#and will throw away all of his self preservation if the situation requires him to. his advice is good but can be vague idk ONE rlly managed

[feralbutfluffy]

47: Crowley

Chapter 47 of Too Wise to Woo Peaceably

******

Crowley sat in the lone chair in an otherwise now-empty room and scowled at nothing in particular.

Had it been necessary? Debateable.

Had it been stupid? Undoubtedly. 

He’d justified it to himself of course. He’d told himself he needed time to stop and consider things (untrue). He’d told himself that in order to think, he needed to get away from the angel, since being around him seemed to turn his thought processes to scrambled egg (not untrue but not insurmountable). 

He’d assessed his strength, felt just about able to get himself to the Bentley, and as soon as things had started going south again… he had.

There was probably cowardice in that, but Crowley preferred to think of it as self-preservation.

The Bentley had welcomed him back with Queen’s Friends Will Be Friends, and Crowley had gripped the steering wheel gratefully before switching it off. He was fairly certain sitting in his car crying to Queen would change his situation from Very Much Not Ideal to the level of Unacceptably Dire.

Of course he'd apparated in the Bentley too weak to do anything other than swing his feet out onto the pavement, and so he'd sat like that for a long while, staring unseeing at the flagstones until two pairs of shoes had come into view to rub salt in the wound.

Because it was humiliating, really. The miraculous equivalent of dramatically exiting a room and slamming the door behind you only for it to rebound and knock him half-senseless.

And then, to add insult to injury, the person he’d left so dramatically had followed him out to check if he was alright. 

Which obviously, he wasn’t.

The indignity.

Muriel had helped him inside, and he’d found the flat in worse shape than he'd expected. The visible violence caught him by surprise. The shattered vase had made him tense all over, his muscles locking as his mind dragged him back to how he’d experienced it at the time, the noise he’d heard echoing down the hall as he'd struggled to understand the situation.

He'd suppressed a shudder and allowed Muriel to lower him gently into the only remaining functional chair like he was some consumptive countess from the fourteenth century. Aziraphale had cleaned things up with a dustpan and brush he was quite certain he'd never owned, and then both Muriel and Aziraphale had disappeared further into his apartment, presumably to straighten it out before he had a chance to see the full extent of the damage.

So here he was. 

Sitting. 

Waiting. 

Feeling perfectly useless. 

Thinking about getting caught unawares and then brained by his own furniture.

He held his right wrist in a loose grip and felt his pulse jumping just beneath the skin.

Crowley had no idea how long he’d been staring into the middle distance when Aziraphale reappeared.

“Everything alright?”

“Peachy,” said Crowley sarcastically.

Aziraphale lingered in the doorway as if afraid to enter the room. He stood there, fidgeting and darting anxious looks down the corridor and generally putting Crowley on edge until he bit out, “What are you doing?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale stilled. “I’m just waiting for Muriel. They’re putting the finishing touches to your room.”

Crowley thought of his bedroom, the sleek, severe lines and minimal decor, and wondered what of what was in there could possibly require anything resembling a “finishing touch.” From Muriel no less.

He glanced down at his socks. 

A chilling thought. 

Aziraphale stepped into the room, hovering just inside the doorframe.

“Could I…?” He motioned at the bare room.

“Refurnish?” Crowley shrugged. “By all means.”

“Really?” Aziraphale beamed. “You’d trust me to…?”

“Knock yourself out,” he said, and Aziraphale looked so gratified that Crowley almost had to suppress a smile. 

He was so easily pleased. Honestly it was ridiculous.

He loved it.

Aziraphale paced the room, and in short order Crowley had: 

A longer, charcoal version of the Chesterfield sofa from the bookshop

A couple of soft black throw cushions

A polished concrete end table that looked like it might have previously been part of the floor

And, after a moment of hesitation and a flick of Aziraphale’s wrist-

a (completely incongruous) tartan blanket also appeared folded neatly on the arm of the sofa.

Crowley was taken aback. He’d expected-

Well, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Not this, certainly. Not the thoughtful adherence to Crowley’s general style. Other than the blanket he couldn’t have done a better job himself.

Aziraphale turned back to him, an apprehensive look on his face, and Crowley was careful to avoid eye contact. 

“Thanks, it’s…” his voice turned gruff, “...nice.”

“Really?” Aziraphale was smiling at him again and Crowley felt like something was untying itself in his chest.

“Yeah. Thought I’d blink and find myself surrounded by tartan. Astonished you managed to restrain yourself,” he said, nodding towards the blanket.

“Oh. Well. I can- That doesn’t need to- That is to say-” he was looking uncertain now, and Crowley jutted his jaw out and exhaled through his nose, which only seemed to increase Aziraphale’s agitation. 

“No, leave it. I’m used to it, it’s fine,” he said, trying to sound indifferent.

It was the same tartan as the angel’s bow tie. The same tartan Aziraphale had once used when inflicting a bike rack on the poor Bentley. The same tartan as was on the thermos of Holy Water he’d once given Crowley. It was Aziraphale’s tartan. 

Crowley quite liked it. 

Probably pure nostalgia, he told himself and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Aziraphale noticed and came towards him. “Do you want to move over to the sofa?”

Crowley considered making a joke about the last time they’d shared a sofa, then decided it was too soon. He felt a wave of weariness wash over him.

He nodded without a word, and stayed silent as Aziraphale put an arm around him, hoisted him up, and helped him over to the sofa.

This time when Aziraphale started to pull away, Crowley let him go.

“Thanks,” he said awkwardly, finding it hard to speak around the lump in his throat. “And, mn, sorry about earlier. Shouldn’t have brought it up.” A pause. “Again.”

Aziraphale sat on the far end of the sofa.

Just out of reach, Crowley thought, before telling himself to think more quietly. Any louder and he was worried they'd appear in a thought bubble above his head.

“Oh no, you are well within your rights to want to discuss it,” Aziraphale said, his hands on his knees, fingertips fluttering nervously.

Crowley ran a hand over the suede upholstery. “This is really nice,” he said, instead of addressing that comment.

Aziraphale’s fingers settled against his kneecaps. “Do you really think so?”

“Yeah. Gorgeous. Probably won’t be able to pry myself off it once I’m back to myself.”

Aziraphale looked absolutely chuffed with himself. A hurt, petty part of Crowley wanted to cut through his honest comment with a dig, but - fortunately or unfortunately - the quite a bit larger part of Crowley that had been hopelessly, appallingly, wretchedly in love for thousands and thousands of years was rather pathetically pleased to see the angel so delighted.

In fact, he found himself wondering if he could turn up the wattage on Aziraphale’s smile.

“Yeah, thanks again,” he said, letting some of the warmth he was feeling in his chest sink into his words. “Couldn’t have done it better myself.”

Aziraphale glanced at him as if to judge the sincerity behind the comment. Crowley kept his face carefully neutral, half afraid some old sarcasm-related muscle memory would kick in and render the compliment invalid. He must have succeeded, because after a second Aziraphale’s entire face lit up.

“Do you really mean that?”

Ah, there we go. Thrilled to bits.

Something in Crowley's chest clenched tight, squeezed around his heart and tightened his throat. He nodded, and Aziraphale looked at him like he’d just done something wonderful, which made him uneasy; all he’d done was compliment him a bit on his interior design skills!

Some day they were really going to have to talk about how the angel needed to raise his standards.

“Oh- Oooh!” Muriel had returned, and was gaping at the new sofa. “That’s very nice! Which of you-?”

“I’m weak as a newborn kitten and can barely walk, but I felt the need to use the last precious reserves of my non-existent strength to make sure I have a tartan blanket to huddle under when I’m cold…” Crowley said sardonically. “What do you think?”

Muriel gave him a look that suggested they might have rolled their eyes if they were more familiar with the action, and turned to Aziraphale. “The sofa suits him!” Muriel made sure to angle a sly smile at Crowley when they added, “Very dramatic!”

Aziraphale barked a laugh and quickly tried to disguise it as an unconvincing cough.

“I’ve created a monster,” muttered Crowley.

“Did you or did you not just use energy you didn't have to spare to theatrically escape a conversation like some sort of an introvert martyr?”

Crowley glared at Aziraphale. “What did you tell them?”

He swung back to Muriel before the angel had a chance to answer, “I wasn’t escaping a conversation, I was taking a moment. You know how I feel about early mornings.”

“Sure, okay,” said Muriel, not even pretending to believe him. “Well, I just wanted to tell you I’ll be back in a while - I have to pick something up? - but also I don’t want to get back here and find one of you is missing, again, so can you promise me you’ll both still be here when I get back?”

“Sure,” said Crowley as Aziraphale nodded beside him, "Unless there's another extraordinary rendition."

“And you’ll both be in one piece?”

“Unless something has gone catastrophically wrong,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale nodded his agreement again.

“And you’ll both still be on speaking terms?”

“Let’s not get carried away,” said Crowley, the corner of his lips curving in amusement.

#good omens #ineffable idiots #crowley and aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfiction #ineffable divorce #aziracrow #crowley #ineffable #good omens fic #good omens fic request #ineffible husbands #crowley x aziraphale #azicrow #azcrow #ineffable husbands fic #ineffable husbands #ineffable spouses #ineffable partners

[melodyofthevoid]

❛ what? no witty remark? nothing clever to say? ❜

❛ i just wanted to say i’m sorry. ❜

with the robo blorbos hehe

(Hehe, of course of course)

Olli believed in two things above all else: being prepared, and keeping a cool appearance. 

Of course one made the other possible. After all, acting as though you knew everything came much easier if you did actually know everything. Olli could afford to be aloof and snarky and distant because she’d planned for every eventuality. She’d honed her skills, she had backup plans upon backup plans, and she had Milo. 

Well. They’d had Milo. 

For the 44th time that cycle they’d disassembled and reassembled their pistol. Removing the charge-bolt battery, the excess charge heat-sink, the custom amplifier. Checking them over. Putting them back together again. Rinse and repeat. Cycle through the cameras to his hideaway and occasionally throw a knife at the printout of Harv. Or what remained of the printout. 

Given their accuracy? Not much. 

But what good did throwing knives do when their best friend for all intents and purposes didn’t fucking EXIST- 

The mechanical reflex of reassembly paused midway, moving too fast not to cause some damage to the trigger mechanism. A jam might ruin her prized piece and that? Well that’d be the cap on a shitty series of events. So they eased the cartridge in, setting it down. 

Olli stood up, walking away to recalibrate her joints and get her head on straight. All of this served no purpose, other than to let her mind wander back to the fresh horror and betrayal that brought her here in the first place. 

He’d trusted Harv. His mentor, his teacher. Who’d paired them up with Milo in the first place and for what? To sell him out to Pricilla? To sell himself out- and- 

And all of this for what? One half-decent pop-bot? Sure, she knew how to put up a fight but if Iliana had left? What changed? Not enough to warrant the crackdown the city faced and certainly not enough to justify the complete violation of Milo’s code. 

