his motorcycle engine roars to life, you do as you said you'd do. You turn on the TV and immediately flip back and forth between all the news stations to see what the hell is going on. Aliens are pouring out of the sky yet again and Iron Man zooming around and blasting them is hardly putting a dent in their numbers. Even your brother and the Scarlet Witch can't quite keep up, and you're suddenly nervous that the Avengers are in over their heads.

You watch as the Hulk makes his appearance, he jumping and swatting aliens out of the sky like bugs. And still.. the aliens keep coming. Then fifteen minutes later, a quinjet is landing in the middle of an empty parking lot and Captain America, the Black Widow, and Hawkeye are seen jogging off the back ramp to join the fight. The Avengers seem to be holding their own even though they appear to be greatly outnumbered.

Not able to watch anymore, you put the TV on mute and head outside for some fresh air. To pass some time you decide to rearrange the porch furniture, but as you're doing so a feeling of dead momentarily overwhelms you. You stumble into the porch railing and the feeling of dread isn't evaporating. A moment later you're skipping down the porch steps and onto the front lawn. With your heart beating fast, you close your eyes and take a deep breath. Centering yourself, you concentrate and pull on your Asgardian magic to sense whether or not it's going to be a good day or bad day. All signs are pointing to something terrible happening.

Eyes flying open, you look to the sky. "Heimdall!" You call out. "Send down my beloved companion. They need my help."

Seconds tick by and you think Heimdall is refusing you because you had turned your back on everything after Mother's death, but then a portion of the sky shimmers and you can see a brief glimpse of the bifrost before the silhouette of a winged horse shimmers into existence.

Laughing, your gaze tracks the flight path of your pegasus. The pitch black creature lands and folds his wings in before trotting up to you, and you press your forehead to the pegasus' face. Lovingly scratching either side of his neck, you say, "Hello my morningstar. We have work to do."

The black beast neighs and paws at the ground before stepping back and trotting circles around you. You lightly smack him on the butt and he takes off in a trot down the street. Several people have come out of their houses and are staring, and you hear gasps all around as Lucifer's wings unfurl. He stops and turns back around, and then a moment later he's running at full speed. You smile ferally and put your back to him, you then running down the street. As you run you can feel your clothes changing on their own and the second Lucifer's at your side you jump and land on his back.

Your own blue and silver Asgardian armor covers you from the neck down, and a silver helmet sits atop your head with a piece of metal drooping down between your eyes to the tip of your nose. Your hands twist into Lucifer's mane and as you lightly kick his sides he jumps into the air. Guiding him towards where you know the fight is, you only hope you can get there in time.

     - X - X - X - X - X -

Out on the battle field, the Avengers are tiring. The team is at a loss of what to do, but at the moment they're just grateful that no more aliens are coming through the portal they had opened.

"Hey, Stark, I can really use another sweep," Clint says. "I just sent my last arrow into the field."

"On it, Bird Brain." Tony disengages from the alien he was fighting to collect all the arrows he can. "You really need to rethink your weapon of choice."

"Yeah, Barton," Natasha teases. "Upgrade, will you? Tony's new toys are fun," she says as she takes down four aliens, one right after the other with the glock that shoots energy blasts instead of bullets.

Steve jogs up to them, throwing his shield with a grunt and watching in satisfaction as it pings off alien head after alien head before hitting a wall and flying back towards him. "Guys, less talking more fighting. I really want to get home."

"Aw. Does Cap have a hot date waiting at home?" Tony muses. Steve falters, but doesn't rise to the bait. However, Natasha notices his little misstep and grins knowingly.

"Uh. Guys?" Clint then muses, staring up at the sky and following something with his gaze. "Am I the only one seeing a goddamn pegasus?"

There's a moment where the only sounds are of the battle, and then..

"SISTER!"

"Sister?" Every Avenger wonders as Hulk roars off in the distance.

The warrior on the back of the pegasus has a bow in hand, she loosing a volley of arrows with what appeared to be only one arrow. The winged horse swoops lower and the woman hops off, her horse taking flight once more and disappearing into the clouds.

Once your feet are on solid ground, you yank off your helmet at let it fall at your feet. You ignore the stares as you reach back into your quiver for another arrow, nocking it and grinning when the tip suddenly flames. With a whispered spell, you loose the arrow and smirk as it multiplies into a hundred and each arrow finds a place in an alien.

Before you can reach for another arrow, arms wrap around you from behind and you're suddenly being spun. Laughing, you let your brother have his moment. It's only when he sets you back down and turns you so you face him do you realize everyone but the Hulk gathering around.

"Y/N?"

You glance to your left and guiltily smile at a bewildered Steve. "Hi, honey. Surprise..?"

"Honey?" Iron Man muses just as Thor says, "You know of my sister?"

Clint snorts. "Shit. This outta be good."

You cringe as Thor continues to stare at Steve. "Uhh.. Steve and I are dating."

Instead of anger, Thor surprises you by beaming. "This is wonderful news!" You sigh in relief at his exuberance and then mentally groan when his smile falters. "But.. since when? You fled after Mother died. Have you.. have you been on Midgard all this time?"

"Yes." Thor suddenly looks unhappy and you frown. "I promise to explain everything later. Right now we have aliens to take care of."

"Yeah. About that," Hawkeye says. "Can you do what you did to your arrows to mine?"

You nod and hold a hand out for his arrows. Having collected them from Tony, Clint passes them over to you. Grasping them all in hand horizontally, you lift them so the shafts are near your lips. Then closing your eyes and muttering a spell, you hand them back to their owner. "There. You should be fine."

"Awesome."

Standing side by side with Hawkeye, the both of you nock an arrow each. As yours lights aflame, Hawkeye pouts and you huff a small laugh. Then angling upward, the two of you loose your arrows and everyone watches as they multiply mid-flight.

"So awesome," Clint muses again, watching as the aliens shriek and fall dead.

"All right. Now we're back in the game!" Iron Man zooms off, and after your brother shares a pointed look with you Thor twirls his hammer before taking flight.

Hawkeye and the Black Widow stare between you and Steve without an ounce of shame, and you sigh. Giving your attention to Steve, you say, "I'm sorry."

He frowns. "You could have told me when I told you about being Cap. Why didn’t you?"

"I knew you worked with Thor. I didn't want you to have to lie to him."

"I would have. For you."

Chuckling softly, you reach up with your right hand and cup his cheek. "Oh honey, you can't lie to save your life."

The Black Widow laughs at Steve's offended look. "I can to."

"Mhm. Then why did you have the guiltiest expression just last week when I asked what happened to the last of my honey butter?" Steve gapes and you lightly tap the end of his nose. "Yeah that's what I thought."

Steve sighs. "You'll tell me everything?"

"Everything." Leaning in you're quick to peck his lips. "I'll even tell you about that one time Loki tricked Thor into wearing a wedding dress and almost married him off to another Prince. I was sworn to secrecy, but I'll make an exception just for you."

"And me," Clint says, smirking. "Your other brother Loki might be a dick, but I need all the embarrassing stories on Thor I can get."

You roll your eyes, shaking your head in amusement. "Fine. You too." Clint fist pumps and you look back to Steve. "Now come on, babe. We got an Earth to protect."

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 34 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 33 here. Part 35 here.

Summary: A graveyard is a good place to bury all kinds of things.

Words: 5200

Warnings: inappropriate cemetery conduct

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: me, publishing last chapter: haha wait until they fuck on the graves, people will be--

everyone in the comments: ARE THEY GONNA FUCK IN THE CEMETERY

(DO I HAVE A FUCKING BRAND? I hate myself LMFAO)

Anyway, I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter--it was like pulling teeth to write, and I had to re-do it like three times. Thanks very much to @thetorturerwrites for assistance! I'm still very much loving this story, loving y'all's feedback, loving your thoughts. Hopefully you don't hate me too much for the ending of this chapter. Oopsie!! Love y'all so much. BE SAFE. <3

Beds of clovers blanketed the abandoned parking lot, pavement cracking and parting to the encroaching wilderness beyond, green valleys drowned in the sheets of rain. The Audi whirred in frustration, then stopped, wheels sloshing the muddied ground. Kylo Ren exited and stepped into the downpour without an umbrella--or really anything else that might protect him from getting absolutely soaked--while you readjusted your bonnet and flipped up the hood on the coat he’d given you.

