#I’ve said it before but I don’t know when to chill or regulate effort. I push myself at full capacity until I mentally/physically burnout

[inga-don-studio]

Well my body sure did take the adage “if you don’t schedule time for rest then your body will do it for you whether it’s convenient or not” to heart with a vengeance. (I’m sure I butchered the saying but whatever)

#🎃 Cryptid Sighting #Dizzy as fuck rn so there’s no way I’m going in to move & operate big heavy & dangerous equipment tonight #I had the feeling I was going down this road - I was already exhausted after day 4 (which- given it’s part time- should be the max workweek #But day 5 yesterday was spent feeling like all system collapse lol. It’s why I won’t take a full time position here. Too brutal #Like- I have the stamina & strength of an ox up to a certain point #But past that point of justified exhaustion & it’s catastrophic failure. Whole body gangs up on me & starts violently falling apart #I’ve said it before but I don’t know when to chill or regulate effort. I push myself at full capacity until I mentally/physically burnout #So if I don’t have to go in for jury duty tomorrow I’ll finally have time to relax & rest a little! #So yippee I guess? #Ok back to bed

[george-fabian-weasley]

the mad hatter — g. w.(chapter 3)

Summary: You had found clear evidence that showed George as The Mad Hatter. And it had ruined you more than you thought.

Words: 2,771 words

Warnings: TW death, TW murder, TW poisoning, TW injuries, thriller, angst, fem!reader, husband!george, dad!george, serialkiller!george, sadism, bickering, mentions of sharp objects,

Disclaimer: I'm sorry for the 3 hours of delay, guys! My Internet wasn't working that well lately! Anyway, here's chapter 3! Prepare for some tissues, because this is pretty angsty. Reblogs and Comments are Highly Appreciated!

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“... Recorders?”

Inside the big drawer of George’s, were neatly placed recorders. You were confused, what the hell was he doing with these recorders in the first place?

Each of those recorders was labeled with initials you didn’t understand, along with them were numbers, six numbers underneath the letters. You reached for one, the top of the stack.

‘D. B.’

‘120121’

“DB…? What’s DB?” You muttered to yourself, your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. You tried to wreck your mind, thinking hard. There was a small voice in your mind, telling you the answer. Slowly it got louder and louder and louder until it’s the only thing you heard.

‘David Bush. 12th January 2021.’

The first victim of The Mad Hatter.

Without you knowing it, your fingers had grasped the recorder and pressed it to play. For the first few seconds, you only heard the static noises of the wheels inside the recorder turning.

“Date. 12th January. Subject. David Bush.”

It was George. This is his voice. But at the same time, it’s not. The voice you knew was gentle, understanding, and loving. This voice, however… was rough, deep and… and murderous.

George was breathing heavily on the tape as if he had exercised after a long while. You could hear him trying to regulate his breathings with the deep breaths he made. “I… I’ve stopped doing this for a while. It was a perfect shame that I did,” George huffed out a breath that you assumed a smile rose on his lips.

��Because I’ve forgotten how thrilling it was.”

It was an understatement; the fact that goosebumps ran up your spine heavily as you heard him. What… What was he talking about? What is the thrill? Please, please please, don’t let it be what’s in your mind. Please—

“Subject was held at knifepoint when I gave him those lovely macarons I bought from the newly opened bakery. Only I’ve put my own special ingredient in, just for him,” George’s voice cut your train of thoughts off. The way he held his words was delicate, like a piece of paper shaped into a knife kind of delicate. You could hear from his voice that he was smiling, he was smiling big.

You could imagine him at that moment, on the 12th of January, sitting in his workspace holding the recorder in his hand and let out all those words… purposely recorded.

“I’ve only tried my luck when I gave him those, and it seems my luck has not yet run out. Because a few moments later, he couldn’t breathe on his own. He couldn’t breathe, and as I watched him fight for a huff of air, excitement bubbles inside of me. The thrill, the nicotine of it all was, exhilarating. Addicting. I didn’t know why I stopped doing this in the first place.”

You felt like throwing up. He didn’t have to say what he was doing, or what was the special ingredient. Everything clicked in perfectly. Way too perfectly.

It’s him. George is The Mad Hatter.

You took a shaky deep breath, trying to digest everything. The Mad Hatter… was your own husband. The man that you have wed. The man that you have born a child with. The man that you’re in love with. You felt your heart ramming up your chest, the palpitations were fast and so unnatural, you felt like you would have a heart attack if it continued for a few minutes. You ran a hand through your hair, suddenly feeling chills on your body, it was cold in here.

“I did mess up though,” His words caused you to look up to the recorder. “I brought with me a thermos of tea, in case I was feeling cold. And I did, but I accidentally spilled some of them on his hands.”

“Thinking back about it, it wasn’t a mess up at all,” He started to chuckle, “Because as soon as it made contact with his hands, the subject let out this hoarse, strained scream. And it was… It was nothing I’ve ever heard before.”

“It was a masterpiece.”

You pressed the stop button on the recorder. You literally couldn’t bear to hear another word coming out of the recorder. Who is he? Who is your husband? Do you really know him? Or do you only know the front that he used in front of you for the past 7 years?

Your eyes snapped back to the content of the drawer. You rummaged through them all, the initials and the numbers. All of them aligned with the names of the victims and the dates they had been murdered.

David Bush. Peter Pettigrew. Severus Snape. Barty Crouch Jr. Spencer Gillard. Albus Dumbledore. Ralph Wilkins. Every single one of them, and their own recorders of confessions. All victims of The Mad Hatter. Victims of George Weasley.

And then you heard the front door open.

“We’re home!” Rafael’s cheerful voice had caught you off guard. You glanced at the watch on your wrist in haste, it was only 3:30 pm, they weren’t supposed to be back until 5. You felt fear running through your bones. What if George caught you snooping around? What if he's mad at you?

Wait. No. Why would you be scared? You’re not the murderer here, he is.

“Y/N, love? Are you home? We saw your shoes at the front of the house,” George’s voice, different from the one you had listened to in the recorder, had disgusted you in many ways you couldn't have imagined. You would've never thought his voice, which you loved so much before, could bring so much anger and hatred in you. But here we are.

Hearing him say your name, with love after, was he really honest? Or was he just lying, like he always does for the past 7 years? Hearing him saying it was repulsive, dirty, and full of hate.

He’s fooling with you. How dare he.

You stormed out of George’s workroom, surprising the two of them. “Mumma— '' Rafa's words were cut off when you grabbed his wrist, “Rafa, baby, I need you to be in your room for a minute alright? Mumma’s talking with Papa.”

“B-But— ” He was cut off again when you pushed him into his room and slammed the door shut. You could hear your son slamming his arms on the door, wailing to get out already.

George looked at you in confusion, “Darling, what— ” “Don’t call me darling. Or love, or honey or literally anything else!” You snapped, seething your next words, “It disgusts me.”

“What are you talking about?” George tried to get close to you, he tried to hold your hand but you shrugged it off harshly, “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me.”

“Mumma! Let me out!!!” Rafael’s screams and wails had your husband’s attention, “Let him out of his room, Y/N,” he said seriously. You chuckled with no humor, “No, no. I’m not letting you near him again.” You narrowed your eyes at him, watching his furrowing his eyebrows.

“He’s my son!” George’s voice started to rise. You clenched your jaw, “He’s mine too! And I have the right to protect him from a serial killer!”

“You’re scaring him— wait what?” George looked at you with a frown. You shook your head as you scoffed, amused by his faux innocence, “You can’t fool me, George. Not anymore.”

“Papa! Papa, help me!” Rafael sobbed from the other side of the door. You watched as the hard look on George softened at the voice of your son. You were struggling as well, you have never heard him sounded so scared and terrified, and it was because of you.

But you had to protect him.

"Let him out, Y/N," George voiced out trembling. You took a shaky breath, "I will, as soon as I put you into cuffs. Turn around."

"What?" "I said turn around!"

"Rafa, baby, please hang on for a minute okay? Mumma's letting you out soon, can you stop crying for me?" You called out to your son. You heard the little sniffles, "Mumma, I'm scared…"

You heard your heart break into pieces, "I know baby, I'm so sorry, but just a little longer okay? Can you be a big boy for me?" You asked, and it was silent before Rafael let out a small, strained 'okay'.

"Y/N, please," George voiced out, "Let him out. He's scared out of his mind!" "I'm scared too, George! I'm scared too!" You cried out loud, feeling tears threatening to come out. You weren't sure if those were tears of fear or betrayal.

“Of what?!” “Of you.”

You walked towards him and pushed George to the wall, his back facing you. "Wha— hey!" he complained. "George Weasley," You spat out, gripping the handcuffs on your pockets and strained him with all your will to not let him move, "You're under arrest for the first-degree murder of 7 people. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you."

You purposely tightened the handcuffs, causing him to groan in pain. You neared your mouth to his ear, pushing his body against the wall harder.

"Teatime is over, you sick bastard."

"Mumma, why is Uncle Blaise here? And who are these people in our home?" Rafael asked you in your arms. You sighed as you laid down on the couch, hugging your son tight. "These people are going to check our home, baby. They're good people, don't worry." You sighed out, playing with his hair.

A moment later, George passed by the two of you as he was escorted by a few police officers out of your house. He was handcuffed. "Papa?" Rafael rose, calling his Papa. George looked up and saw him, and he smiled, "Papa's going to be fine, Rafa!"

"Are they going to hurt Papa? Where are they taking him?" Rafael turned to you, worry etched on his face. You strained a smile, an effort to comfort your son, "Papa will be safe, Rafa. I promise."

"Mumma promise that Papa will be fine? And he'll come back home to us?" His little voice asked, his little pinky finger lifted. You opened your mouth, and closed it back again; speechless. You knew George won't ever step his foot back in here. You wouldn't allow it.

But for the sake of your son's innocence, a fake promise is still a promise. So, hooking together your pinky with his, you whispered, "Pinky promise."

"Mumma's going to the bathroom, okay? Can you stay with Auntie Lav for me?" You asked, and Rafa obediently nodded. You smiled softly, kissing his forehead, "That's my good boy."

As you leave your son with Lavender, the smile on your lips vanishes instantly. You looked left to right, precious belongings of yours ransacked and searched by your fellow police officers for clues and evidence that George may have brought into the house.

Your home, destroyed because of your so-called loving husband.

It was overwhelming; watching your home, the place where you first moved in together, the place where you made love to your husband, the place where Rafa had his first walk on, the place where you called home for 7 years, ruined.

Your life is ruined.

You felt your chest constricting, igniting a sensation of pain inside of you, and you struggled to see, due to tears blocking your vision. You quickly went to the bathroom, slamming the door shut as you leaned your back on the wooden surface.

You placed your hand on your mouth, clasping it down tight, hoping it could muffle the pained sobs coming out of your lips. It was a breakdown you would never wish to happen to anyone else. Your knees felt weak, so you slid down and collapsed on the tiled floor, tears dropping with the soft sound of 'plop' each time.

You remembered the first time you had met George. He was tall and dashing, you met him in his shop he ran with his brother, Fred. He was friendly and kind, showing you around the shop for hours before you asked for his number. You felt a connection towards him that pulled you into him, and you thought he felt the same when he called you later that night.

Was that all a lie?

You remembered the first time you had your date, it was at a park and you held hands as you walked on the trails in the forest of autumn. There were dead leaves everywhere, and you had thought the brownish-red surroundings had made his orange hair pop out more. George was so beautiful during that date, as he smiled at you, as he kissed your forehead, as he kissed your lips with such tenderness.

Was that the truth?

You remembered the first time you had told him you loved him. You were in bed, cuddling in winter because the heater of his house broke down. He was listening to you talking about one of the cases of Izzy Einstein when you stopped and stared into his eyes. He said what's wrong and you said, nothing, it's just that I realized that I love you. He was silent for a while before a soft smile rested on his lips as he spoke, I love you too, my love.

All of those… Do those moments mean nothing to him?

Fuck those early times, because what about your marriage? He proposed! Your child? He wanted kids too! Your life together as a small happy family? He told you he was happy!

Was he lying the whole time? Did he even love Rafa? Did he even like this family he built together with you?

Did he even love you?

Thousands and thousands of questions ran through your head that you didn't even have time to process all. They were bombarding your mind non-stop. It had become so noisy in there, "Shut up," You sobbed, holding your head tightly with your hands. Tears running down your cheeks furiously as you shook your head, a weak attempt of shooing the thoughts away, "Shut up!" You cried again, whimpers coming out of your mouth as you failed to silence the noise in your head.

You felt so many things at once. You couldn't even name a quarter of them. Everything was happening so fast and it's… it's not fair for you. It's not fair for anyone.

Angry. Frustrated. Betrayed. Annoyed. Upset. Disappointed. Disgusted. Repulsed. Responsible. Heartbroken.

And those weren't even half of it. How you wish things wouldn't have changed. How you wished you would've never taken this case in the first place. How you wished you could have your small, happy family back.

How you wish you could turn back time, with the ignorance for the truth.

But you can't. Everything is bare now. Everything is exposed. Your husband on cuffs, your son scared out of his mind, your home ransacked, you broke down in the bathroom, what good did it bring;  solving this case for your family? Nothing.

Not even a promotion can heal the deep wound in this family. And it pained you that things will never be the same again without George.

Before you knew him as a serial killer, he was your husband. He was the father of your child. He was attentive, responsible, loving, caring, gentle, the perfect man for you. The perfect father for Rafa.

He was the love of your life. And he still is.

The tears coming out of your eyes were relentless, they won't stop coming out and you felt exhausted. Emotionally and mentally exhausted. You gasped for air as you cried, hearing the several knocks on the door from Blaise, "Y/N, open the door, please."

"Leave me alone, Blaise, please," You mustered out, with a weak voice. "Open this door, Y/N, " He said again, and you closed your eyes at his stubbornness.

"Blaise, please," You whimpered desperately, shakily taking in a breath, "Leave. I just want to be alone."

It was silent at the other side, and then a sigh, "I'm taking Rafa to my house. It's getting late and Lav wants to cook him something," He said and you unconsciously nodded, even though he couldn't see you, "... Thank you."

"... Take care, Y/N."

You silently scoffed at his goodbye, how could you? How could you take care of yourself? Your life is ruined. Your family is ruined. Everything, everything had gone into dust.

Everything.

TAGLIST:

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[kingofthewilderwest]

This hasn’t been a good year for me first I was stalked then I lost someone who I thought was a friend because my mental health issues caused me to impulsively lash out at people I been apologizing and apologizing they refuse to listen to me all they told me was get outside help. The thing is I was there for them when they needed me but when I needed them they abandon me I am autistic and have trouble regulating my emotions I explained that to them when they told me that I keep lashing out at people even after I apologize for it. :( what should I do? Should I just just keep spamming how sorry I am and that I will keep my mouth shut and not lash out at people anymore I just want them to like me again I don’t like lashing out at people I have no control over that why can’t they understand? How many times do I need to cry in their inbox until they realize how sorry I am and that this time I won’t lash out impulsively.

Hello, friend. <3 I'm really sorry for the struggle and pain you are going through. That's tough. My heart reaches out for you. I was in an extremely similar experience once (I'll talk about the experience and results below), so I both care about your situation, and I hope my message can help you with your choices moving forward. My phrasing might sound blunt, but every word is written with love, and I will give comfort through the end, so bear with me. Sorry that I suck at brief. XD

From the way you’ve described your situation, you’ve already been messaging friend(s) repeatedly explaining your actions, giving apologies, etc. My answer is under the assumption you’ve been sending repeated messages. Here’s the unfortunate kicker.

You need to stop messaging them. Period.

If you want them to feel better and feel better about you, you need to give them space for a decently long period of time without breaking that silence once, it doesn’t matter if your desired topic is helpfully explaining how you tick, apologizing, or talking about something entirely unrelated to the drama.

I know that's probably the hardest thing to do. I know for me, when I was in a situation like this, every fiber of my being *SCREAMED* at me to try to make things right by messaging again. I was so terrified I couldn’t leave it alone. I understand how scary it can be for someone to not listen to your apology. I understand the drive to get someone to understand your circumstance for why you messed up. I understand the overpowering pressure of guilt for having done something wrong and the itch to keep acting until I make it right. But you can't make it right by messaging someone repeatedly.

While your intent is reparation, your result is harassment. I'm so sorry to say this, but if you’re messaging like that, you are continuing to inflict pain and make matters worse because your constant messaging gives them no relief. It’s like constantly picking a scab to make it bleed again rather than letting it heal without touching it. If you pick that scab too much, you’ll lose more blood and you’ll get a scar. Lots of people, after being hurt, need time to process their emotions before they can be comfortable resuming a chill conversation. So long as you keep acting like this, they aren't going to want to listen to you, and your actions are going to make them wish they weren't around you. They’ll see you in a worse light because if you can’t give them time and space to heal themselves and you can’t stop fixating on past events, then they see that you’re not handling the situation well.

Now. If you do talk to them again, after that *LONG* break, there are several things you have to do. Ask if it’s okay to talk first and be clear it’ll be a one-time event. Be rational, be calm, be objective, accept responsibility for yourself without trashing yourself or sounding desperate for their response, and make sure you acknowledge their feelings and experiences as much as your own. Accept responsibility for yourself in your words. Make sure you listen to them, too, and respect their thoughts. 

I know that’s hard to do. I can get scared, tongue-tied, and emotional in conversations like this. The way I get around that is writing down what I’m going to say beforehand. That way, I can spend several days carefully tweaking my words so they’re optimally diplomatic (and have someone else check me if I need a second perspective). Now I have a script I can follow that can prevent me from tumbling into babbling emotion. “I’m sorry, I’ll keep my mouth shut, I just want you to like me again” will turn more people away, unfortunately. People don’t trust that because it sounds like you don’t have control of yourself, which makes them think more bad things could happen. Level-headed but kind discussion of the issue is essential; it shows you are *capable* of handling the situation. Showing capability helps engender trust. Also, please make it clear to your friend(s) that once this convo is done, the goal is to move on.

Note that your friend can say “no” if you ask to talk. And that’s okay. If they say “no,” leave it at “no,” and don’t try to get a “yes.” Your friend can still say “no” to points you make during your conversation. Those aren’t the words you want to hear but you have to accept them if they come. Stay humble. Do not try to get them to fully be in sync with you because that may be impossible and only hurt everyone more. All you can do is present yourself at your best; after that, it is their choice how they respond, and their responses must be accepted. If they are bitches, that’s on them, and you’re better off not being friends with shitty-ass uncaring bitches. If they choose not to be friends with you for understandable reasons, it hurts, but it’s valid; we do not have to be friends with every person we meet, even if they’re cool. And if they choose to forgive you, which they could too, then you guys have a basis to move forward again without reopening cans of worms. I do want to reassure you: I’ve had plenty of conversations like this go well and friendships get repaired. <3 It can be done.

Now. You said you feel your friends aren’t helping you at your time of need. I understand the pain of supporting a friend but the friend doesn’t reciprocate at the time I need them most. This was hard for me to learn, but: a friend is not obligated to help you. Yes, good friends will help when they can. Yes, if you’re only helping them and they’re nevvvvvvver helping you, that’s a one-sided relationship and that’s a bust. But healthy relationships also have boundaries and “no”s. It’s not a contractual obligation to help a friend through everything. Plus, not everyone has the skillset to help you for every need. Friends who are not used to neurodivergence might not know how to handle neurodivergent-specific challenges (that’s what I’ve experienced with my own support networks). You can explain it and hopefully they’ll get better about understanding how you tick, though. There’s even types of friends who understand how you tick but still not want to be around it, and sometimes that’s because they have to protect their own health. They can understand you lash out but still need to leave to heal themselves because lashing out hurts them, and they don’t have the energy or emotions to help or listen to you right after. They have enough on their plate trying to keep themselves going without assisting someone else too. Those things can happen. You may find out what type of friends yours are later.

And I know it’s really hard to regulate emotions... I’m saying this as someone who had extreme issues regulating my emotions due to neurodivergence and mental illness, albeit of different kinds... but ultimately mental health is an explanation, not an excuse, and you are still responsible for the results when you are cognizant enough to act well enough. You are valid for being autistic and that is not a problem, that is who you are period, and if they don’t respect that, that’s their issue. Explaining why you act like you do is a first step. It’s good to communicate and I think it’s good you want to your friends to know why it’s hard. But you do have to work at getting better with your treatment of people, too. Sometimes we do things outside of our control. Sometimes these will never be in our control. But some things will be in our control. Part of our responsibility as a friend is to not just admit we hurt someone in the past when we’re at our worst and least controllable, but make an effort, as we can, to prevent these things in the future, as we can. Figure out prevention tactics. Figure out ways your friends can be equipped and prepared if something happens. Find professionals who can help you with emotional regulation. And so forth.

Your friends do have a point about getting outside help. I love supporting my friends and helping them through emotionally dark times, but sometimes a friend’s mental health struggles are out of my abilities and I can’t be expected to be the one to handle it. I cannot help my friend with heart surgery because I am not a heart surgeon; likewise, sometimes I can’t help my friends with mental illness ailments because I am not a professional psychologist. If it is within your budget, this may be a valuable resource for you that will help you, your friends, and more.

If you’re anything like I was, what I said may make you want to go into another round of apologizing, but before you do that (you shouldn't! you can't!!!!), I want to explain what happened to me. This involves me talking about the worst period of my life, the worst mistakes I ever made, and the worst legacy I'll have to contend with. I haven't talked about it on tumblr because I haven't wanted people to misread me or judge me, but the truth is, those old mistakes are a defining characteristic of my everyday life because of how thoroughly I fucked up and hurt someone else by my desire to "make things right."

I was eighteen and sharing a dorm room with my high school significant other. We broke up several months into the school year. At first things were okay, but then our friendship started to slide. We both did foolish things and wrongdoings against each other. The result was my ex needed breathing space to heal, whereas I felt I needed to heal by coming closer to them. As you can see, these are opposites, and it... didn’t work. It resulted in me pestering them and them wanting to get further from me.

I was also suicidal at the time. I had undiagnosed ADHD and rejection sensitive dysphoria and maybe more, and all that put me in the worst psychological state of my life. My emotions were more powerful than I could control. I had no coping mechanisms yet. My diary entries sometimes don’t sound... sane... from that time period. Being suicidal, I begged my ex for help, and my ex said “no”. My ex was rude and cold (understandable... hard to be polite when you’re stressed), but still, she had a right to say “no.” No one is obligated to do anything, but I was extremely emotional at her denial. Terrified for my life, I tried telling my ex that I had helped HER through HER problems when SHE was depressed, why the fuck wouldn’t she help me with my low point? I felt like she abandoned me and I told her so. I was intending to suggest she was breaking a promise and being an uncaring, unfaithful friend... but my words came out sounding like I was guilt tripping. My friend felt emotionally abused, forced into a situation where someone was threatening their life if she didn’t do what I said.

That’s a lot of pressure on someone, a roommate screaming at her that she had to do X or someone would die. It’s a cruel thing to shove someone into. I did that. I did it accidentally, my only intentions were making amends and saving my life, but I’m still 200% responsible for the results. It destroyed her psychologically, and ten years later, I don’t think she’s fully recovered.

When I recovered from the worst of my mental illness lapse, I felt sick to my stomach about how much my emotional responses harmed her. Thus began my rounds of apologizing. At first she coldly “tolerated” it, but I couldn’t leave it alone because it didn’t feel like closure. She outright told me she would never forgive me and that made me more desperate. About once every six months for the next three years, I tried talking to her. She felt harassed. She increasingly hated me. Soon, she thought I was stalking her, and sent the start of what could’ve become legal action against me. One time, I tried talking to her about something entirely unrelated (I was trying to save a friend who was having panic attacks and my ex was unknowingly responsible for the panic attacks), I panicked, I grabbed her arm, she threatened to call the police on me, had the teacher drive her home from class, and the next thing I knew, we were both in the university’s Office of Student Conduct. Oof.

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

For the rest of my life, I will have to contend with the fact I fucked up the person I loved the most, and that the best thing I could ever do to help her was... to... leave... her... be.

If I had let my friend breathe after my first apology, if I had given my friend space to process through her hurt emotions until she no longer felt hurt, we might have been able to rekindle a friendship. But I never gave her the time to heal. I never respected her “no, stop talking to me.” My apologies were intended to make her feel better because I knew I was hurting her, my apologies were intending to say “I’ll never hurt you again!” But instead I kept digging a deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper hole.

I realize this is a dismal story. I don’t want to scare you. I want you to read this private story of my pained heart to understand what happens when I let desperation do all the talking. I want to share it to show how much I care for your situation. And I want you to understand that... after I learned taking a step back... I had radically better results with the friends I got into conflicts with. It took a ton of effort and work to retrain my conduct, but it worked, and I’ve found stabler and happier and relatively drama-free relationships. And if I fuck up for some reason mental-health-wise, it’s usually a single conversation and done to get us back on track.

I fuck up, but I’ll never fuck up like that again, never ever EVER, nowhere CLOSE. And that’s a... happy ending in its own right, yeah?

I do believe in you. I believe that not every story has to end like the one between my ex and me. I want to give you that hope. I believe you have a good heart and you definitely want things better. You wouldn’t have messaged me (and I believe... others... on tumblr?) if this didn’t matter to you. And anyone who wants to do something about a problem has the starting kernel of Betterness happening. I believe you can find more peace. Maybe it won’t come right away and maybe there’ll be rocky points, but life can become better, relationships can become better. There are ways, even with mental health struggles, to find that comfortable equilibrium again.

I wish you the best, friend. Take care. <3 Rooting for you. I apologize if any of my words ended up coming out wrong accidentally. I really do hope you find some relief in this situation. <3

#long post #ask #ask me #non-dragons #don't mind me

[ahusaka]

hey! this may be a super random question but im curious as to how you plot/outline your wips? im obsessed w into the haze

Thank you so much! Honestly this is gonna be pretty long because I’m self indulgent in worldbuilding so oop.