All roads led to ill-advised actions and Olli’s sense of self-respect and preservation kept them from seeking out any revenge. But they also had no plans. No routes to righting the situation or settling the score. Killing Harv? Impossible, too many layers of security plus Milo. Getting through to Milo? Not a chance, with her level of self repair knowledge she’d probably break him. Caving in Illiana’s thick skull? Tempting but required them to cross the city and risk the wrath of Fin. 

What remained then? 

A whole lot of nothing, that’s what. Nothing, and a restless anxiety that Olli wanted gone. Anxiety was Milo’s thing, not theirs. 

They missed him already. 

Clattering from an upper window demanded Olli’s immediate attention, and they snatched the (fully assembled, as it should be) pistol from the table. Creeping towards the source of the noise. The milliseconds that they’d stepped away from their cameras something managed to get in. 

Just their luck. 

The signature coming off of the figure already rang alarm bells because this room took at least several feats of acrobatics to get to in the first place. Meaning whoever this was either had a death wish or wanted Olli. That, and no one else should know about this aside from- from Milo. 

Who’d give up his location with no qualms. Because it was an order. 

Shit. 

Olli’s hands never shook, too new to accumulate any bugs that might interfere with the servos or corrosion to wear down their wires. But their courage wavered, which unsettled them enough that their hands nearly trembled. 

Several knocks against one of the stray pipes rang out in quick succession, forming some sort of rhythm. A… song’s rhythm. The pauses lining up just right. Aligning with a song that Olli heard only once and only with a certain performer. 

Mild fear turned to annoyance turned to a finger just over the trigger trying to find a reason not to press down. Their slight tick of amusement overshadowed by the fact that she bothered to show up here at all. After everything. 

But Olli could be generous. They’d at least give her a head start before they pummeled her. 

“Come on out princess. I won’t shoot you, but I’d appreciate if you stopped lurking.” 

Out of the darkness, a pair of hands raised, followed by the rest of Illiana. Not looking any worse for wear. Hopefully that meant she took enough caution to not be followed, not that Olli cared to place any bets on that. As expected her landing from the upper pipes went off without a hitch, her wires not even tangling when she somersaulted to the ground. 

Irritating in its own right. 

“Were you followed?” 

“No,” Illiana checked back over her shoulder, “I made sure. Would’ve gotten here sooner if I hadn’t but- I wanted to talk.” 

Olli made a show of nodding and “considering” Illiana’s words. As if he weren’t melting from the inside. Coolant trying its damndest to perform. He put his hands on his hips, turning from the ground to her, and back again.

“Mhm.” 

Wasting no more time, Olli rolled their shoulders. Flexing their hand a few times before walking up to Illiana, and winding up for the first blow. Her optics widened, not out of fear yet

“Wait- wait hold on-“ 

Metal connected with sapphire glass, the thin layer clacking but not quite shattering. Of course Illiana got the expensive stuff in her construction. It’d take nothing short of a bomb to leave a dent. Or several dozen shots. 

Either way Olli didn’t do all that much damage. Which worked with her, she spared no feelings, especially not her own. There was more where that came from. Plenty more. 

“I’d ask how you managed to find me,” Olli snarled, “but you’re here. So it doesn’t matter. ”

In the back of their mind, they made a note to abandon this hideout once they’d dealt with the popstar. Careful or no, the location’s compromise was almost certain. Which really sucked, they’d gotten quite comfortable here. 

Too comfortable in retrospect. 

Not that they didn’t already prepare a list of alternate locations, Olli more than made sure to do that cycles ago. Moving and hiding the evidence just took so long. In any case. More pressing matters took priority here. But it piled onto the list of pettier grievances. 

“So, are you here to make me even more involved with your mess?”

Illiana’s wires fell like a curtain over her faceplate as she turned away for a nanosecond. Grimacing before facing Olli again. Olli barked out a laugh, throwing her hands up and spinning on her heel. 

“What? No witty remark? No ‘Oh it’ll be fine trust me’? No ‘Come on you can believe me, the wanted criminal who’s dragged everyone else into her nonsense’?”

Illiana winced, but kept her back straight. Not quite proud, but not shrinking either. 

“I wanted to say I’m sorry.” 

“Well- wait what?” 

“You’re right, I did drag Milo into all this. I- I thought this all would be easier. Prissy’s more desperate than I gave her credit for and… He’s been on the receiving end now. Twice.”

Olli examined Illiana again, closer. Scanning her body language. Every time they’d interacted prior, she’d exuded a near obnoxious amount of cheer. A battery made of optimism and showmanship. It even came through in her fighting, which for all of its flash did work. She knew how to move, when to move. Always with a smile. 

Now that grin hid somewhere else. Her optics unwavering. Open. 

There wasn’t a doubt in Olli’s mind that she practiced those words before this. The odd part was that he didn’t exactly mind. It at least meant she put some forethought into this. 

“Alright. So why’d you come here? You got something other than an apology?” 

“I think we can get Milo back.” 

They froze. Thoughts stuttering to a halt before their fans clocked overtime. 

There’d better be an explanation. Not blind “can-do”. Not some flimsy hope that things might improve because Olli didn’t work with might. She needed certainty, security, because only a handful of bots mattered enough for them to stick their neck out. And one of them just betrayed her. 

“Explain.” 

She needed to know. 

“Vex managed to break some of the firewalls in the AEGIS database,” Illiana crossed her arms, “ We didn’t get everything, but we did get some of Dell’s logs and code. With that, they can reverse whatever they did to him. I know they can.” 

Something dangerous sparked in Olli’s core. A grin peaking up at the corners of their mouth. 

Not that they’d give Illiana her full trust just yet. She needed more information. To plan, obviously. Not for any other reason. 

“And I assume you came here to tell me because…?”

“Because I can’t get him alone. I’d risk seriously injuring him, or myself. Right now, he’d try to destroy me. And he might even succeed, we both know that he’s more lethal than he lets on. WIth you, we’d have a better chance of catching him, getting him back to Vex, and- and getting your best friend back.” 

Olli looked Illiana over one more time. Loathe as she was to admit it, Illiana did know how to handle herself, and clearly wanted to make things right. She had a plan, which meant more than knives against a printout and another reassembly. With Illiana’s start, Olli could steer the rest to smooth victory. As they always did. 

They’d let their anger go. For now. 

“Well, let’s get started then.”

#my writing #melody rambles #I see the other prompt I will get to it #gonna re reblog the prompts bc... idk #anyways #love Olli #she's struggling

[captainrexforever]

Solace

Rating: T

Word count: ~4.5k

Summary: After a nightmare, the reader and Din have a heart-to-heart, and realize they are not as different as they might think. 

Warnings: angst, fluff, Din w/o beskar, intense fear?? (basically reader has a nightmare) makeout at the end

Note: Fair warning, this is the first fic I have ever written. I was having some pretty intense inspiration, and once I began typing, the words just began to flow out. With that said, I welcome any constructive criticism; any hate received will be reported and blocked.

It's not late when you slip beneath the blanket that decorates your humble cot. In fact, you're not sure what time it is. Days spent in hyperspace have left you without the ability to recall which hours differentiate day and night. At this point, you sleep once you're exhausted, and wake up once you hear the kid begin to squeal for your company.

Mando doesn't seem to sleep at all. You often wonder if he is even human beneath the beskar. Perhaps, he is some humanoid species that doesn't require sleep.

That's silly, your mind whispers.

Oh, that's right.

Once Mando had returned with a bounty, blood dripping onto the durasteel panels of the hull, and a jagged tear in the visible duraweave below his left pauldron. Red blood and tanned fleshed were exposed to your eyes for the space of a minute. He had steered the oblivious bounty towards the carbonite freezing unit, and with a shove and a hiss of the machinery, the zabrak had been encased in a carbonite slab.

You hadn't moved, rooted to the spot, until Mando brushed past you, a jerk of his helmet the only recognition you received. He headed straight towards the ladder to the cockpit, his hand already moving to the cauterizer on his belt. It wasn't your job to distract him with unnecessary questions, so you had rolled your shoulders, cracked your neck, and then walked towards the kid who bobbed silently in his cradle.

It's been months since that particular incident. Months since you were tortured with the sight of his skin. It was only a sliver of his bare skin, but it had set your heart racing. These days, you two spoke more often, usually about the kid. Well to clarify, 'more often' meant a few sentences a day. The Mandalorian was still so quiet. It was strange to you. As a child, your household was always bustling with life, loud and busy. To be honest, you were the most introverted member of your family, and found yourself seeking out peace and quiet more often than not. Now though, it was too quiet, days on end spent spiraling through space. Mando never told you your destination, not that it would have mattered anyways. You weren't very knowledgeable about the geography of the outer rim.

As you lie on your cot, you wonder if you will ever earn the chance to know who he really is. You know that he hides his emotions beneath a stoic personality almost as impenetrable as the beskar he wears. There’s a thought that festers in your heart every night as you lay in bed. Does the Mandalorian have any feelings for you beyond that of an employer and their employee? 

You sigh.

You are being foolish and immature.

The Mandalorian is a good man, and he owes you nothing. He pays you fairly and treats you as an equal. Your mind is satisfied with that answer, but your heart protests the idea, holding out hope that he might think of you in the same way that you think of him. That is, with a fondness that you shouldn't be allowed to feel. Sometimes, you sit in the cockpit just to watch him fly. He seems more at ease there, as if he too belongs among the stars. It's a breathtaking view, watching streaks of light blur past the viewport, but somehow your gaze always falls upon him instead.

Sleep now, think later, you tell yourself.

And you do, sleep finally consuming you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is a flash of light, a blinding presence beside you. It's a struggle to grasp a sense of your surroundings, your mind struggling to stay aware. Something is not right. You move to sit up, panic overtaking you when your limbs fail to comply, as if they are weighed down with lead.

Then you hear it.

The clink of beskar on beskar.

It's alright, he's here, he is going to protect you.  But you couldn't be more wrong. The being that steps out of the blinding light and into the dimly lit area surrounding your cot is terrifying. It certainly looks like Mando, the armor is the same, but his helmet is wrong. It's all wrong! Two eyes of pure crimson shine through the visor of the helmet, a sickening laugh escaping the figure, and then it's advancing on your prone form. You realize with a start how exposed you are, only a long tunic covers your form, and your blaster is hanging on the wall behind the figure. It reaches out, it's touch burning your skin, first your cheek then down your neck. It speaks suddenly, the voice twisted and warped.

"What a pretty prize. All mine, and so submissive, not that you could run from me anyways." Then there is a blaster pressed underneath your chin.

"No, stop! Leave me alone!"