By the time you’d managed to clamber out of the car, he’d already started down a grass-eaten pathway, long strides cutting a straight line off the winding concrete walk. You scampered to catch up with him, water pelting your face and splashing your boots--you called after him, but he either failed to hear you, or simply didn’t care. 

As he crossed into the cemetery proper, you passed entire yards decorated with forgotten graves--in the ground, you imagined the skeletons, filthy with dirt, nameless and faceless and truly dead, their identities known only to memories razed by the ravages of time. Tall oaks and maples stretched into the sky, their trunks smothered with overgrowth, some of them swallowed to the branches. Within them, you spied evidence of life--stick nests, a family of ravens sheltered from the storm under ceilings of vines. And then, further into the cemetery, a bird strangled in a mass of these same vines, wings quartered and neck snapped. 

You followed him into a clearing, plumes of wildflowers burgeoning through a white brick path that meandered to a marble slab only slightly shorter than Kylo himself. At each side of the slab, a raised black granite tomb, plantlife weaving to obscure the ledgers. Beyond that, a grass ocean billowed into a valley, rolling to the edge of a forest, all of it waving in the storm winds. Lightning bleached the sky, and you squealed, folding your arms over your chest.

Kylo stopped before the feet of the tombs, staring. Rivers raced ridges into his hair and over his cheeks, dripped down his long nose, his eyes pooled with vacancy, clear and empty and absent of anything you had the ability to name.

“You wanted to know what made me,” he said. “Ask the right questions. I’ll tell you.” Thunder groaned, miles away. 

“Okay,” you said, squinting at him. “Where are we?” 

He exhaled through his nose. “My parents’ graves.”

A curtain of rain swept the air, and you glanced between him and the graves before crossing to the slab, tearing through the slippery leaves. The stems were coiled tight around one another, but a sharp tug, and they ripped to the side, revealing the engraved dedication in large, block letters. 

Organa. 

Frowning, you glanced at him for a moment; he stood, still blank, failing to offer even the slightest acknowledgement of your presence. You sighed. The name Organa was familiar, but you’d only ever known it in connection with a late senator. To your surprise, as you tugged more, you saw her name: Leia Organa. One of the tombs belonged to her--and listed underneath her, the owner of the other tomb: Han Solo.

Breath evaporated, the pieces colliding like atoms, sparking light. You blinked, tracing the names with your fingertips as water creeked through the indentation. All he had said was what made me. But to know him--this mystery, in some moments more monster than man, and in others more hallowed than human--saddled you with more confusion than ever. This was a non-answer, a presentation in lieu of conversation. 

You turned, brow raised. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t.”

“Why did you take me here?”

His jaw tensed. “They are,” he said, voice stark in the storm, “what made me.”

More lightning, and you jumped, cursing yourself internally. You couldn’t reconcile the restrained, adjusted grandeur displayed at this gravesite with the person at its border. You knew enough about politics before Gilead to understand that a senator’s son was someone ostensibly raised in a home of democracy. Yet this man was one forged in war.

This man, the one who had helped craft and arrange the society that controlled your life, the one who had taken and destroyed any hint of hope in your life barring him--this was a man raised with values of freedom, of self-reliance? In this moment, his flickers of tenderness didn’t matter; they were snuffed in the shadows of your dependence. Kylo Ren, regardless of his rebellion, afforded you only what he determined was necessary. It was only by his grace you were out of your red dress, only by his allowance you’d known any level of escape. 

Your enslavement was as it had always been--it’d only changed, you realized, in its terms.

“That doesn’t really answer my question,” you grumbled.

“Then you haven’t asked the right question, little bird.” His tone was chiding, but his face was blank.

“Wasn’t your mother a senator? Or something?” It was difficult to remember--it had been years ago. “Didn’t she campaign for civil rights?”

“She did.”

“Wasn’t she well-liked? Popular with her constituents?”

“She was.”

This game was wearing on you--but he was right. You hadn’t asked any right questions. “But… you helped create Gilead.” You swallowed. “You talk about destiny and roles and…” You shook your head. “You’re still a Commander.” 

Kylo Ren blinked, unfazed by the rain. 

“What happened?” you asked. “Did she do something wrong?”

“She feared what she didn’t know.” His voice was dry. “She abandoned what she didn’t understand.” 

“I…” That had disarmed you. But it wasn’t an explanation. “What didn’t she know?” you asked. “What didn’t she understand?”

Darkness flashed across his face. “Everything.”

The crack in his facade spurred you. “But she was your mother.” You were testing him, watching his reaction. “Didn’t she try?”

“Trying would imply she had direction.” His stare sank into you, fangs at your flesh. “She was lost.”

You raised a brow. “Lost.” There was a dropping dread that he was leading you toward a conclusion that would result in you forever seeking his permission for your humanity. You wouldn’t let him off so easily. “She hurt you.”

It was, technically, a question, in guise of a statement. But Kylo was silent. His eye twitched. It stoked hunger inside of you, a craving for his vulnerability.

“But that doesn’t make you right.” You gestured toward the graves. “Just because you were hurt doesn’t mean that someone like her raises...” You cleared your throat, swallowed. “Raises someone like you.” 

A bolt snapped, blanched him in light. “Someone like me.” 

You met his gaze; those pools were churning, now, deep below their shared surface--an ancient beast submerged in forced indifference, daring you to speak it into existence, goading you to give it a name.

“Yes.” You shivered. “A murderer. An owner of another human being.”

The sky quaked. Over his shoulders, a bird flock fled the trees. Kylo advanced, irises burning with something like anger, distant and buried, his teeth grit. Your fingers found purchase in the vines--you anchored yourself to them.

“Do you have questions,” he asked, “or observations?”

Your jaw tightened. “I have a question.”

“Then ask.”

“Okay.” You squared your shoulders. “How did they make you?”

Kylo stared--more lightning--illuminating the terrible void in his eyes. His shoulders fell, face sharpening in self-assured stoicism. “In the same way that a neglected grave grows weeds.”

You blinked, tilting your head. “You’re the grave.”

“No.” His gaze simmered as it met yours. “I’m the weed.”

“What?” you asked. “How are you the weed?”

“It’s as I’ve explained.” Kylo sniffed, returned his attention to the tomb. “I had no choice.”

“But how did you have no choice?”

“There were no other options.” His lids fluttered, thunder cracked. He stared at the ledger, following the twisted clot of leaves that shrouded the inscription on the granite. His tone was frozen steel. “They gave me no choice.”

Your fingers curled around wet stems, and you swallowed. The conversation you’d had in his den floated through your mind--it feels like I’m dying, like I don’t even have a choice. In his mind, they’d been killing him. Anxiety clenched your chest.

“Kylo, you’re not making any sense.” 

“Very few things made sense,” he said. “The world required order. I found truth. Truth they disagreed with.” For a moment, his expression etched in despair and exhaustion--the sky blinked, and it was gone. “Ask me how they died.”

“How did they…”  

You paused, looked at him. It had been big news--they were shot in their home. You gulped. A terrible, black-ink reality crept into your gut. The gunman was never found.

Hands trembling, you spun, yanking the vines to the side, exposing the dates. Both of them, deceased on November 18th, 1979. The date was too familiar--the day of the recording. The day Ben Solo signed his commitment to the foundation of Gilead. Your heart seized, throat closed, and you turned, dragging your gaze along the ground, traveling up his figure, resting on his face.

Kylo Ren’s eyes were obsidian, brittle-edged and fragile to fracture. You struggled to breathe, wanting to ask how, ask why--knowing that, in his way, he’d already given you the answer.

To any garden, a weed was an invader, gnarling through the dirt and choking eager life, sapping it of space--without intervention, an untamed weed consumed its home, ate its brethren, dominated to meet its needs. They were not like so many flowers, tended to with gentle hands, encouraged to flourish and blossom in their beds. No, weeds existed in the realm of burden, forever unwanted, accepted only to be controlled or destroyed. A weed could only be afforded the privilege to exist if it left the perimeter of the garden, renounced its birthplace, and decided, with defiance, to live. 

You pulled the coat tight around you, folded your arms. “Did they deserve it?”

The obsidian sharpened under your stare. And he swallowed. “No.”

Nervous heat rushed your skin. “You know that this isn’t truth. This isn’t right.”