This isn’t necessarily an outlining technique as it is just for writing in general but be willing to consume other people’s works. You don’t even necessarily have to be a critic or anything but the consumption of different stories really helps a person develop their own tastes (not even just in genre but in the development of prose too) and aligns themselves with whatever themes and messages they want to deliver themselves. Into the Haze evolved and grew because I got to read so many things and adapt them into my own writing. You’ll also know what to avoid when writing too.

Secondly, the big worldbuilding. Now, quick PSA but you absolutely do not have to be elaborate with world building but for me, I’m always been big on it. Worldbuilding is all in the details where the details can be big or small. I’m personally a very big fan on exploring politics/linguistics/war history but a lot of people make their expertise on agriculture, religion, art, and so on. That shit’s hot as hell is all I can say and when you play up to your interests, you get some cool stuff.

I take the angle of politics and see where I can use schools of thought to really dig into it. Societies are just a bunch of dudes walking around and screaming about philosophies of rule and then some other dudes countering it. Those things resonate with me (lmao I’m literally a weirdo I’m sorry) because FOR REAL, you got so much things to go off of with literal schematics of how rulers can be “good” (not morally but they monopolize on things such as charisma or they’re just really good at suppressing debates same thing) or “bad” (fucking those guys who use fear and just make everyone hate them). You have different landscapes of how a “rule” is designated (it doesn’t have to be rooted in feudalism for fantasy!! Make some democracies 2020) and the motivations of which the rulers encompass and how they reflect onto their ruling societies. 

ALSO GEOPOLITICS ARE PRETTY IMPORTANT!!! They tie into trade and economics with neighbouring countries, important for alliances to be made, how war is conducted and executed (An example is how Germany invaded Belgium to get to France in WW1), what resources need to imported or exported, where major hubs are, and etc.

Class order/hierarchy. This is one of the biggest elements I like to talk about. You can go absolutely monkey with this (assuming you’ve laid the structure down of your ruling class to justify this). Class can be dictated by socio-economic structures (nobility = rich, peasantry = poor), religion (only certain people are mandated by god(s)), race (but people clown this too much so I don’t recommend this unless you are personally acquainted with the culture dealt with or like you have sensitivity readers), magic (most common, magic is banned and magic users are oppressed) and so on. Basically power and privilege stems from the historical basis of this class order/hierarchy which befalls the writer to create, connecting to the above political ruling because it’ll directly benefit their interests.

War is another thing I write a lot and want to say a lot of people don’t really write about the devastating effects of war. Once writers write a war they’re like “well the good guys won and everything was peaceful!” If only. The aftermath of war efforts is very gruesome and involves everyone just kind of traumatized, an influx of refugees of war, poverty, destruction of the environment, and in some cases, causes uprisings or the very least, protests if the war efforts continue. I’d really like people to consider those factors when war is central to their plot because it seems to be glorified a lot.

Culture is a big thing I also focus on and culture is basically the catch all for the cool stuff humans decide to make when things are relatively chill (or not chill in the aftermath). Usually culture is an export that can be shared and you’ll see influences in other countries if they’re relatively close together or if they’ve had a history of being invaded/occupied. ALSO SUBCULTURES EXIST SO!!!!!! Consider if your world is a melting pot, if there’s a dominant culture, if cultures co-exist, and you know so on. Culture can find itself in pretty much everywhere but the biggest would be the following:

- art

- theatre (ok but the coolest thing I’ve learned about Vietnamese theatre is their water puppets??)

- food

- language * (which I’ll mostly talk about)

- the dominant religion

- architecture 

- clothing (ESPECIALLY the fabrics used)

- weapons 

- stories (whether they tell them by mouth or writing them down, how they decide to enact these stories, etc)

Language is my biggest interest too because it’s really complex and not many people focus on it. It has ties in class hierarchy (people speaking in higher class tongue, the different dialects indicating class / schooling disparities) and the development of language can have roots in cultural shifts due to occupation of other countries and so on. Like the creation of language is so amazing honestly and if anyone needs resources hmu.

Magic systems have their own line of being categorized with rules and classified as hard and soft but I don’t necessarily limit myself to thinking about those and rather, think about the basis of their existence in relationship of them being culturally significant to the society. Basically, I construct a history of magic before I go into the details. My favourite way of constructing a magic system is by relating it to science (it’s what makes chemistry bearable sad emoji). But it really depends on how I want to write my story because, like I said, I find regulations on magic and laws on magic interesting and relating it back to the idea of political power. But culture (ESPECIALLY RELIGION) is important consideration and I would implore writers to think about the way magic is utilized (as a tool, as a weapon, as both, as a shortcut, etc) and how it relates before you really digest the nitty gritty of magic because you can do so much with it.

This is a vomit word post I’m so sorry but yes this is the general mess going on in my head when writing my wips. I was so tempted to go into characters but that would be a GARBAGE fest. In conclusion, read too much books and scream.

#ask | answered #im sorry i dont know what i did here #im crying #worldbuilding

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Beneath an Aurora Sky ch. 13

Summary: The South Pole Station is equipped for research and Edge has always made sure things run smoothly for the inhabitants. His charges are meant to follow his rules and regulations, and in turn, he makes sure they survive in the arctic temperatures. It takes plenty of hard work and determination and Edge, along with his crew, can handle both.

He wasn’t counting on one of the newest researchers. He wasn’t expecting Rus.

Tags: Spicyhoney, First Time, Arctic AU, Hurt/Comfort

Notes: This chapter includes lemon goodness!

~~*~~

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve

~~*~~

Read Chapter 13 on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

~~*~~

The crackle of the radio woke him. “boss? you reading me? over.”

Edge leaned up on an elbow, squinting through the dimmed emergency lights. The windows were dark, they were months away from any daylight. Next to him, Rus slept on and Edge slid out of bed, hissing at the cool floor on his bare feet as he crossed the short distance to the radio. He picked up the receiver and clicked the transmit button, “Still alive and kicking, what’s the situation, over.”

A long moment of crackling static, then his brother’s voice came again. “finally! been trying to raise you all morning.” Beneath his voice was the sound of a motor, growling along. “snow stopped at about 0400, i’ve been plowing ever since. we’re about halfway to you and the fashion victim now, give us a couple more hours and we’ll have you out of there, over.”

“Copy that, out.”

Edge flipped on the outside lights, peering out the porthole window. Snow was piled high, overtop the snowmobile but it hadn’t gone even halfway up the shelter. Not too terrible a storm anyway, the clouds must have thrown only thrown a short tantrum and moved on.

“they’re coming to get us?” From behind him and Edge turned to find Rus blinking at him sleepily. He pushed up on one elbow and the blanket slid down, giving Edge a lovely view before he hissed at the chill and yanked it back into place.

“Yes. We should have enough time to clean up and get dressed before they get here.” The shelter would need a little restocking, but he wasn’t about to leave a mess for Undyne to deal with on her next supply run. In the meantime, he dug into the supplies to find the packets of instant coffee. It was foul, but it would have to do until they were back home to Bonnie’s powerful brew. He set the kettle to heat on the camp stove. “Would you like some coffee?”

“yeah, sure.” That was oddly subdued, and Edge glanced at Rus. Who seemed downcast, the second pillow scrunched up in his arms like one might hold another...ah.

Perhaps he’d been hoping to wake in Edge’s arms. Or maybe he’d been hoping for a little more time on their own to explore this...well, whatever this relationship was. The thought warmed him better than coffee would and Edge flicked off the burner, ignoring Rus’s confusion as he moved to sit on the side of the bed, hooking a finger under Rus’s chin to take a soft kiss.

He drew back, looking into those wide, startled sockets and murmured, “Good morning.”

“i...good morning,” Rus said dumbly.

“Did you sleep well?” Edge asked solicitously, only to get a rather blank nod in return. He looked as if one kiss had sent all his brilliant thoughts winging out into the snow, Edge thought with no little amusement. Another kiss finally woke him from his daze, Rus pulling him back into the bed and Edge went willingly.

They had a few more minutes to spare.

~~*~~

The cold oversized wet wipes in the kit were not a suitable replacement for a shower, but it was the best they had, and while Undyne might not have a nose, his brother’s was exceptionally keen.

Edge dressed quickly and busied himself with bundling up all the trash to take with them, making sure everything in the small shelter was left in order. He could hear the rumble of the plow in the distance. They should be here soon.

“almost here, huh.” Rus dressed almost as quickly after a shivering wipe down; the room was warm enough but it was far from toasty. He was sitting on the stripped bed watching Edge, the bed linens bundled up next to him.

“Yes.” Edge set the small trash bag by the door. “Soon you’ll be able to get back to work.”

“yeah, i have a lot of data to process from the last trip, even if i didn’t get finished.” Rus played with the strings on his hoodie, chewing on the end of one and his eye lights cast were towards the floor. He seemed almost strangely shy considering the intimacies between them not a half hour before.

But there wasn’t time to question him. The plow pulled up and in the glaring floodlights, Edge could see Undyne hopping out, dragging an oversized shovel with her. He pulled on his gear quickly as she approached. Her grunts as she cleared a path to the shelter were loud enough to be heard through the walls and were louder still when the snow was cleared away enough for Edge to force open the door.

“Heya, boss,” Undyne said cheerily, the steam of her breath clouding around her. She propped the shovel on a snowbank and leaned on the handle. “Lose any fingers or toes?”

“No, I still have the full complement, unlike you,” Edge said dryly. He closed the door against the chill when Rus squawked a protest, leaving him to scramble into his own gear. “How are things back at the station?”

“Good, everyone is taking an internal work day for now.” Undyne jerked her head at the plow. “Brought along a restock for the shelter.”

“Good.” There were still plenty of supplies left, but Edge didn’t like to take any chances.

Red hopped out of the driver’s side and came wandering up along the dugout path. His coat was zipped up high; the cold could be achingly deep for him. “if you two want to handle that, i’ll take the fashion victim back on the snowmobile. then you can head out and find the cat.”

It was tempting to take Rus back himself, but Red had been up for hours and he was likely tired, especially after a recent healing session. Edge at least had a full night’s sleep in him. He nodded curtly and the three of them began cleaning off the snowmobile. With a little effort, it roared to life, just as Rus came out of the shelter, properly bundled up against the freezing cold.

“Rus,” Edge called to him over the noise, “you’ll be heading back with Red while Undyne and I get the Cat.” When Rus opened his mouth to protest and Edge added, “We’ll be careful with your equipment, I promise.”

“okay.” The reluctance was audible even through the din of the running engine. With Red and Undyne both watching avidly, Rus waffled uncertainly in front of Edge before turning towards the snowmobile.

To hell with it. Edge caught him by the shoulder and turned him around, leaning up to give him a light kiss that he melted into instantly.

It was a fair sign that they needed to talk back at the station and Edge found he was fine with that. Whatever Rus wanted to make of this, if it were only once or if they kept up until it was time for him to leave, Edge was braced to deal with it.

Reluctantly, he drew away and Rus gave him a little smile as he hopped on the snowmobile.

Red was slower, climbing on in front of him. His brother’s expression was unreadable, mostly hidden behind oversized goggles and his hood. Their size difference was incongruous; Rus had to hunch over to wrap his arms around Red, almost covering his visor, and Edge was forced to keep his face schooled to seriousness as he silently showed Rus the hand grips on the sides of the snowmobile to use instead.

Undyne was not nearly as diplomatic and her raucous laughter followed them as they roared away. Before they were even out of sight, that wide grin turned in Edge’s direction. He ignored it, turning towards the plow.

“Didn’t show him the handholds when you picked him up, huh?” She jogged up next to him and jostled him hard enough with an elbow to make him misstep.

He shoved her back. “You’ll excuse me for not following every minor safety protocol in an emergency.”

“Uh huh, oh, yeah, you’re never a stickler for protocol!”

Restocking the shelter became a blatant exercise in turning a deaf ear, especially as she came into the shelter with him and took in the bundled up bed linens.

“I’ll take those,” Edge gave her a rude push and grabbed them up. He wasn’t ashamed of anything they’d done, but he’d be damned if he’d stand here while Undyne checked them over for incriminating stains.

Luckily, she seemed satisfied with that. “All yours, boss, you know I hate laundry.”

She checked over the supply bin, adding packets from her carryall. “Sorry to interrupt your romantic getaway, you should’ve said something.”

“Don’t be, I was nearly ready to burrow through the snow for a shower.”

“Uh huh,” she paused in her counting. “Sooooo, past bustin’ your chops, I’m kinda at a loss for words.”

“That’s a first,” Edge waited as she signed off on the clipboard. He took a deep breath and said, “I’m taking your advice.”

“Yeah, kinda got that idea with the smacker you laid on him outside,” she said dryly. “You guys never opened the playing cards so I guess you found something else to keep you entertained.”

“Something like that.” She followed him out of the shelter towards the plow. He wasn’t about to feed her any lascivious details. Even if he’d wanted to share them, which he didn’t, giving Undyne that sort of information was a poor idea. If you give another person ammo, then you should never be surprised when you get shot.

“I should mark this on my calendar. Big ol’ letters.” She raised her voice and let it carry out over the snowy planes, “The Boss listened to me for once!”

“I always listen to you,” Edge said easily. “The problem is that you so rarely give good advice.”

He didn’t even complain when she pushed him into the snow bank.

The trip to the Sno-Cat was a short one. The plow cut through the fresh, loose snow, scraping it down to the hard packed road beneath it. It took longer to clean off the Cat, clearing the windows and the treads.

Undyne opened the door to check inside and found Rus’s equipment still on the passenger side. She poked curiously at the bags. “What kind of shit is he lugging around?”

“I have no idea, but I do know it’s fragile, so leave it alone.”

“Yeah, yeah, I wasn’t gonna break his toys.” She frowned and gave the large tube a last nudge. “This shit isn’t light, is it, not to a scrawny boy like the fashion victim.”

“It’s not,” Edge agreed. He remembered being startled at the weight the last time he’d helped Rus carry it.

“Huh,” Undyne said speculatively.

He shouldn’t ask, he shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t. “What?”

She shrugged. “Just thinking. He carried all this crap plus a lot more from the ship all on his own.”

“He did.” There was a core of strength hidden in Rus, that much was certain. “And?”

Her smirk was proof he should’ve buried his curiosity in the mental graveyard where it belonged, “Must have pretty good stamina for being bony. Heh, bony for boning, right?”

“Leave the puns to my brother,” Edge sighed. “I’ll see you back at the station.”

The trip back was slower than usual, the plow wasn’t a high speed vehicle. Soon enough they were parking within the garage and signing them back in, the Cat being tagged as out-of-commission until Red was able to give it a once-over.

Undyne helped him gather Rus’s equipment and the two of them went into the station.

His gear was only half-off, the suspenders of his snow pants hanging down as Edge padded over in his stocking feet to the larger storage lockers. His plan to lock up Rus’s equipment until he could come for it was thwarted as he realized he didn’t have his locker keys back yet. He’d given them Rus when he’d helped out with Red and forgotten to reclaim them.

He sighed and hung his head. This was retribution for his sins.

“Undyne, can I use your keys? Rus has mine.” She looked up from the boots she was untying, her eyebrows climbed her forehead like a ladder.

“You let him borrow your keys?” she asked gleefully. “You?”

“For the storage lockers, yes,” Edge said defensively. “I didn’t give him a full access pass.”

“Uh huh,” Undyne gave him an uncommonly shrewd look. “Better be careful, boss, you might be in a little deeper than you thought.”

“Yes, thank you, I’ll keep an eye on the depth meter, can I borrow your keys,” Edge said impatiently.

“I dunno, seems if I do that, you might owe me a little something something,” she waggled her eyebrows lewdly. “That’s what the fashion victim did.”

“And if you don’t, you’ll get extra duty this week.”

The keys jangled as she tossed them over, muttering out a good-natured, “Spoilsport.”

But her cheer at Edge and Rus consummating their affair seemed endless. She followed him back to his own living quarters despite him pointedly ignoring her, and gave him a firm slap on the back that nearly sent him into the door. “Alphys said you can use up two tokens in the shower. Guess Red told her something about you needing to clean off the sauce.”

“Thank you,” Edge muttered and didn’t dignify any of the rest with a response, shutting the door in her face.

He didn’t waste any time hopping in the shower, groaning at the heat of the water sluicing down on him. Despite Alphys’s generosity, he soaped up quickly, scrubbing his bones clean though not of the lascivious juices that his erstwhile loyal companions seemed to believe he was coated with. All the little aches that came from sleeping on a thin, unfamiliar mattress eased and by the time he got out and into fresh clothing, he was feeling more himself.

He flicked on the coffee pot, not Bonnie’s brew but certainly better than instant, and then his computer. The day was still early and there was plenty to be done. Before he could even settle into his chair with his cup, there was a knock at his door.

Edge sighed. He was gone for one evening, and already it was beginning.

He opened the door, expecting Red or perhaps a flustered scientist, demanding to know when they’d be allowed back into the field.

Instead, he found Rus, his skull still dewy-damp from his own shower. His fingers clattered lightly against it as he swept a hand over his head, his chin lowered enough that his eye lights didn’t travel above the hem of Edge’s shirt. “um, hey.”

“Your equipment is locked up in the front lockers,” Edge told him, “You still have my keys, if you could give them back after?”

“what?” Rus finally jerked his head up and met Edge’s gaze with his own startled one. “um, yeah, but it’s not about that. i...sorry, i know we’ve been back like five minutes, but i…” Rus paused and took a deep breath, blew it back out in a rush, “look, this doesn't have to get weird, okay, it can be whatever you want it to be, i...i really like you and--”

“Rus,” Edge interrupted and he fell silent, swallowing hard. “Why don’t you come in?”

He nodded jerkily. “yeah, okay.”

The moment the door was closed, Edge pushed him back against it, crowded against him as he firmly kissed that startled mouth. It turned eager quickly enough, his tongue meeting Edge’s greedily.

His appreciative moans became a surprised yelp as Edge hooked his hands behind Rus’s knees and lifted him up, the better to push him against the door.

“woah!” Rus said as their mouths jarred apart and Edge paused. The delightful squirming of Rus’s slim body already had him breathing heavily.

“Is this all right?” Edge asked hoarsely.

“don’t you dare stop!” Rus gasped, his blunt fingertips digging into Edge’s scapulas as he scrambled to hang on.

He took Rus at his word, nuzzling and licking at his cervical vertebra. Rus tasted as sweet as his magic smelled and suddenly Edge was filled with the urge to verify the truth of that. He hefted Rus against him before he spun towards the bed, lowering him down, but Edge didn’t join him. Instead, he began working at the fastenings to Rus’s trousers, batting his hands aside when he tried to help.

Between the two of them, they wrangled his pants off along with the thermals underneath. Edge took a moment to hastily strip off his own clothing and tugging off Rus’s shirt didn’t give his fluttering hands a chance to shyly cover his softly glowing pelvis. He hadn’t had a chance to look back at the shelter and now Edge wanted to get his fill of the sight.

Rus’s magic was the expected honey orange, all delicate folds and petal-softness, already glistening wet with desire. His own magic flooded Edge’s mouth, eager to taste and he didn’t resist, ducking his head and dipping his tongue against that silky pseudo flesh.

Beneath him, Rus arched up with a startled wail, his fingers scrabbling at Edge’s skull, pinching as they dug into the bone. Edge didn’t stop, only reached up to settle their franticness, pressing those hands flat to his skull in silent permission.

Those first undulations were tentative, uncertain, but soon Rus was all but grinding against his face, whimpering softly as quivers rocked through him. He felt it as Rus peaked, sweetness flooding his mouth and Edge drew back, swiping that dampness away impatiently with the back of his hand even as he settled between Rus’s upraised knees.

“please,” Rus begged, still quivering, “oh, please, edge.”

Pressing inside this time was easy, generous slickness guiding the path. That morning they’d only indulged with their hands, and the feel of Rus clenching around him was just as overwhelming the second time.

He wasn’t going to last, Edge realized wildly, he couldn’t, not with Rus writhing beneath him, pleading and it was his own name tangled into his throaty cries.

Pushing up on one elbow, Edge reached between them a little desperately, his fingers seeking out the hard little nub that made Rus gasp, clenching even tighter around him as he came again.

That was too much to bear, and Edge slid an arm beneath Rus, crushing him against him as he thrust once, twice, and came in a flood of hot sweetness through his bones.

Barely he managed to catch his own weight, shuddering through the waves of pleasure lapping up his spine. Rus was no better, splayed out beneath him, and each breath he took ended in a faint whimper.

“Are you all right?” Edge asked roughly, cupping an orange-flushed cheekbone gently in one hand.

“if i’m not, i never want to be all right again,” Rus groaned, “fuck me, that was wild.”

“I thought I just did.” Rus managed a disbelieving chuckle that became a groan as Edge carefully withdrew, shifting to lie next to him. It took very little encouragement to get Rus snuggled up against him, the blankets tucked warmly around them.

His wide, comfortable bed was much more conducive to a cozy aftermath. Edge rolled up on his side, his head propped up on a hand as he gently explored the long, flat bones of Rus’s rib cage, admiring the ivory gloss.

“You know something about my past,” Edge mused. “Tell me about yours.”

Rus offered him half a shrug, on the side Edge wasn’t touching. “not much to tell.”

“Then I’ll be content with a short story.”

Rus slitted open a socket to look at him and huffed a laugh. “okay. um. well, i’m a graduate student at ebott university, you probably already know that, and, um, i came up here to write my thesis, despite my brothers’ very loud protests.”

“You have brothers?” He’d suspected as much from the pictures in Rus’s room, but it was good to have it confirmed.

“yeah, two of them, blue and dings,” Rus rolled over to face Edge, but his gaze was on his rib cage, petting with light, idle strokes. His bones were scarred and no amount of polish would make them gleam like Rus’s, but he seemed fascinated nonetheless. “dings is a lot older, he’s why i can speak in hands.”

“He’s deaf?”

“nah, it’s kinda complicated. anyway, i’m the youngest and both of them have spent their whole lives protecting me. neither of them wanted me to come here.” There was a certain careless defiance in his shrug, but Edge didn’t think he was mistaking the flash of anger beneath it. Having an overprotective brother of his own, he well understood that. “but i’m an adult and this is what i want. so i came.”

“It can be difficult to oppose your families wishes,” Edge offered, softly.

“yeah,” Rus said, unusually subdued. Then he shook himself visibly, “okay, it was super fun discussing my brothers while we’re naked in bed. wanna hear about my last pelvic exam, too?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Edge murmured. He caught Rus’s hand where it was roaming curiously over a roughly healed scar on his sternum, stilling the ticklish exploration before ducking his head to take a thorough kiss.

When he finally drew back, Rus’s eye lights were satisfyingly dazed. Before Edge could decide what to do about that, Rus blurted out, “can i stay the night?

“It’s the middle of the day.”

“i know. can i?”

“You’d better, because I was planning to come get you if you didn’t.” Edge nuzzled a last soft kiss against his cheek bone and sighed. “For now, I need to get up.”

“ugh, it’s cold,” Rus groaned, burrowing in deep as Edge slipped out from beneath the blankets. He wandered over to the window bare and lifted the shade. It was snowing again.

“Perhaps I could spare another hour,” Edge allowed and Rus’s smile was terribly warming.

A wild, impossible thought came to him then; that Rus should stay here, with him, all that sweet vibrancy of his lighting up their home through the darkest months. Undyne, Bonnie, and Alphys already adored him, and as reluctant as Red was, at least he appreciated Rus’s humor. Surely he’d adjust--

No. Someone like Rus shouldn’t be trapped here at the edge of the world. He should be out in it, sharing his brilliance.

Edge glanced out the window again, then turned back to Rus, decision made. Until he left, Edge wanted as much of him as he could. A memory to warm him on cold nights.

For now, he had a spare shower token, so they may as well get into a proper condition to use it.

~~*~~

TBC

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #undyne #underfell sans #arctic au #lemon goodness

[vampwrrrmistresslist]

Hurt

Mist rose from the ground in tattered ribbons.  The wind plucked and tugged at your cloak, making you shiver, as you purposefully strode through the old graveyard.  You hadn’t eaten in days, and your body was having a difficult time regulating your temperature.  Despite the cloak, despite the relatively warm autumnal weather, you were chilled to the bone, and you pulled the garment closer around yourself in a vain attempt to preserve what little body heat you had left.  

You were on your way downtown to find something to eat, hoping that tonight would find you something more suitable than yet another night of catching rats, as you didn’t know how much longer you could hold out before it was too late.  

The moon shone pale and perfect; an elegant pearl in the sky gracing the scene with her soft light, making the tilted, and tumbled grey headstones look almost ethereal.  If you could just make it through the graveyard, the other side would find you at the outskirts of the city, and surely, there would be food found tonight.  You refused to think of the alternative.  Something would turn up, you were confident.  Even if you had to make it happen.

A spooked passerby started as you emerged from the open wrought-iron gate, eyes momentarily widened in fear.  You smiled, easing his agitation with your warm expression, and continued on your way.  

Walking the wending cobblestone streets, you looked for someone who might be able to feed you.  Scrabbling claws of hunger scraped at your belly, and your throat burned.  A wave of dizziness overtook you and, stretching out a hand, you leaned against the rough, fog-slicked brick of a nearby building.  After allowing a moment to let the feeling crest and ebb, you shook your head to clear it, setting your jaw and forcing yourself to keep walking.  You couldn’t afford to lose consciousness.  It was all over, if you did.  

Suddenly, providence shone upon you.  A tall, stolidly-built man sauntered in your direction.  

“Bonne nuit, chère ,” he said, his voice warm as silk.  “You lost, p’tit?”

Shaking your head, you looked down at the ground.  “Non, monsieur.  I’m just looking for something to eat.”

“Ah, you hungry, chérie?  I can help you with that, me.”  He wrapped his hand around your arm, his palm burning your through your cloak and sleeve, as he guided you away from the sidewalk.  “You jus’ come on down here with ol’ Henri Baptiste, he show you where you can find something nice and hot to fill your belly, eh?”

A tentative feeling of relief washed over you as you allowed him to lead you away.  Henri would take care of you.  Henri would feed you. You followed him down street after street, as he led you further into the heart of the old city.  