It only chuckles darkly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Mandalorian sighs deeply in the cockpit. You had disappeared behind the curtain that separated your cot from the main hold some time ago, the child already asleep. How you are able to coax him into slumber so easily Din will never comprehend. At least the quiet allows him some private time to clear his troubled mind. There was too much on his mind as of late. No, that was a lie. There was just one thing on his mind.

You.

You are a mystery, so caring and understanding. Too caring, he muses quietly. You are smart too, incredibly so, he was lucky to be able to recruit you into his service. But that's not what bothers him right now.

No…

Something else is troubling him. He is sure you possess some sort of magic, like the kid. It’s the only explanation. Why else does his heartbeat thud loudly in his chest at the sight of you? His skin feels as if it’s on fire, his mouth suddenly dry whenever your gaze lingers on him for a moment too long. Sorcery, as the armorer had said. But, he doesn't know how to confront you about the topic. He doesn't want to frighten you away. 

He will approach you in the morning, he tells himself. Din chuckles for a moment, he doesn't really know when morning will come, with the length of time you three have spent in hyperspace. He just bases his schedule off of the inclinations of his female companion. When you sleep, so does he, when you are awake, so is he. Din always ensures he is awake before you. The child is fussy in the mornings, demanding attention as soon as he is awake, so he tries to keep the kid entertained as long as possible to you allow you a few extra scraps of sleep.

The hair on the back of his neck suddenly stands on end, a sense of unease consuming his thoughts. He taps his helmet, the infrared vision within his helmet prompting the grey ship to burst into color. Nothing seems out of place in the cockpit, but he can't ignore his instincts, so after rising from his chair Din moves towards the ladder, intending to check the rest of the ship from possible threats. He pauses at the top of the ladder, his whole body shocked into a rigid cast.

Your cries reach his ears, desperate and pleading, and every instinct screams at him to protect you. In retrospect, he’s not sure how he clears the ladder so quickly, because one second he’s standing in the cockpit, and in the next he’s at your side, hands hovering over you as uncertainty soars to the top of his mind. You are obviously in the throws of a nightmare, your body curling in on itself, sweat beading on your forehead, and your limbs thrashing about in an attempt at self-preservation. Din reaches out to grasp your wrist, but you tear it out of his hand, your cries becoming louder. He curses, both hands reaching out to pin yours to the cot, then he is settling his body over yours, using his weight to still your frantic movements.

"No, stop! Leave me alone! Stop! Please!" It's the first coherent thing you have said, and it squeezes at his heart. It feels like it is being crushed by the vice that he often saw the armorer use at the forge. 

"Y/N!"

"No, please!"

"Y/N! Listen to me, you need to wake up."

"Stop, Stop!"

"Y/N!"

Your eyes finally snap open, and it's as if all the air has been pumped back into his lungs. You're alright, you're safe.

Oh, how wrong he was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You gasp for air, feeling as though you're drowning. 

It was just a dream. 

But then your eyes open, only to come face-to-face with a beskar helmet. A startled cry escapes you and you're squeezing your eyes shut, turning your face into the pillow behind you to block your line of sight. The air is tense and strained and you feel suffocated by the weight resting on the lower half of your body. As your panic rises you attempt to wriggle free, another rush of fear flooding your body when you realize you're pinned down. Your movements become frantic, a sense of desperation overtaking you as your hands fight against the hold on your wrists. You're practically sobbing as you fight him, your body recoiling in fear just from the sight of his armor. Through the haze of panic, you think he's saying something but you can’t bring yourself to care. Every molecule in your body is screaming to be free.

With a burst of strength you rip your arms from his grip and frantically shove at his chest plate. Sithspit, you can’t even bear to look at him. The shoving becomes more frantic and finally you're free. Your body curls in on itself, finding solace in the tattered blanket and pillow that furnish your cot. You don't realize your crying until your sobs register in your ears. You are thoroughly humiliated, wishing that the floor would swallow you whole so that you never have to face the consequences of this situation. 

You take a few heaving breaths, trying to gain your bearings, and when you hear a modulated voice you recoil further into your cot.

"Y/N, talk to me, are you alright?" You think he sounds concerned, but you can’t bring yourself to concentrate clearly enough to discern what emotions are placed on those words. 

"Please, leave me alone." You manage, trying to gather your frazzled emotions. 

"What happened?" You're cringing all over again at the sound of his voice, flashbacks from the nightmare plaguing your mind.

There's a hiss, then "I'm turning the lights off". Your head whips around. That wasn't Mando's voice. The hull is plunged into darkness before you even turn halfway, and you swallow nervously.

"It's ok, I'm right here."

"Mando?"

"Yes."

"You sound…different."

"I know, I'm not wearing my helmet." That knocks the breath right out of your lungs.

"Are you ok?" There is real concern there and it calms your erratic heartbeat.

"I…I think so."

"Nightmare?"

"….yes."

His footsteps echo in the durasteel hull as he moves towards you. You're sitting up now, and a hand reaches out to touch your arm. It startles you, your body recoiling on instinct. You can hear him sigh heavily.

"It was about me, wasn't it?" He sounds tired, weary, so unlike the Mandalorian you have come to know over the past several months. You can't lie to him. You have never been able to lie to him.

"Yes."

"Is there anything I can do?..."

You pause before you speak. A thought comes to mind immediately. It's too forward. You shouldn't ask, you can't.

"Will you stay with me?"

There is a sharp intake of breath, and you curse yourself. This is the longest conversation you have ever been able to hold with Mando, and now you've just embarrassed yourself with your lack of a brain-to-mouth filter.

"Ok."

That made sense, you dumb imbecile…Wait…What?!

You must have heard wrong, that was the only explanation.

"Just a moment."

Was there a problem with how fast your heart-rate just spiked? You must be having physical complications from the nightmare, or maybe you hit your head while you were struggling. A clang echoes through the hull, then another. You hold your breath for a second, then realize that he is probably removing his boots. Your cot is by no means spotless, but you appreciate the sentiment. He moves towards the cot again, and you slide over to make room for him. Unfortunately, you severely overestimate the amount of space on your cot, and approximately one millisecond later you are experiencing the weightless feeling of doom that always precedes an inevitable fall.

An arm curls around your waist at the last second, and you can't hold back your gasp of surprise. Mando hauls you back up onto the cot, and it's not until the entirety of your back comes into contact with the duraweave covering his warm chest that you realize he is not wearing a single scrap of beskar. Your breath exits your body in a shudder as you bask in the comforting warmth of his body.

It’s several minutes later when Mando finally breaks the silence. "Do you feel any better?" 

There is no way he is being serious. If he was blind and deaf, he still wouldn't be able to miss how you practically melted into his touch. Why, that little...The light chuckle against your ear confirms your suspicions, and if this was any other situation you would be fuming at the insinuation. But this is Mando, your Mando, some traitorous part of your mind whispers. Despite your les than pleasant mood, you find yourself enjoying this tiny glimpse into the playful side of his personality. 

"Much better, thank you Mando. You really don't have to stay if you don't want to." Why in farrik did you say that?!

"It's alright, I don't mind." Even if he is still teasing you, you don't care. You wouldn't give this up for all the credits on Coruscant.

"Y/n?"

"Yes, Mando."

He lets out a troubled sigh at your response, and you want to take back whatever you did, if only to hear him tease you one more time before he reverts back to his reserved, silent persona.

“I hope you feel...safe when you travel with me.”

“Of course I do.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I am telling the truth, really I am. I feel safer on this ship, with you, than I do anywhere else.”

"I…there is something I want to tell you."

"Alright."

"My name, my name isn't Mando." He chuckles a little, as if enjoying a private joke. "If it was, it would get a little bit confusing back at the covert." Then he takes a deep breath, as if to gather himself. You move your hand to rest over his arm, which is still draped across your waist, offering what little comfort you can. "My birth name is Din Djarin."

"Din." You test the word on your tongue, and you decide that it suits him well. Simple and straightforward, just like him. "I like it." He releases a hum in response and the way it rumbles through your back, tingles spreading to the top of your head and into your fingertips, has you feeling a pleasant buzz. 

You dare to roll over in his arms, nuzzling further into his chest, and your heart swells when he accommodates your change in position by moving one hand to the small of your back, the other cradling your head gently. This moment is so precious, so delicate, and you refrain from speaking or moving, in the hopes of prolonging it for as long as possible.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You must have fallen asleep, because when you wake up there is a shrill beeping coming from the cockpit. With a groan you nuzzle further into your pillow, the arm that’s slung over the pillow flexes to draw it closer to your body. You idly wonder if Mando finally decided to activate the heating system since there is a pleasant warmth engulfing your body.

What's taking him so long? Normally, he spends most of his time in the cockpit, so it seems odd that he hasn't yet attended to the issue.

"Are you gonna get that or am I?" The question is spoken by your ear.

You swear you have never been more awake in your entire life. You shoot straight up but you don’t get very far, a warm hand on your back coaxing you back down against an equally warm body. 

"Did you sleep well?"

Osik. Now you remember. The nightmare, Mando holding you gently while you lay on your cot in shock. Oh, wait. You mean Din.

Your eyes finally open and you realize that the artificial lighting is still shut off. That's right, Din isn't wearing his helmet either. As you catalog your surroundings, a blush rises to your cheeks. During the night, you seem to have become very…cuddly. Your head is resting on his very firm chest, an arm slung across his upper body with your hand on his shoulder. One of your legs is thrown over his waist, and your face burns when you register his hand resting innocently on your thigh. It wouldn't be so bad if you were actually wearing pants, but your lazy ass had crawled into bed last night with only a threadbare tunic to cover your form. Suddenly you are even more thankful for the darkness shrouding your figures, all too aware that the tunic had ridden up over your ass during the night. Din's other hand is still nestled around the back of your head, his fingers occasionally massaging at the base of your scalp since your hair is tied up into a haphazard bun. 

You have yet to answer him, and your brain sputters as it attempts to think up a witty response.

"Yes, still a little tired though." What kind of answer was that, Y/N? Wow, such a charmer. What you really wanted to say was better than ever.

"That’s to be expected." Kriff, you are hearing his morning voice. You think you might just die on the spot. Hey, at least you'll be ending on a high note.

The beeping still echoes loudly through the hull. "You should get that before the kid wakes up." You nudge softly. He just grunts.

"You can get it, I'm sure it's nothing pressing." He finally responds.

"Hey, this is your ship, you get it." You've always been grumpy in the morning, never an early riser. You shove at him gently to enforce your request but it doesn't even phase him. "Din, come on." Then you're shoving a little harder, feeling victorious when you feel his body move across the cot slightly. You remove the leg from across his waist, using both your feet to assist in shoving him off of the cot. He just chuckles at your efforts, seemingly amused with your irritation. All of a sudden, there is a loud thud and a groan followed by utter silence. Your heart jumps into your throat, you didn't mean to hurt him! You shimmy to the edge of the cot, looking over even though you can't see a thing, hoping that he's not injured from the fall. Stupid, stupid, stupid, you chastise yourself. And then your worry turns to anger when you hear a hearty laugh bubbling up from the floor. How dare he laugh at you.