Kylo reached beyond you, plucked a leaf from the vine. “I brought you here so you would understand,” he said. “There is value in knowing and realizing your purpose. In knowing your role. Inherent and unalterable.” He crumpled the leaf in his fist. “Without Gilead, purpose and meaning are lost. My parents failed to realize their purpose, and the world suffered. You’ll realize yours.” Tossing the debris to the side, he fixated on you again, his hair sticking like black thread to his face. “I’ll realize mine.”

Lightning split the sky. This hadn’t been a pilgrimage, it had been a proselytization. In his desire to grasp at meaning, he’d attempted to convince you of it, too. Yet by now, you could see, see his doubts plaguing him, deep currents in his mind--could see that in convincing you, he’d wanted, too, to convince himself, that he was born demonic, abandoned to Hell in the depths of destiny. But you knew better. You knew him.

Scanning you, he turned down the brick path. “Come.”

“What is my purpose, Kylo?”

He froze mid-step, a statue in the rain. Water whispered, then howled, a susurrus in crescendo, punctuated by a sharp, static crack in the sky. You squeaked; Kylo peered at you from over his shoulder, and even through the storm, you saw it. He was your reflection again, an augmented refraction--if you were afraid, then he was terrified.

“What’s my purpose?” you repeated, stepping toward him. “Don’t you know?” 

He didn’t speak, and didn’t move. You took another step, and another, passing like a ghost under the veil of rain. Kylo watched you, obsidian strained to splinter.

“You can't answer because you know you're wrong.” You wanted to stare into him, stare through him. “You know there's something more to this life, that we have options, we have choices--”

He shifted, and took the tiniest, most egregious step back. “We don’t.”

“We do,” you said. “But you can’t admit it because you can’t admit that you chose all of this!”

“I didn’t.”

“You did!” You were an arm’s length from him. He didn’t move. “You chose your name, you chose your path, you chose this life--and you chose mine, too.” Another step, close enough to count the constellations on his face. “But it doesn’t have to be like this. You can be whoever you want to be.” As if possessed by its own destiny, your hand rose, grazed his fingers, your grip slippery and warm--he trembled when you held him. “You can… you can be Ben--”

Sneering, he jerked back. “No.”

You shook your head, reaching for him again. “But I want to know him.”

“Why?” His pupils were shadowed in waterfalls.

“Because,” you said, “that’s who you are--”

“It’s not.”

“It is,” you said, grabbing his hand, “I want to know him, I want to know Ben Solo--”

Kylo snarled, wrung you away. “Why do you insist on raising the dead?” He loomed--you retreated, and he chased you back, spitting through his teeth. “There is no Ben Solo!”

“But that’s your name--”

“My name is mine to give! Not yours to know!” His face was aflame with fury. “You want Ben Solo to free you--Ben Solo was the coward. Ben Solo killed his parents.” He drew closer, pressing you back with every step. “I saved you. I carried you.” His lips twisted in a mirthless smirk. “I fucked you.” Kylo had your back flat to the slab now, obsidian shattered in the throes of his wrath. “You don’t know Ben Solo. You know me.” He caged you underneath him, a black sun burning heat and gravity between your bodies. “You know what made me, little bird,” he muttered, a delicious threat. “Are you afraid?”

In the summer storm air, he sweltered you, so hot that when your wet gown glued to your back, you had no way to know if it was sweat or rain. His focus flicked between your mouth, your eyes, your mouth, and he leaned closer, framing you between his forearms, his breath scant. You stared at him--your devil, your echo, your enigma--and knew, despite all of his impossible complexities, you would never, ever be afraid.

Jaw steeled, you pushed off your hood, snatched your bonnet, tossed it to the ground. Lightning streaked and pealed with thunder. You didn’t even flinch.

“No, Kylo,” you breathed. “I’m not.”

You licked your lips, exhaled. And his mouth was on you.

Kylo Ren’s kiss was a slippery bruise, melding madness at your skin, tongue driving into you while he inhaled through his nose. You met him, movement for movement, groaning against him, fingers folding into his hair, thumbs tracing the tops of his ears, and he gasped along your lips before capturing them again, snatching your wrists and pinning them with one large hand above your head. Arousal sparkled in your belly--you wriggled in his grip, offering a needy roll of your hips before swirling your tongue around his. His hold on your wrists tightened, and he pinned you to the stone, grinding his growing desire into the apex of your thighs.

You throbbed, a full-body pulse, humming into him with a shudder. Kylo nipped your lower lip and slid to your chin, following the streams on your skin as he pressed clumsy, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, falling to suck and nibble at your heartbeat. Whimpering, you nuzzled your head into his, and he responded with a sharp bite to your neck, barely-restrained, earning a squeal from your throat.

“Are you sure you’re not afraid?” he murmured into your ear. “Do you think you can handle me?”

Lust seared you like fire. You smirked. “Try me.”

Kylo growled, wresting you from the stone by your arms and guiding you back until you toppled onto one of the vine-encrusted tombs. He was greed incarnate, tearing your coat from your shoulders before he grappled the neckline of your nightgown and shredded the buttons apart. Your cunt clenched, lungs stalled--he kissed you again, big hands groping at your tits while he pushed you flat along the grave, crawling over until he straddled you, a beast bent over his meal.

Rain bathed you both, rivers roaming over your curves, white cloth of your bra a dewy illusion over your breasts. His thumbs skimmed your nipples with prickles of pleasure, and you moaned, shoving your hands under his shirt, reveling in the hard planes of his body--he tensed,  moving back to your neck, sucking at your throat. You memorized the muscle under your fingertips, Kylo’s skin damp and hot under your hands, and he was voracious, without restraint, pulling painful hickeys from your pulse. 

Need burned between your thighs, and he shifted lower, marking you in abandon, drawing tissue between his teeth, welts popping to life under the pressure of his lips. Anxiety flitted through your mind--he was leaving visible evidence--but the soft groan from his chest wiped it clean, your back arching to offer more of your untamed flesh. Grateful, he bit at the swell of your tits, crimson crescents blooming, and his hands hiked up your skirt, tugging at your underwear as he laved at your nipple through your bra, scraping it with his teeth through the fabric. You squealed, squirming, and he yanked the garment free, leaving your sex aching from exposure.

Kylo fumbled at your folds, two thick fingers peeling you open, assessing your slickness, teasing your entrance. “So wet already,” he said and clucked his tongue. “And in a cemetery. You’d take my cock whenever I wanted, wouldn’t you?”

You bit your lip, trying to rub against his hand. “As if you aren’t ready to fuck me on your mother’s grave.”

He snickered. “You’re wrong.” He leaned to your ear, thumb skating your clit--you gasped. “It’s my father’s.”

Kylo pushed into you, and you tightened around him, hips twitching, head lolling along the leaves. His mouth ravished you again, leaving purple pebbles in its wake while he claimed you from chin to clavicle, spit and storm and sweat blending on his tongue. Scissoring you open, he rolled your stiff clit, rocking his wrist, curling and working your walls, his other hand palming at his erection in an attempt to pacify himself. You bucked your hips, a shivering moan escaping, and he cursed, slamming in to the knuckle.

“If I fuck you now,” he muttered at your jawline, “you’ll have to take all of me. Everything I give you.” He bit your neck, hard, forcing a cry from your lips. “I won’t be able to control myself.”

Heat scorched you, and you pulsed around him in anticipation, his fingers crooking in your wet core. Thunder grumbled in the distance. “Thought I’d long proved my capability.”

Kylo purred, and bit you again, pain shooting through you. “I haven’t been able to fuck you properly in over two weeks.” Last night hardly counted, you agreed. “I need to wreck your little cunt.” His thumb swiped fast over your swollen nub. “I’ll fuck you like Ben Solo never could.”

You shuddered, meeting his eyes. “Do your worst.”

Snarling, he leaned onto his knees, tore his fingers from your core and stuffed them in your mouth; you whinged in surprise, starting to suckle them clean. You were tart and tangy, your tongue slipping the length of his digits to swallow it all--Kylo’s free hand unleashed his dick, twitching eagerly despite its thick, heavy length. He jammed his hand to the back of your throat, and you gagged before he depressed your tongue, prying open your jaw.

“You know how this works.” He gazed at you, lightning an electric halo around him.  “Beg for it.”

When he released you, you gasped into the rain. “Please, fuck me.” 

Before you could blink, he slapped you, sending spit from your teeth. “No, slut,” he hissed. “I said beg.”

Your face burned--humiliation, shock, and most importantly: desire. If this is what he meant, you wanted more. “You’re not being very respectful of the dead.”