Suddenly, he wheeled you into an adjacent alley, slamming your back against the cold brick of an abandoned building.  “Before this Henri give you somethin’ to eat, you gon’ give me something in return, oui?”

You kept your head down, staring at his feet in their fine leather shoes.  Shoes at odds with his build, and accent.  Idly, you wondered, and without thinking, you said it out loud.  “Where did you get those shoes?  They’re so fine.”

“Never you mind how Henri find what he wants, you just concentrate on working for your dinner.”  He lifted his hands to unclasp your cloak, letting it fall to the ground.  “Oh… chère…” he groaned, greedy eyes roving over the fine skin above the bodice of your maroon silk gown.  He lifted the back of his hand to your chest, gently tracing your collarbones with his fingertips, as his eyes burned holes through the layers of gown, chemise, and corset.

You looked up at him, eyes wide, pleading.  “Please, monsieur.  Don’t.”

His hands moved down to clasp your shoulders in a punishing grip. “Well, what do we have here?  Cette p’tite mudlark is a bona fide mam’selle! What’s wrong, chère?  Run away from your parents, ‘cause you don’t wanna marry some spent old man?  Lucky for you Henri come along.  I can take care of you in ways you ain’t never imagined, eh?”

“Monsieur,” you started again, as he lifted his hands to start removing the pins from the chignon on top of your head, curls falling around your shoulders as more and more pins clattered to the ground.  “I’m asking you to stop.”

He chuckled to himself, his voice as rough as his hands.  “When Henri’s done with you, you won’t ever want him to stop.  You gon’ be beggin’ sweet as sugarcane, ma p’tit.”  His hands reached toward the hem of your gown, and he clasped the silk in his hands,  slowly gathering it upward.

Your voice was desperate, now.  “Monsieur Baptiste, as a gentleman–”

“Gentleman?  Now whatever gave you that idea, amoureuse?”  Henri leaned forward to bring his mouth to your neck.  “Just one taste, eh?  One taste, and you’ll sing…”

You shuddered, and then your body relaxed.  A soft sigh breezed past your lips as you brought your hands to his shoulders.  

“That’s it, chère!  I knew you wanted what this Henri’s got!”

“Thank you,” you said sincerely, as you closed your eyes, and nuzzled just under his jaw.  He groaned as you opened your mouth.

You were so hungry.  

“Well, well well, what have we here?” a new voice said, from just beside you.  Your stomach clenched in dread.

Henri swiftly lifted his head toward the intruder, aggression colouring his coarse features.  

A handsome gentleman leaned against the wall beside you both, arms crossed, facing you with an amused expression.  His jet black hair, parted on the side, flopped over his forehead, though it was close-cropped above his ears.  His dark, hooded eyes looked almost black in the light from the gas lamps, and his full, pouting mouth was drawn up on one side, in a cutting smirk.

He was wearing evening dress, his snowy shirtfront, and waistcoat gleaming in contrast to the black of his cutaway jacket, and slim-fitting trousers.

Henri’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step back.  “She mean somethin’ to you, m’sieur?”

“Not at all!” the man said, reaching up to run a loosening finger under his high, starched collar.  “But I think you’ll find, that you’re about to be very, very grateful to me.”  

Henri turned to you, and stumbled back, as all the blood drained from his face.  

You knew what he saw.  Sharp, too-white teeth gleaming in the gaslight, pupils narrowed to slits, but glowing, as if lit with an inner fire.  A bass growl rumbled in your chest, as you swiftly reached toward him, but his scream was faster than your clawed hands, and as it rang through the alley, you flinched at the volume.  

Eyes narrowed, you let him escape, watched him fall over his own feet as he desperately tried to run away, sobbing, and snotting like a sniveling child, a trail of liquid following him.  Closing your eyes in frustration, you muttered, “Not again!”

***

You walked away swiftly, while swirling your cape back over your shoulders, and reclasping it at your throat.  

The handsome man pushed off of the wall, his long legs making it easy to catch up, and fall into step with you.  “Oh, dear.  Did I ruin another meal?”

“Monsieur Kim. Leave me,” you said listlessly.

“I can’t do that,” he said comfortably.  “Thanks to you.”

Stopping abruptly, you turned to face him.  “I told you that I was sorry!  You have no idea how much!”

He loomed above you, a smile on his mouth, but not in his eyes.  “You’re sorry?  Sorry…” he mused.  “I’m sorry, too.  Sorry that your sorry is not adequate.  Sorry that I’m apparently stuck with you until the world ends.  Sorry over the loss of all the things that I’ll never be able to do!”  His voice was bitter.  

“Imbecile!” you exploded.  “You’re so short-sighted, that you can’t even see what you’re doing!”  Your voice lowered, and you hissed, “Do you think that you can starve me to death?  I assure you, that is not the case; I wish it were!  Ma foi! How I wish that were so!  This beast–”

A boyish scream rent the cool night air.  Your head snapped toward the sound and, abandoning him, you ran toward where you had heard it.  As you approached, you heard the sound of scuffling and, upon turning the corner, you saw a sight that froze the already chilled blood in your veins.  

Three coarsely-dressed men stood over the prone figure of a Creole youth, blood staining the white silk of his waistcoat.  Upon hearing the patter of your steps, the men turned, but relaxed when they spotted you.  One of them started for you, and the boy reached out to grab him by the ankle, saying simply, “Non!”  

Your vision was sharp, especially in the dark, and you saw that his face was beaten and bloody, lips swollen and cracked, blood matting his glossy black curls, and seeping into his large grey eyes.  Livid bruises were already forming on his fine brown skin, but still, despite being almost broken, he held tight to the man’s ankle, trying with his last strength to keep the man from reaching you.  “Mademoiselle!  Run!” he called.  He couldn’t have been older than 15.

Shaking off the boy’s hand, the man turned, and delivered a rough kick to the boy’s temple.  The boy fell back against the cobblestones, dazed.

Monsieur Kim swore behind you.

“Let him go!” you demanded, voice crackling with authority.  

The men slowly started to you, spreading out in an effort to cut of any routes of escape.  The tallest, his hair a true dirty blond said, “Well, lookee what we got here, boys!  One of them fine Cre-ole ladies we heard tell so much about.  Ain’t she purty?”

“Purtiest thing I’ve seen all day, Bill,” a slightly shorter redhead said.  

“Look at how she’s dressed,” the shortest man said, his hair so fair as to practically be white.  “Betcha we could get a lot of money for that there dress.  Cape looks mighty fine, too.”

A cough caught everyone’s attention.  The boy had turned over, and was trying to crawl toward you.  “Run!” he rasped, his voice barely audible.  “Run!”

A pang shook your heart, as you witnessed the ruin of his face, contorted in fear for you.  

“Restez-vous, cher,” you called to him.  

Tears pooled in his eyes as he continued to drag his body toward you.  

“You’re not from here, are you?” you inquired of the men.

“Naw, we ain’t no Ca-juns, if that’s what you mean,” the redhead said, eyeing the few pearl pins still securing the top of your chignon.  “Hey, Dickie, how much you think those hair-pins will go for?”

“Don’ know,” the tall blonde said.  “But those, ‘long with what we get off the boy will go far toward gettin’ us out West.”

“Messieurs, by your own admission, you are not from this city, so perhaps, the remission of your manners can be forgiven, but please note…here Creole do not cower!  You are under the impression that you have cornered two people with whom you can do what you like, but I assure you that is not the case.”  

Drawing yourself up to your full height, you looked down your nose at them, despite the fact that you were a good six inches shorter than the shortest one.  “My father is a diplomat, and he would have no qualms throwing you in the dankest prison that he could find, should you continue.  However,” here you softened your voice, “if you turn around and leave now, you can go your way unmolested.”

“Y’hear that, Johnny?” Bill drawled lazily.  “If we leave now, we can leave un-mo-lested!”

“I heard, Bill.  Problem is, cher-ree, we ain’t got no money.  And you, and this boy here, both got enough on your backs to get us halfway to San Fran-cisco. Speaking of backs, you’d look real purty on yours.”

Your gorge rose as the men jeered.  It always came down to that, didn’t it? Closing your eyes, as if in pain, you said, “I’m asking you, one last time, to kindly leave us alone, and–”

“We ain’t going nowhere…and neither are the two of you!” Dickie said, his voice smug.  “Come on, get her, boys, and let’s get this show on the road.  I’m hungry.”  You heard the men slowly start for you, the boy whimper pitifully.

“I hate being interrupted,” you said mildly.  “What’s your name, mon chevalier?”

“Etienne Arceneaux,” the boy whispered, despair colouring his voice.

“Monsieur Arceneaux,” you said softly.  “Fermez vos yeux.  Close your eyes, mon cher.”

A rough hand grabbed you by the hair, snapping your neck back.  You smiled, then opened your eyes.  “Thank you.”

***

Sighing, you stretched, allowing the last body to fall, boneless, to the ground.  Feeding wasn’t so much a pleasure as relief, surcease from the biting cold, feral hunger, and maddening thirst that wracked your body whenever it had been too long.  Turning, you saw Etienne on his knees, eyes still closed, murmuring something too softly for even you to hear.  

As you walked closer, the words became clearer, and you smiled. “Je vous salue, Marie pleine de grâce; le Seigneur est avec vous. Vous êtes bénie entre toutes les femmes et Jésus, le fruit de vos entrailles, est béni….”

“Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, priez pour nous pauvres pécheurs, maintenant et à l’heure de notre mort.  Amen,” you finished with him.’’  “Ouvrez vos yeux, mon petit frère.”

He shook his head violently, still murmuring the Hail Mary.  

You placed a hand on his cheek, thankful that it was now warm enough not to startle him.  “I’ll not hurt you, Etienne.  I wouldn’t hurt you, for the world.”

Slowly, he opened his eyes, and looked at you. You smiled reassuringly, and pulled out your rosary from your bodice, dangling the crucifix in front of his eyes. Etienne looked momentarily reassure, then, looking past, he saw the bodies of the three men, and his pupils enlarged until only a small sliver of stormy grey surrounded them.  “Mademoiselle, how…what…?”

“Forget them.  They have gone to their reward.”  Putting his arm around your shoulders, you stood, lifting him easily.  “Where do you live?”  He looked at you warily.  “Come now, mon frère.  Did I not say the Hail Mary, as well? Don’t be afraid.  I will take you home.”

Tentatively, he gave you his address and, with one arm around his waist, and the other firmly grasping his wrist over your shoulder, you slowly walked him home.  

***

“You didn’t kill the boy.”

“Etienne.  His name is Etienne.”

“You didn’t kill Etienne.  Why not?”

“Why would I?”

Monsieur Kim was silent as he walked beside you.  “He might tell what you are.”

“He won’t.”

“How do you know?”

Looking off into the light of the approaching dawn, you smiled.  “I know.”

“You killed me.”

Sighing deeply, you pulled your hood over your head.  “I’ve told you, that was not purposeful.  I had no more control over my actions than a ravening wolf.  If I could undo it–if there were some way to go back in time, and exchange my life for yours, I would.”

***

Six months prior.  

You were reading in your room, when your lady’s maid, Cosette, came to tell you that your father had requested you in the parlour.  His voice echoed through the hallway as you approached, and upon opening the parlour door, you saw him speaking to a small group of men, whose backs were turned toward you.  

Upon hearing the soft tap of your footsteps, he looked up, his face brightening.  “Ah, here she is now.  Gentlemen, please allow me to introduce my daughter.”

The men turned, and your heart leapt into your throat.  Three of them were your father’s age, but the fourth… The fourth was young, and almost blindingly handsome.

You could barely hear your father as he made introductions.  “These men are diplomats from the Korean peninsula,” your he explained, mistaking your silence for puzzlement, “And this,” your father started, indicating the young man, “is Ambassador–”

The young man interrupted, holding up a hand, as he turned to your father, saying, “Sir?  If I may?”  Turning back to you, he said, “My name is Monsieur Kim Jongin,” and bowed low, the movement almost inhumanly graceful.  As he stood, an impish light appeared his eyes, and he said, “Ah, forgive me.  I believe that you introduce yourselves like this…” Taking a step forward, he took you by the hand, and bowed again, this time, placing a warm, chaste kiss on your fingertips, as he looked up at you, eyes twinkling. Lowering your hand, and stepping back, he smiled.

Turning to the men, your father said, “My daughter is something of a polyglot.  She already speaks English, French, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, but has been casting about for a new language to learn.  

“Is that so?” Monsieur Kim replied, his eyes never leaving yours.  “Mademoiselle, it would be my pleasure to aid you in your endeavours, should you so wish.”

Finally finding your voice, you answered, “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of stealing you from your duties, monsieur!”

“Nonsense!” One of the other men said, stepping forward to clap Jongin on the shoulder.  “They sent too many of us, as it is, and this one has been working tirelessly to strengthen our nations’ friendship for almost a decade!”  He turned to Monsieur Kim.  “You can take a bit of time to thank our host for his kindness, by teaching his daughter if, of course, that’s amenable to her father.”

Your father glanced between you, and smiled knowingly.  “Certainly.”

***

The next several months were idyllic, as Monsieur Kim came to your house almost every day to teach you, delighting in the linguistic acumen of his new pupil.  You mostly stayed in the parlour, with your Cosette quietly sewing in the corner, but occasionally, he would take you for a walk around the gardens, teaching you the words for everything you saw, as your old governess followed behind, keeping a watchful eye.  One particularly exciting afternoon, he took you for a ride around the city in his new automobile, and you shrieked with delight, holding on to your hat, as the metal beast flew along at 40 breathtaking miles per hour.

***

Your father’s birthday approached, as did the yearly party that your mother threw in celebration. A knock on the door sounded, as Cosette did your hair in preparation for the event.

“Entrez-vous,” you called.

Your mother entered, smiling as she saw you.  “You look lovely, ma petite. The peach silk really brings out the roses in your cheeks.”

“Oui, Maman, you were right,” you murmured, returning her warm smile.

She laid a hand on the maid’s arm, saying, “I’ll finish her hair, Cosette, chère .”

Catching your eye in the mirror, as Cosette left the room, your mother blew you a kiss, and began to artfully arrange and pin your curls.  “So…”

“So…?”

“Monsieur Boudreaux is going to attend tonight.”

You groaned.  “Maman!  You promised!”

“What?  I’m not asking you to entertain him, I’m merely informing you of his whereabouts for the evening.”

“Maman,” you started warningly.

“What is so wrong with the man?  He’s handsome, powerful, his family is above reproach…”

“He’s old, Maman!”

“Thirty is hardly doddering, chère .”

You were silent for a moment.  Then, “I just don’t trust him. The way he looks at me…” You shuddered. “He looks like he could eat me alive.”

Your mother looked at you sideways, her expression sly.  “And…your reticence doesn’t have anything to do with a certain handsome young envoy?”

“Monsieur. Kim is…is…”

“Is…is…” your mother teased.  “Yes?”

Your face flushed as you lowered your eyes to your dressing table, and fiddled with a silver backed comb.  “Monsieur Kim, is…wonderful.”

“As I thought.”  She tucked one last mother of pearl comb into your coiffure, and patted it, standing back to give it it a critical perusal.  Nodding, she returned, resting her hands on your shoulders, and meeting your eyes in the mirror, with a knowing smile.

“Bon.  I suppose an ambassador is as good a choice as any.”                                            

***

Your eyes scanned the crowd as you slowly descended the curving staircase. Unfortunately, an unwelcome pair of eyes was scanning for you, and when you reached the bottom, Monsieur Boudreaux was waiting.  

Your mother was right.  He was handsome enough; lean, with broad shoulders, long legs, and fine, elegant hands.  His face was lupine, with prominent cheekbones, and thick golden eyebrows and lashes framing impossibly black eyes.  His hair was moonlight silver, and he wore the thick mass combed back from his forehead.  Despite all of this, he still made your flesh crawl.

“Enchanté, chère ,” he murmured, bowing, his too-red mouth hovering over your gloved hand.  

“Charmed, Monsieur,” you answered, your voice flat.

“Please allow me to congratulate you on behalf of your father, for another year of superlative work in our country’s service.”

“I’ll relay your sentiments.”

“Your father is a great man, and a truly gifted diplomat–”

“Yes, certainly, thank you; would you kindly excuse me, Monsieur Boudreaux?  I fear I have a pressing matter to which I must attend,”

His expression cooled noticeably, but he bowed his head in agreement.  “I hope to speak to you further tonight, chère fille.”

“Indeed,” you responded neutrally, inclining your head, and then turning and walking toward what had caught your eye.  

Monsieur Kim smiled warmly, his eyes twinkling as he watched you approach. Sketching a slight bow at your arrival, he held out his arm for you to take, as he guided you away from the curiously horrid Monsieur Boudreaux.

Inclining his head toward yours, to keep the conversation private, he said, “For a diplomat’s daughter, you’re not very politic.”

Delicately shuddering, you shook your head.  “I’ll have you know that I was weaned on Machiavelli, Tallyrand, and Franklin, but that man–” you closed your eyes in distaste, “that man makes my flesh crawl.  He looks at me as if he wants to see into my very soul!”

“Well, don’t think of him,” Monsieur Kim murmured warmly, his intimate tone making you blush.  “I’m here, now.  Look only at me.”  

***

He stayed by your side all night, though you were sure that you were scandalizing the entire company by only dancing with him.  As he swirled you by greedy mamans, and jealous debutantes, you heard the whispers. “Do they have an understanding?  Will there be an announcement?  If she’s not careful, she’ll be ruined!”

Ignoring them all, you tightened your hand in his, dizzied by the press of skin held back only by your gloves.  Eventually, however, the heat, and the press of bodies began to wear on you and Monsieur Kim, noticing your rising colour, asked if you’d like to take a cooling walk in the garden.  You acquiesced.  

Despite his suggestion, he pulled you to sit on the first stone bench you came across, squeezing your hands with his own. The bright moonlight gleamed on his ebony hair, on the single lock that had fallen from the shining darkness, to rest on his forehead.  

Your hands itched to brush it off of his face, to cup his cheek with your hand, and brush it gently with your thumb.  Closing your eyes, you tried to push away these indecent thoughts, but then Monsieur Kim was talking, redirecting your attention.  

“Mademoiselle…”

“Oui, Monsieur Kim?”

“Please…call me Jongin.”

Your heart began to pound, the beat so intense, you wondered if he could hear it.  Did he know what it would imply, to address him by his first name?  You sighed.  The likelihood was low. You willed your nerves to calm.  

“You may continue to call me Mademoiselle,” you teased, smiling up at him, at his eyes sparkling in the moonlight.  

He returned your smile, but his was knowing, his eyes full of an emotion that you couldn’t translate.  Slipping off of the bench, he knelt on one knee in front of you, taking your hands in his.  “Mademoiselle…I was hoping–if you would do me the honour–of following in your culture’s footsteps, and giving you the name Madame K–”

“Excusez-moi, s’il vous plaît, but Monsieur Lee has called for you, Monsieur Kim.”

You both turned to see a smooth-faced servant, his expression bland, as his eyes stayed steadily on the ground.

Jongin’s–your heart thrilled at the name!–Jongin’s jaw tightened in irritation, but when he spoke, his voice was pleasant.  “Is it important?”

“There appears to have been an urgent missive from Korea. I believe he mentioned something about Japan?”

Jongin’s eyes narrowed.  During his months of tutelage, he had been teaching you, not only the language of Korea, but also its history, and current political climate.  You knew that tensions with Japan were rising, and you laid a hand on his arm.

“Monsieur Kim,” he turned to you, his eyes torn, “Jonginah…”  His expression softened, hope lighting his face.  “Go.  I’ll be here when you return and, despite the fact that I will anticipate your full confession upon your return, I can already tell you that my answer will be in the affirmative.”

A wide smile put nearly all of his pearly teeth on display and, for a–moment–he was no longer the debonair ambassador, but a sweet boy, and your heart throbbed at the change.  You always wanted to protect that smile.

He swiftly stood and bowed over your outstretched hand, saying, “I will make this as quick as possible.”  Then, turning, he started to follow the servant back into the party.

You watched him go, a besotted smile on your face.  Mind consumed by thoughts of Jongin, you weren’t able to react quickly enough to fight the hand that held a chemical soaked rag to your nose, until it was too late.

***

burning  throat burning  weak   roll over, push  too weak  rest.

rushing noises, pounding noises, knocking noises, light too bright, so close, seeing is loud  cold  burning inside, cold outside

footsteps above  

pain, red pain, black pain, clawing pain, curl in and clutch pain, still hurts, hurts so much–  

“Jagiyah?”  

comfort  safety relief  go closer

strength around, strength lifting   warm  fire inside again, pain worse, clutch at something strong, solid…

“Shhhh, gwenchana…  Ara..ara…”.

comfort warmth safety  nuzzle closer, wrap around closer  want to be surrounded

stroked, petted   whimper  want to get closer

pulled closer  ripping, gnawing inside, everything burns

“Nae sarang…  Gwenchana, jagiya…”  

need more

“Shhh, shhh,”

pulled closer  smells warm and thick honey sweet

tuck in, scoot, root closer wonderful scent  nuzzle, steady, comforting heat on cold skin, crycry, pain claws up, bite down

hot relief spreads, burns away pain, sears away thirst, warms limbs  raise your hands pull comfort closer  

drinking  drinking  drinking comfort, peace, relief  soft groans just latch on tighter, relax, relax, stroked with velvet from the inside out

nothing but tongue, and teeth, and mouth, no sound, dark sweet scent, all is taste  falling, falling

dark

A/N:  This is the first chapter for a finished series, the links for which are on my mistresslist.

#jongin fluff #jongin angst #vampire jongin #ghost kai #kai fluff #kai angst #vampire kai #exo fluff #exo angst #vampire exo #jongin fanfic #kai fanfic #exo fanfic #exo fanfiction #kai fanfiction #jongin fanfiction

[writer-of-the-revolution]

Icarus Ch3 - Discovery

Hospitals suck. The first few weeks were all right, you know, being in pain in all, but at this point I think anyone would be stir crazy. The nightly trips to the gym and intermittent visits from Alex and co. became too little, far too soon for my liking. To make matters worse, I’m fine. Despite being given a near clean bill of health I’m still stuck here. The unwelcome truth is, the agency doesn’t know what to do with something like me. Can’t let the Angel of Death loose on the town.

My latest visit was one of the most surprising. I looked up from my daily staring into space i saw none other than the Mighty Captain Warshow. How sweet. Here I was thinking I was his least favorite agent.

“Boss!” I exclaim, oozing with excitement, “How’s it goin’?” He looks mildly uncomfortable under my cheerful smile,wringing his hands as he shuffles into the room. I continue, “So, when can I get out of this hell-hole? Nurses cleared me days ago! Even Alex says I’ve made a miraculous recovery, and she’s a mother hen.” He glances at the wings with thinly veiled disgust. How dare he.. “Don’t like what your assignment did to me?” He looks away.

“Agent Valerius, that's why I’m here. HQ has decided to board you in the compound until further arrangements are made. They will be prepared for your arrival by the end of the week.” Of course. Always and easy way out. Keep me on base and keep me secure, out of the public's vengeful eye. Those snakes.

After fulfilling the purpose of his visit, the burly man turns to leave and I let him reach the door before I call out, “When will I be cleared for duty?” He frowns and leaves without another word.

Alex was ecstatic when I told her the following afternoon. Being my primary visiter for duration of my stay in this hell-hole, she had heard enough of my frustrated ramblings to last a lifetime.

“You know what this means right?” She looked practically giddy with excitement. Her trademark tabled gripped tightly in her hands. “You can finally stop bothering me!”

“I take offence to that! I don't ‘bother’ you.” She looked at me disbelievingly before laughing. “Besides,” I roll my eyes, “I’m literally moving two building over.”

“It’s the thought that counts. Your own space and all.”

“Space regulated by B.O.A.”

“Well what do you want them to do? They can’t exactly send you off like you are. And I’m sure you’ll be out in the field before you know it!” Ouch.

I look away. The genius seemed to hit every nerve in one fell swoop. Managing to cover both my inability to ever live a normal life again, and my careers destined closure. My position had always seemed like the one thing I had. As a kid in a military family, always moving across the country, and never fitting in. Learning to blend in and evaluate people, a skill that later made him an asset in intel gathering. So much in fact, that even the higher ups were willing to deal with my recalcitrance. Kind of hard to fade into the crowd if the crown is running away screaming.

Alex, as painfully oblivious as she is realized her mistake swiftly. Torn between reaching out as comfort and not, her hand hovered between us unsure. With both of us reticent tension filled the atmosphere as thick as maple syrup. We looked away, each not meeting the others eyes.

The genius stood sharply and headed to the door. In her final glance back I caught her gaze. Pity. The quiet monster that seemed to follow my every step. A predator tracking its prey. Antagonising me. Look what you are. You will never be like us. You poor, poor thing. Eating me alive.

As Dr. Gray’s figure left the door, disappearing into shadowy confines of my thinly veiled prison cell. What she left unsaid lingered in the still air.

The next day crept by at an agonizingly slow pace like molasses flooding the streets. With no visitors to distract me time seemed to stand still. The need to escape crawled across my skin like a swarm of fire ants. In a last effort to ease the feeling I checked the bindings on the wings, swept on a large coat (okay, a trench coat), and made my way through the hallway to the gym.

The large room was fortunately near empty, it’s only inhabitant a 40ish agent asleep on the bench. I removed my coat and made my way to the punching bag to vent my frustrations. One hit turned to two, then twenty. It seemed so much easier to lose myself in a haze of adrenaline than it was to think. Sweat poured down my back soaking uncomfortably into feathers of the wings. My movement tearing the bandages loose, letting the limbs loose. Despite that I felt more alive since I woke up in a hospital room.

“Kai!?” Standing on the other side of the room was none other than Alex Gray.

The man slumbering in the corner woke at Alex’s yell. Panic fluttered in my chest. The agent’s eyes opened and he seemed to panic at the sight of me. I realized with a cold feeling of dread that my gut. I grabbed my coat and ran, not stopping till I reached my desolate room. Alex was right behind me.