In any other situation you would be overjoyed at the sound of his laughter, but for some reason you feel incredibly cross this morning. You huff at his mirth, swing your legs over the edge of the cot and stand, intending to investigate the problem in the cockpit yourself. However, the moment you are on your feet you are suddenly plowed into by a warm, firm chest. Din muffles a curse as he catches you, tugging you upright before you slam into the unforgiving durasteel floor. 

"What are you doing?" You demand, feeling like a fool. Your emotions are still frazzled after the restless night, and you know you're being unreasonably cross but you can't help yourself.

"Just checking on the cockpit, verd'ika."

The word is unfamiliar, but before you can question the meaning he's moving past you towards the ladder. Now that he's gone, you hang your head, ashamed of your behavior. He was being far too kind to receive such harsh treatment from you. He did laugh at me though. Without his presence, you feel a little silly standing in the hull by yourself, so you decide to crawl back into your cot. You turn, fumbling a little in the dark, and hold a hand out to feel your way around. The tip of your fingertips finally brush the cot, and you surge forward, eager to slide underneath your blanket.

Your foot ricochets off something round and extremely solid, and in the next second you’re hopping around on one foot as curses spill from your lips. Stupid helmet, damned Mandalorian, kriffing alarm, frikking nightmares. If this isn't a cursed day you didn't know what to say. You finally set your foot back down and feel around for the position of the helmet as cautiously as you can with your injured foot. Then you give it a solid kick with your, as of yet, uninjured foot. The clang that echoes through the hull is extremely satisfying, and there's a smug smirk tugging at the corners of your lips.

"Are you done abusing my helmet?"

You let out a surprised yelp when he catches you by surprise, but you can't even bring yourself to feel ashamed.

"Just checking to make sure it was still up to snuff. I don't want you to sustain an injury to your head while collecting a bounty."

"Somehow I find that hard to believe."

"Well, I can’t imagine why."

There is a long pause, and you are worried you’ve made him uncomfortable with your banter.

"Do you want to talk about last night?"

As a matter of fact, you do not want to talk about last night. You never want to talk about last night. You just hope that the memory of the nightmare will fade away as soon as you throw yourself into your work.

"I know it can be difficult to share a painful experience. If you ever need to talk about it, I'm here."

"Maybe later?"

"Of course. Now if you don't mind, I am going to need my helmet back."

"Oh, right." You blush as you bend down to retrieve it from the durasteel floor. "Here you go." You try not to hyper-fixate on the brush of skin against skin that accompanies the action of handing over his helmet.

"I am going to turn the lights on now if that's ok."

"That's fine."

You blink your eyes a little when he activates the lights. The first thing you realize is that you are much closer than you expected. In fact you have to crane your neck to meet the visor of his helmet. All of a sudden your throat is dry and you are all too aware of your state of undress. Then you notice that his duraweave suit is extremely form-fitting. Now, when you say form-fitting, you mean he is probably wearing the same suit he wore as a teenager. Every curve of his body, every muscle, is visible to your eyes. You suck in a breath. If you let your gaze wander down just a little. Kriffing hell, you need to get your heart rate checked. Does he know that you are looking at him? He must. Wait...does he like it? You sidle a little closer, and your ego soars when you hear his breath hitch through the modulator. Another step and you're separated by a millimeter of air. You crane your neck back further, gazing into the visor.

"You think you could turn the lights off again, just for a second?"

He doesn't respond verbally, but his hand moves to the side of his helmet and you're surrounded by darkness once again.

You stretch out a hand, breath catching when your fingertips graze the duraweave over his chest. Not wanting to alarm him, you press down gently at first, then his hand is settling over yours, urging you to open your palm and splay your fingers across his chest. You dare to repeat the action with your other hand, basking in the feel of his warmth beneath your palms. Then you’re sliding them up, higher, higher, until they curve around the slopes of his shoulders. You breathe once, twice. You swear you can feel his pulse thrumming beneath your fingers.

"Din." His name escapes your lips like a sigh.

Both his hands move to cover yours, guiding them the rest of the way up, until they settle on the sides of his helmet. He's shaking, you note. His hands are trembling as they cover yours. Then you realize that you are shaking too.

"Is it ok if I….Can I….I don't want to…" You exhale shakily. "Can I lift it just a little?" Your heartbeat is roaring loudly in your ears, you're not sure you'll be able to hear him, even if he does respond.

"Please." He whispers.

You are not sure who moves first, but you will never forget how gentle he is in the moment. His thumbs caress the back of your knuckles, the action so tender, so unlike the hunter he claims to be. There is a pause as he bends down to accommodate your shorter height, his hands guiding yours as he tilts the helmet upwards until his breath is fanning across your lips. It’s absolutely sinful how soft his lips are, how gently he kisses you. The kiss itself is a little clumsy, the lack of experience apparent in both of your actions. But after a few seconds you develop a rhythm. 

His hands abandon yours to curl around your waist and neck, and you learn that if you tilt your head just a little, your lips will slot into place like two pieces of a puzzle. You only pull away once your legs begin burning, taxed from standing on your toes the whole time. But Din is having none of that, he bends down further, your back bowing slightly at the change of position, and then he’s kissing you so thoroughly that you’re certain you might pass out. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eventually, you two separate, the cries of the child finally demanding your attention. Din pulls away first, planting a kiss on your forehead before he lets the helmet fall back into place over his lips. The lights are switched back on, and after a longing glance you both move to resume your duties as usual. 

When Din turns to collect his armor from the floor, you stand next to your cot with the ploy of folding the blanket and retrieving your day clothes. You feel a little bit ashamed of your devious thought process until he bends over. His firm backside is completely exposed to your eyes, and you can't help but admire the curve of his-

"So am I allowed to stare at your ass too?"

"Din!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Verd’ika: little warrior

#the mandalorian x reader #mando reader fluff #the mandalorian fanfiction #mandalorian x you #reader insert #din dijarin x reader #pedro pascal x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin fluff #star wars imagine #i'm actually really proud of this #first fic

[amyisherenowitsokay]

You know what just to SPICE it up a bit imma say zadr too bitch

This bitch tryna give me arthritis smdh. Making me out myself for my dual-ship on main, can't even believe a bitch.

PRE-RELATIONSHIP

1. How did they first meet?

School. We must never forget the infamous handcuffs scene.

2. What was their first impression of each other?

Pure, unrivaled loathing.

3. Did any of their friends or family want them to get together?

Gaz said "kiss already" and throws things at them when they're getting too far away from "I want you dead" territory and well into "you want to fuck me so bad and it makes you look stupid" territory. Professor Membrane thinks they're adorable.

4. Who felt romantic feelings first?

Dib. Hormones get the best of us all. You can only be obsessed with someone so long before motivations get blurry.

5. Did either of them try to resist their feelings?

Zim would nearly break his PAK and commit accidental die trying to delete the emotions or install an emotional inhibitor. Dib would have a full mental breakdown trying to sort through it, which would manifest poorly in his behavior and negatively impact his ability to engage in their usual altercations. Pro tip: if you are painfully attracted to someone, being in a position where they pin you to the asphalt or lean over your desk to hiss insults at you is a bad idea.

6. If you had told one of them that the other would be their soulmate, what would they think?

I stand by what I said on my ZAGR post in that Zim doesn't know what a soulmate is, or the concept of a soul, but given this is in regards to his arch-nemesis instead of a creature he's mostly indifferent too, he'd be pissed at the insinuation he was in any way bound to Dib. Dib's fragile psyche would not survive the revelation.

7. What would their lives be like if they had never met?

Really empty. Their rivalry and parallel situations regarding neglectful authority figures is what keeps them going for so many years.

GENERAL

1. Who initiated the relationship, and how did it go?

As someone who thinks Zim doesn't understand even the concept of not being a possessive jackass, I think Zim just sort of concludes after awhile that, regardless of Dib's feelings, or even Zim's own feelings, whatever they have makes them wholly and entirely each other's. Just completely and hilariously misunderstanding the concept of a relationship, but still being incredibly presumptive in assuming they already have one. He also doesn't let Dib know of this revelation either, so eventually Dib explodes about his crush, and Zim's like "we are already together???? moron???" Dib could argue, and he kind of wants to, but he also never expected Zim to reciprocate, so he just sort of nods and is like "you know what, sure" and that's the end of it. They do not have an anniversary, but Dib's not really like that, and Zim doesn't know anniversaries are a thing anyways.

2. Did they have an official first date? If so, what was it like?

Again, stealing from my own ZAGR post, but I don't think Zim's really a 'date' person who would plan out that sort of thing. Dib is an awkward moron with arguably worse social skills than even Zim, and mentally comes to the conclusion that dragging Zim on investigations is basically like a date, and Zim doesn't bitch about it anymore than expected, therefore he is a master of romance, so it's fine.

3. What was their first kiss like?

Awkward, and quick. Dib is not a great communicator, nor is he great at explaining things like human demonstrations of affection, especially not when Zim's scowling impatiently at him through is fumbling and stuttering. He just goes for it, and it's quick and he misses his mouth almost. Zim is extremely surprised, especially when Dib makes terrible excuses about needing to be elsewhere and flees. Zim does his own research, and their second kiss is predated by a lecture about being better than Dib at everything/Dib being bad at everything. It is much more successful, even if afterwards Dib instigates a fight about Zim's tongue being weird.

4. Were they each other’s first anything (kiss, relationship, etc.)?

First everything, except kiss. Gretchen kissed Dib in high school as a dare. Zim will never forgive her for it.

5. What’s their height difference? Age difference?

I'd die to make them the same height, but I think the image of Zim being average height while Dib is a gangly big boi is just too funny. Zim would be pissed, and Dib would be so smug but so uncoordinated.

6. What’s their relationship with each other’s families?

Gaz interacts with them as minimally as possible, because they are loud and gross and annoying, but she's okay with Zim overall. They have a mutual understanding that Dib is stupid, completely reckless, and requires constant supervision to keep him from getting eaten by a ghoul or something. Gaz does genuinely trust him to skewer anything that tries to kill her brother, but she also knows that Dib isn't the only one with 0 sense of self-preservation. Dib was initially wary of Professor Membrane's reaction, because his dad is sort of unpredictable when it comes to his only son, but the Professor's only commentary is that he is glad his son finally made it official with his 'little green friend.' Dib then realizes that the implication in that perpetual comment about Zim had air quotes around that "friend" part all along.

Dib thinks Gir's gross and loud and doesn't get him, but he likes to team up with him and/or use him as a means to annoy Zim. The Base hates him, because now there's two morons with no sense of self-preservation that it needs to keep track of. Minimoose and Dib are bros.

7. Who takes the lead in social situations?

Zim, if only because he is arguably more 'charming' than Dib's fumbling attempts at communication with non-paranormal parties.