Kylo scowled and smacked you again, branding your cheek. He seized your scalp and jerked you toward him, his other hand stroking his dick. 

“Don’t make me wait any longer for your pussy,” he said. “Or I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll wish you were among them.”

Your head spun, dizzy with shame and longing--perhaps the same culprits responsible for your temporary insanity. “Then I might keep you waiting.”

Seething, he reeled back and cracked you with the back of his hand, pain blinding you, screaming in your ears. He jostled your head in his grip, waiting for your eyes to refocus--his face was red with impatient desire. 

“If you won’t beg for my cock,” he said, “then you’ll beg for mercy.”

A starving behemoth, he spun you around and slammed your face to the tomb--you heaved, buried in the vegetal scent of wet leaves, and behind you, Kylo was panting. He tossed your sopping excuse for a skirt up your back before wrestling with your hips until they were in the air, rain pelting your exposed ass and cunt. One hand fisted your hair, the other gathering your wrists behind your back, and without warning, he broke your core, cleaving it open with a sharp, unbelievable bliss, head hitting your cervix. You cried out, recoiling in pain, and he shook you in reprimand.

“Oh, no.” He drove his palm into your head, his nails scratching your scalp. “Don’t run from it.”

Kylo rammed into you, spearing you with his cock, your body quaking with the force of each of his violent thrusts. His breath was already ragged, furious groans pushed from his chest as he fucked deep into you. Your lungs were empty, finding oxygen in his onslaught, your walls squeezing his length in delight, your clit buzzing for attention, clamoring for the long-awaited sensation of cumming around him.

“Such--such a needy little cunt,” he growled.  “It missed this cock, didn’t it?” When you didn’t respond, he struck your skull on the stone. “Didn’t it?”

You keened in pain, face smashed on the tomb. “Yes!”

“I know.” He released your wrists, letting them drop limp, and reached under your belly, slick fingers rubbing merciless circles on the bundle of nerves in rhythm with his pistoning hips--you wailed, drooling with pleasure, assaulted with a sudden, immediate need to orgasm. “I know what you like--fuck, you’re so tight when you’re about to cum…” He groaned, punishing your pussy with hard, rapid thrusts. “Prove you can take it. Cum on this cock.”

Between the attention on your clit and the size of his dick, you snapped, convulsing and trembling while your blood flooded with flames, blazing heat through your thighs and to your toes. Behind you, Kylo hissed, fucking you through it, valiantly holding off his own orgasm as yours fizzed at your flesh. When your core’s pulsing slowed, he pulled out, flipping you onto your back, and you writhed underneath him.

He smacked your face, and you whined. “Don’t squirm.” Kylo shifted until he was standing and dragged you by your ankles to the edge of the grave. “I’m not done with that pussy yet.”

Propping your calves on his shoulders, he lunged forward, palm clamping down on your neck, his eyes wild, crazed with desire. His free hand pinched your cheeks, and he plunged in, jaw dropping in disbelief when he sheathed himself again in your wet heat. With a hiss, he stuffed you full before sliding back out and pounding your cunt, growling breath leaking from his lungs, his hold on your throat tightening. 

The pressure in your head only doubled the frenzy of being fucked--you wheezed, your pulse thumping in your temples, and this spurred him on, drilling you with a depraved stare as he plowed into your tight pussy again and again and again. The rain was steam on your skin, thunder a distant noise behind the sound of slapping skin and your strangled, whimpering moans. Your walls clenched and fluttered around his throbbing dick, sore clit twitching once more with a growing demand to be sated--Kylo grunted, tugging you closer. 

“Open.” 

Wincing, you did--and he spat into your mouth. 

“Swallow, bitch. Show me.”

Against his massive hand, it was difficult, but you managed with a grimace, popping your jaw apart to prove it, and Kylo smirked, rewarding you with painful, blissful strokes of his hips. He wracked your body to its limit, your breath lost ages ago, your heart flying through your veins, your ass sore from the dig of vines.  

“Poor thing,” he cooed. “I think you need to cum again.”

The hand at your cheeks snaked between your legs, flicking your aching clit, and you groaned--or tried to, anyway--the speed of your pulse resonating through the grip on your neck. He felt it, too, head bowing in pleasured shock as you thrummed around him, your oncoming climax massaging his thick cock with every new thrust. Resolute, he rubbed you faster, watching you--in his gaze, you saw nothing but an endless, ebony void of lust.

“Whose cock is inside you?”

The words croaked out. “Y-yours, Kylo.”

His choke tightened, and your vision whirled. “Who’s fucking you right now?”

 “You--you are, Kylo--”

“That’s right,” he sneered, and swirled your nub so quickly you squealed. “Cum.”

Your orgasm charged you, whiting your sight, and you screamed, throttled from his hand as every muscle below your waist contracted with an agonizing ecstasy. Your pussy milked and squeezed his cock, but he resisted his own climax once more, sinking into you until you descended, and shoved you back along his father’s grave. His dick dripped with your slick, and he was heaving, cheeks flush with exertion. He drank in the sight of you--cunt spread and abused, raindrops scattered like crystals on your skin, your throat and chest smothered with the evidence of his possession--before he pounced, a raving animal.

“You’re going to take all of me,” he muttered. “Every single fucking inch.”

Kylo pinned you to the stone, one arm coiling under you to fist your hair, the other cranking your leg back until your knee hit your stomach. He panted, wedging his hips between yours, his cock throbbing as he positioned it at your pleading core--baring his teeth, he slipped in, your pussy so wet and ready that it swallowed him with ease. Groaning with pleasure, he hammered into you, stretching you wide, filling you to the root. Locks of hair slid into his eyes, and he tossed them back, wetting his lips and fucking you deep, trapping you in his feral gaze. 

“You want me.” He popped your head back as a prompt. “You want all of me.”

You nodded, despite it. “Yes--oh--I do.”

He swallowed, leaning into you, pressing his forehead to yours. “After all of it,” he said, barely a whisper, “after everything.” 

Your chin trembled, his admission about his parents piercing your heart, swelling it in anguish. In the setting of his hopeless rejection, his savagery, his apathy, his hollow rage--none of it mattered, not to you. And you knew, just as he would never know a woman more willing to hold his soul without still wanting, you would never find another man like Kylo Ren. And there would never be anyone you would want more desperately, or reluctantly, than him.

“Yes.” You wrapped your arms around him, safe when lightning crashed, rocking your hips in his pace. “No matter what.”

“Fuck.” He wound your hair in his fist, and wrenched your head back, tearing at your throat with his teeth, harsh thrusts pulverizing your cunt. “Fucking whore… I’m--fuck--I’m going to make you break again.” His hand left your leg, long fingers back to stroking your tender clit. “And then I’m going to fill you up with my cum.”

Senses barraged, you shrieked, overwhelmed and oversensitive. He was right. You wanted mercy. “Kylo--fuck--please!”

“No. Take it,” he snarled into your ear. “Take it.”

He assailed your nub, and you quailed, curling around him, shaking from his power, lids shut while he nipped your neck, demolished your pussy, panted hard into your ear. It was all too much, too great, brain crashing into a wanton mess. You spasmed, biting your lip, hauled through sensitivity and into a new plane of pleasure, rapture singeing your skin, and you gasped, choked, begged in babbling nonsense for release, for him to send you soaring and screaming and cumming. 

“Perfect,” Kylo moaned, pumping into you, folding you into his frame. “Make yourself mine. Cum for me. Cum for me, angel.”

Your mind split--euphoria and disbelief--and you imploded, twitching, your climax shining lucent through your skin, shattering your sanity, igniting Kylo, too. He groaned, grunted, burying himself to the hilt, warm cock pulsing as he poured hot cum deep into your cunt. 

Had not known how you’d gotten there, you might have thought you’d joined the residents of the cemetery, your spirit buoyant above you for long, witless moments, until it returned to you, floating back in a daze. When you arrived to Earth, you realized Kylo was arriving too, kissing your cheek, holding you close, the both of you fighting to regulate your breath. When you’d both relaxed, he slipped out, leaned back on his heels, revealing you to the trickling rain.

You stared at him, head heavy, attempting to comprehend what he’d called you--angel--attempting to catalogue every minute of this encounter into whatever part of your memory would carve it in permanency. Sighing, you smiled at him, joy bubbling in your chest, but he only gazed at you, affection twinkling--then guttering in his eyes. He absently thumbed your chin before he tucked himself away, and you followed suit, trying to piece together what little was left intact of your clothing. Not that it mattered, as it was all completely drenched with rain. You felt like a paper bag that had been left in a swamp.