“Kai I’m so sorry!” My response was vitriolic.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Alex!” A heavy weight settled on my chest, forcing he breath out of my lungs and leaving me gasping. My hands shook as I held them against my chest. I couldn’t breathe. Chills rushed down my spine.

“I didn’t mean to scare anyone! I just needed to get out of here.” Alex’s hand rested on my shoulder but panic still flooded my senses.

“Kai, it’s gonna be alright.”

“No it’s not. I know i’m an abomination. Do you have any idea what it feels like to know that no matter what you do you can never get better. I’m going to spend the rest of my life either a lab rat or glorified prisoner being transferred from one facility to the next.” I fell to the floor and something warm wrapped around me.

“K-Kai!” Alex watched me, her eyes flooded with astonishment, “Your wings!”

That’s when I noticed. The feathered limbs that always dragged so uselessly behind me were not so now. Dull, dark feathers blocked my vision as the wings held themselves in front of me, almost as if to protect me.

Then, spasms of pain shot down my spine, burning like a wildfire. Black spots cloud my vision as my nerves scream in agony. Through my blurry vision I see Alex rush over to me. Tears streamed down my face as my body fell limp and I finally lost consciousness.

Waking up in a hospital bed in varying amounts of pain, with a certain genius perched at the foot, seems to be becoming a very unwelcome habit. Alex looked up from the device in her hand and smiled as she saw my bleary gaze.

“Valerius, you’re up! You have no idea how big this is!” The brunettes incessant energy was back in full swing. Completely disregarding my empty stare, she continued, “I've never seen anything like it. The sensory output from your wings has increased exponentially! The nerve endings knit together almost over night and your brain has managed to add another set of limbs to its control system. If we can replicate it, the applications to paralytics and amputees would be unparalleled.” Finally, she paused to take a breath. “You must be able to feel the difference?”

She was right, as always. I could feel the feathers bend awkwardly under my weight, and the way their barbs are rubbed the wrong way by the material. It was horrible. Feeling the wings so intimately just serve as another reminder that I’m just someone else’s experiment.

“Yeah it’s great… Who knows, maybe one day i'll fly like some kind of angel man!” Alex smiled and the lie felt worthwhile if it fueled her enthusiasm. It seemed as if my years of fake faces and fronts finally did some good. So, I let Alex babble on with a smile on my face.

The next day my move went on as planned despite the wing incident. I stood in my room taking one last look around the place that has been my home for the last 5 months. The plain space was especially empty with my few belonging laying in a duffel at my feet. I caught a glimpse of myself and I couldn’t look away. A gaunt face with prominent cheekbones and sunken eyes stared back at me, a reflection of my months of disappearance and recovery. I could almost see why people looked at me like i’m glass about to shatter.

I hear an eager knock at the door, quickly followed by Alex barging into my room. Back to her energetic self, she was practically vibrating with anticipation.

“It’s moving day!” she said in a sing-songy voice, grabbing my bag and pulling me away from the mirror. The wings were bound again but I almost regretted it. Aside from yesterday, the wings were still unable to hold themselves. Unfortunately, with the enhanced feeling, the setup was hot, restricting, and uncomfortable, leaving me unable to really focus on anything in particular. I followed the genius like a lost puppy.

As Alex and I walked out of the Med Wing, I couldn’t help but feel a hint of melancholy. I’m leaving behind the place where I healed, and all hopes of being fixed, resigning myself to a life of isolation.

My new building is the sumptuous housing for the higher ups, equipped with apartments more similar to those outside the compound than the cramped rooms we stayed in as trainees and agents. Most of the rooms contained kitchens and lounges, luxuries i've been without for far too long.

The moment we entered the building I could tell it was reserved for those of importance. Although not overly decorated, the plush carpet and gleaming chandeliers were impressive. Alex talked my ear off the duration of our ride in the elevator. Obviously I would be staying on the top floor, like a princess trapped in a tower.

“Agent, are you even listening?” Alex’s irritated voice broke me out of my thoughts. I smirked.

“Why would I need to listen to you?” We reached the door and she mock frowned as she opened the door with her set of keys. I walked in and turned of the lights before stumbling back.

“Surprise!” Inside were various friends and acquaintances I had come to know in my years in the agency. Various greetings were thrown my way and Alex watched my reaction with a smug grin.

“Welcome to the real world!”

“Good to have you back”

Then, someone had to say the word that started it all.

“Everyone give it up for Icarus.”

The world fell into madness.

#icarus #Superversemk1

[amemixfan]

“I can’t imagine this world without you.” - Iraia and l&l mc

Once more, I have said the wrong thing. 

I wince to myself as the Elven noble family I am greeting eye each other wearily. I have slipped up again and broken protocol. It seems I am still ill equipped to be among them here. 

An apology leaves my lips in Elvish, it is the only phrase I have mastered after many months in this domain, and I drop myself into a low curtsy. My head is bowed and I am grateful for the curtain my hair provides as I bend low. My face is burning and I try to suppress my humiliation. 

Even after the training, even after the incessant drilling, I still make errors. No matter how hard I practice, I still can’t manage to greet someone correctly. I really am a failure. 

When I rise back up from my curtsy, the Elven noble family is still staring quizzically at me. The woman is smiling but I can see the dimness in her eyes. Her posture is a little rigid and she almost seems to look past me as if she has grown tired of my presence. Her partner, another young woman, is openly scowling. There is a flushness to her face in irritation and she all but breezes right past me in her effort to be away from me. 

I quell my anxiety and bite painfully on my cheek. 

How many people have I offended yet since the celebration began? It’s hardly been an hour and about half the guests have made faces at me. 

I press my fingers to my lips in growing nervousness. 

After arriving months ago into the Elven country, I had been put to work. Being chosen as the consort to the future leader of the Elven domain required extensive lessons and classes. Every waking moment had been spent learning to navigate the life of Elvish royalty and learning all I could about the culture. Still, I have advanced less than an inch. 

I squeeze my eyes shut as anxiety settles into a pit in my stomach. 

Almost a year ago, I had fallen for Iraia. The future leader of the Elven domain had come to Reiner’s domain to secure more troops in the effort to stop the growing war with the Witch Queen. We had met and had a whirlwind romance. At the end of her stay, she had asked me to return with her to her own domain to serve as her partner. I had agreed without thought. 

Now, I was realizing my mistake. 

I did not regret coming with Iraia, I could never regret that, but I did regret agreeing blindly to becoming her future consort. I had never imagined how difficult it would be to enter a new world. After falling from Chicago into this one, I thought I had mastered being thrusted into new dimensions. Now it seems I was very wrong. 

The Elven domain was rigid in everything. Propriety was big with the locals, the royal family has millions of tiny rules they have to obey, and centuries of isolation has engraved a distaste for outsiders in the minds of many. 

In this domain with its foreign tongue, foreign culture, and foreign practices, I am not welcome. Not only am I not an elf, but I am also simply not Elvish enough. And, somehow in this country, not practicing their culture is worse than not being a member of their race. 

“How are you doing?” A voice greets me from the side. I am startled out of my self loathing by Iraia. 

Iraia wears her armor over her usual green outfit. The metal gleams freshly polished and she has taken care to adorn it with fresh flowers from the garden. Her entire outfit has been carefully selected for this very formal event-

An event in which I have already humiliated myself many times over. 

“Hey,” I greet wearily. I carefully dodge her question and make an effort to smile. The corners of my lips hurt from all of the false greetings I have given all day. 

Iraia stands at my side and folds her arms before her professionally. Her posture straightens and she easily slips into her “royal” mode. The act falls easily over her and I envy the way she can just be a royal without trying. After months, I still can’t fit that role despite my best attempts. 

“Everything alright?” Iraia asks. She glances at me from the corner of her eye. As always, there is concern in her gaze. These past few months, I’ve seen her worry evident on her face. She is frightened for me in this land so different from all I know. I worry her. 

Somehow, that makes me feel worse. 

My throat tightens suddenly and it takes me a few moments to remember how to use it. Desperately, I want to break down. A day full of humiliation and embarrassment has left me exhausted, but I don’t want to show her the worst parts of myself. If I let her in on how much I am struggling, will she recant her offer? Will she realize she’s made a mistake in asking me to be her consort?

The thought chills me and I suppress a shudder.  

“Everything is fine. Have you finished your rounds?” 

The lie slips easily past my lips. I only feel just slightly guilty about not telling the truth. I shouldn’t hide things from her, but I don’t want to worry her any more than I have to. 

Iraia looks like she doesn’t quite believe me, the familiar concern still on her face, but she is forced to abandon the matter. Another noble family arrives and awaits to be greeted. I let her handle things. 

Rapid Elvish is exchanged between the crown princess and the noble family head. They bow to her, give me a polite smile, and very quickly forget my presence. The greeting is over in seconds and the family moves past us and into the palace where soft music can be heard. 

Once they are gone, Iraia turns to me fully. She reaches her hands and takes mine in hers. Her palms are callused from fighting and work. I feel some of the tension on my shoulders easing due to her close proximity. Being with her is better than any medicine.  

“I snuck away from my rounds to be here,” Iraia admits, “My little brother can handle them on his own. I would rather be here with my consort.”

Consort. The title still feels heavy on me. I suppress my wince. I certainly don’t deserve it. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” I confess. 

I really am. Any moment I can steal with Iraia, busy as a bee in her country and always away, is a precious gift I don’t take lightly. Her presence is a rare gem I treasure. Already, I can feel myself starting to feel less suffocated. 

The corners of her mouth turn up in a genuine smile. It’s not the practiced grin she puts on for guests, rather, it’s the real deal. I see the way her eyes soften and affection shines through. 

My own fake smile is swapped by a real one. “How is the party inside?”

The party, one of the thousands the Elvish family throws, has been raging for hours. Guests have been steadily arriving all day and I’ve been stuck outside the walls greeting. Every one wants a glimpse at the future consort. I am like a show piece at a museum. It’s more than a little upsetting. 

“Not as fun as you’d imagine,” Iraia soothes. She is clearly lying to spare my feelings at being trapped outside but I let her. Her fingers intertwine with mine. “I’d much rather be here with you. You’re much more fun than some random nobles anyway.”

Despite myself, a laugh leaves my lips. I press my hand to my mouth to stifle it. Color rises on my face at the compliment.

“Don’t let the nobility hear you. I don’t think they’ll appreciate you preferring a human to their company,” I say. I mean for it to come out light hearted, but some pain slides through. 

It is still painful to remember my place. I am human and not Elven. This little detail has never been forgotten by anyone around. The amount of times I’ve heard the Elvish word for human whispered under a noble’s breath is impossible to determine. I honestly believe I’ve been addressed as ‘the human’ more times than I’ve been addressed by name. It is just another reminder that I don’t belong. 

Iraia gives me another concerned glance. Ever observant, she has picked up on that tilt in tone. She gives my hand another squeeze, reassuring and caring, and leans into my side. 

Lightning fast, before anyone can tell what happened, she presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth. It is quick, chaste, and over before I have a chance to savor the feeling of her lips on my skin. Nevertheless, the feeling paints a dark blush on my face and helps me feel more at ease. 

I hiss her name in a playful chide and press a finger to where I can still feel the phantom feeling of her breath on my mouth. 

“Iraia! What will the people say?” I can’t help the little giddy laugh that leaves my mouth again. 

Iraia winks at me and the edge of her own mouth turns up in a pleased smirk. As the crown princess, she is not meant to show “improper” behavior before the nobility. Kissing her consort before a gathering crowd is probably against thousands of cultural regulations, yet she seems to not mind. If anything, she looks quite pleased with herself. Like the cat that ate the canary. 

Her body leans into mine again, pressing up against my side, and I inhale her scent. It’s something floral and impossibly sweet. I savor it, archive it to memory, and draw strength from her presence next to me. 

“Let them gawk, dear one, gossip never hurt anyone,” Iraia chirps. 

I look away to hide my own smile. Gossip is a sharpened blade that can cut through reputation, but I let it go. If she wants to break custom and kiss me, I won’t oppose. 

I open my mouth to come up with some witty retort, something that’ll make her blush because I’m tired of being the only turning red, but I don’t have much of a chance. Another carriage is pulling up before us and another noble couple is exiting. 

This one is very important by the looks of their clothing. The woman curtsies low to Iraia and almost ignores me. The man looks right past me to the princess and greets her in Elvish. 

I feel like an outsider to the exchange and quickly realize I am meant to. This family, like most elders, refuses to acknowledge my presence. I am not Elvish enough for them, so they are eager to be away from me. 

Iraia must realize this too because her smile turns a little pointed. She hooks her arm around mine and makes it clear that I am her partner. When her eyes meet mine, I see her message clear as day. 

Help me greet them. Prove to them that you belong. 

I bite my tongue and turn back to the couple. They’re expectant, still waiting for Iraia to give them the indication to go into the party, and I don’t have much time to lose.  

The anxiety in my stomach twists and my throat tightens. Greet them? I can try. 

I try to remember my training from earlier and draw as much courage from Iraia at my side as I can. 

My form lowers to a curtsy, more polished than the ones that I’ve given all day, and I bow my head appropriately. The greeting I’ve rehearsed thousands of times slips past my lips in Elvish. I offer a smile, something delicate and worthy of a consort, and wait to be greeted in turn. Perhaps this time I’ve managed to get it right. Surely I’ve done everything correctly. After all, Iraia is at my side and I can’t fail with her watching me. 

I wait to be greeted back-

But hollow silence rings out. The Elvish couple quirks an eyebrow and glances at Iraia. The crown princess gives a little movement of her lips in pain before her smile returns full force. She squeezes my hand reassuringly and swoops in. 

Once more, Elvish phrases fall from her mouth fluidly. I can’t tell what she is saying but I hear my least favorite phrase mixed in. An apology. 

My heartbeat is a dull roar in my ears. Iraia has apologized on my behalf. Once more, accidentally, I have slighted a noble. 

My eyes begin to burn and it is all that I am not to melt into a humiliated heap then and there. I force myself to reel in my emotions and continue to smile. 

The nobles accept whatever apology Iraia has given them and move past us and inside. They coldly disregard my presence. They were already weary of a human taking the title of consort and I have just proven their worries true. 

My hands begin to shake and I clear my throat. Once they’re out of earshot, I blink up at Iraia. 

“What did I say?” 

My voice sounds devoid of emotion, as resigned as I feel internally. I am exhausted from making mistakes all day.  

Iraia nervously coughs. “You…You mixed up a phrase. Instead of welcoming them, you told them they were not needed.”

My eyes fall close in shame. A tightness to my chest leaves me speechless. 

All day I’ve ruined things…

As if she could read my thoughts, Iraia hurriedly continues. “It’s alright! The phrases are almost identical, I don’t blame you. Just put the accent on the last vowel next time, yeah?” 

She raises my hand to her mouth and kisses my knuckle. An action that would have usually made me smile now only leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Do I even deserve her touch? Does a failure at a simple greeting even deserve the title of consort?

I withdraw my hand from her grasp and look past her. Another carriage is pulling in and I suddenly feel like I’m drowning. I don’t have the energy to make another mistake. 

“I need some fresh air,” I gasp out. 

Although I know I am not supposed to abandon my spot, I turn around and stalk away. Iraia calls out my name and signals for her sibling, Imohn, to take her place. They do so without question and Iraia hurries after me. 

Somehow, I make it into the royal courtyard. The palace gardens are empty today because everyone is inside the palace for the festivities. The only sound is that of a toad on a lily pad and a few crickets underfoot. 

The silence is not as comforting as I thought. I sit on a bench and press my hands against my eyelids. Don’t cry, don’t cry…

Iraia reaches me and slips into the seat next to me. Her arm comes around my shoulders and she brushes her fingertips over my eyes. A tear is collected on her hand and she wipes it away. Concern and love burn in her gaze. 

“It’s really not that bad. I make that mistake all the time too. If you want, I can go over the phrases with you again.” 

She lifts my hand to her mouth. Another warm kiss is pressed against my fingers. 

I block her soothing words out. My self loathing plays itself as a mantra in my head. 

I shouldn’t have accepted coming to this domain when she asked. I love her, but love isn’t enough to turn a millennial from Chicago into a royal consort. Iraia deserves so much better than someone who will always slip up and humiliate her at every event. 

My heart gives a painful beat and I blink away tears. Don’t cry, don’t cry…

A weak breath leaves my lips. I squeeze my hand into a fist at my side until my knuckle turns white. 

What was I thinking? I am not made to be a consort. I do not deserve the title any more than I deserve to be at Iraia’s side. A consort is the second highest title in the land, the thought that it could ever belong to me is laughable. 

Iraia is still soothing me, murmuring quiet comforts under her breath, and I suddenly can’t stand it. I cut through her next words in a breathless rush. My heartbeat is still roaring in my ears and I can’t get it under control. 

“I think we should break up.”

The words leave my lips before I can stop them. They fall out of my mouth and hang suspended in the air between us. Iraia stops, stares, and some of the color leaves her face. 

A terrible, uncomfortable silence spreads. I can see the shock and heartache evident in her gaze. My own chest is tight with an impossible amount of pain. It is all that I am not to break down and recant my words. 

Finally, Iraia breaks the silence. Her voice sounds quiet, timid almost, and she looks past me almost as if meeting my gaze is too painful. 

“Is that what you want?”

It’s a quiet whisper under her breath. I can hear the loaded heartache there. 

No, I could never want that. 

“I do want that,” I breathe out, “I think it is the best thing for us.”

More silence. The air between us feels oppressive, it almost hurts to breathe. I stare down at my fists, still white at the knuckles, to avoid staring into her eyes. I will lose all of my resolve if I see her face. 

Iraia takes a deep breath. It shakes as it enters her lungs and quiets as it exits. She stands up suddenly, armor clanking, and turns away from me. 

I can’t see her face, but I can imagine a wall coming up between us. It is made of cement and blocks her emotions from view. “Very well.”

She agrees to the break up almost as if in a dream. Her head is raised up and I can see that wall growing thicker. Without sparing me a second glance, she takes steps away from me. 

I press my fists against my eyelids. My heart is painfully shattering and I am almost worried she will hear it. Surely the entire world can hear the way my heartache splits me into fragments. 

Iraia vanishes past the garden walls and the breath leaves my lungs. I break suddenly and quiet my sobs. Tears stream down my face and my hand slams on top of my mouth to hush the ugly sounds wanting to leave my lips. 

The silence that she left behind is deafening. I feel so alone in the too big garden with the too quiet atmosphere. 

My heart thuds loudly in my chest and pain exists everywhere. I cannot remember a time where my body wasn’t burning with heartache. Of all the pains a human can experience, nothing is as bad as heartache. Get a headache and take medicine, twist an ankle and ice it, but break your heart and be forced to do nothing but tough it out. 

My hands shake at my sides and I have to remember how to breathe to keep myself from coming undone-

And suddenly Iraia is back. 

She appears before me in a clank of metal and her gaze is burning with the same amount of pain that I feel. There’s a scowl to her mouth, a challenge in her eyes, and her hands are tight at her sides. 

“No,” she says. She takes a deep breath and steels herself again. “We are not ending like this. Not unless you tell me why.”

She takes her seat next to me again and gazes at me defiantly. It is a challenge. She is almost declaring war with me. Our relationship is worth the fight to her. 

My throat constricts. I force myself to remember how to talk. Force the words to spill from my lips. 

“I can’t be your consort. I don’t belong here. You know I don’t belong,” I gasp out. My hands come to rest on her shoulders and I force her to look at me. I almost want to shake her, to make her see what I see. “I am an outsider and I will never fit in.”

More sentences leave my lips. They jumble on my tongue and spill out of me. A seal has been broken and all of my doubts wash out of me like a tsunami. It is imperative that I make her understand just how little I belong. 

Iraia can have whoever she wants as her consort. She must choose someone who is better suited for the position. I am ill qualified. 

I lose track of the things I’m saying, it’s just a jumbled mess, but I am forced to stop. In an effort to shut up my rambling, Iraia moves forward. 

She kisses me forcefully and grabs me by the cloak. I think about resisting, to kiss her after ending things with her is agony, but I very quickly melt into her. I meet her kiss head on and knot my fingers into her hair. I am probably ruining her hairstyle and scuffing her armor but that is the last thing I care about. The most important thing right now is her and how well we fit together. 

After that searing kiss, she gives me thousands more. I meet her embrace head on, abandoning my earlier protests, and am content with just being here with her in this moment. She tastes sweet and I’ve never known a better heaven than being at her side. I am so much better with her than without her. 

Finally, the need for air breaks us apart. My mouth feels swollen and my skin is flushed. Want and need burn inside me, light a fire that scorches me, and I take lungfuls of air just to remind myself that I am alive. 

Iraia regains her own breath. Her eyes are burning with that same challenge again and her scowl is cutting. 

“Is that why you wish to end things with me? Because you believe you do not deserve to be my consort?” She intertwines our fingers. 

I close my eyes. Now that she has said it out loud, it almost sounds crazy. 

“Yes,” I whisper. 

My mouth is still burning with her kiss and I can still taste her on my tongue. I suddenly cannot remember my earlier doubts. My mind is entirely occupied with how well it feels to be at her side and to kiss her. She is like the air in my lungs. I can’t exist without her. 

Iraia tightens her hold on me. She presses our foreheads together and whispers my name under her breath in a scolding tone. “You are impossible.”

I wince. She sees this and her eyes soften. Her hand cups my cheek and she presses her mouth against mine again. It is a brief kiss and I have to resist the urge to chase her when she is gone. 

“Do you want to end things because you are worried about being a consort or because you no longer wish to be mine?” She whispers. 

I blink. Can I ever stop being hers? The thought seems impossible. 

“I think you could have a better consort-“

Iraia shakes her head, irritated. She meets my gaze head on and I can see millions of emotions burning there. There’s frustration at the fact that I won’t listen, pain at my inability to understand her feelings, and love. There is so, so much love in her eyes. It burns bright like a supernova and my breath hitches. She loves me completely and wholly. Why did I ever doubt that?

“Look at me, dear one, and listen well,” she orders. 

The tone of her voice is strong, powerful, and I am forced to comply. Her orders give no room for disobedience. 

“You belong at my side. You are the love of my life. My consort. I want you at my side forever. I love you more than you could ever imagine,” she raises my chin with her finger, “I will not let you go. If you tell me that you want to break up with me because you do not want me, then I will release you and wish for nothing but happiness for you. But if you tell me that you want to end things because you believe that you are not worthy of being my consort, then I refuse.”

She stops and stares at me. I lean into her touch despite myself. My heart is hammering in my chest. 

“Your parents don’t like me,” I whisper. 

Iraia narrows her eyes. “My parents love you. My father keeps pressing me to marry you and my mother goes out of her way to remind me that I should give her a grandchild. In their minds, you are already a part of our family.”

I bite my lip. 

“I don’t know your language-“

“You can learn it with practice.”

“I don’t know your customs-“

“Iseul, Imohn, and I will teach you.”

“The elders don’t like me-“

“The elders are a couple of old men past their expiration date. Their opinions are not worth my time.”

“I am not an elf. You hear their whispers in the halls. They call me a human.” I repeat the Elvish word under my breath. 

Iraia winces at the racial slur most elves have taken to use for me, but she is undaunted. “Tough luck. You are their consort and they will accept it. Pretty soon, they shall bow at your feet whether they like it or not.”

Quiet descends again. I am at a loss for what to say. My doubts suddenly seem unimportant. I feel lightheaded and very stupid. 

Was I really prepared to throw Iraia away over a few hushed whispers and glares?

My strength leaves me and I sag against Iraia. My head falls over her shoulder and she wraps her arms around me. Her lips brush the top of my head. I feel exhausted and want nothing more than to just rest with her. 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. 

I’m sorry for doubting you. Doubting us. 

Iraia shakes her head. “I love you.” 

The phrase is whispered like a prayer. I seek it out as if it were divine deliverance. And it might as well be considering how much I yearn for her. Every atom in my body is irrevocably in love with her. Life is meaningless without her. 

“I love you too,” I whisper. 

This time, I am the one to kiss her. I pour all of my love for her into the kiss and she kisses me back in turn. I can taste some of my tears on my tongue but, mostly, I taste her. I all but melt into her embrace. 

Finally, it’s over. She draws back and stands up. Her hand is offered to me again and I don’t hesitate. I take it and intertwine our fingers together. 

Iraia grins, a flush to her cheeks from our kissing, and beckons with her head to the entrance. More carriages are waiting to be greeted. Imohn is still there but they are quickly growing tired of standing as a guard. 

“Are you ready to greet more nobles?” Iraia wonders. 

I make a face. 

“They won’t like me,” I remind her. Still, I squeeze her hands. I am ready to greet them even if I will more than likely make thousands of mistakes. After my conversation with Iraia, I can face it. 

Iraia smirks and presses a final kiss to my lips. When she draws back, her eyes are bright with mischief, pride, and love. 

“Too bad, they’ll be forced to. You’re my consort, so they have no choice. I can’t imagine this world without you, and I won’t let you go for as long as you love me.”

She gives me another tug towards the carriages. This time I let her. 

The Elven domain is still an impossible mystery to me, the title of consort still feels too heavy on my shoulders, but none of that matters anymore. As long as I have Iraia and she loves me, I can take it. I will learn to navigate this foreign world and be her consort for as long as she wants me. 