8. Who gets jealous easier?

Zim. Dib I think would have his 'HTTYD Hiccup moment' as he gets older, but still has that ingrained low self-esteem from years of ridicule and abuse. He is completely oblivious to the new attention he gets. Zim, however, is not. Dib never really notices the cause of his weird snarling and clinginess, but he shrugs it off as Zim just being weird and continues with whatever he was doing.

9. Who whispers inappropriate things in the other’s ear?

Zim is a slut, I will die on this hill.

LOVE

1. Who said “I love you” first?

Dib. He says it casually, in the dark, when they're on a stake-out to find some wood goblin or something. He says it like he's talking about something plane and unremarkable.

I think a ZADR relationship would need Zim to be a lot more independent in terms of researching how romantic relationships 'work,' since Dib's not a great communicator, and there's an ingrained rivalry that will never dissolve between them, no matter how many times they kiss, so Zim would be a lot more motivated to figure things out on his own. He would, in this circumstance, know the weight of Dib's way-too-casual admittance, and it would be a huge shock to him. He'd be pretty shaken about it for awhile, and Dib's not bothered when he doesn't reply. Dib would be pretty sure Zim would never admit it, but he does, eventually, because he refuses to be a coward about it.

2. What are their primary love languages?

Verbal affirmations. With their self-esteems firmly in the toilet in Zim's kitchen, being able to have someone validate them who they respect would mean a lot to them.

3. Who uses cheesy pick-up lines?

Dib. He uses it to start fights with Zim about linguistics and metaphors. Also, he's 99.9% positive Zim secretly is flattered by it, but hates that he is.

4. How often do they cuddle/engage in PDA?

Zim is very clingy, but Dib's too on the move to really pin down for a good cuddle frequently. He's twitchy and his minds always racing, but every once in a while when Zim's completely fed up, or Dib's running on fumes but still forcing himself on, Zim will all but pin him to a cushioned surface and force him to sleep. Neither of them are PDA people.

5. Who initiates kisses?

Zim. Dib's really shy about it, and also normally too distracted to pay Zim the attention he so obviously deserves, and often misses Zim's 'signals.'

6. Who’s the big and little spoon?

PAK not comfy against sternum. It's also easier to force Dib to sleep if he's the big spoon, because he can pin his limbs.

7. What are their favorite things to do together?

Paranormal investigations, and morally ambiguous and/or largely dangerous experiments.

8. Who’s better at comforting the other?

Dib, which is hilarious, because he's about as smooth as a cheese grater, but he is very attuned to the person he's been obsessed with for years, and he can also relate to a lot of his issues. While Zim usually shrugs off the sentimentality and the empathy, dismissing it as 'pity,' the affirmation means a lot to him.

9. Who’s more protective?

Zim. He has to anticipate his lover's stupidity to make sure he stays alive to hunt ghosts another day.

10. Do they prefer verbal or physical affection?

Verbal. Hormones are real, but there's something that eases the sting of years of abusive in a crooning praise or a sincere compliment.

11. What are some songs that apply to their relationship, in-universe or otherwise?

https://open.spotify.com/track/3IvUhEVbbA81QnEVhsFHiH?si=b3c5787c9ff14105

12. What kind of nicknames do they call each other?

It is primarily age-old insults that lack the bite and sincerity they once had.

13. Who remembers the little things?

Dib. Zim isn't inattentive by any means, cataloguing all of Dib's weird habits and nuances and what not, but for all the compensating Zim does to keep Dib safe and healthy, Dib reciprocates in meaningful gestures. He remembers to pack Zim-friendly snacks on their road trips and ways to keep Gir entertained, if they have to bring him. He always checks the weather and has an extra coat, just in case. Never makes Zim feel bad about needing to check, just one more time, to see if he got any incoming messages from home.

DOMESTIC LIFE

1. If they get married, who proposes?

Dib.

2. What’s the wedding like? Who attends?

It's just Gaz, Minimoose, and Gir. Membrane is too far away to attend, but that was deliberate. Dib didn't want his tendency to make things about 'the Membrane line' effect the intimacy and importance of the ceremony. Also, Zim insists on incorporating some Irken rituals into it, so it'd be hard to make excuses and explanations to why Zim wants Dib to fuck with his weird pink backpack during their wedding.

3. How many kids do they have, if any? What are they like?

No kiddos. Neither of them would be interested, even if it was biologically possible.

4. Do they have any pets?

Seriously, Gir counts, right?

5. Who’s the stricter parent?

Dib. Zim refuses to parent Gir when Dib is more inclined to do it, since he's more irritated by it.

6. Who worries the most?

Dib has perpetual anxiety. So does Zim, but he masks it better.

7. Who kills the bugs in the house?

Dib, to prevent the gooey grossness that is Gir's bug-breath.

8. How do they celebrate holidays?

Just with Gaz.

9. Who’s more likely to convince the other to come back to sleep in the morning?

Zim will strap Dib to a bed himself to get him to go the fuck to sleep, because it's been over 48 hours you insufferable human, and--!

10. Who’s the better cook?

Dib's idea of cooking is a microwave, salt, and pepper. Zim is forced to learn the wonders of human food to keep his idiot from dying of malnutrition.

11. Who likes to dance?

Gir.

#my hand #is deceased #invader zim #ZADR #asks #Zim #Dib #amyisherenowansweringyou

[bigskydreaming]

I know that you don't think there should be conflict between Dick and Jason because of Robin and I get that, but I was just wondering since it so often does happen that way or is referenced happening in the past what do you think the most ideal resolution for that would be?

I mean to be honest, I don't think there is any ideal resolution if its JUST between Dick and Jason, is the thing? Like its not even that I dislike the trope because its not canon based, its that it COULD be an okay conflict if it kept the right things centered instead of just casually bringing them up but without ever putting focus on them.

What I mean by that is like....the reason this trope is usually such a problem IMO beyond just being unnecessary, is that.....people always try and just address it as this issue that exists between Dick and JASON.....

Even while acknowledging - but just in passing - that the REAL issue is and always was between Dick and BRUCE.

So like, you can't EVER adequately resolve a conflict IMO, if you're not actually resolving it between the right parties. Its not something that can be 'fixed' just by Dick and Jason because it isn't something that was CAUSED by Dick and Jason. It wasn't even caused by Dick! The conflict in as much as it does exist, stems entirely from possible reactions Dick did or could have had to BRUCE's ACTIONS.

And people keep trying to erase Bruce from that equation on the back end, even while paying lip service to the acknowledgment that he's part of the equation on the front end, and that just doesn't work and it never can, IMO. You're retroactively making it a problem between the wrong people entirely, and it shouldn't be surprising then that resolutions that only involve those specific people don't ever fully adequately resolve the problem caused by another person entirely.

Like, the 'resolution' is almost ALWAYS just Dick saying he realizes he was an ass to Jason and it wasn't Jason's fault, and then makes it all about making it up to Jason. And there's soooooooo many ways to address this issue, that for that to be the one and ONLY resolution we pretty much ever see - and with it not even involving Bruce at all - that's a problem.

There are SO many ways to still have this as a kind of conflict to some degree or another and resolve it WITHOUT just throwing Dick under the bus and acting in PRACTICE like he's the one doing something wrong even while saying something else about Bruce.

But pretty much all of them involve BRUCE doing SOMETHING....because ultimately....it all goes back to Bruce and not Dick.

So if Dick is behaving like an ass to Jason in a story? Dick 'realizing this' and apologizing still isn't that strong a resolution, because either Dick explains his side of things and why he reacted that way, in which case there's a high likelihood that its going to still read to a lot of readers like him weakly making excuses for himself but not actually justifying anything he said or did to Jason in the story....or the other possibility is that Dick takes full responsibility so as to NOT come across as just trying to make excuses for himself, and dives into the reparations and accountability whole-heartedly, in which case Dick never actually gets his side of the story delved into and his emotions and reactions upheld as valid or even just understandable or sympathetic to any meaningful degree.

But the problem I have even here is then.....well, why is it treated like Dick is the only possible person who can even speak up on Dick's behalf? Why does he always have to self-advocate? Even if Bruce is still being obtuse about what he did wrong - Alfred was there, he knows what happened and is more than capable of grasping the real root of Dick being upset, you can have Barbara explain to Jason why this hit Dick so badly and how it really had nothing to do with Jason, one of the other Titans can step in on Dick's behalf, Clark or Diana can say something....

There's a dozen other characters who can advocate FOR Dick and speak up for him TO Jason, explain the FULL situation and try and put Dick in a better light so as not to sour Jason on his new brother and try and preserve whatever potential relationship they build in the future once Dick's better able to move past his hurt or make his peace with it, via Jason having just....more information and being in a position to be more sympathetic about it rather than just hurt and reactive on his OWN behalf - which is literally all Dick is doing in the first place, so Jason's more than capable of understanding that mindset!

Like, Jason's a very empathetic character, and he more than ANYONE else in the Batfam is capable of grasping the nuances of having barely anything left to remember your family by, anything good to hold on to, and to see THAT just given away to a total stranger by someone who has no right to give it away in the first place? Jason is the MOST likely person to be outraged on Dick's behalf if he hears the whole story from someone unlikely to downplay it the way Dick usually does in order to not make Jason feel worse about it. He'd be like...what the fuck, who the fuck thinks that's okay?

It is so, SO easy to preserve Dick and Jason's potential brotherly relationship by just....letting someone else speak for Dick and cast him in a positive light specifically because Dick DOES believe in accepting full accountability when he thinks he's done anything wrong to any degree. He's not someone who tries to spin his own mistakes, he takes more blame than he usually deserves.....so its kinda what I was saying earlier about how people tend to take advantage of him being an unreliable narrator. Why is his side of things so often limited to just HIM defending himself to others when its well established that a core part of his character is he doesn't really believe in going all in on defending himself in the first place? That he's more than willing to take the fall? (With this of course having a ton to do with his self-esteem issues and his uncertainty or lack of trust in the security of his place in his home or family, but I digress).

But you see what I mean? We KNOW Dick's not the best advocate for himself because of his well advertised guilt complex....so why is he so often left to be the only one to advocate for himself even in situations where there are many, MANY other onlookers with as full a grasp of the problem as he has himself, and no reason to pin the blame on Dick or cast him in a negative light?

And for me, it always comes back to fandom's tendency to try and divert attention away from Bruce's own accountability in this matter - because refusing to have anyone else speak up for Dick comes from the same place IMO as not having Bruce step up to volunteer his own accountability in the matter. People don't WANT Jason being mad at Bruce for this or resenting Bruce for getting his relationship with his new brother off to such a poor start by literally giving away the only thing Dick had left of HIS family, the one thing in the world he still had that didn't come from Bruce originally, the way Dick didn't himself.