Having finished, you looked to your Commander, who was standing at the head of the gravesite. Waiting.

Blushing, you trotted to meet him--when he turned to lead, you reached out.

“Wait.”

Kylo stopped, glanced back. Between you, you felt it again--fate, kismet, serendipity, destiny--whatever it was called, it was something that you could see, the frame of your future like an open door for you to peer inside. Beyond the threshold, the vision was luminous and distinct, a sunray lancing Gilead’s storm: You and Kylo Ren. Together, and safe, and free. 

You didn’t know how you’d get there. You only knew that for the first time, you’d understood exactly what he’d meant. 

“What if we…” You shrugged, as if what you were about to say was no big deal. “No one knows we’re here. No one has to know where we went.” Watching him, you stepped closer. “What if we leave? We can figure it out, we can get help from the Resistance,” you said. “What if we just... go?”

The sky screeched above you--the storm was close, almost right overhead, and a torrent of rain gushed from the clouds. Kylo stared, inscrutable, studying you piece by piece, an inspection of your sincerity, brow furrowing. Then his lips pinched together, his eye twitched. He stepped toward you--

Pop.

At first, you’d thought it was thunder--and when the pain hit, you’d thought it’d been lightning, instead. But then you glanced at your arm, scrutinizing the source, and found only frayed fabric, burnt thread, and a gash of bright, red blood. You blinked, adrenaline crashing into you like a freight plane.

“Oh,” you mumbled, fuzzing gaze drifting to Kylo. “I think I’ve been shot.”

[ty-talks-comics]

Best of Marvel: Week of October 23rd, 2019

Best of this Week: The Immortal Hulk #25 (Legacy #742) - Al Ewing, Germán García, Chris O'Halloran, Joe Bennett, Ruy José and Paul Mounts

At the end of the Universe, there is only the Breaker of Worlds.

Many issues of Immortal Hulk have tackled the horror of what comes next, the existence of an apocalyptic Green Hell for those touched by Gamma radiation being the most terrifying. This issue, however, doesn't focus on what comes AFTER life, but what is coming for the last flickers of it that will exist at the end of time.

Following an alien being of some sort, named Par%l, we join hir as they travel to the last known vestige of the Universe's knowledge. A planet called O%los, a beautiful planet with chromatic seas, crystalline superstructures and a general feeling of happiness. Par%l hopes that by beating the Breaker-Apart to O%los, that they might be able to warn the nine billion souls that live there or save the knowledge stored therein. From what we learn of hir interaction with another being of her kind, every other planet in the Universe has been destroyed by a monster of some kind.

These pages are characterized by García's use of otherworldly visuals and O'Halloran's use of warm and pastel colors. Par%l and her companion Farys look almost microbial with extended "necks," long, almost tube like bodies, capped with heads that contain crystals of some sort in them. It's abstract in a way that signifies that humans have long since been annihilated and that the beings at the far end of the universe are pretty much all that's left.

The pages before this have been characterized by bright and lively colors. Warm oranges and yellows have signified life and the hope that knowledge could be saved. The multi colors of O%los even brim with light and a feeling that everything will be all right. O'Halloran makes sure to set the mood of the unknown before ripping it away at the very last moment.

As Par%l arrives to the orbit of O%los, in the distance, Par%l spies a green light.

In an instant, O%los is beset upon by the form of The Immortal Hulk. He floats through space, not speaking a single word, but saying everything he needed to with a clothesline.

He obliterates the planet.

Par%l observes his every movement. From his crashing through several moons and lifeless planets, winding up his fist, to the impact of the hit. The crystals of O%los are spread across the vastness of space, the planet is turned into a combination of glass, dust and death as nine billion beings are killed and all of life knowledge if destroyed. What was once a colorful environment is then replaced with a bright green and the darkest blacks as the destroyed remains of O%los float around hir.

Par%l doesn't understand and gathers the words for all of the things they're seeing. They have never seen hands or arms before, but she finds the words, she has never seen a face before and above all, she had never seen a smile until the Breaker-Apart looks upon her minuscule and insignificant form. Hulk is terrifying here as he has now become planet sized or larger, able to shift his size enough to crush stars and even suns. He doesn't have regular eyes as they just glow with evil Green Door Energy.

When Par%l tries to communicate with him, simply asking "Why?" They are met with horrors unimaginable. I'd imagine García is a fan of Jeff Lemire and Andrea Sorrentino's Gideon Falls because the next few pages are beautiful double page spreads of Eldritch terror in a similar style. It's not fair to draw comparisons, but in my opinion they are absolutely prevalent. 

The shots of thousands of people with their eyes blotted out, screaming in fear without any words or even sound as they're coated in an evil green and black is more than mind numbingly scary. The next shot of The One Below All showing his fleshy, mucus-y visage under the guise of Hulk's horribly distorted and ripped apart body with the background showing a city razed to the ground is terrifying. The red lettering by Cory Petit only stands to make the scene more scary as he's able to convey what The One Below All says in a way that makes him seem out of this dimension. 

He is powerful in a way that is incomprehensible. This is shown even more on the final spread where he is shown with tunnels where his eyes were as he's surrounded by faces in the melted flesh of the Hulk's body. He says that he has eaten all of the selves that were in the Hulk and that the mystery of his own existence frightens him, but he will kill all of life to be alone. 

Par%l is unable to take it and hir shell cracks, forming a fly containing all of hir knowledge of the future. Somehow it travels through time into the hands of one of the Hulk's oldest enemies. 

To say this book had me terrified would be an understatement. As I turned each page, the horrors only became more visceral, more dreadful. The Hulk will destroy the world, not just one, but all of them. Of the many futures that Marvel presents, I believe this one. The One Below All is written as if they are the truth. They will kill everything and there is nothing any living being can do to stop it. Maybe Par%l landing in the hands of who it does will be the catalyst to avoiding that future, but like Thanos, The One Below All might just be inevitable. 

Germán García's art was phenomenal here, just beautiful to look at with a page turner everywhere. It had vast a detailed visuals when things seemed to have an upswing, but when the time came for Hulk to appear and collapse the entire idea, García hammered home just how hopeless things were. Chis O'Halloran colored this book like a champ and really sold the desolation that The Green Light brought with it. He's able to easily elicit a feeling of fear with such a simple and common color through his use of a particular shade, kind of a toxic color accentuated by a whiteness in the center.

What's most enjoyable about this is Al Ewing's ability to weave a tale that goes beyond the initial premise of an unkillable Hulk, to one where an interdimensional God using the Hulk's body sniffs out every last light in the universe. There's so much story potential and it's a wonder where he could possibly go to reach this point if it's not stopped.

This book is absolutely fitting of the horror of October and is a definite Scary Recommend.

[anistarrose]

Some Sunny Day - Chapter 10: Happy to Know (Gravity Falls - Same Coin Theory)

Summary: It’ll all out in the open now.

Warnings: Suicidal ideation (no one dies)

Previous / Next

The Beginning (see here for AO3 link)

Just a quick foreword for this chapter and the next one: now that the main cast members are all realizing the truth, they’re going to be expressing some opinions on the situation (interpretations of the theory) that are not necessarily my own, and may not reflect the overall direction this fic is taking. The truth is out, but there’s still a lot that needs to be worked through, so if this chapter feels like a downer, don’t worry — this fic is tagged Hurt/Comfort for a reason that will (eventually) become apparent.

(The Same Coin Theory is by @dubsdeedubs and @renmorris!)

Stanley’s mindscape was changing.

Ford somehow remained blind to it until he tried to stand up, only to fall back down to his hands and knees as the floorboards shuddered and swayed beneath his feet. All around him, walls buckled and planks were torn out of place, rearranging themselves to craft new hallways, new connections between memories.

Hissing geysers erupted from cracks in the floor, the scalding-hot plumes weaving deftly around him as their steam escaped through the holes in the roof. Some of the clouds took longer to drift out of sight, and as they hung lazily in the air, Ford could make out images in them — a rift, a shooting star. A fire, a fist. A statue.