#Iraia Idreis #request #love and legends #lovestruck voltage #voltage amemix

[canaryatlaw]

alright, so today was pretty fun. I woke up at 9:20 when my alarm went off and started getting ready. I was meeting friends at 10, so I figured 20 minutes to get ready, 20 minutes to get there, should be good and I left on schedule. of course it took me more like 7 minutes to get there because the place is actually really close to my house, but I figured there’d be a wait because it’s a pretty popular place and most people are still off. So I figured I’d go put our names on the list, except I walk in and we got empty tables and nobody waiting. Oh. So I get seated at a table by the door and wait for my friends to arrive. It’s this cute little place down by the old village area in like the historic district of my town that’s all just very nostalgic and cute. They have a ton of like, different fun wintery coffee options but also said they had flavored hot chocolate, so I asked what flavors that could be and they basically said whatever we had for the coffee, so I ordered the gingerbread cookie coffee flavors in hot chocolate form and it was so damn good, let me tell you. Friend 1 arrived after not too long, I expected them to come together being that they are twins but they’re both married and don’t live together; apparently they had been planning on it but the other was running late so they decided to come separately, and friend 2 showed up not long afterwards. These are like, the two friends from high school I actually keep up with and make an effort to see when I’m home because I really don't give two shits about anybody else (the only third person would be the guy one of them is married to, so he kinda comes with the package). They’re both currently working as teachers at the school now though, which was a bit of a change for the second as she has a degree in biology and was planning on doing fertility treatments, which she’s still pursuing on the side, but she ended up coming in as a part time english teacher after the last one (who was by far the worst teacher I’ve ever had and she was there for WAY too long) got offended when they moved her to part time because there were less kids in the class and decided to quit, for the good of all humanity (I seriously cannot emphasize enough how shitty of a teacher she was. she was fucking awful. we were supposed to be reading the tragedy of julius caesar like, out loud in class, and it took us 3 fucking months to get through it because she was so incompetent we’d get through like a page a day. it was torture). so I was glad to hear that at least, especially because that teacher would’ve had the class my sister is in, and my sister now has my friend instead, which I’m very thankful for. So we talked about the school of course and what’s going on there with the administration and all that. They of course always had a much better relationship with the school than I ever did to be able to go back and teach there; I mean if I was a teacher I would never even consider working there because I had such a terrible experience as a student there. but yeah, good stuff to discuss, and then we moved onto some of our more typical discussion topics like abortion and foster care and all that good stuff we like to discuss lol. the Ohio heartbeat bill that had just been passed then vetoed then maybe overriden came up and I just of course repeated my position that if you want to decrease abortion, you should remove the need for it from society and change the culture, not decrease access to it, which I think is a solid argument most people can get behind. once we finished breakfast we walked a bit in the little shopping area and ended up in a store that has super cute baby clothing and toys and such. one of them has a ten month old so she was telling us about him and all that fun stuff. I didn’t have anywhere I specifically had to be afterwards so I ended up following her back to her family’s place to see the baby, but he ended up having been taking a nap so we figured we’d save that for another day, so I headed home from there. Not too much was going on at home, my sister had decided she didn’t want to work on college apps today but would do so tomorrow instead, so that wasn’t on the schedule. I forget if I talked on here about it before but she’s decided she wants to go to one of the state schools upstate fairly recently, but still hasn't taken the SAT or started her application, whereas my parents very much want her to stay at home and do the local community college, so that’s gonna be interesting to see play out. so I mostly just chilled for the rest of the day and didn’t do all that much. people came home after work and they had dinner before one of my friends from theatre came and picked me up and we went out to Applebee’s (after another restaurant was way too crowded). We’d been keeping up fairly regularly, she’s one of the only ones I still talk to other than the guy I was with yesterday who was a family friend long before we did theatre together. But this friend is now in her second year of law school, so of course we have a lot to talk about and such. so we talked about passing the bar and it being over, she wants to do like, financial regulation law which tbh I don't even know what that means but she seems to really like it so hey good for her. and yeah, we chatted about all that good stuff and somewhat about how the other people we used to know just have not moved on with their lives whatsoever and we’re just like....we’re so far removed from that now it’s crazy really. so it was a nice time. once we finished she dropped me off and I spent a little bit sitting in my parents room mostly talking to my brother about law related stuff which eventually veered towards the juvenile justice system in comparison to the adult justice system, because NY just recently raised the age for juveniles to automatically be sent to adult court to 18 instead of it being like 16 I think previously, which is insane when there’s literally only one other state that was doing that. but we were talking about a small charge in the adult system versus one in the juvenile system, whereas in a more regulated system like Chicago small charges all go to juvenile court, and the only ones that make it into adult court are the very serious ones (murder, rape, etc.) I still firmly believe there should be a hard limit on not charging kids under 15 as adults, they are children in every sense of the word and treating them like adults is absurd when we literally have an entire fucking system based around addressing the different needs juveniles have than adults and to use the adult system anyway is ridiculous. okay I’m ranting I know, but the point I was getting at was it was actually a fairly civil conversation and I was able to share some of my experiences working with juveniles and how they end up in the situations they did, and I felt like (for once) he was actually listening and thinking about what I was saying rather than just trying to argue with everything that came out of my mouth, so that was a nice change. of course he ended with “well there's not much we can do to help [low income communities riddled with violence] and they can just shoot each other it’s not our problem” at which point I was like, except I work with the incredibly traumatized kids from those communities and it very much is my problem because that’s the work I want to be doing, and I don’t think he gets that, but he seems to be at least a little more open minded towards all of it, so that was good. I was telling him how when I was in juvenile justice class we had to read this book about a family in the projects in Chicago in the 1980s and I would read it on my commute to and from the juvenile courthouse, and the bus I took there passed right by where the projects used to be (like the book would mention a kid chasing a ball across the street of Damen ave, which is the street the bus runs down) and I swear passing it every day was like seeing ghosts, phantom children running after balls in the street and getting caught in the crossfire of gangs, little girls being gunned down while jumping rope where what now is just a parking lot, and all of that hit me real hard. And I think if you’re gonna work with these kids you need to understand the background they’re coming from and the trauma they’ve been experiencing all of their lives. I’m ranting, anyway. Once we wrapped up that discussion I headed to my room and got in the shower to start getting ready for bed and now here I am. it is just past 1:15 am and since I got up rather early (for me lately at least) so I am quite tired and will be going to bed now. Goodnight my friends. Have a joyous rest of your evening.

#daily journal #December 2018

[adhdvane]

im sleep deprived and i just want to lay down and sleep forever but like i need to get some of the too many thoughts out of my brain and like this is dumb shit i’ve been sitting on for months but never really wrote down. and it’s dumb gbf headcanon shit bc my brain will never let me not think about it

vane literally has adhd and i will fucking fight everyone. vane sometimes just keeps talking. intense emotional response. literally states that he often gets so focused doing something that he walks into shit (not only is this like hyperfocus but also just too distracted to see where he’s going). difficulty regulating attention would explain so much of why he get’s lost, ESPECIALLY BECAUSE IN HIS SSR FATE HE SHOW’S THAT HE PUT A LOT OF EFFORT INTO MAPING OUT THE TRIP MEANING HE CAN BE COMPLETELY COMPETENT AND PREPARED FOR SOMETHING HE HAS A LOT OF INTEREST IN (ie my brain gettin that good shit). also difficulty following conversations if he’s not fully engaged. special interests, like he really loves cooking, i’m not saying like and being good at a thing you like is an adhd thing, but it could be related. you can hyperfocus on a person: Lancelot. (Lancelot also talks about how emotional Vane was as a child, Vane was very attached. Lancelot appears to be Vane’s only close friend of his age (everyone else is old lady’s bc of his soft spot for grandmas), could be related to Vane having difficulty with social situations as a child which is extremely common in adhd since most adhd brains are behind in that aspect of the brain compared to their peers. tbh vane is really high energy (like always just down to go run off at any moment like chill the fuck out you have too much) and i can entirely see him having a lot of difficulty standing still and being fidgety. i don’t know how you can say vane is not impulsive when he fucking Impulsive shouts Lancey at the top of his lungs, while lancelot is literally talking to the fucking king. the way vane speaks feels like the words just come out before he even processes half of them. not to mention vane would be the guy just down to do anything (and i don’t just mean bc he’s super high energy) but like also impulsively. and other things i totally image are plausible like part of the reason he likes cleaning and keeping things clean is because he needs to keep that structure bc he will fucking lose things and also keeping it a routine is a way of dealing with adhd and the disorganization it causes. but also being super adhd about his cleaning and starting with one thing, then switching, then switching again, and just cycling through different aspects until it’s all done and realizing he was only going to do the one thing today but oops i did all of it bc i was in the fucking zone and i completely forgot i was supposed to do other important things today fuck concept vane fidgeting quietly with a piece of his armor while someone is talking (percival is talking and immediately calls him out like ur not paying attention and what did i just say. and vane just .... fuck i did the thing where i was listening but not listening i heard the words but they didn’t go into my brain. but also sometimes vane recalling what percival said perfectly.) sometimes vane not being able to follow a complicated conversation between multiple people isn’t because he spaced out but bc everyone is talking at once and there are other noises and it just creates a sensory overload and his first response is to just shout bc he can’t deal. vane: lancey i made cookies! lancelot: that’s great! vane: [smiling] lancelot: ... uh where are they vane: ... vane: oH FUCK I LEFT THEM IN THE OVEN except then he discovers they’re not burnt bc he forgot to turn the oven on. i could go on more but im gunna stop idk i have strong feelings. just ignore all of this. b y e

#dumb text post #sammy rambles #sammy be quiet #look i have lots of feelings about vane and these headcanons #but also bc pls you can't tell me otherwise #sammy no #imafuckingidiot #this is super long and just word vomit so idk how much sense it even makes #don't mind me 23423.4.3 #i want to sleep but its not even 5

[egoiistas]

may i feel, said he (2)

first || ao3 || ffn 

rated: M || royai words: ~2600

CHAPTER TWO

She falls asleep again, like clockwork.

On the third week of class, Roy pauses his lecture, spotting the cute blonde on the third row -- no, she is just the student on the third row -- Miss Hawkeye. The wing-like bang catches his eye and he finds it peculiar in how it matches her name sake. But that’s besides the point: it is the twenty minute mark of his sixty minute class and she’s already dozing on the palm of her hand. He can’t even pretend she’s studying the textbook, because even that is closed.

Students that notice his pause look up from their notes and Roy continues with his normal circuit around the classroom. College students are notorious for sneaking in a nap, even his own lectures aren’t spared despite his best efforts to make a dry topic lively. Roy knows this; he, at least, was more subtle about it in his college years.

He’s irked for an entirely different reason. A sleeping student would’ve - should have flown under his radar were it not for their brief exchange on the first day. That bright morning after winter break, her eyes follows on him as he handed out the syllabus. In his experience, it’s not the first time and he suspects she isn’t the only one that day. He can’t say he’s used to it, because he’s not teaching intermediate Chemistry classes to be ogled by students.

However, Miss Hawkeye doesn’t shoot him suggestive glances or flirty looks. She doesn’t try to catch his attentions with coy waves with just her fingers. She observes him with focused eyes. Fixated, like she’s analyzing him. Roy regrettably realizes that she’s attractive; pretty with her flaxen hair. Roy focuses on his footsteps, but the scrutinizing, brown eyes trails him around the room until he reaches her row.

He purposely meets her eyes and gives her a friendly, polite smile.

He doesn’t anticipate her reaction: her brown eyes widen, caught by surprise like a deer in headlights, and immediately averts her gaze elsewhere. It makes him smirk at such a childish gesture especially after the look she had been giving him is anything but. They exchange glances one more time as he passes her desk and Roy tries his damnedest to deny that his curiosity isn’t flared.

And then, she falls asleep.  

She possesses enough decorum to apologize to him directly unlike students who would duck out shamefully with tails in between their legs. For what it’s worth, Roy takes it genuinely; impressed by her sincerity and her initiative,

Only that it happens again the following week. Then, again during the Friday lecture. He notices that if she’s isn’t actually sleeping, she’s close to it. Each time she apologizes to him with the same song, because she’s smart enough to know that her grade is in peril, regardless of her above average marks. He forbids himself from wondering what’s stealing her away from sleep. In fact, he forbids himself from wondering or thinking about her more than he has to.

Now, for the second time this week, third time in a row, the hardcover textbook rises in his hand and immediately falls in the center of her desk with a thud. Her body jolts awake. Roy watches her with disapproval and her round eyes look at him apologetically. Every time she naps, he’s forced, so to speak, to look at her, to remember that she exists.

Walking away, he doesn’t know if he’s irritated by the fact that he goes out of his way to end her siestas or if he’s irritated because some part of him finds the dazed look on pretty, little Miss Hawkeye’s face endearing. That thought is pushed down as far as he can manage.

Roy ends his class, and rounding the corner to his office with his usual cup of coffee, he can almost see the girl standing diligently outside of his door in his mind’s eye. He’s excited, an intrusive thought suggests. He silences the thought by drinking the coffee that’s a bit too hot, and lets the bitterness clear out any thoughts about him and her and -

“Professor Mustang.”

Roy looks up. Like clockwork. She doesn’t disappoint. “Miss Hawkeye.” Amused, he fiddles with the keys to his office door and says, “I’m starting to think you’re doing this on purpose now.”

He hears her sigh when he swings open the door, “It’s not that.”

“How presumptuous of me,” he deadpans and takes note of the footsteps following him. Jacket hung, Roy settles in his desk chair. “It’s because of your nightly activities that’s leaving you so tired for my class.”

She nods.

“Your job.”

Miss Hawkeye nods again and he rolls his eyes unsympathetically. “You know the problem, Miss Hawkeye. So why not fix it?”

“I can’t quit my job.”

“Of course.” He tries to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Then I don’t see how your sleep schedules has anything to do with me.”

“And I can’t fail this class,” she informs him with an indomitable expression on her face. She’s determined, he’ll give her that. “Because of a participation grade.”

“Sounds to me like you’re stuck in between a rock and hard place.” Do not think about the hard place.

Miss Hawkeye makes a noise of dissatisfaction. He looks up to find round, brown eyes bearing down on him and he’s almost short of breath. She says, “I ask that you reconsider the extra credit.”

Roy looks at her and it's a staring match between them both. There’s a pregnant pause in the room and her face doesn’t twitch, it doesn’t falter; no twitch on her lip, no spasm in her cheek, she doesn’t even glance away or give clue that she’s going to. She’s the very definition of determination - with stubborness mixed in for flavor. Roy breathes in finally and raises his brows only a little impressed. His answer is the same: “No.”

She deflates, faltering a little. It’s only for a moment though, because she recovers and stands a little straighter, head held up high. “Please,” she says. “Please reconsider, sir.”

That word. That blasted, evil word. Sir. It goes straight into his ear and plunges down to his groin without warning - without so much as a say on his part. He hears it and tenses up, because he likes it and he likes hearing it from her. He needs to get her out of the office as fast as humanly possible and to figure what he needs to do. Ignore her naps. Just fail her if need be, because this can’t go on.

“Look,” Roy leans forward and the back of his hand hits something. He doesn’t realize he’s knocked over his cup until he feels a different kind of heat on his pants. It’s not scalding, but it provokes him to launch off his chair. The emptied coffee cup falls on the floor and the dark-brown liquid is running down his slacks. He exclaims in expletives and she materializes out of nowhere with a towel.

The cloth could have been hers or his, he didn’t know. This oblivious girl has such frantic look on her face that it pushes him back to his desk, and she starts patting down the front of his pants. It absolutely stuns him - because what the fuck, what is she doing.

What’s worse is that he watches out of disbelief or enjoyment or something darker that horrifies him. No, scratch that, it gets worse. She drops the fucking towel, getting low to the ground, on her knees, and continues drying his pants close to his groin.

Roy grabs her wrists before she can unwittingly torture him further. She looks at him, surprised. “You need to leave,” he says through grit teeth and his hands release her. “Now.”

Her eyes go big again, like the first time when he catches her staring, and backs away from him. She says meekly, “I’ve dealt with burns and --” She stops, flabbergasted and unsettled. “I’m sorry, sir,” is all she says before she skitters out of his office.

He closes the door, almost slamming it. Roy leans against it. His breath leaves him slowly to regulate the throbbing in his chest. Fuck.

That night, he can’t sleep.

The humiliation stays with her for the rest of the morning and into the next day, lingering in the back of her mind, and surfaces on her cheeks whenever it would bubble to the forefront. Every so often, she rubs the small of her wrists. She loses herself in thought throughout the rest of her classes, toying with her bottom lip as her mind replays the encounter. Riza couldn’t go back after that and it’s too late to drop the class without fail. But at this rate, she is going to fail, all because she can’t stay awake.

Underneath her embarrassment, a frothing layer of indignation simmers. She agrees that there isn’t much to Chemical Literature to give extra credit for, but in the same vein, why does he have to be so adamant about something like participation when her assignments are up to standard? Not even a late assignment -- so far. Riza sighs. Yes, she is to blame too, but… not all students party, sleep, fuck, and-or get high through college, like he so mistakenly assumes about her.

She refocuses over her Physical Chemistry notes, but they’re bare, and the context of the textbook underneath is far too dry for her interests at that hour. Her eyelids are heavy again. She was staring at the ceiling all afternoon when she was supposed to be resting, and the night feels longe before her. The bright numbers on her phone tells her thirty minutes into midnight, but the fatigue makes her feel like she’s been there for hours.

The library is quiet and warm, compared to the biting chill outside. Only half of the fluorescent lights are on overhead and she can feel her eyelids fluttering.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t take it personally.”

Riza glances up slowly. Her brow creases and she thinks she’s hallucinating or still dreaming when Professor Mustang is leaning on the Service Desk. “I’m sorry - what?”

His face is smug with amusement. “Your siestas in my class.” He clears his throat and she envies the coffee she smells in his cup. Riza does not think about yesterday afternoon, “I didn’t know you worked here.”

“Yes, well, you’ve discovered my dark secret,” she intones, folding her hands over her textbook. “Can I help you?”

He ignores her question and asks instead, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Riza opens her mouth and closes it again; thrown off by a softness in his voice. “I told you as much, sir -” he snorts, but she answers truthfully “- and I didn’t want to use pity as a means to an end.”

“You must think I’m some kind of sadist.”

Riza eyes him as she swivels around, her lip twitching just barely. “I never said that.” Riza hops off the stool, and begins pushing the return cart throughout aisles of bookshelves. The first book to reshelve belongs in the 000 - Generalities.

“Surely, you thought it.”

Unaware of the quiet footsteps trailing her, the book in her hand nearly slips. She quickly turns suspicious. His fingers are drumming the metal handle at the opposite end of her cart and his face is light and friendly. It’s weird. He’s not dressed in his scholarly getup or in those distracting button-ups; the simple sweatshirt and jeans makes him almost look like another, albeit tall, student, especially without his glasses. Riza asks again, “Can I help you?”

“I need help finding some books.”

Riza points him in the direction of computer kiosks, “My hands are tied at the moment, sir. Those computers there will help you find whatever you’re looking for.” She snuggles a book in between two others on the shelf. “If not, Sheska on the second floor is more capable of helping you.” She hauls the cart behind her behind her when he doesn’t say anything.

Five books later and into the Religions section, she can no longer ignore him. Riza breathes in; maybe he is a sadist. Does he want to see her squirm? Was the spilled coffee on purpose? “How are your slacks?”

“I took them to the dry cleaners,” he says smoothly, as always. “I’ll send you the bill.”

She snorts while searching for a place for 303.52 and she blames it on the late-night delirium. Grinning, she asks again, “Can I help you?”

He blinks, almost dumbfounded, before his composure returns and replies, “Like I said, books.”

Her shoulders drop. Riza is unsure of what kind of game he’s playing, if there even is a game or if it’s all on her. Her index finger gestures again to the computers.

“Oh, and a group study room.”

She quips without a second thought, “Are you expecting more people in the middle of the night?” It isn’t until the last word leaves her lips that it sinks in. Thankfully, he responds well to her dry humor, rewarding her with a laugh and a smile. She suddenly wishes she hadn’t seen it, because this feels too much like flirting.

The group study rooms are equipped with a smartboard and computers that are only available through daylight hours and only by reservation. There was an incident a few years back where students were taking computer parts and other hardware from the rooms.

He requires it for research apparently. The messenger bag is emptied on the large conference desk with notebooks and other texts. Papers are strewn everywhere; it’s almost familiar.

He chooses the room she could see from the help desk on happenstance. Riza watches him in glimpses through the large glass that strange night; his movements are always catching her eye, as he moves around the table, writing on the board, or grabbing his chin deep in thought. The glasses are back on his face and the sweatshirt is off, revealing a casual t-shirt from his own alma mater.

Riza decides to restock every two hours instead of the required four. She still sneaks glances.

Her weariness reaches critical mass with an ache in her bones and the slowing pace of her breathing. Whenever that happens, she lingers in the 800 section, her personal favorite, to jump start her mind with things she actually enjoys. She considers herself lucky she’s snagged the library work-study as this is one of its perks. But the overnights might just be her doom. She’s in the middle of the eloquences of Pablo Neruda when his voice cuts through the imagery.

“I’m finished with the room,” Professor Mustang says to her. He raises an eyebrow when she looks up, barely able to keep her eyes open from the lights overhead. “And you look like you could use ten days of sleep.”

Riza smiles sleepily, if not out of courtesy. “Probably, but some of my professors are very passionate about the presence and participation of students in his class and I have one in three hours. Sleep is a luxury.”

He snorts and for a second time, she’s surprised he’s in such an amicable mood in light of her remarks. Hands snug in his sweatshirt pouch, Professor Mustang nods slowly with an expression she’s too tired to decipher. “I’ll see you in class, Miss Hawkeye.”

Riza sees him go and she stands to stretch, yawning heavily as she does.

Five minutes shy of eight, Riza tries to not drag her feet into the lecture hall the following with only two odd hours of sleep. On her desk, she recognizes the same type of cup from the other night just sitting on her desk. Her fingers touches it, and finds it warm.

Riza notices the black marker writing from a barista on the side. It reads: Stay awake, RH!

next chapter

a/n: the reception for this was so great. @tsaritsa​ and I were so excited by all the comments and positive feedback. Thank you! <3 

#royai #royai fanfiction #roy mustang #riza hawkeye #fma #fullmetal alchemist #fma fanfiction #roy mustang x riza hawkeye #royza #roy x riza #why is this moving like a slow burn #well its slow burn FOR ME #sdkjfnsdjkf #*shine #*may i feel #professor-student relationship

[kingofthewilderwest]

Cor the character meme: Roy Mustang

Bless. You are making me way too happy, prompting me this character. There’s honest to goodness no one I’d rather talk about more than Mustang right now.

Give me a character and I will answer:

Roy Mustang

Why I like them: Frankly, it would almost be better if someone sent me a prompt (hint hint) asking me to list The Top 10 Things I Love About Roy Mustang. But given as I don’t want to make this prompt three hundred dissertations long, I’ll try to be brief…

Roy’s calm, level-headed, sometimes cold disposition is alluring. I love how some of it is his personality, but he uses it as a facade, too, in masterful manipulations and maneuvers. I love when Roy starts acting like a grouchy, six year old child when he bickers with Ed, and I love when he becomes terrifying in anger and vengeance. I love the slip of softness he gets around Riza. I love the unique reason behind his ambition to gain the Fuhrer position: it’s out of a desire to protect everyone around him, a much less selfish reason than one might originally expect given Roy’s outwardly portrayed persona and reputation. As said during the flashback in “The Ishvalan War of Extermination”:

“The power of one person does not amount to much. As such, I will do all I can, however little that may be, to protect those who are dear to me. Those below me will protect those below them. We tiny humans should be able to do that much, at least.”

Now, that’s already a “Wow, damn,” moment, but then I fall into the utmost respect at this remark:

I mean, I get a chilling amount of EXTREME respect when that conversation happens. It’s not that such a trial will be the case that when Roy reaches Fuhrer, but there’s still the notable chance it could happen. Roy’s willingly moving forward to make the country a better place with knowledge it could lead to his death.

And then I have to love how badass Roy is. How much initiative he has. How he still wants a better future but isn’t youthfully idealistic. And I admit I how pretty he is. And two hundred other amazing things about this character.

Why I don’t: Everyone in the English dub did a wonderful job and they’re full of talent. I’m not someone who ever watches dubs anyway, because I feel like getting the original voice actors gets closer to the emotion and intent of a story, because I’m a linguist who loves to experience more than my limited English world, and because I feel like I’m closer to the culture of the story, too. But I will give credit where it’s due that the FMAB English cast was good. Give them applause for their love, effort, and contribution to the fandom, please!!!

This is all about my preference. Most of the voices I’m fine with, but I absolutely cannot watch the dub SPECIFICALLY for Roy’s voice. Like, it makes me want to scream. Not to be mean to Travis Willingham, but his voice timbre is NOT one I’d ever associate with Mustang, and it’s so disjointing to me that I can barely watch five seconds before switching back to my beloved Japanese VAs. I read the manga before watching any of the anime, so I got a strong headcanon about what Roy’s voice sounded like. When I started watching Brotherhood, I literally gaped the first time I heard Shinichiro Miki voice him. This was exactly how I imagined him sounding!!!

Favorite episode (scene if movie): I have to pick one???? FUCK. You know what, fuck that. I’m listing more than one. DEAL WITH IT.

Cold Flame

Death of the Undying

Flame of Vengeance

Sacrifices

Lost Light

A Fierce Counterattack

Favorite season/movie: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood. FMAB slightly softens Roy’s character, as it does with some other personalities like Al, by emphasizing a little more of his best side. It’s not that FMAB ever deletes the less glamorous, darker, or more selfish traits of characters, but due to time, it does have to shave off lines. And so we tend to see a slightly more better-tinted Roy Mustang in FMAB than in the manga. His care for his subordinates is brought even more to the forefront. And, in a scene that isn’t present in the manga, we see Roy practicing with his subordinates for information about Ishval so that he can better help the state (whereas in the manga he agrees to help Ishval after the idea being presented to him). Roy’s final words in FMAB are even a lot more considerate than in the manga - in the manga it’s about himself being ambitious, whereas in FMAB it’s about not getting healed until Havoc is healed first.

I mean, I love all flavors of Roy Mustang. But I do admittedly enjoy how FMAB colors him, too.

Favorite line: It’s a statement that somewhat appears only in the manga. As I already mentioned above, the final scene with Roy is rather different in the manga versus the anime, and I like some characteristics of both. This particular line I feel carries so much depth and great applause to his character. Whether Roy has the power to get the presidency or not, he’s talking about what he wants to do most, and what’s ultimately most important: help as many people in the country as possible.