So like....the answer to your question is I don't think there can ever be a true resolution between JUST Dick and Jason alone, because the second you make any kind of real conflict between them on this matter even if just initially, Jason IS valid in being hurt by ANY degree of distance or being treated coolly by Dick, because Jason did absolutely nothing wrong....so its not on Jason to resolve this......but by the same token, there is this tendency for Dick to default to being an unreliable narrator here and UNDERSELL how much he was actually HURT by this rather than just acting like an ass because of this specifically - which means the FOCUS is still always going to be on WHAT Dick did rather than WHY.....and thus ensures that there's never going to be a true focus on WHY Dick felt hurt and HOW Dick felt hurt.....and thus there's never going to ever be any real resolution to THAT specifically, either.

And THAT'S the ultimate problem. That addressing this conflict between Dick and Jason - its not enough to just have Dick 'get' that he's hurting Jason who doesn't deserve it, and apologize for that and do better, and thus things are resolved and made better for JASON.....but ONLY Jason. Dick still, in this scenario, has to essentially just get over it.

And if your conflict on any level acknowledges to any degree that Dick's attitude or whatever is still ultimately just coming from a place of hurt....

Dick 'getting over it' isn't good enough. That's not actually a resolution. That's writing Dick as settling for an acceptance that HE'S never going to get a resolution so the best he can hope for is to get over it himself in order to make things better for him and Jason instead of just spreading the hurt all around. And that sucks, pretty much.

So I'd say in any case, you're still better served in this conflict by having literally anyone OTHER than Dick broach the subject with Jason first and at least pave the way for Jason to be sympathetic and understanding, so that Dick's not just 'immature' or 'spoiled' or 'acting like an asshole' as the prime takeaway - no, he's a nineteen year old who's been on the outs with Bruce for well over a year by this point and he's hurt by Bruce's seeming thoughtlessness over how he'd be affected by not just giving away Robin, but adopting someone else without even notifying Dick himself of a new addition to their family, or even attempting to first clarify with Dick what the status of Dick in relation to this family actually even is.

But ultimately, I'm always going to fall back on saying that if you're going to make this a conflict between the brothers initially, to ANY degree....the only TRUE resolution requires BRUCE being the one to take the initiative and resolve things for ALL of them, by being frank and just saying hey, he fucked up here, and explaining to Jason why Dick was hurt by what he did and how it had nothing to do with Jason, which in the process of that demonstrates for Dick that Bruce actually GETS how what he did was wrong and how it hurt Dick and why Dick feels the way he does about it....thus allowing everyone to get on the same page via the resolving actions of the one party who ACTUALLY had the most to do with setting this particular conflict in motion in the first place.

Anything less will always read like a half measure IMO because like....the conflict began with Bruce and what he did.

It should end with Bruce and what he does too.

[fuchsiagrasshopper]

Contending the Flame X

Author’s Note: Ten chapters in! I haven’t written something this long in a while and there’s so much more to come yet, so thanks for your encouragement, patience, and kind words as always!

Song inspiration for this chapter: So I never do this, but inspiration in song came to me via Oceans by Puscifer

Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word count: 3268

Warnings: Canon divergent, Master/servant dynamic, language, hint of angst

When you first saw the great expanse of the blue ocean touching sky, you only had two thoughts; that it was more beautiful than all of the green hills of England, and that Ivar should have been at your side. He had broken his promise, though not intentionally you understood.

He had been there at the break of dawn as Ubbe helped you into the longboat. After you had parted in the slave's quarters, you hadn't been given the chance to be alone with him again. Standing at the edge of the water, his face had been as blank as a fresh sheet of parchment, and he was careful not to look in your direction. You never stopped looking at him though, even as the bow of the boat pierced the water and the current started to drag you away. Ivar soon became a black line in your vision, and when you lost sight of York, it set in that you were leaving behind your homeland. 

Hvitserk had pulled you aside days before you were to depart to give you an education on what to expect when travelling by sea. It wasn't uncommon to have an upset stomach or light head, but drinking enough water would help ease such discomforts. You were also told to keep close to Ubbe's side should the clouds sink low and drive squalls into the side of the boat. Hvitserk had laughed at the alarmed look on your face but had continued to reassure you that if you all ended up in the water, that Ubbe was a competent swimmer. Not very comforting.

The chill in the air was different in the open water than when on land. Taking a look around the longboat at your fellow traveller's, they did not appear to be as bothered by the cold. Their northern bones were built to withstand the wind it seemed. Ubbe had draped you in a fur pelt, but it might as well have been a silk curtain. The cold had seeped into your marrow, and you felt soaked from the spray of the salty sea. 

As you watched the waves roll by, you heard the thumping steps of boots on the wooden boards coming closer. Ubbe tossed you an unsure smile as you looked up, and he took the spot across from you. It was still odd sharing in your first tour of the ocean with someone who was mostly a stranger. When you had first spotted him on the night of the raid, you had only seen another blood soak barbarian who spoke in a foreign tongue. Your paths had intertwined since then, but you hadn't spoken until this morning. He had apologized for scaring you, and also explained he had only been trying to help you that night. Perhaps things would have turned out differently had you stayed at his side, but you chose not to ponder the 'what if' scenario.

"You travel the water well," He complimented, cutting through your thoughts. "Most throw up their first time."

"I've been following Hvitserk's advice," You said, holding up your waterskin. You were mindful to pace yourself and not chug it down all at once either. "It's also beautiful out here. I didn't want to miss anything."

Ubbe nodded as his gaze fixed on the knife in your other hand. You didn't know what to do with it, and you didn't have any other belongings in your name. Even if you didn't agree with the purpose of its gifting, you wanted to keep it close.

"Ivar gave you that?" Ubbe prodded lightly, but you could see he was curious. 

"Yes," You said, hoping to God you didn't give up a blush as you thought about Ivar.

"Thralls aren't supposed to have weapons, you know."

"I tried to tell that to your brother, but he insisted."

Ubbe smirked. "I wonder why he would do that?"

You frowned as you looked down at the aforementioned knife. "What do you mean?"

"Only that he was constantly badgering me about keeping you safe," Ubbe said and he laughed at your confounded expression. "I'm not sure what Saxon men gift to their women, but for us, a weapon is of some significance."

You considered Ubbe's words, and how adamant Ivar had been when placing it in your hand. You'd never had any man offering you gifts before. Maybe that was why you kept it so close.

"I told him I wouldn't know how to use it. That was a lie."

"You know how to wield a knife?" Ubbe asked incredulously. 

"Well, not with any real skill, but when Ivar gave it to me he said it can take a life if I had to. That doesn't require any technique, just courage and a fight to survive." You withdrew the knife from the sheath, focused on how the blade glinted from the sun.

"And have you...taken a life that is?"

You looked out over the side of the boat, but there was no escape out there. Seeing how far the water spread put into perspective how alone these ships were. The Northmen seemed to be the bravest people you had ever known, to venture out into an abyss and hope to come across land after travelling such a distance.

Your attention returned to Ubbe, and you had nearly forgotten his question or rather you had hoped he would. "I've never told anyone this before; only God. It has been my burden and shame, a part of my past I've been seeking absolution for."

"You mean you've killed before?" Ubbe stretched out his legs and moved closer. It suddenly felt as if you were the only two sharing the boat.

"In a different life, before I had taken my vows as a nun. I was alone on the streets after my mother died, still new to the idea of being an orphan. I knew little in the ways of fending for myself. Up until that time I had survived on what scraps my mother could beg or steal for us both." You felt your eyes close a moment, and you could see the crooked alleys of Rendlesham again. It had all the charm of a charnel house, and the scent of spoiled goat's milk was everywhere. 

"When my mother died, I didn't mourn her absence as much as I resented it. She left me alone. I was a vagrant, and my struggle came over a bit of leftover stale bread. Another poor boy wanted it, but I had found it first. He was as skinny as me, but I remember he seemed so strong. I knew I would never have wrestled the bread back from him, so I picked up a stone and hit him over the back of the head with it. He didn't even make a noise, he just laid there. At first, I thought he was unconscious, but he wasn't breathing. I took the bread, and I ran. I haven't stopped running since."

"You joined the church after that?" Ubbe guessed.

You nodded. "I was too young to make any real commitment to joining a nunnery, but the sisters' pity orphans and that meant a bed to sleep in. But I couldn't get over my guilt at what I'd done. It wasn't for me to decide if that boy died, but I had been selfish. I wanted to live, and he was in my way."

"Self-preservation isn't a bad thing. It takes courage to stand up when it is so much easier to lie down," said Ubbe, and he held out his hand, silently asking for the knife. You put it in his palm while hesitating, afraid he wouldn't give it back. "This can save you. It is an extension of that will to survive, and even a nun can become as fierce as a shieldmaiden if the situation calls for it."

You were quick in retrieving your knife back, and your eagerness caused Ubbe to laugh. You smiled in return a moment before growing serious. "I hope I never have to use it."

"I wish that for you, if only because it brings you peace. But your life is tied to my little brother's now, and death seems to follow him like a black cloud. I would get used to the idea all the same if I were you."

You had so many questions about Ivar, about his past, and what his intentions for you were. It wouldn't have been fair to try and pry the answers out of Ubbe though. Ivar's mind was as closed off to him as it was to you it seemed. Besides, you wanted to hear the truth from the man himself, whenever you were to meet again. A throb grew in your chest, but you refused to call it longing.

Ubbe stood up and brushed a hand on your shoulder. "You should rest. Our journey has only begun, and the ocean can turn you weary."

"I will try," You agreed if only to placate him. "And Ubbe, can you not tell Ivar about what we discussed?"

"Why not?" He asked, a genuine look of confusion falling on his face.

"I just...don't want him to think badly of me."

"I don't think he would. In fact, I think it would only bind him to you more," Ubbe said, but your pleading eyes didn't waver. "But if it's that important to you, I won't mention it."

"Thank you."

Ubbe nodded before leaving you to return to the men rowing the ship. You tried to do as he suggested, settling further into your fur in the intent to sleep, but your mind was awake and you were surrounded by water that never knew rest. Your thoughts dwelled on the murdered boy, his face you had since forgotten. All that remained was his blood on your hands. You wondered again if anyone had noticed his disappearance, a family waiting for a son who was never coming home, or maybe he had been like you. Left alone, and ignored by the unfriendly faces of strangers. 

What Ubbe had said about the truth binding Ivar to you made you curious. The Northmen had such different views on death and murder. Ubbe had not flinched at your story, so you knew Ivar wouldn't even bat an eye. It felt good to unburden yourself from the secret, and that in turn filled you with guilt. You didn't want to reflect on that moment so haphazardly. You had taken a life.

With a sigh you looked up at the sky, wondering which god was listening to you. Closing your eyes, you began to murmur your prayer.

"Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee…"

ooOOoo 

Ivar was miserable. He loved seeing the world and leading the army to conquer new lands, but it was a pity he had to travel by sea to accomplish all of that. There was no skipping over the inevitable part of sailing on a longboat and try as he could to refrain from feeling sick, he had already lost the contents of his stomach over the stern. He knew he was as pale as a baby seal, and his expression was screwed into one of discomfort and acrimony. Hvitserk was mindful to keep anyone from approaching him, even Freydis who thought she could use the opportunity to soothe his irritability with her false concerns.

Vestfold was a long journey from York and centered in inhospitable territory surrounded by floating ice. Ubbe and his boat would likely reach Kattegat before they were to arrive in King Harald's domain. Ivar considered how to approach the man. He was both wise and volatile and had led great legions of men when Ivar was still an infant. He respected the older King a great deal, but that wasn't any reason to let his guard down and play the situation with anything less than caution. 

Ivar looked around the ship and spotted Hvitserk laughing around with the men. He was grateful to have his brother with him, but it didn't ease the ache of your separation. He had never broken a promise before until he had said he would take you to see the ocean. You were off somewhere else with Ubbe, who he prayed to Odin would keep you safe. He wondered how you were travelling by boat, and whether or not you had thought of him in return.

He had gifted you with a knife, and in return, the only thing Ivar had of yours was your wooden cross pendant. It was from the first day you had met. He didn't know why he kept it then, only that it had nothing to do with the Christian symbol. It was something of yours, delicate and modest that had rested close to your heart. It fit so small and insignificant in his hand, and he traced it with his finger, hating everything it represented but unable to toss it aside.

"Are you considering converting?" Heahmund's voice chimed at his side. He was tied up at the back of the boat, and Ivar thought he had been asleep until now.

"I would rather die forgotten and nameless, belonging to no god than to ever believe in your powerless one," Ivar groused back as he hid the cross away.

"Where did you get that then? From an unfortunate soul whose path you crossed."

Ivar thought of your face, breathless and flushed after he had kissed you. "On the contrary. She has been very fortunate to have met me."

"I see," Heahmund said unconcerned. "It was (Y/N)'s then."

Ivar frowned, craning his head to engage with the Bishop head-on. "(Y/N)? Is that her true name?"

"Yes," Heahmund replied, and he lost the smarmy smirk. "She never told you that then."

Ivar wanted to toss the Bishop overboard, regardless of the usefulness he thought he could provide up until now. You had confessed your true name to this man, something Ivar had been trying to wrest from you for months. His stomach pulled tight from the hurt, and he thought he was going to be sick again.

"Ivar," The Bishop called for his attention. "I'm certain she only told me because she was confessing a private matter to me. I did not ask it of her."

"What matter?"

Heahmund shook his head. "I cannot say, for that would be a betrayal of her trust."

Ivar forced himself to stand, even as he swayed from the motion of the boat. He clung to one crutch while thrusting the other into the center of the Bishop's chest, forcing out an exhale from the impact. 

"Tell me now, or you won't have any teeth left to chew with." Or to smile with for that matter.

Heahmund hesitated a moment as if to measure how true he felt the threat to be. He came around to the smart conclusion and began to talk. "She only said that she felt lost in regards to your intentions, and how she feels about you. I warned her not to fall in love with a heathen."

Love? Ivar frowned, not able to grasp how such a concept had been conjured up in a conversation between you. But the notion didn't repulse him. It was a delight. He had an entirely different reason for the fog in his head, none of which had to do with the shifting of the boat. Could it be possible that you felt the same?

"What did (Y/N) say?" He asked, getting familiar with the taste of your name on his tongue. 

"She said that she could never give her heart to a heathen and that she will remain with God. Alas, Sister Mary Catharine will never belong to you, Boneless."

Ivar didn't take you to be one for cruelty, and he was skeptical about what Heahmund was saying. Another part of his mind, a dark part that he had tried to shut out, believed the Bishop. Everything from the kiss to your attempt on your own life, and of the words you had shared occupied his thoughts into one loud boom of chaos. He loathed the distance that now separated you. If you were with him now, he could hear the truth pass from your lips rather than wanting to shake it free from Heahmund. 

Ivar went closer to him until his figure loomed and blocked the sun from his face. "You both belong to me, and if you think you can steal her back to England, then you'd best prepare yourself for the cross, Bishop. I hear your people crucify thieves." 

"Ivar," Hvitserk interrupted, wearing an unsure expression as he approached. "Everything alright?"

"Perfect. I was just clearing something up with our God-fearing Bishop. We understand each other much better now, I think."

Heahmund stared back blankly, and Ivar could sense his hatred. He revelled in it, knowing that he had taken all of the power away from the Bishop. 

"Great. Can I talk to you for a moment, now that everything's settled," Hvitserk said, already starting to walk away towards the side of the boat.

Ivar spared one last look at Heahmund, who had humbled himself in defeat. His head was bowed, and he uttered no prayer under his breath. Ivar smirked before leaving him.

Hvitserk's shoulders were tense, and he was gripping the ledge of the boat as Ivar came up behind him. He appeared annoyed, something Ivar wasn't used to seeing. Hvitserk was the calm type.

"What's the matter?" He asked.

Hvitserk shot a sour look over his shoulder in the direction of Heahmund. "I've had it with that lippy Christian, and I'm not the only one. Most of our warriors aren't keen on having a Bishop doing our fighting."

Ivar rolled his eyes. "He's nothing more than a pawn. No real power."

"Then you should tell them that. Most would rather have the nun back."

Ivar froze at the mention of you. "What do they know about (Y/N)?" 

"Who?" 

"That's her name, as I've found out," Ivar explained brusquely. "Anyway, most of them don't even know her."

"That's not true. A lot of them have seen or spoken with her since she aided Audhild."

It had slipped his mind accidentally that he wasn't always with you since he had given you away. Things had happened beyond his sight of you, like the bruise on your eye that he was never made privy to. "What do they say about her?"

"They think she is meek, like most Christians," Hvitserk said, shrugging. "But she isn't judgemental when it comes to our customs, and she has admirable patience. I told them she must have, to have put up with you this long." 

Ivar jostled to the side as Hvitserk nudged him in the shoulder. They both broke out into a laugh, and it helped remind Ivar he wasn't alone in whatever came next. Vestfold would be upon them soon enough, and there was no room to be careless. 

The brothers stood sharing in each other's silence. Ivar couldn't hazard a guess about Hvitserk's thoughts, too preoccupied with his own and the weight of the cross he had stashed away in his tunic. He stared out at the water, with visions of sea serpents and merfolk playing tricks on his mind. Leagues away in your longship, he hoped the first sight of the ocean had brought you some happiness. He would make it up to you with a promise of something else spectacular, and this time he would see it through at your side. 

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#ivar x reader #ivar x you #ivar the boneless #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar ragnarsson #history vikings #vikings #vikings ivar #ivar lothbrok #ivar ragnarsson imagine

[fantastic-rambles]

Fandom: Sk8 the Infinity

Characters: Shindo Ainosuke (Adam), Kikuchi Tadashi (Snake)

Warnings: Physical Violence, Mild Verbal Abuse, References to Murder

Word Count: 1.4k

Summary: (AU - Canon Divergence) Following the murder of Ainosuke’s aunts, Tadashi now faces the far more difficult task of wading through the broken pieces he’s left in his wake and putting them back together. [TadaAi Week 2021 | Day 3: Healing]

[Part 1]

His day starts the same as any other: waking up to the sounds of the ocean and the sharp, citrusy smell of his tea. The crash of the waves gently drag him toward the shore of consciousness, gradually roaring louder in his ears until he opens his eyes to the morning sun filtering through his gauzy curtains. And as always, Tadashi is waiting there attentively, a dark figure in a perfectly tailored suit, ready to take on whatever the day will throw at him.

Ainosuke smiles as he reaches out to grab his secretary’s sleeve, only for his hand to freeze in midair as the nightmare of the previous evening crashes down on the otherwise ideal morning. Had that actually happened? Or was it just a horrible dream, the product of a fevered imagination that was just too tired from his long nights of working, made longer whenever he snuck out to skate?

“Tadashi..." His throat feels raw and sore as he speaks, and then Tadashi is kneeling beside him, offering him a porcelain cup.

“I’ve added extra honey this morning,” Tadashi says, cupping the saucer in his hand. But Ainosuke’s already snatched his hand back, staring at the other man while his heart begins to race. He can't tell what Tadashi is thinking, and he doesn't understand how everything can be so normal after what happened. Nothing has changed in Tadashi’s mannerisms, and Ainosuke is gripped by the sudden desire to vomit again, even though there’s nothing left to bring up.

“It will help with the nausea, too.”

Tadashi seems to realize that Ainosuke isn’t going to take the cup from his hands, so he sets it down on the bedside table before stepping over to the wardrobe to pull out a dress shirt and one of Ainosuke's suits and carrying them back to the bed. But Ainosuke still hasn’t touched the tea, and he’s barely moved at all. Only his eyes have tracked Tadashi as his assistant wandered around the room, as if the other man is a venomous serpent waiting to strike at the slightest provocation.

“Do you require the day off? I can reschedule your meetings if that is the case. But it would raise less suspicion if we were to behave as we normally do.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

Ainosuke’s voice comes out in a soft hiss that surprises even himself. But it doesn’t seem like Tadashi intends to kill him--at least, not immediately--so he pushes past the paralysis, trying to regain control of this insane spiral that his life has gone down. He needs to reassert himself, and he expects--or rather, hopes--that Tadashi will back down and retreat behind his usual, bland statement of “I have no opinion.” That mask of submission had always infuriated him, but now he wants it back. He wants some proof that everything hasn't gone to hell. And yet, in that as well, Tadashi defies everything he’s known about the other man, meeting his eyes squarely.

"Yes, Ainosuke-sama," he replies.

“And how the hell do you think you’re going to get away with this? What about the house staff? Their friends? Me? You killed three people, Tadashi.”

“I’ll handle it. But if you want to turn me in, that’s up to you.” Tadashi reaches out toward Ainosuke, and Ainosuke wants to flinch, but he slaps the hand away instead, desperate to assert his dominance in this situation. But there it is again: Tadashi’s refusal to eliminate the only witness of last night, a decision that Ainosuke can’t reconcile with the stranger he met... or even the steady, logical secretary who’s been at his side since his father passed away. Still, he gets out of bed, waving Tadashi away as he begins to dress himself, not wanting to feel the other man’s touch. It’s a little slower, but he’s eventually pulling his tie snugly against his throat and straightening his cuffs.

“Why did you do it?” Ainosuke demands suddenly, his eyes snapping to Tadashi. A flicker of emotion races through those emerald eyes, too quick for Ainosuke to identify, and then they’re flat again.

“Because their influence was toxic. They hurt you, Ainosuke-sama. They warped your understanding of people, of society... of love.”

"They loved me!"

But Tadashi is shaking his head.