The steam even seemed to seep out of the walls and floor themselves, sapping the darkness from the wood as it grew lighter and lighter, brighter and brighter until it burned Ford’s eyes just to look at. The grain patterns in the planks shifted and flickered like waves of fire, taking on a blue hue as they leapt out of the wood and into the air, chasing away the last wisps of darkness to render Stan’s mind in all white and light gray, accented by the yellow gleam of the knots in the walls as they all shifted to fixate their gaze on Ford, unblinking.

He covered his eyes, but the images stayed seared in his memory.

***

Stanley laughed — a long, hearty laugh that would have brought tears to his eyes and a sore sensation to his gut, had he not been immaterial and invulnerable, free from the oppressive laws of physics as the undisputed master of the mindscape.

Oh, it had been so long — so long since he’d last looked beyond where his cataract-ridden human eyes could see, since he’d last snapped his fingers and rewritten the rules of the universe however he deemed fit, so long since he’d last consciously thought about how ancient and how powerful he was, how much he was truly capable of when he set his mind to it…

He didn’t know whether to call it ten months or sixty-two years, but it had been so long, too long.

So long since he’d last cheated someone out of some precious time in possession of their own body, so long since he’d razed a dimension from the inside out and danced as it went up in flames, so long since he’d —

So long since he’d tortured his former pawn (his future brother) to give up the equation confining his reign of terror to a single town, so long since he’d left it up to chance which child (which nibling) he’d kill in cold blood, to convince Ford that he meant what he said about hurting those kids —

Fuck, fuck, fuck —

More and more memories kept rushing back, some already remembered from a different perspective, but many worse than anything a still-amnesiac-Stanley would have ever dreamed of. Dimensions burnt to the ground, deals struck and puppets claimed, eyes dripping blood and cutlery jabbed into arms —

He had always known on some level, he realized.

(No, not realized. Admitted.)

He had known since the blue flames first flickered up around his fingers that morning, and he had known since he first found the prisms in Ford’s house and been struck by a wave of déjà vu, as long-slumbering memories grew restless in their sleep. He had known since he’d swung back and forth on a rusty swingset on a beach, staring at the six-fingered hands gripping the chains of the other swing, and addressed their owner by a nickname from a prophecy written centuries ago, in a cave two thousand miles away. He’d known ever since the blue fire of the burning mindscape had faded away, and he’d opened two eyes in a hospital in New Jersey, mind blank but not truly empty.

He just couldn’t admit it to himself and stay sane. He didn’t dare risk reawakening the demon that lurked in his memories, bound in place by the flimsy chain that was his newly acquired conscience — but it hadn’t just been about self-preservation, or even the preservation of the rest of the world, had it? He hadn’t been able find the courage to admit it to his family, either, to tell them who he was — and then, even worse, to explain how he’d known and lied about it for so long, for as long as he’d known them. How he’d lied until he couldn’t remember what was a lie and what wasn’t.

And he didn’t know how to tell them that all the lying been futile, in the end, because denial could erase memories but not actions. Not who, not what he was. His very identity as the others saw it — as even he had been foolish enough to see it, for sixty-two years — was nothing more than just another con. Just another fake name.

All belief of being Stanley Pines abandoned, Bill Cipher raised a hand to cover his mouth and screamed.

***

The one remaining column of steam in the room exploded just as Ford pulled himself to his feet, and winds tore across the room, howling in agony but miraculously not knocking him down. On unsteady feet, a figure with disheveled hair but an impeccable suit and tie walked falteringly forwards, away from the site of detonation — and despite himself, Ford stepped towards him.

“Stanley? Are you —”

Stan’s head jerked up, and he stared at Ford like a deer in the headlights. “No! No, don’t come any closer, I —”

His feet lifted off the floor, and waves of pixels and static rippled up his body as he gritted his teeth, form flickering back and forth between human and —

And something Ford couldn’t quite make out, human and —

Human and —

A sickly yellow triangle materialized out of the static, single eye unblinking as thin black limbs dangled limply towards the ground.

“Well,” he said, in the quietest voice Ford had ever heard emanate from Bill Cipher, “you probably see why you shouldn’t come near me.”

Ford’s stomach churned like it had been thrown into perpetual free fall, and his eyes unfocused.

“What did you do to him?!” he howled. “WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY BROTHER?!”

“Nothing,” Bill said, hands curling into tiny black fists as his appearance flickered and morphed into Stan once again. “I got some bad news, Sixer.”

“Stop pretending to be him!” Ford snarled. “I know you’re really Cipher, so stop — stop making a mockery of him like that! Stop pretending!”

“I have stopped.” The being that took on Stan’s appearance looked genuinely upset, shaking his head slowly and refusing to make eye contact for more than a fraction of a second. “I was — I was pretending for a really long time, but —”

“You’re not making any sense, St—” Ford barely caught himself, and corrected frantically. “No, I mean — fuck. What do you fucking want from me, Bill, that —”

Stan took a shaky breath — the type that often comes when tears are starting to dampen one’s eyes, and they’re trying not to let them creep into their voice. “I really had you convinced, didn’t I?”

He closed his two eyes, after another burst of static, Bill opened his one. “Sixer, I… I was always Stan.”

“What?! No, of all the bullshit — is this some reincarnation angle you’re going for? Because you clearly died long after Stan was —”

“Time doesn’t work like that, Ford! You went rooting through my memories, you saw me invoke the Axolotl — that big frilly know-it-all exists way outside of any backwards and forwards or cause and effect, you must have figured that out by now! I invoked it back when I was burning in my own damn mindscape, when I didn’t actually want to die, and you know what it thought? It thought I was worth saving — oh, and not just saving, but worth shoving me back into your lives like I hadn’t ruined them enough yet!”

“Don’t talk like that about him! Don’t talk like you are him! I won’t fall for your tricks, Cipher, I —”

“I don’t want it to be true either!” Bill wailed, and a fiery blue tear fell from his eye, continuing to roll down his cheek as he turned back into Stan. “You have no idea, I — I want more than anything to to go back to just a couple days ago, to being able to pretend everything is normal and only thinking about spending the summer with you all! But — but it’s not — I can’t pretend anymore! I’m too dangerous to all of you!”

His hoarse voice broke every few words, so full of anguish and so unmistakably Stan. So far beyond anything Bill would ever have the capability to fake.

“There’s — there’s got to be memories getting mixed up in here somehow,” Ford whispered, and though he tried to sound comforting it ended up sounding more like a desperate prayer. “We’ll get this all sorted out, Stanley, don’t worry —”

“You can’t sort out what was never mixed up in the first place!” Bill yelled. “Why won’t you just listen to me, Ford? What about — what if I show you something you remember too?”

The Shack shuddered, planks groaning as they moved to make way for a new door that was dragged out from the hallway by an unseen force. Blue flames ignited around the knob as it twisted open on its own, letting the door swing open to reveal —

Earlier this June, about two weeks ago. Ford shuffled cards as Dipper and Mabel pulled chairs up to a table, and Stan carried in a bowl of fresh popcorn.

“Alright, what are we doin’ for teams?” he asked, setting down the bowl. “Ford and I are obviously unstoppable together, so it’s only fair if we both team up with one of you kiddos…”

“Yeah, ‘cause you both count cards…” Dipper muttered under his breath.

Stan ignored him and folded his hands together, making a point with his index fingers as he gestured between Mabel and Dipper. “Eenie meenie miney… you.”

Dipper flinched as Stan landed on him, staring at his pointed fingers with horror for a moment before taking a few hurried steps backward. “I, uh…”

Stan frowned. “Something wrong?”

“Oh, no,” Mabel murmured. “It’s a Bill thing, isn’t it, Dipper?”

Dipper started to shake his head, but then sighed and pulled down his hat. “Yeah. He… he said that to me a couple times, and now I just…”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Stan said. “Tell me right away if I ever use a bad phrase like that again, okay?”

Dipper nodded, and Ford put a hand on his shoulder. To Stan, he whispered: “I think I remember hearing Bill use that phrase once, but… aside from that, I don’t think I’ve ever heard it from anyone but you. Did he — did he steal your catchphrase?”

Stan shrugged. “I dunno, but I hope he didn’t steal anything else. Dipper — or any of you, actually — are there any other words you guys want me to avoid?”

The other three Pines shook their heads, and Stan smiled, passing the bowl of popcorn in Dipper’s direction. “Well then, let’s play some euchre before the popcorn gets cold. I got fancy with this batch and made it on the stove, ya know.”