Favorite outfit: Excuse me? All of them???

The military uniform:

The military uniform plus his legendary, omnipresent coat:

I also believe that Mustang has really good taste in fashion when he’s not in uniform? Like, it always looks really good and classy on him.

He’s just cobbled together his jacket plus the shirt under his uniform, still looks awesome:

Like, even when he’s just in hospital garb, it looks good on him and shows off his arms?

There is only one thing that is unacceptable for Roy in the world of fashion, and that’s a mustache. I hate that mustache more than I hate every other hate-able character combined. Kill it kill it kiiiillllllll ittttttt.

OTP: Royai. magnificent way to write a romantic pairing. And, honestly, very refreshing, compared to lots of hot, fast-paced, physical romances seen in blockbusters. I much more love this unstated but ever-present tenderness and loyalty between these two.

Lately, I’ve gone from “Like Royai” to “Absolutely love Royai.” To the point that a good friend of mine and I may or may not be writing a fanfiction on this topic. ^.^

We are. We definitely are.

BROTP: Roy and Hughes’ friendship. Such. an. amazing. friendship. I. love. this. friendship.

Headcanon: Roy grays relatively early in life. He hasn’t exactly lived a stress-less life, and especially once he hits Fuhrer, there’s going to be signs of fast aging. 

Unpopular opinion: As much as I love Royai, I do agree with Arakawa to not marry Roy and Riza in canon. She said she “can’t get them to marry because of Military Regulations. If they got married, they could no longer stay as superior officer and subordinate.” It’s much more in Roy and Riza’s characters to continue along with the decade-long status quo they’ve created for their relationship, than to enter a new romantic territory. 

A wish: Arakawa said that if she wrote one more thing for FMA, it’d be how Roy becomes Fuhrer. Can you please fucking do that Arakawa??? I AM BEGGING YOU. I WANT TO KNOW. I DON’T CARE IF IT’S STICK FIGURES I WANT TO KNOW.

An oh-god-please-dont-ever-happen: Nothing coming to mind, given as the story’s complete!

Five words to best describe them: Badass ambitious protective fire colonel

My nickname for them: “This Idiot.” Or “That Idiot.” Basically, a lot of affectionate “Idiot” calling.

#Anonymous #long post #non-dragons #FMAB #Fullmetal Alchemist #Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood #Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood #FMA #Roy Mustang #blabbing Haddock #analysis #my analysis #meme #character meme #ask #ask me #awesome anonymous friend #ooooops I spent way too long writing this XD #what can I say #I'm enthused #thanks again for sending this to meeeee <3 <3 <3 #swearing

[em-exceeds-change-zearu]

I have a question, because I trust your expert opinion on these matters.... What do you think of yugioh sevens?

sorry it took so long for me to answer you, anon! i was puzzling over how to answer this for a long time, because i really wanted to give my honest opinion but i had a Lot to say and not all of it positive. also i’m in the middle of moving out of my apartment with the husband and that’s really busy lol.

so. hm. okay. given that I’ve only seen the first episode so far (I watched it when it first came out and haven’t gotten the chance to see the other two), I can’t say my opinion will be super informed! however, I can give my initial first impressions based on what I saw from the first time I watched it! the impressions will be under the cut, but let’s just say that my opinions are. Mixed. again, my opinions should be taken with a grain of salt, because i’ve only seen episode one and I really expect the show to show it’s true colors by mid-season, but this is just a really quick first impression after mulling over my initial impressions for a few days. 

I think overall, my impressions of the first episode is that I can see the potential, but the execution is somewhat shoddy. It honestly doesn’t feel like the producers used the extra six months or so from ending VRAINS early to their best advantage here, but there’s an...effort? I can at least see why people are charmed by the show so far. I’ll break it down piece by piece to show what initial problems I had with it that prevented me from enjoying it fully. It’s still a very charming show, and I plan on giving it a chance, but I feel like the show itself is still finding its footing. And that’s to be expected, most ygo spinoffs are just Like That when they start, but it’s definitely one of the weaker starts to a series i’ve seen. I’ll break it down by its aspects to show what I both like and dislike about it!

Setting - Okay, so I’m actually rather charmed by the setting itself. It feels like it’s a direct callout to how the ygo meta has gotten in real life - there are a few decks that stand out over the rest and sometimes tournaments can come down to being between one type of deck and its counter. Yuga wanting to make his own type of dueling because he feels like the world around him is getting stale is incredibly charming, and the rules he’s come up with absolutely feel like something an elementary schooler would come up with (I used to make fun of pendulum summoning being the same type of thing, but this is just straight up reminding me of the days when pokemon trading cards were super popular and none of us little brats knew the rules so we made up our own as we went along). Yuga’s a little kid who dreams about giant dueling robots and wants dueling to have the mystery and fun and pizzaz it used to, and who doesn’t? I support this baby boy and his dueling robot dreams. 

The world around him is established to be pretty restrictive and somewhat eerie as well - the school is largely managed by robots that regulate things down to the smallest level (I don’t think there’s even any adults around, which ???), and even the smallest innovations Yuga does to help make life more efficient, like adding a carrier to his bike to carry his bookbag, are rejected as out of line. There’s actually a nice level of show and don’t tell here and there, like showing how the robots scan each student while greeting them happily at the door, or how duel disks are automatically shut down and locked during school hours. One particularly chilling moment is watching robots clamp down on students trying to trade cards informally in the schoolyard, calmly and cheerily informing them that such trading is prohibited and must be done in a sanctioned G-Corp trading location. What seals the deal is that the student’s don’t express annoyance and anger at this, merely accepting such a restrictive rule as a mildly inconvenient part of life - which shows how such an indoctrinative lifestyle has already affected their manner of thinking. I feel like the first episode would have benefited more from being stretched out into two episodes instead of trying to cram a duel inside the end of the first episode, because the crammed nature of it all meant these moments are very few and far between, lost in how quickly the episode rushes through these plot points.

Characters - Okay, overall the dynamics of our main cast look like they can be really cute. We have our rebellious protagonist that wants to shake up everything and have fun, our uptight class president that wants to enforce the rules but gets swept up in the chaos protag-kun brings, the rival character that thinks protag-kun could change the world around him and looks at him with respect and also might possibly be a chuuni dumbass, and the token female character who’s Totally Not Interested In This Dueling Thing, No Way, Really. But honestly, in the first episode a lot of this characterization is lost in...screaming, actually. They’re very. Loud. Particularly our president, who honestly looks like he’s got multiple facets to his character (he briefly expresses admiration for yuga’s modified bike and its convenience before immediately reverting to screaming about rules, eventually does come around to helping yuga out because he doesn’t want to get Insta-Banned for being near him, etc), but we lose so much of it because, again, he spends 95% of the time screaming. we also get a lot of forced humor and gonk-y reactions that seem kind of exaggerated, partially because said reactions tend to be Spelled Out for us as opposed to just letting us see it happen, but this is lack of how the characters are themselves and more about how they’re being handled so far. which i’ll explain more when i get to talking about storyboarding.

music - it’s...okay? the OP is growing on me and is actually pretty cute, but I’m not getting anything that stands out. the BGM hasn’t really had any pieces that really get my attention so far, but maybe we’ll see something better in the future? i don’t know

storyboarding - okay. I’m not going to be talking about the animation because i’m not harping on the style (although it does admittedly look woefully generic and not very YGO at all) given that they’ve moved to a completely different (and cheaper?) movie studio. i’m not going to talk about the shoddy cgi or the stilted animation or anything like that. i’m specifically talking about the storyboarding itself, how scenes are being framed and arranged, and how the main story is being told. and this key part is where SEVENS entirely falls apart. 

the problem is that the story is going by entirely too fast and is craming all sorts of things into its timeslot. the characters react loudly and obnoxiously to every little thing, with exaggerated pratfalls and gonkfaces as opposed to...actual reactions. it’s understandable from yuga and possibly even the high strung class president, but when even characters that are established to be a little more mellow minded (see, rook and romin) end up acting like that, it kind of contradicts what little we know about them. Not that it’s bad for them to act like that, but it has more impact if we see this after we have established characters for them (although if rook is actually established to be a chuuni dumbass later, i would immediately forgive them for that instance specifically, because that’s adorable). it honestly comes off as the animereaction equivalent of Johnny Test - all the exaggerated sound effects and janky reactions to compensate for the lack of animation or storytelling. it’s kind of upsetting to look at.

speaking of establishing character. It’s honestly done rather poorly for a first episode, which is a problem. I need to have a reason to be invested in these characters, and when you rush through their introductions it leaves me wanting. for example, my previously mentioned example of our class president clearly showing interest in yuga’s inventions but having it completely smothered in his need to appeal to authority and his high strung anxiety is a good point! but we get so little of it that it’s very much lost in his constant screaming and yelling - so seeing him portrayed as part of yuga’s friend group from day one is a bit jarring. another more telling example is rook immediately showing interest in yuga because this kid really keeps trying to modify his duel disk. okay cool. why. why should we care about this. we haven’t seen any instance of him before this, and when he’s introduced he talks about this Secret Hidden Backdoor Legend That’s Totally Prominent!!!! except we don’t see any hints in the series leading up to it, it literally comes out of nowhere. there’s no mystery or mystique in this, we haven’t seen rook try challenging this on his own, he’s just immediately dropping the wham ball of OH YEAH I ALREADY BANNED MYSELF, OOPS. speaking of: why is it bad that they get banned?? what happens? obviously you get locked out of your duel disk but then what? clearly, it should affect these kids’ standing in society somehow because the extreme control over said disks and card management means something, but we see rook attending school like nothing is wrong. nobody notices him, he’s not established as a troublemaker or a wanted figure by the nearby robots, he’s just...there. so there’s no emotional impact to seeing that yuga is one strike away from being banned, or that rook was already Banned (you’d think him getting banned at such a young age would cause Problems, but See it’s Fine, So). also yuga reminiscing about how he’d forgotten what he wanted to do with his new style of rush dueling and how he wanted to bring fun back into it falls really flat because, again, we can’t really see why it’s important for him to do this. him spelling it out for us suddenly when he’s close to losing a duel lacks the emotional impact because we haven’t seen how it affects him specifically. we can see little things - he’s already tried so many times, he keeps printing out little robot designs, he’s somewhat annoyed with being locked out of his disk during school or harranged for every little thing he does, but we haven’t had enough time to see why this is so important to him or why he does what he does. 

again, a large majority of these problems would be solved if they handled this the way zexal and vrains handled it - having most of the worldbuilding be in episode 1 and introducing the main duel mechanic in episode 2 with a full on duel that was started at the end of episode 1. maybe show some standard dueling as a contrast and use those show-not-tell instances from the setting to show how restrictive or repetitive it is (maybe yuga and co hanging out at one of those G-Corp Mandated Trading Stations after school and watching/playing some duels? yuga trying to show off rush dueling in there and getting kicked out?), then introduce rush dueling as a thing in episode 2 when he’s introduced to the Secret Backdoor Trial by Rook after seeing hints/rumors/etc about Mystery Programmer Man Who Did This For Some Reason. but rushing it through like this, especially when introducing a Whole New Dueling Format AND a new type of card, isn’t ideal. but trying to cram things together like this makes the weakness in storyboarding really stand out, and it taints an otherwise good story. not that the story in itself is bad, but it’s not presented particularly well.

it could be like how vrains clearly improved in storyboarding after episode 14 or so, after the initial rush was over with, so i’m willing to give sevens another chance on this. but this isn’t a very strong way to introduce us to the characters or the world they want to show us. 

overall: charming ideas, shoddy execution, will be looking to see if they improve on this. i’m willing to give it a chance, though, because yuga is a darling boy that deserves it. also the class president. i may not remember his name but i also stan him.

#sevens #is that the tag we're using #i don't know #ygo sevens #yugioh sevens #????? #i aint gonna lie every time i hear about ygo sevens i accidentally think about the sevens webnovel #it's got a very yugioh plot without the card games but it's mostly fantasy adventure harem adventures #decent read! but this isn't about the sevens webnovel it's about the yugioh sevens #so i'll shut up now #ask shenanigans

[lifeonsarz]

With a Little Help

Spenedict fanfic - warning for smut towards the end. Chapter markings are because I posted it on instagram! Let me know if you like it!