The door to the memory slammed shut, and Ford bit his lip. His hands were trembling at his sides, fingers curled so tightly that they ached like hell, and he couldn’t bear to look down at them in fear he might find them bleeding.

“Coincidence,” he choked out. “It has to be.”

“What will make you believe it, Sixer?” Stan asked. “Fuck, even that nickname should clue you in! Did you ever think it was weird that the two of us both called you Sixer, and just the two of us?”

“Bill must have stolen it from you. Like he stole —”

“That nickname came from the zodiac and you know it! I know you know it, so why can’t you just — just — just look at yourself, Stanford!”

The air shimmered between them, forming a surface so pristine and perfectly reflective that Ford almost thought he was still looking at his twin, view unobstructed — but Stan had been silhouetted in blue flames just a moment ago, while Ford’s reflection was awash with darkness. Clouds circled him slowly, not a single spark of lightning seen in the air between them, and they blurred together with his trenchcoat as it flowed in the gentle wind, disintegrating into tiny gray droplets at the hem. Dark paths traced from the corners of his eyes down his cheeks, running off his chin and down his neck towards his sweater, where they bled into the wool and stained it black.

And the hands, unmistakably six-fingered and undeniably his own, were dripping dark liquid too — not the blood he thought he’d felt, but relentless cascades of black, feeding rivers that hissed and steamed as they ran across the floor’s glowing planks.

“Don’t you see? You’re drawing all the darkness left in my mind towards you because you’re the one in the deepest denial now — but trust me, Ford, it’s not gonna last forever. Something’s gonna snap you out of it sooner or later, so it — it might as well be now. Just accept that I’m not who you thought I was.”

“Fuck,” Ford whispered. “Stanley, you — you’re — you really —”

Stan rose above the mirror, still cloaked in flames as his body convulsed into the form of Bill once more.

“You said no one is allowed to say Stanley is worthless, but guess what? ‘Stanley’ isn’t real. He was just another lie, invented by an amnesiac dream demon who almost managed to convince even himself that he deserved to have a family.”

His voice broke again, but he looked at Ford in the eye as he continued:

“Face it, Sixer — you never had a twin.”

“No!” The dark clouds and blue fire both blew back from Ford as he yelled, voice echoing in his own ears like a grenade going off. “Reincarnation is one thing, but — but there are some things that I’ll never — that can’t —”

He lunged at (Stan? Bill? His brother? He didn’t know) but his hands and then arms passed harmlessly through the triangle, flickering and fading to white — and then Bill’s body turned transparent too, seeming to almost catch him off guard.

“Oh,” he whispered, and transformed back to a faint, quickly fading outline of Stan. “Guess it’s time. See you on the other side, Sixer.”

And then Ford couldn’t see anything anymore, but he could hear a high, echoing voice call out once again as if from far away:

Remember, a deal’s a deal.

***

“Alright, that should be it for the barrier,” Fiddleford announced as he stood up from his kneeling position and watched a glowing blue dome briefly flicker into existence around the sleeping Pines. “Remind me not to leave these mercury vials here on the floor after this has all blown over.”

“How will we know if it works?” Melody asked.

“Great question! I have no idea, an’ hopefully we’ll never hafta find out.”

“Real reassuring,” Wendy muttered under her breath. “Hey, how long do you think it’ll be before —”

Ford leapt bolt upright and tossed the pillow he’d been clutching halfway across the room. “Bill, what do you —”

He locked eyes with Fiddleford. “Fidds? Oh no, Stanley, where’s Stanley —”

He whirled around and saw Soos and the kids beginning to stir, but only Stan opened his eyes — regular and brown, no sign of possession to be found.

“Shoot me, Ford,” he whispered.

Ford froze. “No!! Why would you think I would ever do that?!”

Slowly, as if still feeling the effects of the sedative, Stan pulled himself out of his chair. “Because you promised?”

“When did I ever promise I would shoot you?”

Stan shook his head and sighed, nervously glancing at the kids and Soos and taking a few quick steps away from them while they opened their eyes and rubbed their ears. “Look, Ford, I know it’s been… a long day, but you’ve gotta remember. You promised you’d kill me if Bill took control, and I’m feeling — I’m feeling pretty in-control of myself right now, so —”

“What?” Soos jumped to his feet and grabbed ahold of Stan’s arm. “Mr. Pines, what are you saying? You can’t — you can’t leave us, you’re —”

Stan tore himself out of Soos’s grip and rushed to Ford’s side. “Just get it over with! Please!”

He ran both hands over his skull, yanking on fistfuls of his own hair. “You have to, before I end up hurting someone! Please, I — I — I fuckin’ killed you enough times in Weirdmageddon, I deserve this! Don’t you want to get revenge on me?! Don’t you want to protect your family?!”

“You what?! Grunkle Stan, what do you mean?!” Mabel grabbed ahold Ford’s trenchcoat, voice rising as she clasped handfuls of the brown fabric in trembling, balled-up fists. “What does he mean?!”

“Don’t say that, Stanley,” Ford breathed. “For the kids’ sake, I can’t —”

Stan’s gaze drifted towards a spot the floor a few feet away, fixating on a pale blue chunk of moonstone. He’d noticed the barrier, Ford realized a second too late.

“Fine,” Stan whispered as he stepped backwards. “Then I guess I’ll just have to… take care of it myself.”

“No! Don’t go! Don’t you dare leave us like —”

Ford lunged after him, but Stan backed out of the barrier too quickly, and Ford’s hand passed right through Stan’s shoulder as he disintegrated like smoke in a gust of wind. A single tear fell from where Stan’s face had just been, striking the floor without a sound.

“Grunkle Ford, what happened?” Dipper’s voice cracked. “We found Bill’s memories, and then he — Bill glitched out, and it felt like the whole mindscape was gonna get torn apart —”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Ford said. “I — I don’t know what to believe.”

“Stan’s not — that wasn’t Bill just now, was it?”

“I don’t know.”

Dipper went silent, leaving the quiet sobs from behind him as the loudest sound remaining in the room.

“He’s really gone,” Soos wept. “After everything, he’s just — he’s just gone —”

Ford took a few steps backward and slowly laid an arm over Soos’s broad shoulders, eyes still fixed on the damp spot where Stan’s tear had struck the floor.

“He’s still out there somewhere,” he insisted, “he has to be. I would know if he wasn’t. I’m sure I would.”

He wasn’t sure. That — that entity, with Stan’s eyes and Bill’s memories, almost certainly had the power to destroy its own self in an instant, and Ford had no reason to believe that it hadn’t just done so. (It might not even matter, if Stan wasn’t even in there anymore. Or if he’d never been in there in the first place —)

But baseless hope had pulled through for Ford countless times before, and once again, it was all he had to go on now.

“Stanley is still out there,” he repeated, “and we need to find him.”

***

End notes:

I chose Ford’s POV for this chapter because it made certain scenes a lot more horrifying/impactful, especially the part with the mirror, but I realized while editing that the result is a bit of a trade-off in which Stan’s motivations become a little less clear, so I’d like to clarify: the reason Stan doesn’t immediately leave the new unicorn hair barrier is because he doesn’t trust himself to end his own life, and in fact doesn’t really trust anyone besides Ford to do so. It’s only when Ford shows he’s clearly not willing to cooperate that Stan leaves, realizing that taking it into his own hands is the best option he has left. (Also, as much as he’s convinced he has to die… it’s still terrifying to him, and he doesn’t want to leave the world all alone. It’s not his main motivation for his actions at the end, but it definitely plays a role.)

Anyways, feedback/reblogs are appreciated as always! Next update should stick to the every other Monday schedule that I’ve been attempting!

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Out on the Town (Part 5)

A/N It’s Mother’s day, and it’s been a shitfuck of a week at work, so I’m using escapism to cope. Sorry, not sorry.  I just have all the feelings about this giant lunkhead.

Thor watched you from his seat in a cargo plane. “Team Weird Shit” Comprised of you, Steve, Thor, and Clint were headed out to see about a disturbance. Steve because someone had to lead, Thor because of muscle, and Clint because someone had to be sensible and do sneaky things. So really. You. You were team weird shit with a posse. You were calm, reading a file, checking and rechecking facts. This was not near as scary for you as it was Thor. He was anxious you’d find him wanting. Or that you’d be hurt. You just wanted to get this over with. Hellhounds were straight forward. Kill them. Quickly. And then salt and burn.