*1* Robbie, I’m sorry to do this to you by letter. In many ways, I’m sorry to do this to you at all, but I have to & I know I’d only back out if I was saying this to your face. It’s over. I’m sorry. I just don’t love you like a wife should love a husband anymore and we’re both too young to be trapped in a platonic marriage. So I’m leaving. Or, by the time you read this, I’ve left. I suppose the formalities will have to be taken care of, but … Please just try to be happy, Robbie. Try to move on. You deserve that. M x Rob stared at the letter, turned it over, looking for some hint that it was all a joke. Nothing came. Bile rising in his throat, he got shakily to his feet and mounted the stairs, hoping to find Marnie’s clothes still in the wardrobe, her clutter still littering the shelves of the bathroom. Again, he was disappointed; everything was gone and the house echoed with his loneliness. Trembling, he stumbled to the toilet, hunching over it as he vomited and retched. This couldn’t be happening. After everything they’d been through together, this couldn’t happen now. The tears he’d been holding back finally flowed as he curled up on the cold tiles and wept. *2* Rich frowned deeply, his blond locks flopping into his eyes as he looked at his phone for what seemed like the hundredth time. Why the hell wasn’t Rob replying? They were supposed to be doing drinks tonight to commiserate (or maybe, deep down, celebrate) Rich’s decree absolute. She hadn’t exactly been the love of his life (Rich kept the reason for that close to his chest), but she had once been his best shot at happiness. And now, she was history. He couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t a little sad about it all, but the planned evening out with Rob had lifted his spirits. Until now, an hour after they were supposed to meet, with no sign of him. Rich had been angry at first, then disappointed, let down. Now, he was worried. Rob was many things, including forgetful, but he wouldn’t not answer his phone unless something was very wrong. Rich tried calling one last time, frowning even deeper as he got Rob’s slightly confused-sounding voicemail. Draining his beer, Rich stormed from the bar and hailed a cab. *3* Rob didn’t know how long he had been curled up on the floor. The light had faded at some point, the bathroom now lit only by the faint glow of streetlights through the obscured glass. His tears had dried up hours ago, his body now wracked with dry, empty sobs. His heart pounded in his ears, blocking out any other sound. He had no idea if he was hungry, thirsty, hot, or cold. All he knew was that the chasm opening up inside his chest was getting deeper every second; he could feel himself falling so far into it that he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to crawl out. He wasn’t even sure that he would ever want to. *4* Rich hammered on the front door, yelled through the letterbox, then – when he could feel the twitching of blinds and curtains all around him – opted to sneak around the back, hoping that the neighbours wouldn’t call the cops, because he really didn’t have the energy to explain right now. Fumbling around in his pockets, he pulled out an assortment of bits & pieces, praying that he’d remember how to use one of these to pick the damn lock; it’d been a long time since he’d needed to break into a house. Keeping your keys permanently on a chain attached to your belt loop has its benefits, but right now, he really wished that he was in practice. It took a while – longer than he had hoped – and his head shot up like a meerkat every time a siren blared in the distance or a car door slammed on the street. But ultimately, he breathed a sigh of relief as the last lever fell into place and the door clicked open. *5* Stealing a quick look over each shoulder, Rich stepped through the door, waiting for it to be completely closed behind him before calling softly into the darkness. “Rob? Robbie, mate? You here?” He pulled his phone out and called again, hearing the faint buzzing from the living room. His heart stopped. He could feel a warm fizz across his neck and shoulders as the adrenaline pumped through his system. He approached the door with trepidation; part of him desperate to know, part terrified of what he might find. It was only when he walked right into the centre of the room and hadn’t found his friend unconscious (or worse) that he realised he’d been holding his breath. Ever since Rob’s stroke, he’d always had this fear at the back of his mind that it could happen again – could be worse next time – and no one might be there to save him. Exhaling sharply, he turned to search the rest of the house, when a sheet of paper next to the coffee table caught his eye. *6* Feeling almost like he was peeking at someone’s diary, Rich stooped to retrieve the paper. Two words stood out like a neon sign: ‘It’s over.’ The room wavered slightly in Rich’s vision. He knew only too well what this would do to Rob; he’d been broken up enough after his own relationship crumbled, but Rob had truly considered Marnie to be his soulmate. They had been together since college, when Rob had been a self-confessed fool over her and had the shock of his life when she felt the same. They hadn’t been able to spend as much time together lately, what with work interfering, but Rob still looked forward to spending time with her like they were lovesick teens. Rich caught his breath and rested the letter on the table next to Rob’s phone; the screen still displaying the series of missed calls and messages. Steeling himself for the worst, he walked sadly towards the stairs. *7* The hands on Rob’s shoulders were warm, strong. He might ordinarily have been shocked at the sudden breach of his stasis, but he was numb to the core. It took time for him to focus on Rich’s furrowed brow, concern evident in his deep amber eyes. His mouth was moving, but Rob couldn’t make out what he was saying. His eyes wanted to close against the harsh fluorescent light, but somehow, even that small movement felt like an effort he wasn’t prepared to make. Rich tried talking louder, tried lifting Rob’s face up so that he could see him speaking, but when nothing seemed to penetrate – and with no other ideas – he pulled Rob into an awkward, tight embrace. “I’m so sorry, Rob. I don’t know what I can say or do, but I’m here for you.” He cleared his throat, the words becoming thick with emotions that he knew could not be shown. Not here; not now. “That’s what friends are for,” he added. *8* Rob finally began to break out of his shell as Rich held him. The uncontrollable shaking returned and he realised that he was chilled to the bone. He tried to speak, but he couldn’t form words; he was too cold, too dry. Rich patted his back gently and whispered “It’s okay, Rob. I’ve got you. Just let me look after you, okay?” Rob nodded weakly and allowed Rich to carry him – albeit with a little struggle on Rich’s part – into the bedroom. Rich kicked back the duvet, laid Rob down, and cocooned him in covers and blankets. Squeezing Rob’s shoulder gently, Rich said “I’m going to make you a hot drink, okay? You gonna be alright if I pop downstairs?” Rob managed another feeble nod and a faint smile, and Rich left the room. Standing in the kitchen, kettle boiling, Rich gripped the worktop, closed his eyes and bit his lip hard, but that didn’t stop his tears escaping and rolling down his cheeks. *9* Rob had almost thawed when Rich returned, a weak smile on his face that Rob wasn’t fooled by, even before he saw the faint redness around his eyes. He wanted to ask if he was okay, but he still couldn’t force his voice to come out. He gratefully took the steaming mug of tea from Rich, sipping it slowly, savouring the warmth and hydration. It was strange; it almost felt like it had all been a dream, Marnie’s note, the horror that came before. It felt like he might open the wardrobe and all her things would still be there. Like his life hadn’t really fallen apart at all. Except it had. He didn’t notice that he was crying again until Rich balanced awkwardly on the bed next to him and put his arm around Rob’s shoulders. “’m s-sorry,” Rob stuttered. “S-so s-sorry. I can’t … I … she …” His eyes closed and he leaned into Rich’s chest, seeking more comfort than he felt that he had a right to ask. *10* Rich just smiled sadly and held him, easing the empty mug from his fingers and setting it aside. As time passed, Rob’s head felt heavy on his chest, his breathing regulated into deep sighs. Rich continued to hold his friend, trying to quell the conflict in his mind. Surely this was what he had dreamed of – Rob falling asleep in his arms? But not like this, he angrily chastised himself for the thought. Not if what it took was for Rob’s life to be crashing down around him. Thoughts racing, Rich too fell into a fitful sleep; dreams of fear and rejection plagued him regularly and tonight was worse than most. His eyes snapped open to the dawn light, chest rising and falling rapidly in the wake of his final dream. Getting his bearings, he looked down and found that Rob was still sleeping, one arm draped across Rich’s belly, and Rich had to smile. He didn’t want to wake Rob, wanting to allow him the peace of his obviously contented sleep; wanting to save him for as long as possible from the pain he had seen on his dearest friend’s face last night. *11* Rob’s eyelids fluttered open against the warmth of Rich’s shirt. Propriety indicated that he should pull away, now that he was awake, but he didn’t. He felt safe with Rich’s arm around him; felt a strange sense of comfort that had, until now, eluded him. He tried to remain still, as if asleep, for just a while longer – partly to enjoy the feeling for as long as possible, but partly to work out just what this ‘feeling’ was. Rich felt the flicker of Rob’s lashes against his tight shirt, felt him become unnaturally still, and wondered what was going on under those curls. Was he embarrassed at waking up in Rich’s arms? Worse, was he horrified? Disgusted? The thought brought tears to Rich’s eyes. He swallowed hard and Rob stirred, looking up at him with an expression that he couldn’t quite place. *12* Rob felt Rich flinch against him and realised that he had to move. Rich was clearly uncomfortable with the unusual intimacy of the moment, and the last thing Rob wanted was to make his friend feel bad; not after everything he had done for him. He turned his face up to look at Rich, trying to keep the disappointment from showing and hoping that Rich’s discomfort wasn’t too intense. “Hey, Rob,” Rich forced his voice to sound casual and far less tortured than he felt. “How … how are you feeling?” Stupid question, he knew. But he had to say something to break the silence. Rob paused. He didn’t know how to answer truthfully; he still felt broken, but the numbness inside had been replaced with a strange, warm sensation. How could he explain that when he didn’t understand it himself? So, instead, he smiled softly and said “I … better, I guess. Sorry … about last night, I mean. You looked … you looked like you’d seen a ghost.” *13* Rich smiled as warmly as he could muster. “You gave me quite a fright, I’ll admit. But there’s nothing to apologise for – I’m just glad I came over. God knows how long you’d have been there!” Rob’s mouth formed a soft ‘o’ and he sat up straighter, cheeks burning. Rich instantly felt a flash of panic; he’d gone too far, he shouldn’t have said … “Rich, I’m sorry!” Rob exclaimed with genuine devastation. “Your divorce … we were supposed to meet … shit! I’m so sorry! No wonder you were upset last night when you brought the tea!” It was Rich’s turn to flush scarlet. He had been too eager to get back and make sure that Rob was okay to check his swollen eyes last night, and hadn’t expected Rob to notice anyway – not in the state he was in. Of course, he was wrong about the reason; his tears had been for Rob, not his own failed marriage. But this wasn’t the time to open that can of worms. *14* Rich shook his head. “Robbie, it’s fine. Honest. I guess yesterday was rough for both of us, but I think you got the worst deal. How … uh … how long were you on the floor?” Rob bit his lip and looked away. “I don’t know. Not really. I remember getting up – I was late in, so I think that was about 11 o’clock. I went straight down to see … Marnie …” His voice cracked at this point and he swallowed a few times before continuing. “She wasn’t there, so I sat down to call her. That was when … when …” Rich helped him out. “When you found the letter?” Rob nodded. “Yeah. It all went a bit blank after that. I think I checked the wardrobe at some point. Then, I guess …” He trailed off as, suddenly, a realisation hit him that stunned him into silence. *15* “Rich?” Rob ventured. “Have I spent the last day and night in just my underwear?” Rich chuckled at Rob’s obvious embarrassment. “Well, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before!” Rich’s mirth made Rob even more mortified, but it also lightened the mood a little, even as Rob tugged the sheets around him – to Rich’s ongoing amusement. “Now then,” Rich hopped out of bed with far more energy than he felt after his restless night. “Why don’t I fix us some food whilst you pack a bag?” Rob looked up at him, confused. “You don’t want to be here. Not right now. Trust me. Too many memories – too much pain. Come back to mine for a few days. A few weeks, if you need to. As long as you want.” Forever would be good, he thought. *16* Rob pushed his last few things into the oversized holdall, squeezing it firmly to fasten the zip. He’d probably packed too much – Rich had extended the offer indefinitely, but he wondered if, after a few days, he’d be encouraging him strongly to go home and try to move on. All the same, Rob wanted to spend more time with Rich. He was still trying to work out what he was feeling, but – whatever it was – it felt good. Still, that nagging feeling gnawed at him; Rich didn’t feel how he did. And, that being the case, what did it matter? A wave of dizziness hit him as that thought sank in. He slumped forward slightly, then felt strong hands rolling him over and laying him flat on the bed. *17* As the spinning sensation passed, Rob opened his eyes and looked up at Rich apologetically. “Good job I made breakfast – looks like you need it!” Rich’s voice was a little too cheery, betrayed by the look of fear in his eyes. Rob wondered for a moment what Rich was afraid of, before the thought was brushed aside as he was helped to his feet and slowly down the stairs. Rich’s heart was still racing. Seeing Rob collapsing over his packed bag had knocked the wind out of him and he was struggling to regain his cool. He was lifted slightly by the size of the bag Rob had chosen (and stuffed to capacity); it looked like he might take him up on his offer of a prolonged stay. To Rich, this was the best news he’d had in a very long time. *18* Rob eagerly tucked into the pancakes that Rich had prepared. “I didn’t realise how hungry I was,” he mumbled between mouthfuls. Rich smiled broadly, his first genuinely happy smile since this whole mess started. “It’s good to see you’ve got your appetite back. You all packed?” Rob nodded, swallowing his last forkful of pancake before speaking. “I’ve packed quite a lot – is that … okay?” He hesitated a little, not wanting to back Rich into a corner, but desperately hoping that he wouldn’t say ‘no’. Rich grinned again, that adorable, apparently toothless smile that very suddenly seemed to make Rob’s heart flip. Where the hell had that come from? “Like I said; stay as long as you want! Fuck, you can move in, if you like!” Rich laughed, hoping that Rob couldn’t see exactly how much he wanted that to happen. Be cool. Just be cool. *19* Rob was very settled on Rich’s couch when Rich reappeared with beers. It was a large couch – comfortable, soft – but Rob wished that Rich would sit a little closer. He couldn’t quite understand why he suddenly felt like this after all these years; didn’t know what these feelings meant. But he did know that he didn’t want it to stop. Rich carefully positioned himself just out of contact with Rob. It was easy enough on a couch this size, without looking obvious, but the part of his brain that he kept ignoring was screaming at him to move closer. Rich swigged his beer and told himself to shut the hell up. “So, it came through, then?” Rob wanted to talk, to stop his mind from racing away with thoughts he couldn’t understand. *20* Rich sighed. “The divorce? Yeah, done and dusted. Feels a bit weird – I’ve been ‘the husband’ for so long, and then I was ‘nearly divorced’, but being there now? Yeah, it’s a strange feeling.” Rob looked down the neck of his bottle. “A … bad feeling?” Rich understood; Rob was wondering how he was going to feel a few months down the line. “It’s easier than the break-up, mate,” he said softly, reaching over and squeezing Rob’s shoulder briefly, feeling him shudder slightly under his touch. “And having a good friend by your side really helps. You were there for me – I intend to return the favour.” Rob tried to subtly catch his breath; Rich’s touch had been unexpected, as had his body’s reaction. If he didn’t know better … but he did. So it couldn’t be that. Could it? *21* They talked until the early hours; drinking beer, mulling over their individual predicaments, getting a little bit drunk and maybe a little too emotional. Eventually, with Rich nearly asleep mid-sentence, they decided that it was probably time for bed. Rob undressed quickly, trying to stay upright, but ultimately tripping out of his trousers and face first onto the bed. He giggled vaguely and wriggled out of his remaining clothes, snuggling down under the thick, soft duvet and resting back on the pillow. He thought back to earlier – to the shivers that Rich’s touch sent through him, his bizarre wish that he would sit a little closer. What did it all mean? Was he just missing the obvious, here? He was still trying to fathom out his feelings as sleep overtook him. *22* Rich was holding Rob’s hand. Just gently, hoping that he wouldn’t wake him, but desperate to touch him, longing to hold him close and tell him the truth. But he couldn’t do that; not yet. For now, he’d have to settle for this – holding his hand secretly whilst he slept. He couldn’t be caught. If Rob didn’t feel the same … the thought sent a shudder through his whole body and Rob’s eyes snapped open. “What the fuck are you doing?” Rob yelled at him, yanking his hand away in disgust. “I … I …” Rich spluttered, reaching for Rob. “Get away from me, you filthy bastard! Get the hell away!” Rich backed out of the room, sobbing for everything he’d lost. *23* “Rich! Rich! Wake up! It’s okay!” Rob was standing over Rich’s bed, shaking him gently. Rich’s eyes opened slowly, his heart racing, faced soaked with tears and sweat. “What … I …?” he tried to speak, but all he could see was Rob screaming at him, and it took his breath away. Rob sat next to him, still holding his shoulder, rubbing it softly to comfort him. “You were screaming – I came in to see what was going on. I guess it was a nightmare?” Rich nodded. “Do you want to talk about it?” Rich imagined trying to tell Rob that he was in love with him, but he’d dreamt about Rob rejecting him, then shook his head. He couldn’t face that dream coming true. *24* Rob had never seen Rich like this. He looked so scared, so fragile. He didn’t want to leave him in this state, so he shuffled further onto the bed. “I’ll stay with you, until you’re okay. Okay?” Rich nodded, glad of the company, relieved that Rob’s kindness was starting to erase the angry, disgusted Rob of his dream. He was still trembling, tears were still rolling down his face, but the more he looked into Rob’s concerned, blue eyes, the more the pain in his chest ebbed away. “That was a bad one, huh?” Rob asked as Rich started to relax. Rich nodded. “Yeah, worst for a while.” And he meant it. *25* Rob cocked his head on one side. “You have nightmares a lot? You never mentioned it.” Rich closed his eyes. “I … I was embarrassed. But yes, I have them a lot. Most nights, if I’m honest. But this one … this was worse.” He rolled his head away, trying to calm his breathing. He could feel his face burning. Rob desperately wanted to hold Rich until he fell asleep. He had never felt such longing in his life and it came as a total shock. He had to say something; this silence was making his brain spin. “You sure that you don’t want to talk about it? You don’t need to be embarrassed with me. You can tell me anything – anything. I won’t judge you.” Visions of Rob screaming ‘you filthy bastard’ flashed through Rich’s mind. *26* Rich forced a smile. “It’s just … silly things. Rejection. You know? That’s all. I dream about that. And it’s kinda scary at the time. But I’m okay.” Rob wasn’t convinced. He had known Rich for long enough to know when he was keeping something back. But he couldn’t probe any further; if he’d wanted to tell him, he’d had plenty of encouragement. Maybe Rich just wanted him to leave now? That’s why he was fobbing him off. “I should probably just leave you to sleep?” He phrased it as a question, hoping that Rich would ask him to stay. Rich’s heart sank. Rob wanted to leave. He bit back his disappointment. “Yeah. Yeah, we probably both need the sleep. Thank you for looking after me.” Rob half-smiled as he walked slowly out of the room. “Night, Rich.” “Night, Rob.” Rich rolled over as Rob left, tears already welling up in his eyes again. “I love you,” he whispered to the closed door. *27* Rob awoke early the next morning, his head pounding from a combination of beer and emotion. He had felt closer to Rich last night than he had felt to anyone else but Marnie; yet, somehow, he felt like he was falling further away. He wrapped a robe around his tanned body and padded gingerly to the kitchen. Rich was sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands, groaning. “You look as bad as I feel,” Rob growled, his throat hoarse. Rich lifted his head, instantly regretting the movement as the nausea swept over him. He took several shallow breaths before replying. “Remind me never to drink again. I’m too old for hangovers.” *28* Rob pulled up a chair next to him, wincing at the scraping it made on the hardwood floor. “Same here. Drink this.” He pushed a large glass of water in front of Rich. “Did you manage to get some sleep in the end?” Rich bit his lip. He hadn’t slept at all after Rob left his room; every time he closed his eyes, he saw Rob’s face, twisted in horror, and his eyes had snapped open again. “Yeah, yeah, I was fine. How about you?” Rob nodded. “No problem.” It was a lie, of course. Rob had drifted fitfully in and out of sleep, constantly listening for sounds from Rich’s room to indicate another nightmare. He sipped his own glass of water, trying to keep it in his stomach, focusing all of his attention on that to avoid the thoughts that kept whirring in his head. *29* They spent most of the day sitting in dimly lit rooms, blinds drawn, talking in hushed tones. Rob had eventually worked up the courage to cook breakfast – all fried to allegedly ‘soak up the alcohol’ – and they had both managed to eat at least some of it. By early evening, most of the symptoms had eased sufficiently that they could contemplate dinner without revisiting breakfast. Rich put together a reasonable meal, given his still delicate condition, and they ate quietly before seeking out a suitably sedate movie to while away the rest of the evening. It was midnight when Rob suggested maybe heading to bed. He was exhausted after his sleepless night, and Rich had shadows under his eyes that were almost black, so it came as a surprise when Rich shook his head and moved to get another DVD. *30* Rob stared at Rich, confused. “Aren’t you tired? You … look wiped.” Rich turned away, fumbling to get the DVD from its case. “Nope, I’m fine.” He could hardly say that he could barely keep his eyes open, but he didn’t dare close them again. But this time, Rob wasn’t convinced. He sat back down, closer to Rich than before, resting a hand on his back. “Come on, Rich. You’re exhausted. What’s going on? Talk to me.” Rich sighed. He really didn’t want to do this; not when things had been going so well. But what choice did he have? *31* “Okay. Look. You’re right; I’m wiped. I just … I can’t sleep. I can’t have that dream again. I don’t think I … I just can’t, okay?” Rich was getting louder, rougher, his voice pained with memories. “What was that dream, Rich?” Rob’s voice was soft, soothing. “You didn’t tell me everything last night. Who was it that rejected you?” Rich closed his eyes. When his voice came, it was barely audible. “You.” Rob sat, open-mouthed. “Me? Why? Why would I …?” “Because I was … I was acting like … more than a friend.” And then Rob understood. It all fell into place – these emotions, the odd feelings, everything – it finally made sense. “Rich,” he whispered, “I love you.” *32* “What?” Rich’s voice had a strange tone that Rob couldn’t quite place. “I said ‘I love you’, Rich.” Rich shot up from the couch and spun around to face Rob. “How could you? How could you say that to me?” His face was turning puce with rage. “I … I don’t understand,” Rob stammered, staring up at Rich. “What, you thought it would be funny to make it a joke? Knowing how I feel about you? That’s your idea of humour? Of friendship? To mock me?” Rob started to smile. “Rich, no, I can explain,” he said softly, rising to his feet. “Explain what, exactly? Why you thought it was funny?” Rob tried to speak, but Rich kept raving at him, so ultimately … “RICH!” he yelled, stunning Rich into silence just long enough to grab his face in both hands and kiss him fiercely. “I said I loved you because I meant it. That’s what I was trying to explain.” *33* Rich just stared at Rob, mouth agape. “Now do you understand?” Rob asked, still holding Rich’s face. Rich nodded, apparently in shock. “I … I thought … but you … you really love me, too?” Rob chuckled. “Yes, you idiot!” He slid his arms around Rich’s shoulders and pulled him in for a hug; finally regaining use of his body, Rich returned the embrace warmly. “I’ve wanted this for so long, Rob,” he whispered, struggling to control his emotions. “So long.” Rob pulled away slightly to kiss him again; tenderly this time and reciprocated. *34* As they kissed softly, Rob’s hands strayed down Rich’s back, squeezing his butt through the thick denim. Wanting to explore every inch of Rob’s body, Rich pulled him closer, feeling his warm chest pressed against his own, gripping Rob’s firm, muscular arms. Rob suddenly pulled his face away and whispered hoarsely, “Do you want to … you know?” He gestured with his eyes. Rich was conflicted. “Jesus, Rob, you know I do!” He was sure that Rob could feel his erection – they were certainly close enough. “But … are you sure about this?” Rob nodded. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.” He took Rich’s hands, leading him to the bedroom. *35* Rich had been holding back, afraid that he might lose control and scare Rob away. But he soon realised that he shouldn’t have worried. Rob was already lifting Rich’s t-shirt, planting light kisses across his chest and up his neck, as his hands worked the shirt over Rich’s head and tossed it aside. Pushing Rich down onto the bed, Rob removed his jeans and straddled his hips, running his hands up Rich’s chest, fingers tangled in his hair; bringing his head down to take a nipple between his teeth, tugging gently, flicking his tongue over the firm fleshy prominence. Rich moaned in pleasure, his whole body flooded with arousal. “Oh God, Rob!” he cried out, bucking his hips up as Rob sucked hard. Rob brought his kisses up to Rich’s neck, then firmly covered his mouth with his own, tongue sliding inside, dancing with Rich’s. Coming up for air, he breathed hotly into Rich’s mouth. “I want you, Rich. I want you inside me.” *36* Woah, Rich thought. That escalated quickly! “Rob, you’re sure about this? I mean, ‘sure’?” Rob pulled away slightly. “You aren’t?” He was still gasping; mouth open, cheeks flushed. “Oh Rob, I am 100% sure that I want to fuck you until you can’t walk!” Rich grinned at the thought. “I just need to know that you’re ready.” Rob crawled backwards, stood up, then walked out of the room and closed the door. *37* Rich lay there, shaking a little; still very aroused, but heartbroken that he’d stopped Rob. Maybe it was for the best, but … Then, the door opened again. Rich looked up to find Rob, completely naked, standing over him. “Is this confirmation enough?” He pulled Rich’s boxers off and climbed back on top of him. “Now, where were we? Oh, yeah, you were gonna uh ‘fuck me until I couldn’t walk’, right?” Rob grinned, leaning back down to Rich’s neck, taking a pinch of flesh in his teeth and nibbling gently, sucking a small bruise. He could feel Rich’s hard cock pressed against his stomach and his own shaft twitched with desire. “Fuck me, Rich. Please. Please?” *38* Hearing Rob begging just turned Rich on even more. He grabbed Rob’s ass, lifted him and flipped him onto his back. “Oh God, I want you.” Rich scrambled to the bedside cabinet, grabbed the lube from the drawer, and slicked a layer of it over Rob’s tight hole. Gently, he slid his index finger inside, enjoying the unfamiliar sensation. He slid his finger up and down, his free hand firmly massaging the head of Rob’s rock-hard cock. Rob arched his back and moaned; a low, feral growl that seemed to come from the pit of his stomach. “More,” he gasped, head thrown back. “Oh, Rich, more!” *39* Rich carefully slipped a second finger inside, scissoring slightly at first, relaxing the muscles; as they started to yield to his touch, he moved more deliberately, sliding them open further, pushing deeper, thrusting harder until Rob was writhing with pleasure. Rich continued to thrust his fingers inside Rob, one-handedly lubing up his own pulsating length. As he slipped his fingers out, Rob whimpered slightly, needing more. “You’re ready?” Rich asked, still worried about hurting Rob. “Oh fuck, yeah. Rich, please,” Rob was panting, every inch of his body longing to feel Rich inside him. “Please … NOW!” *40* Rich didn’t need more encouragement. Lifting Rob slightly, butt cheeks resting on Rich’s thighs, he pushed the head of his cock just inside, then a little further; finally, as Rob grabbed at him, eyes pleading, he thrust all the way in, rocking his hips back and forth, biting his lip, desperate not to climax too quickly, wanting this moment to last forever. Rob moaned with a pleasure more intense than anything he had felt before. Every time Rich’s cock hit his prostate, it was all he could do not to come undone completely. He never wanted this to end, but he couldn’t hold out much longer. Every thrust was bringing his so close that he could feel his own erection twitch and pulse. “Oh, fuck, Rich … I’m … I’m … oh fuck … fuck …” Rob’s head was thrown back as he came over Rich’s hand and his own belly, and Rich finally allowed himself relief, thrusting inside Rob harder and faster, managing little more than a strangled, incoherent moan as he came inside Rob, collapsing over him as he pulled out and covering his gasping, open mouth with a long, lingering kiss. *41* They fell asleep in each other’s arms after a quick clean-up, still naked, enjoying the sensation of skin on skin. When Rob woke up, the dawn light was streaming in through the slats of the blind. Rich was still sleeping, a faint smile on his lips, the terrors of the previous night replaced by contented dreams. Rob smiled broadly, slipping under the covers and taking Rich’s cock into his mouth; just the head to begin with, flicking his tongue deftly around the sensitive, bulbous tip. As he slipped his mouth around the shaft, he bobbed gently at first, then faster, needing more movement as the length and girth increased. Rich stirred – still half-dozing – gasped, clawing at the bedsheets, stammering Rob’s name. He wasn’t entirely sure that he wasn’t dreaming, but this was good. Whatever it was, it was so good. Rob worked him faster, cupping and softly massaging his balls until Rich no longer had control of any part of his body. *42* “Oh fuck, Rob, you might want to … I’m … I’m gonna … uhhh …” Rich came fiercely in Rob’s mouth, his whole body pulsing, tears in his eyes from the intensity of his orgasm. Rob swallowed, licked his lips, then reappeared beside Rich, smiling sheepishly. “Did you …?” Rob nodded at the half-asked question. “Salty,” he replied. Rich shook his head in disbelief. “Guess I owe you one in return, later!” Rob laughed. “I hope so!” He rested his head on Rich’s bare chest, smiling to himself. This was how he wanted to wake up every morning for the rest of his life. “I love you, Rich.” “I love you, too,” Rich replied, pulling him closer and kissing his soft curls. “Always?” Rob sat up and planted a lingering kiss on Rich’s lips. “And forever.”

#supernatural #kings of con #rob benedict #richard speight jr #rob and rich #smut #fanfic #fan fiction #fluffy

[anghraine]

“per ardua ad astra” - chapter one

So if, theoretically, I were writing the Death Star AU, the first chapter would look something like this.

fandom: Star Wars

characters: Jyn Erso, Cassian Andor, Bodhi Rook; later, Leia Organa, Luke Skywalker, Han Solo; Jyn/Cassian

length: 4900 words (this chapter; God knows what it’ll be eventually)

stuff that happens: Jyn, Cassian, and Bodhi survive, only to face the worst bonus mission ever.

“Jyn, we have to leave now,” Bodhi was shouting.

She wasted no more time, just climbed over the railing, ignoring the twinges in her leg. They were about to be worse, but she could see Cassian near-collapsed over Bodhi. She’d live. Hopefully.

Jyn jumped.

Jyn never forgot the moment when her mother’s body slumped to the ground. Nor did she forget the man responsible—a man whom she only knew as a friend to her family. She couldn’t remember that early time beyond fragments, nor did she wish to, but even with her parents’ warnings, she had felt a lingering familiarity, something like trust.

Orson Krennic was the first to take that from her, when he took her mother. Then he took her father, too, turned Galen Erso’s life into one of relentless misery and desperation. He drove her into a childhood hidden with Saw, trained up to fight the Empire, to fight anyone. And if anyone could call it a childhood, she’d lost that, too. Even these last few weeks … she’d lost Saw again in the wreckage of Jedha. That was Krennic. It was Krennic who shot her father’s engineers around him. He’d ensured that Galen lived his last moments in horror, if she could trust Cassian.

She did. Or she had—Cassian, like all the rest, was gone. That memory burned more hotly than the rest. After everything he’d seen and done, a shot from Krennic took him, too, his body tumbling down and down, and she could only cling to the sure knowledge that Cassian would haunt her to her own grave if she abandoned the mission for his sake.

And she’d done it. She’d sent the plans, she didn’t care what lies Krennic told, she didn’t care if he shot her down like Lyra if she could take him down with her—

A blaster fired. Not Krennic’s. Not hers, but he dropped nonetheless, nothing but a huddled pool of white at her feet. And behind him stood a man, dressed in a mix of old clothes and Imperial uniform, his blaster still raised even as he leaned heavily on machinery.

He was ragged and weak, but it didn’t matter. Cassian.

She rushed to him, as fast as her leg would let her, bracing herself to bear the weight of a compact man at least half a foot taller than she was. He stumbled, but managed to hold himself upright as he grasped her, his breaths harsh and shallow. He’d made that climb like this? He might be made of kyber, himself.

Though Krennic didn’t stir, she turned to look at him. And with Cassian’s shuddering breaths in her ear, her mind alight with memories of her father and mother and Saw and, Force, Kaytoo, fury rushed through her again. She was going to blow Krennic’s heart out of his chest if it was the last thing she did.

She took a step towards Krennic—and Cassian’s grip tightened, pulling her back.

“No,” he muttered into her hair. “No. Let’s … go.”

He was really here, had really made it. His voice made it true more than his weight did. Even as she panted for air, the knowledge settled on her, deep and tangible. He was alive. They were alive. But not if they stuck around this place. She couldn’t hear anything on the other side of the door, now. The stormtroopers must have tried a different route after they destroyed—after they killed Kaytoo. She’d have to assume so, anyway; it was their only hope.

And they didn’t have much time. Whatever strength had carried Cassian up that wall was clearly fading. Despite his best efforts, he’d already begun to list against her, and Jyn had to wrap her arm around his waist, his good arm slung over her shoulder. In her shape, it’d be hard enough to get out of here alone, but carting around an injured man? And she wouldn’t leave him. She couldn’t. Not Cassian.

All the way, he’d sworn, and though he asked nothing of her, she took it as her own promise. They would die together or live together. She hit the switch, and the blast-door slid open, revealing—

Nothing. Nothing except Kaytoo’s shattered remains.

In the general hubbub of battle above and below, a louder, clearer sound emerged. Jyn carefully shifted Cassian’s weight and glanced back.

Dread pulsed through her. An Imperial shuttle hovered at the end of the catwalk, not quite even with it, but an easy jump up for fresh reinforcements. On its side, a porthole opened, and the pilot stuck his head out.

“Jyn? Jyn! Is that Cassian? Come on! We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Bodhi!” She wasn’t sure she’d ever been more relieved to see someone in her life. Except Cassian two minutes ago.

With some effort, she managed to swivel them both around, Cassian muttering indistinctly to himself. He didn’t seem delirious, just annoyed with himself, which she could only regard as a good sign. Bit by bit, they made their way to the end of the catwalk. From here, the jump that had looked so easy seemed very much less so, even for her.

“Chirrut and Baze?”

Bodhi’s anxious expression turned somber. She knew even before he shook his head.

“It was Chirrut who—” He gulped. “I’m sorry. I wanted to save them, but …”

“You did the best you could,” said Jyn, doing her best to hoist Cassian onto the railing. His breaths sharpened to gasps as he just managed to clamber over, hair and face damp with sweat. He must have hurt his legs in the fall. He could hardly have not.

“Kaytoo?” said Bodhi.

More grieved for that damn droid than she would have imagined a day ago, Jyn replied, “Didn’t make it.”

Cassian mumbled, “Kay…?”

Jyn inhaled, looking down at the porthole. There was only way thing to do—jump. Even if Cassian …

“All right?” she whispered.

Jaw tight, he nodded. With a single quick breath, he flung himself down, falling through the porthole and right where Bodhi waited to help them down. That was more well-intentioned than anything else; Bodhi had a certain wiry endurance, but nothing like Jyn’s and Cassian’s strength. He couldn’t do much more than stagger under the weight.

And Cassian screamed.

She hadn’t even known he could. And she never wanted to hear it again.

Kay, she thought numbly. Kaytoo would have helped him. She could hardly picture Cassian without him.

“Wait,” she said, and half-ran, half-limped down the catwalk and into the operations chamber. Stupid, stupid. Even if he could be salvaged, she’d never be able to carry the wreckage. Stupid—

She dug into the bits and pieces of metal, the fragments bruising and cutting her hands, oil smearing them, no point to any of it. With a burst of adrenaline, Jyn wrenched the head from the crumpled torso and caught it as it rolled, dull eyes and broken wires turning her stomach. Nevertheless, she seized it. Kay had dug data out of that other droid from the head, hadn’t he? She held it under her arm and sprinted, as much as she could, to the catwalk.

“Jyn, we have to leave now,” Bodhi was shouting.

She wasted no more time, just climbed over the railing, ignoring the twinges in her leg. They were about to be worse, but she could see Cassian near-collapsed over Bodhi. She’d live. Hopefully.

Jyn jumped.

It was every bit as bad as she expected. Hot pain pierced up her leg, knocking her breathless. She didn’t cry out, but lurched into the wall, nearly doubled over. Kaytoo’s head dug into her ribs.

She sucked in a gulp of air and managed the few steps to where Cassian, gasping, struggled to pull himself away from Bodhi. “I can take care of him. Go, go, get us out of here!”

“Right—right—”

In the instant it took her to set down Kaytoo’s head, Cassian had managed to straighten up and stumble to the nearest wall, teeth clenched and hand fumbling for purchase. Jyn caught him about the waist again, a little lower this time; his ribs couldn’t be in good shape. There, something damp and sticky clung to her fingers.

Chilled, she tugged him away from the wall.

“I don’t,” he mumbled. “You should …”

“We have to get you off these legs,” said Jyn. She looked around the shuttle, and to her mixed relief and dread, saw a cot just around the corner from the main door. The furthest end of the shuttle from here. At maybe a third of that distance, however, a pair of long, sturdy platforms stretched low against the wall, piled haphazardly with battered equipment.

“All right, we’ve got”—she glanced up at his drawn face—“a bunk. Come on, let’s … you can lean on me. Just one step. And another one. And …”

Together, they made their way down the shuttle, Jyn’s shoulders and back aching. Her leg radiated pain with every step; Cassian wasn’t the only one who needed somewhere to rest. Even once they got there, she had to grip the top platform for leverage, knee bent against the side of the lowermost shelf while she knocked equipment out of the way and helped Cassian perch on the edge. He didn’t so much sit as tumble in the right direction, ducking his head with a grimace. Jyn all but collapsed beside him.

“Bodhi,” she called out, “are there any emergency kits in this thing?”

He darted a quick look back from the cockpit. “Should be one in each compartment. Regulations.”

She wrapped the fingers of one hand around the bars bracing the shelf above them and twisted around, her other arm still wrapped about Cassian, steadying him against the motion of the shuttle. Her eyes narrowed, she scanned the mess for anything like a kit.

“I’d kill for a third hand right now,” Jyn muttered.

To her surprise, Cassian gave a short laugh; then he started coughing. When he wiped his mouth, she couldn’t miss the blood on his hand. She’d already guessed that he had some broken ribs. One, or more, must have perforated his lungs. He could take pain, but not much more outright damage.

“I’ve got to …”

He nodded and grasped the bars with his good (better?) arm. As fast as she could, Jyn scavenged through the assorted piles of ventilators, hydrospanners, pipes of indistinct purpose, and general trash. She’d almost given up and decided to try a different compartment when she caught sight of a clear, thin box of some kind, pushed towards the rear. Gritting her teeth, she crawled onto the bunk, dragging herself as much by the bars above her as her knees. Sure enough, the box had a medical insignia beneath the Imperial one. She snagged it and forced herself to clamber back. Please, she thought. Please, please—

She flipped open the lid and exhaled. Three bacta patches.

“All right. We can do this.”

Beside her, Cassian remained motionless but for laboured inhalations, his hand clamped so hard about a bar that she half-expected it to bend. Then, slowly, he turned to look. His expression was still frozen in lines of strain, but his unfocused gaze settled on the bacta. He said something, so breathless that she couldn’t quite make out.

“We’ve got to deal with that wound. But you did something to your ribs.”

“No,” said Cassian.

She peeled open the bacta, praying that the now-smooth flight of the shuttle meant something good. “All right, Krennic did.”

“No,” he said again, and pushed the bacta away. “Your leg.”

“We don’t need any more heroes today,” said Jyn sharply. “You’re in far worse shape. I’ll manage.”

“Patches will not heal this. I …” Cassian drew a thready breath. “Better one whole than two injured.”

She didn’t know whether to take that as pragmatic calculation or real concern. With him, it could be either, or both. But he was right. If something went wrong—worse—then they’d need Jyn for any chance of survival. And it’d be a far better chance if she were in one piece.

Reluctantly, Jyn nodded. She yanked her boot off, wincing, and rolled her trouser leg up. Then she pressed the patch against her leg, the bacta cool and squishy against her hand. But it felt warm on her leg, a pleasant heat that sank deeper and deeper into her muscles. With one last bright burst of pain, something inside snapped—and then it all faded to nothing. She tested her weight. Nothing but some residual soreness, the same as the other leg.

All right. Unrolling her trouser and stuffing her foot back in the boot, she tried to decide where to even start with Cassian. To go by the blood still sticking to her hand, the blaster had done significant damage. The broken ribs, agonizing enough on their own, appeared to be slicing into his organs. And then there was whatever he’d done to his legs.

“Okay. Hold on.” She didn’t even bother telling him to get rid of his shirt; she knew he couldn’t do it on his own. Instead, Jyn tore it open herself, buttons clattering to the floor. Not the circumstances I imagined.

Just once or twice.

Jyn bit back her horror at his chest, mottled with so many bruises that she could hardly make out the more serious damage. And she was no medic; she’d treated her share of injuries over the years, but mostly her own.

“Which side?” she asked.

He didn’t say anything, glance flickering vacantly about. Panic crackled under her skin.

“Stay with me.” She caught his face in her hand. “Which hurts worse?”

After a long pause, he tilted his head to the right. Hoping it meant an answer, she plastered the second patch against his right-side ribs. His gaze remained unfocused, but he drew a quick rasping breath. Jyn held the patch to him until it turned dry and flabby, her free hand scrambling for something in the kit to staunch the blood-caked wound in his side. She didn’t even pause before snatching up the third bacta patch and pressing it to the wound. It didn't heal much, but she managed to clean and bandage it with the rest of the supplies.

“That’s as good as you’re going to get for now,” Jyn told him, not sure that he even heard. They could only hope there’d be something beyond for now. “You can sit down.”

Cassian’s gaze shifted across her face. She chose to take that as promising, and with her arm about him, peeled his fingers off the bar above them. When she managed to steady him back onto the bunk, he exhaled, sounding a little better. And he managed to look at her properly.

“Thank—you.”

He didn’t appear quite as ghastly as before, though disoriented and exhausted, and still in evident pain. His hair fell over his eyes, sticking to his sweaty skin.

“All the way,” she said quietly. Cassian closed his eyes.

“Jyn—” He coughed. Less blood this time.

“Quiet,” said Jyn, draping her arm about his shoulders just in time for an abrupt swerve of the shuttle. Suppressing a flash of dread, she pushed his hair out of his face. Something, fear or affection or some terrible combination of both, shivered in her chest. “That’s an order, Captain Andor.”

His mouth tugged, a little. Another good sign, she thought firmly, even as their flight slowed to an airborne crawl.

“I’ve got you,” she told Cassian. “You’re safe. Bodhi—we’ve got Bodhi and the shuttle.” She reached for one of the cloths she had used, found a clean patch, and wiped off his face. “We’re going to get out and it’s going to be fine. You’re going to be fine.”

Her voice held steady. But she didn’t know who she was even trying to persuade. Cassian, in any case, didn’t open his eyes—just leaned a little more against her. That would have meant nothing from many others. From Cassian ... he must be dazed, the injuries and that impossible climb getting to him, but he didn’t trust easily. Neither of them did.

The shuttle lurched, and Jyn steadied herself as she’d learned as a girl, shifting her hips and feet to a balanced, ready stance, forcing her inhalations to an even beat. Without Saw, she’d be dead a hundred times over. The Rebellion, too, had he not delayed the Death Star long enough for all this to matter at all. She still couldn’t forgive him, exactly, but her memory of him had gentled. After leading so many to their deaths, she understood that better now, the fire that had consumed his life. Not love, not pleasure, just a dream that took and took and took, until there was nothing left to give. Jyn looked down at Cassian, his ashen face and broken body, and swallowed.

“How are we going to get out of here?” she shouted at the cockpit. From here, she couldn’t see much of it, much of Bodhi beyond his back.

“I’m … I’m still figuring that one out,” said Bodhi. “They’ll shoot us down on the spot if they suspect anything. The Empire isn’t exactly cautious about their people.”

He’d know.

“Can you hide with the other shuttles?”

“That’s what I’m trying to do!”

Cassian straightened a little, shivering. He muttered, “Bodhi.”

“Stay here,” said Jyn. “Don’t fall. I’ll be back.”

“Right,” he said faintly. But he had strength enough to grip the bunk, so she risked leaving him and ran to the cockpit.

In the viewscreen, shuttles clustered like buzzing insects. Some, damaged, careened about. The others dodged and soared slantwise.

“We have to get out with those,” said Bodhi. His hands were clenched on the controls, his face tight.

“Do it,” Jyn told him. He nodded, his expression mingling resolve and terror. He was a brave man: braver than those with more nerve. But they’d need nerve to get through this. “You’re doing great. Just keep going, Bodhi.”

He nodded. As soon as they had space, he turned the shuttle again.

And an enormous grey sphere gulped up the viewscreen. It loomed, impossibly vast, over all else in the sky, over Scarif itself. Her father’s other child.

Jyn’s head swam. No time for that, she told herself sternly, and wet her lips. The next chance, and the next.

“We’ve got to get closer,” she said. “Then we … we’ll find a way to split off. It won’t be as noticeable in the shadow of that thing.”

“And we’ll be harder to hit.”

Jyn clasped the back of his chair. “That, too.”

Under Bodhi’s careful hands, their shuttle fell in with the rest of the train headed towards the Death Star. She could feel her pulse through her entire body, thudding a rapid beat in her chest, head, everything. Jyn counted the seconds, the ships, anything to fill her mind, kept glancing back at Cassian.

Vaguely, she thought, I should have made him lie down. They might be able to get him to the cot, now. But Jyn couldn’t make herself break away from the Death Star. When its acid-green laser pierced through the sky to Scarif, she swallowed a scream. Anyone down there who might have lived didn’t now. Certainly not Baze and Chirrut, who in a matter of days had become more family than anyone in years, who had called her little sister. Gone, even in death.

I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me. I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me. I am one with the Force—

At least Krennic was dead, too. If Cassian’s shot hadn’t killed him already. She rather hoped it hadn’t, that Krennic had woken to feel his failure, that after he killed her mother and chained her father to that monstrosity, he’d lived to see it turned against him. She hoped he’d seen that fatal light coming at him, and died in fear.

They drew nearer, the Death Star devouring more and more of their vision, shuttles swarming towards it. Bodhi flew with wide eyes and trembling body, while horror nearly froze her limbs.

No. No.

“They’re thinning out,” she managed to say. “When you’ve got a chance, take it. I have to go back to Cassian.”

“Right,” he mumbled. His voice firmed. “Right. Yes. I’ll do it.”

Her leg felt as heavy, as burdensome, as it had before the bacta. But she wasn’t a pilot, and Cassian wasn’t strong enough, and Bodhi had never failed them. Never failed her father, either. Jyn squeezed his shoulder and turned back. Squaring her own shoulders, she walked straight and tall—as tall as she could get—down the hall. If she died now, she wouldn’t be cowering. And she wouldn’t be alone.

She got to Cassian without disaster, which seemed an accomplishment at this point. Once more, she reached out to brace him, strengthened by the brief respite. For his part, he looked more alert, though hunched and wheezing.

“What …?”

“Hang on,” said Jyn.

Cassian wrapped his good arm about her waist, eyes closed again, and Jyn held him close, touching his clammy forehead while something clenched in her chest and the pit of her stomach. Her throat burned.

“Just a moment now.” Once more, she stroked his hair back. “It’ll be over soon.”

His eyes fluttered open. Clear and dark, they met hers. He said hoarsely, “Your father would be proud of you, Jyn.”

She smiled. In this moment, both frightened and tranquil, she had no desire to shut her own eyes, look away, anything. One way or another, this was it.

And Bodhi’s voice cracked out. “Jyn!”

She’d never heard him so panicked, even at the very beginning. Foreboding raced over her skin. Without thinking about it, she held Cassian closer.

“What is it?” she said.

“I can’t do anything! I can’t—there’s a tractor beam! The Death Star is pulling us all in!” She heard a clatter, frantic yanks on switches. “I … we got the plans off. That’s what matters. We got the plans off. They can’t make us talk. They can’t make us do anything.”

Jyn and Cassian stared at each other, horrified.

He managed to grate out, “They can try.”

She needed no explanation. Everyone knew what the Empire did to political prisoners. Better to have exploded in the sky, been irradiated on Scarif.

“And it’ll be a hell of an effort,” she said grimly. Her blaster still rested on her hip. She could … if someone did it, it would have to be Jyn. She thought of Bodhi, all fear and determination. She thought of Cassian’s uncompromising faith. Of herself, the resolve that had carried her this far. Bile choked her, even as the Death Star tugged them closer.

Wildly, she looked around the shuttle. There had to be something she could do. Some last hope. Rogue One couldn’t end this way.

Cassian said quietly, “Jyn.”

“No!” She hated the calm on his face, shattering the mask of pain. Had he never expected to live?

A suspicion crept on her, near to certainty: he wasn’t going to live, with or without the Empire. At his side, blood soaked her bandage. Every breath he took whistled and shuddered. She hadn’t even begun to look at whatever he might have done to his legs, under those Imperial trousers.

Imperial trousers. Imperial officer’s trousers.

Jyn turned to look at the cockpit, knowing what she’d see. A slim man in the uniform of an Imperial pilot. Even part of an Imperial droid.

One last chance.

“Sorry,” she told Cassian. The emergency kit still lay beside them, contents jumbled from her desperate search. She seized a stim shot and plunged it into his shoulder.

Cassian didn’t even flinch. He looked bewildered, though.

“Bodhi, don’t fight the tractor beam! We can’t let them sense anything. Just—help me, I have to get Cassian to the cot. Are there any clothes around here? I need a jacket!”

“I don’t think his modesty is our biggest problem right now,” said Bodhi, but he sprang out of his chair.

“Get Kaytoo!” she added.

Baffled, he picked up the droid’s severed head and scrambled after them, while Jyn tugged Cassian to his feet. He muttered something to himself that she didn’t understand, but didn’t really need to.

“Just one last task for you,” she said, and strangled fear. “This way, captain.”

Even weak and confused, Cassian understood orders. His steps were uncertain and shuffling, his face twisted in pain, his gasping breath the stuff of nightmares. But he obeyed, supported by Jyn, Bodhi, and whatever drug the stim shot had poured into his veins. They got him across the shuttle.

Jyn kicked everything off the cot and, with Bodhi’s help, managed to lower Cassian onto the cot.

“A jacket,” she snapped.

“Jyn—”

“Now!”

With a slightly frightened look, he raced into the adjoining hall. In the meanwhile, Jyn helped Cassian adjust his weight on the cot.

“All right. Now I just need you to look like you’re suffering.”

“Not … a problem,” mumbled Cassian.

Jyn huffed a laugh.

“Jyn?” Bodhi ran up, panting, a neatly folded grey jacket on one arm and Kaytoo’s head clutched in the other. He eyed her uncertainly.

“Still sane,” she assured him. Taking the jacket, she searched for the rank. Major. Too noticeable. She tore off the last two columns of plackets, crumpled it up, and rubbed the material over Bodhi’s dirt-stained shoulder.

“Uh—”

She handed it to him. “Put this over him. Try to get some blood on it, but don’t hurt him.”

She saw understanding dawn over Bodhi’s face. Without another word, he bent down to Cassian.

Jyn sprinted back to the bunk, where she grabbed the emergency kit and the cloths she’d used to wash her hands when she treated Cassian. They were covered with oil from Kaytoo’s body and blood, hers and Cassian’s.

Good.

Back at the cot, Bodhi was gently touching the jacket to Cassian’s wounds. Jyn just handed him one of the cloths to smear over the jacket, and used the sleeve to wipe cold sweat off Cassian’s face. His hair was stiff with it.

“You think this will work?” whispered Bodhi.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But it’s worth the try.”

She considered Bodhi, his cargo pilot’s uniform, his intense face. Easy to identify, if you knew what to look for. Without hesitation, she smeared the cloth still in her hand down his cheek.

Bodhi sputtered. “What the—”

“We can’t let them recognize you.”

He looked at her, at the rags in their hands. Then he scrubbed them over his face, until Jyn gave a satisfied nod.

“Even if this works,” Bodhi said, “I can’t hide behind dirt forever. I’ll give us all away.” He swallowed.

“No martyrdom,” Jyn said firmly. Her mind raced. “Stormtroopers. You’ll have to hide with the stormtroopers.”

Bodhi considered it. Then he said, “Right. I—I’ll find armour somehow. We’ll figure it out.”

“We will.” Jyn clasped his shoulder again. “This is more than my father ever asked you to do. But I think he’d be proud of you, too.”

He smiled.

Abruptly, the shuttle vibrated around them. Not much, but Jyn and Bodhi pressed their hands to the floor. She could see Cassian’s teeth sink into his lip, the premature lines in his face deepening.

Jyn wrapped her fingers around Cassian’s good hand and looked at Bodhi. “Ready?”

“Time to play nice with the tractor beam,” he said, with a nervous laugh. Setting Kaytoo’s head down against the wall, he ran back to the cockpit. Jyn stayed with Cassian, lies whirling through her mind. She shifted only enough to press her other hand over the failing bandage on his blaster wound. His gasp tore at her, so she did her best to ignore it.

Please, she thought. She couldn’t tolerate the idea of Bodhi tortured again, Cassian dying a nameless Imperial prisoner, Jyn herself devoured by this terrible sister of hers. We can’t die like this.

The shuttle swung smoothly down. They had to be nearly in the hangar by now.

Cassian’s lips moved.

“What is it?” said Jyn.

“What … am I?”

She stared at him. With an effort, he jerked his chin downwards, towards his chest, where Bodhi had spread the jacket.

The rank. Cassian was trying to get the story straight, even as he bled out.

“Captain,” she said, and forced a smile. “You haven’t been demoted.”

“Good,” he managed to mutter, as he had long ago. Two weeks ago. His hands tightened on hers. “Jyn. Listen.”

The shuttle was dropping rapidly. Jyn leaned in. “Yes?”

“If they … if …” He coughed, blood on his lips again. “Three one five jay eight oh ar six one eight five.”

Totally bewildered, she just frowned at him.

“Remember.”

Jyn had no difficulty memorizing codes. She’d done it countless times, breaking through compounds and safes and identities. 315J8OR6185. She just had no idea what it meant, if anything.

“We’re landing!” shouted Bodhi.

“I’ve got it,” Jyn told Cassian, and waited there, frozen at his side, until the shuttle settled onto something solid. It only slightly jarred them.

Good landing, she thought, a shriek stifled in the back of her throat.

Bodhi came running from the cockpit.

“How is he?”

Jyn set her jaw. “Needs care, fast. Are you ready?”

They looked at each other over Cassian’s head. Bodhi gulped and nodded.

Below, she heard a rattle, then the telltale whoosh of oxygenation. Voices in her own accent. And Bodhi clattering down the ramp.

“Someone help!” he screamed. “My commander’s down—there was a Rebel attack—help!”

#anghraine's fic #jyn erso #bodhi rook #cassian andor #otp: welcome home #death star au #star wars #per ardua ad astra #honestly everything i could think of to call it was inane or just awful #so all aboard the pretension bus! #but honestly this is super fun to write #i haven't enjoyed anything this much in awhile

[kassna]

The Rogue One novel, schaloime and I: A Christmas cry fest

Sooo around Christmas I read the Rogue One novelization. And because I lost it at the first few pages already I decided that I couldn’t suffer through this perfection alone and started texting quotes and comments to @schaloime​ (mainly KRENNIC ALL THE WAY)... And, well. I don’t want to lose this list of hilarity and heartbreak, so I’m posting it now for everyone’s amusement. :D (Comments are of course translated from a wild English/German mix and a bit edited, but convey the fun we’ve had really well. X’D)

This book gets a very high recommendation from me, just saying before the cut! I love it to pieces, it even made my second trip to the cinema a lot better and gave me so much! 11/10 pathetic wine mom Orsons, would (and will) read again

(Come yell with me about it, please!)

He had killed a city. He could kill a world.

Boy, Krennic is such a pathetic squabbling schoolboy X'D lots of fun when he’s pleased about something he did well, like "I AM THE MASTER OF THE UNIVERSE fuck off Tarkin noooo" When they’re in the same room he’s always THIS CLOSE to stomping his foot, crossing his arms and whining                   

He felt like he finally deserved some attention from the emperor.

What is this book. Help.

[insert a lot of fangirling about the way the characters are written, how you’re in a different head with each part/chapter and how they all have clearly different ways of thinking and decision-making]

He’d settled himself in his seat with a glass of wine and a datapad by the time they’d left the docking bay.

Already the second scene in which Krennic lounges around and drinks wine. (This time the flight to Eadu, first time was after work on the Death Star. He also apparently likes to walk miles and miles through the construction and is quite pleased about having built all this and knowing every lil detail.)

Galen Erso, whom he’d given every chance. Galen Erso, whom he’d nearly died for once on that sad scrap of farmland. “I thought we were past this,” Krennic murmured to himself, with a bitter smile."

Just in - Krennic’s fuckin’ gay for Galen (as if we didn’t know that) and ALWAYS thinks about either him or Tarkin.

He’s really like HALF OF THE FANON!HUX headcanons I’ve encountered in fics. [slime and I began to flail helplessly because we can’t handle him. spoiler: we didn’t really stop screaming until the end.]

During the flight to Eadu, Krennic had stoked the fury in his heart. Fueled by outrage and humiliation, its fire burned bright enough to warm him in the chill that swept through the shuttle.

... Am I reading fanfic for real now or what.

Krennic smiled acidly and said the words he had selected with care aboard the shuttle:

Also just in: Krennic spent the trip to Eadu drinking wine and writing a speech. An epic speech:

“Gentlemen. One of you has betrayed the Empire. One of you conspired with a pilot to send messages to the Rebellion. I urge that traitor to step forward.”

Krennic. How often did you practice that in front of a mirror until you made sure you won’t forget a single word of it?

If by some miracle Cassian got off a second shot, he decided Krennic would make an excellent target. The Empire could only be improved by the loss of another high-ranking blowhard.

GOOD BOY. (Cassian’s thoughts are really interesting in general.)       

“Very well,” Krennic said. “I’ll consider it a group effort, then.” The words were cruel and sweet. Krennic felt no shame in deriving satisfaction from justice ruthlessly applied.

PLEASE. slime: gaaaaaaaaay

He looked down at himself and straightened his uniform with a tug. He noted black smudges from smoke and charred metal, a patch of red where someone—probably him—had bled. He wondered if he would have time to clean up before arriving. Or maybe Lord Vader would respect a man who’d seen combat.

Or: Krennic fainted right after entering the shuttle for departure from Eadu, got the order to go to Mustafar upon waking and dives headfirst into the REALLY IMPORTANT QUESTIONS. I wish I were kidding.                        

Was Vader mad? Was this his homeworld? Perhaps he wasn’t human beneath his armor; perhaps that forbidding black suit did more than replace lungs and limbs damaged in battle, and instead allowed a creature born in magma to survive the chill of space. Or maybe he lived on Mustafar because he enjoyed burning his victims alive.

... Krennic lands on Mustafar and has some thoughts about how Extra™ Vader is.

Vader had let him live. Vader had judged him too valuable to kill—and by extension, the Emperor recognized his value as well. Tarkin’s mutiny, his seizure of the Death Star, had been forestalled. And Krennic had yet to reveal Tarkin’s greatest error—how in destroying Jedha City, Tarkin had failed to blockade the moon, failed to ensure against survivors. For how else could the rebels have infiltrated Eadu? The traitorous pilot had come from Eadu and fled to Jedha; his message had escaped. Only Tarkin could be held responsible for that.

Oh BOY. Hubris much? slime: “ "Look at me, Look at me!" me: Everyone else in this book has thoughts that are more than that pathetic blubbering. Even JYN, who’s at war with her hatred for everyone who’s ever left her, EVEN HER WHO HAS BEEN A REAL EGOIST UP UNTIL NOW. But nooooo, Krennic is the only Special Snowflake™ in the universe. At least in his own head.

He was ready to leave the madhouse that was Mustafar, but he was suddenly uncertain he could ever escape Vader’s shadow.

How about you don't even try.

She held back a laugh and looked to Cassian. The man who’d betrayed her. The man who’d admitted his guilt and decided to fight for her. He saw her staring and looked back at her quizzically. It wasn’t how betrayals were supposed to go.

U don't say.

It was a bad plan. It had all been a bad plan, of course, starting with Galen’s message and ending with this unauthorized raid on Scarif. Now he was, what—defecting from his defection? If he survived, he’d be an Imperial traitor and a rebel mutineer. He’d be lucky to see the inside of a Yavin prison cell.

Bodhi, talking a mile a minute even in his thoughts. But he’s happy that there are most likely no mind-reading tentactle monsters on Yavin... At least something.

She almost winced when she looked at Cassian, wearing an officer’s suit and cap like they were perfectly tailored. Even the code cylinder in his pocket was at a regulation angle.

Jyn has her priorities straight. Always get a look while you can.

He stood at a metaphorical cliff’s edge, stamping his foot in an effort to cause an avalanche. With Galen Erso’s treachery undone, he would gain the allegiance of Vader. With Vader’s backing, he would expose the incompetence of Tarkin—the revelation of rebel survivors from Jedha. With Tarkin humiliated, Krennic’s command of the Death Star would be uncontested, and he would confer with the Emperor himself as to how it might best be used. Krennic would be, in every way that mattered, the most powerful and decorated man in the Empire.

I... Wait, what. Krennic, daydreaming.

Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin made it a point not to dwell on the flamboyant ambitions of Orson Krennic. Over the course of more than a decade, the director had gone from a nuisance to a genuine threat and back again, all the while demanding far more attention than Tarkin was prepared to grant him.

Thoughts from Tarkin! As if Krennic was a lousy annoying little fly.

Cassian had denied him that exquisite sense of purpose and replaced it with individuality. With individuality came doubt and cynicism: an awareness not only of the odds of success or failure but of those outcomes’ repercussions.

Individuality creates cynism. Now I have feels for a droid, thx Kaytoo.

With one second left until total shutdown, K-2SO chose to mentally simulate an impossible scenario in which Cassian Andor escaped alive. The simulation pleased him.

KAY. T___T

[everyone’s last sentence in their last part is amazing tbh]

As he emerged from the command center, two death troopers fell into step behind him and he thought of another day long before: another planetfall; another squad of troopers; and another danger to his life spawned by Galen. That day on Lah’mu had ended in victory, too. Orson Krennic was going to war.

Drama much! Firm belief now: He has that cape only to imagine himself in such a moment, with that last sentence as caption, for the epic picture he strikes in his own imagination...

But before Baze could fire, Chirrut rose from the bunker and stepped into sunlight.

First thought: oooh why do scenes with those two always feature such impressive pictures in my head Second thought, because the part was over and another person took over: FUCK YOU ALEXANDER FREED FUCK YOU SIDEWAYS I waited the WHOLE DAMN BOOK for a scene from Chirrut’s POV and just accepted that I won’t get one AND YOU DROP THE PART AT THE MAIN SWITCH ON ME FUCK YOU FUCK YOU HARD

[This was also when I started crying. I cried during three books my whole life (I cry frequently at movies, and I read a lot, so it takes a special something for that to happen). Be proud of yourself, Alexander Freed. You wrote *bawled her eyes out*-book #4.)

(...) without the temple he could not truly be a Guardian of the Whills; without joy and frivolity he could not be a clown and jokester among sober peers; without the Holy City he could not be a protector of his beloved world (...)

Fuuuuuck youuuuuu. T____T

He was dying, of course. He felt Baze’s heavy, familiar tread pound the ground, smelled his brother’s sweat as he leaned close. He wanted to say, Baze! My eyes—I can’t see! but Baze Malbus had always needed comfort more than humor.

THIS GUY I S2G.

But of course the Force had reunited them before the end.

Alright, I died, see you on the other side.

At last report, the data vault itself had been breached. It was a show of incompetence so great that Tarkin was almost curious to know how Krennic might explain it away.

Tarkin is a lil bitch sometimes. It’s great.

He was not the Empire—not every moment of oppression and indignity and torment she had ever suffered. He was an Imperial, a petty, spiteful, scared little man who’d forgotten his own atrocities. And he didn’t know her at all. She decided to make him remember.

Jyn can’t read a lot of people, but it seems to be easy for her with Krennic. X’D He only ever was “the man in white from her nightmares” until they finally meet. And up until his death she does know who he is and what role he had in her life - but never his name. Well, Orson. Sucks to be you. No immortal name.

He could follow Galen Erso’s thread through his life. He could see the full extent of the tragedy, the waste of effort on a wasted man. But what about before? He sought refuge in his childhood, tried to recall an Orson whose hopes had not yet been cast in shadow…

KRENNIC. Can’t you even in your LAST SECONDS stop thinking about how deeply ingrained Galen was into your life and how pathetic you were??? THIS GUY.                

Orson Krennic, advanced weapons research director and father of the Death Star, died alone on Scarif, screaming in fury at Galen Erso, at Jyn Erso, at Wilhuff Tarkin, and at all the galaxy.

... In his very last moments he imagined himself in full glory on the Death Star, his triumph, and in the middle of those cozy thoughts about his creation, the one thing he knows in and out, he finally noticed what Galen sabotaged. Ooops. Sucks, right?

I cried a lot. Slime cried a lot. And I’ll end this with the one sentence that really stuck with me and won’t leave my head for a long time...

Like a pilot should, he died with his ship.

Goodbye, Bodhi. Not all alone after all.

#Rogue One #rogue one: a star wars story #rogue one novelization #Orson Krennic #Star Wars #I wish I were sorry #not really but yeah #it was a wild ride and I enjoyed every second of it! #book rec #not a review #but a lot of fun #my stuff #friends #thx slime for letting me text you all the screaming :D #you deserved to suffer with me #I still blame you for everything