A sword rested in its scabbard across your knees, and your whip lay coiled on the seat. Thor had seen you train, but he’d never seen you in a real stakes battle. Your expression is unreadable. Intensely focused. You crackle with energy, magic flowing around you as you prepare to call it forth and deal with the monsters. He’s both aroused and terrified at the thought of seeing you fight. He’s heard the stories, and he’s pretty sure he might be getting grey hair just from the stress. 

On the ground, you let Steve lead. Technically, you are not an Avenger. You’re an Agent of S.H.E.I.L.D. You’re there as a consultant. Steve leads, and he defers to you for which way to lead. Everyone wins. When you find the hellhounds, there are many, and they just keep coming. Your whip has been eaten by one, and you’re stuck on the ground in front of the biggest one. Thor, Clint, and Steve are all pinned down, and Thor cries out in panic, only to see you dive behind a building and come out, piece of chain in hand, jerking a sturdy knot in the end and manipulating the metal to hold it. You wrap the chain around the beast’s bloody, dripping snout and let the jerk off its head pull you upwards. As you fall, sword in both hands you behead it. Irritated and finally angry enough to let go of your stranglehold on your magic, you will flame into being to burn this one and the scattered remains of what had been called. You glow white. You don’t even look fully corporeal. You tell Thor later that in that state, you are not. Flames leap razing the whole town to ash to dispel the last of the dark magic that had been called. 

It is awe-inspiring, and Thor, the God of Thunder, drops his hammer and Drops to his knees. Bewildered and Dazzled. You are a creature he is unworthy of, but gods is he glad you belong to him. Clint and Steve walk over to Thor casually. They’ve seen this before and wait for you to will the flames out of existence.  They wait. And keep waiting. The flames are dying down on their own. You aren’t looking at any of them. The fire. Or the sky. You're staring at the road leading out of town. A woman is standing there in front of the village of terrified onlookers. She’s watching you. She doesn’t look much older than you, but something about her posture suggests she’s in her 40′s or 50′s. As the power flows out of you, spent and the glow around you fades, you’re still staring, and she’s staring back. You look like you’re trying to remember who she is. As you sink to your knees in the dirt and the rest of the team runs forward Thor hears you whisper, “Mom?” as your eyes close. Thor jerked his head up to look for the woman, and she was gone. As if she’s never stood there. You’re cold to the touch and Barton is pale as Thor wraps you into his cloak, clutching you to his chest. “We need to get her out of here.” Barton said Thor nodded, “I’ll take her my way.” he said, “I’ll be faster.” Cap had no clue what the rush was, but he nodded, trusting Barton’s instinct. Thor carried you straight into the compound, straight to medical for fluids. He wasn’t going to let anyone else move you despite his exhaustion.

He tried to protest at Bruce giving you a sedative and Bruce only sighed, “If she wakes up hooked up to machines she’s going to level the whole wing before we can sedate her and control the damage. She’ll only hurt herself more.” Thor relented, and Bruce gave it to you. A few hours later both Clint and Natasha were sitting with him. Clint and Natasha were pale, and Thor held your hand tightly. You were dreaming. Bad dreams, nightmares. You were pleading with someone to stop. Thor reached for you to wake you and you say bolt upright, hair flying, eyes wide, chest heaving. “Mom!” you cried out. “She isn’t here, sweetheart,” Natasha said kissing the hand Thor didn’t hold. You looked around everything falling in to place. Remembering where you were. Where you had been. Then collapsing into helpless, heartbroken sobs. You had seen your mother. She’d been so close you could have reached out to touch her, and she’d stared right through you. You were inconsolable, and no one tried to make the pain stop. They only banded together to hold you through it. When you recovered enough, and the tears stopped, Thor took you back to his room. The room he wished you’d just move in to and started the bath. He was too tired to hold you through a shower, and he knew you’d not be able to stand, so he compromised and decided warm water would help. You were mute and numb as he held you against his chest, but he hummed to you anyway. Barton and Natasha had gone to drink. And plot. So he tended to you himself. He murmured endearments and praised your skills. His Valkyrie. You are the strongest witch he knows. And his Mother, Queen Frigga was a goddess. He told you of Asgard, places he knew as a boy. Places he wanted to take you when you visited with him. He tried to soothe the storm in your mind. The nightmares you were fighting against sleep to avoid. 

When the water cooled, and Thor dried you and tucked you into bed, you cuddled into him, laying on his chest. Questions whirling around in your mind at top speed. Queries to which you had no answers. “Why didn’t she look for me?” you whimper, tears flowing silently down your cheeks, silent tremors of pain rocking your body. Thor just held you tighter, praying to Valhalla that when you discovered his deception, you wouldn’t turn away from him. 

In the morning, Thor woke to find you cross-legged and dressed on his bed, a hefty magic tome across your lap, reading glasses perched on the edge of your nose. You’re glowing faintly, luminous and shining. Dark shadows under your eyes tell him you haven’t slept and your intensity tells him you will not rest until you arrive at an answer. Whether you like it or not. Whether Barton and Natasha like it or not, he has a feeling that their entire house of cards is about to come tumbling down. Without a word you hop off the bed taking your book with you, bare feet slapping across the tile floor as you sprint down the hall. It took all night, but you finally have a spell. A spell that will show you secrets. Thor sat up, dressing quickly, cursing under his breath. He was too late by the time he reached your shop. You were entranced. Bespelled. And you were furious. Your eyes were black and unfathomable as you stormed down the passage, a bag slung over your shoulder. You needed to get out of the building before you brought it crashing down. 

Thor tried to stop out, reaching out to grab your arm and your skin burned under his fingers, hot enough that he recoiled from you and he felt the skin blister. He knew that was too much power. The lights flickered above you and Thor heard generators whir into motion. The hurt and betrayal turned the world shades of red, and you were so fast you were just... gone. Before anyone really knew what had happened. No one knew where you had gone either. Thor had Heimdall look for you. And Frigga looks for you. Clint and Natasha had feelers out. It was as if you didn’t exist. You were a ghost. Thor, Clint, and Natasha were wrecked. They had always known you would find out, but they hoped against hope this wouldn’t happen. They drank and commiserated, but both the spy and the assassin had to hold the god up as he slipped into despair. Weeks passed. Then months, And later finally, word arrived. You were alive. And safe. The woman Clint had given you to to finish raising you had finally seen you. Clint took the earful in stride and then grabbed a plane. It was time for you to come home. 

The whole team went. Mostly to help contain you if you did lose control. Thor looked at the hand he’d burned to touch you that day. It still stung from time to time, when he thought of your black eyes and the way you had dashed out of the building when you felt yourself too close to the point of no return, even in a haze of rage protecting others. Bruce held Natasha, kissing her hair from time to time. They knew. They all knew now, and they all understood the choice. And your reaction. When the plane landed, you had a sword in hand, going through training motions. Your hair was long. So long. Down to the small of your back. Your nose was pierced. And the shorts you were wearing... in another context, Thor would have quite enjoyed the swell of your ass and the way those shorts complimented it. Right now he just wanted to beg forgiveness. 

The meeting in the cabin was tense. You were still furious, and Clint and Natasha were defensive. They argued that it kept you alive and you wiped away hurt tears, hanging your head saying “Sometimes, I wish you would have just done it. I don’t know if I can do this.” the pieces of Thor’s heart disintegrated then. As you started to cry the two behind the plot had just held their arms out to you, “Death is not an option,” Natasha said, “You’re the only little sister I ever had. The only person I know who can deal with Clint’s fucking jokes.” Clint kissed your head, “Like it or not, we need you,” he said, “We’re all a family now.” You accepted. You forgave. But you still wouldn’t go back. So Thor stayed with you. He stayed and worked on repairing the hurt he caused. He coddled as much as you would let him and slept every night stroking the small of your back. Your hair a riotous mass falling over you. “Come to Asgard with me?” He asked suddenly one morning over coffee.

You pause, putting your hair up for the day, “Why?” you ask softly. “I love the most beautiful woman in the universe,” he said, “I have hurt that woman. I would like to make amends.” You sip your coffee and stare at him for a moment, “As you wish.” you say simply. Thor beamed at you and before you could ask when you were standing at the Rainbow Bridge, head spinning. You took a deep breath to calm your temper and settle your stomach. Thor laughed, pulling the one pin you were holding your hair back with out of your bun and tossing it aside, “Come, Y/N!” he declared, “Let me show you my kingdom!”