“They loved status, power, and control. And they used that to turn you into their tool. But they never loved you, Ainosuke-sama. Even at the very end... they only thought about themselves. Kanako-san and Masako-san only said what they thought I wanted to hear to try to beg for their lives. They didn’t truly reflect on their actions; they didn’t understand what they’d done wrong, and so they didn’t sincerely apologize. And Hanako-san didn’t even think about you at all: she only cared about the other two.”

“Liar!” If it wouldn’t be entirely childish, Ainosuke would have jammed his hands over his ears to shut out that voice. Because there is no way that what Tadashi is saying could be true. Ever since he’d been young, his aunts had been a constant presence in his life: nurturing and guiding, just like mothers. But strict, too, when they had to be, because they wanted him to become a respectable man.

He couldn’t blame his aunts for their reactions when they faced a murderer, their desire for self-preservation; it was merely a natural, instinctive response. And Hanako had just seen both of her sisters die, with her own death looming: of course she wouldn’t think about him at that moment. But who they were when they were facing a reaper wasn’t who they really were; for decades, they’d assured Ainosuke of their love for him, and they’d consistently showered him with it, all the good and the bad.

Lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t notice Tadashi kneel until it’s too late and the other man has grasped one of Ainosuke’s hands in his own, tightly enough that he can’t pull away. And there’s a spark in those green eyes as Tadashi looks up at him, speaking with more emotion than Ainosuke has heard in years, ever since they were children.

“Give me a chance, Ainosuke-sama. Let me show you what love really is. It doesn’t need to be painful,” he says earnestly, bending his head to press a kiss to the back of Ainosuke’s hand. He seems so pliant and submissive, but Ainosuke knows better, now. He’s seen the monster that lurks beneath that obedient facade, and he bares his teeth in a warning snarl.

“You’re saying that you love me? And that’s why you did that? Know your place!” His free hand clenches into a fist and drives toward the side of Tadashi’s head. He sees the other man tense, but Tadashi doesn’t try to block it or dodge, allowing the full force of the blow to knock him aside and make him relinquish his grip on his master. He crashes against the end table, making the teacup rattle on its saucer. Some of the cooling tea splashes out while Ainosuke advances on him, shaking with an emotion that even he can’t recognize: a mixture of fear, anger, vindictiveness... If he can make Tadashi feel even a fraction of what his aunts had suffered, then it’ll be worth it. It won’t bring them back, but maybe it’ll help him feel better.

His foot draws back, and he hammers a kick into Tadashi’s side, smiling when he hears the air whoosh out of the other man’s lungs. For the first time since the nightmare of last evening, he feels as if he’s in control again as he lands more kicks on his servant who simply cowers and takes it until Ainosuke’s bent over, panting from his exertions, while Tadashi is curled up on the ground, his arms wrapped protectively around his head.

“Get up,” Ainosuke orders, nudging Tadashi with a foot. “We have work to do, right?”

He forces a smile onto his face, the same charming, meaningless smile that he uses whenever he shows up in public. He’ll figure out how to deal with this properly later and decide exactly what he’s going to do after everything has had time to sink in. Right now, his mind is still frozen from the adrenaline and the shock. But at least for his aunts, he’ll get through this day, just the way that they’ve taught him to. Even if it aligns with Tadashi’s motives, whatever they are, Ainosuke can’t let the Shindo reputation be tarnished.

[Part 3 - to come]

#sk8 #SK8 the Infinity #skate the infinity #tadaaiweek2021 #fanfic #fan fic #sk8 adam #shindo ainosuke #ainosuke shindo #sk8 snake #kikuchi tadashi #Tadashi Kikuchi #mine

[rainecreatesstuff]

A Well-Known Fact

Word Count: 8610

Warnings: Janus kinda freaks out when Roman gets mad, but... I think that’s about it? It’s sorta described as a panic attack so. Look out for that.

So, um, this was just an excuse to write Janus-centric fluff, umm.... enjoy?

———————————————————————————————————

A well-known fact about Janus: he is cold-blooded. Or, at least, he thought it was well-known. Remus has known for quite some time, and he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. And whenever Janus was around the others in the Mindscape, he was always somewhere warm, be it under a blanket, by a fire, or near warmed up electronics.

He hadn’t considered that even the most observant of them would fail to observe this.

So now, here he was, trying to figure out how to explain it while Patton kept grabbing his hands, trying to warm them up.

“It really isn't a big deal, Patton. This is just the way I function.”

Patton frowned.

“Sorry kiddo, but no. Virgil runs cold, and he’s warmer than you. Have you been in the Imagination? Are you feeling okay?”

Janus sighed as Patton led him to the couch and threw a blanket over him.

“Yes, I have, and yes, I’m feeling fine. I’m not joking, this is literally how I function.”

Patton huffed.

“You are aware I’m cold-blooded, right?” Janus waved away the hot cocoa the other had made.

“I- what? What do you mean?”

Janus really didn’t want to have to explain this. In all honesty, it was a little embarrassing. He could handle the frightened glances at his scales and his eye, and his forked tongue and his lisp. They were part of his snakelike appearance, and he could easily shapeshift them away if he wanted to.

But his cold-bloodedness? That was something that he couldn’t change, that proved he was inhuman.

And of course it had to be Patton Dad Popstar Morality Sanders that he was explaining it to. He had nothing against Patton, however he was aware of the moral side’s squeamishness. Not only was he morality, but he was also Thomas’ emotions. And Janus was almost certain that the side that had screamed at cartoon spiders would find his inhumanity disturbing, or at the very least frightening.

“I don’t function the same as you, and the others. My body can’t regulate my temperature. I was in the Imagination today, and Roman and Remus tend to keep it cold and rainy during fall, so it makes sense that I’d be a little colder than usual.”

Patton didn’t seem frightened, just… startled.

“How does that work? We’re not real. Well, of course we’re real but… we don’t have like… physical bodies? So how do you get all cold n’ stuff?”

Janus shrugged.

“I don’t know. Just happens. I’ve gotten used to it after all these years. As long as I go under my heat lamp for a while every day during the fall and winter, I’m fine.”

Patron huffed.

“Well, that’s no good! You can’t be locked up in your room all the time just ‘cause you’re chilly!” Patton threw another throw blanket over him.

“When Roman gets back I’ll ask him to put a lamp in here, if that’s okay.” He smiled widely.

“Uh- yeah, um that’s-that’s fine.” Janus accepted the cocoa and snuggled into the blankets.

That had gone… well. Too well. Was he just pretending? Patton didn’t like lying, he knew that, but he’d seen him repress several times, so hiding discomfort was a strength of his.

Janus eyed him warily.

“You’re not… upset?”

Patton’s eyes widened.

“Oh, Jam, did you not tell me ‘cause you thought I’d be weird about it? Of course I’m not upset! When Virgil started hanging out with us we had to make a few adjustments to make him more comfy, and we’re more than willing to do the same for you!” Patton gripped one of Janus’ hands in his own, rubbing the back with his thumb.

“Oh. Uh, thanks.”

Patton grinned.

“Of course, kiddo! I was gonna make some cookies, do you wanna help decorate them once you’ve warmed up some?”

Janus felt a ‘no’ at the tip of his tongue, but then Patton looked up at him with his signature puppy eyes, and Janus couldn’t have said no if he’d tried.

“Yes, I’d love that.”

Patton squealed.

“Alrighty! I’ll go get them started then! Lemme know if you need anything!” He bounced up from the couch, planting a kiss on Janus’ head before skipping into the kitchen.

The next person he told was Roman. He’d been expecting it, as a request for a heat lamp would probably seem pretty odd.

Roman had come into the commons while Janus had been basking. Which, in all honesty, just meant he was lying under the heat lamp and playing on his phone while Patton cooked dinner. The prince had walked right over, sat beside him, and stayed there for a few minutes.

“Okay, I don’t get it.”

Janus rolled his eyes.

“Don’t get what?”

“Why you wanted this put in? It’s not really that great. Actually, it’s a little uncomfortable.” Roman moved to sit on the couch.

“What does it matter to you?” Janus hissed.

God damnit Patton was looking at him all disappointedly.

“Kiddo..”

Ughhhh not with that voice, he can’t do that, that’s unfair.

“Imcldbldd”

“What?”

“I’m cold blooded.”

Roman froze for a second.

“What the fuck, Jan?”

Patton kept a close eye on the two, sending a worried glance in Janus’ direction.

“It’s totally my fault, I obviously chose to be Deceit.”

“No, fuck, not like… I meant that I’ve literally dragged you into the cold, rainy imagination for adventures and you didn’t fucking say anything?” Roman looked furious.

Janus’ eyes widened. That’s what he was upset about? Not the fact that Janus, a master of deception and an embodiment of lies was literally cold blooded, but the fact that he’d never complained about it?

“Oh, please do act like you wouldn’t have flipped out if I’d told you before all of… this.”

Janus curled in on himself a little more.

“Before the Melding? Yeah. But it’s been cold out for weeks. And you’ve been into the Imagination like… every few days, and that’s just with me! I have no clue how many times Remus has dragged you out there!” Roman was back beside Janus again, and holy shit was he angry, he’s angry, hurt, he might hurt you-

Patton.

“Hey, Roman, kiddo, can you come help me over here?” Janus mimicked Patton’s voice, and placed in just right so it would bounce off the walls correctly.

Roman got up, his eyes still filled with fire.

“We are not done talking about this. As soon as I’m done helping him, I’m coming right back here.”

Janus took the chance to sink into his room and lock the door. Now that he’d slowed down, thought it through a bit, he regretted it. But… he was self-preservation. As good as Virgil was at keeping Thomas out of dangerous situations, Janus would always have a little bit of that fight or flight response built into him. He didn’t cause it, but, clearly, he responded to it, whether he liked it or not.

Knocking, now there was knocking at the door. He took a deep breath. Roman wouldn’t hurt him. He was safe around Roman.

He opened the door, and Roman pushed past him, sitting on his bed. Janus slowly moved to sit across from him.

“Okay, one, was there any particular reason you rushed out?” Roman looked concerned, now, but still so mad.

“You just… scared me.” Ugh, what was he doing?

It had been a rhetorical question, this was stupid. He was supposed to keep feelings like these ones hidden. It was what he’d decided on ages ago. What was he doing?

“I.. okay, one sec. No. I am not mad at you for being cold blooded. I am upset that you didn’t tell me before I brought you into situations that could’ve hurt you.” Roman set his hands on Janus’s arms, lightly rubbing them with his thumbs.

“It’s not life-threatening. Nor is it threatening at all. I just get a little… uncomfortable.”

Roman looked crestfallen.

“Jan, you of all sides should know that your safety and comfort is, and always will be more important than whatever adventure I go on, or whatever story I tell. I need you to tell me if something could put your health, physical or mental, at risk, okay?”

Janus felt like he was going to cry. Which was strange, as he hadn’t cried since they were little. He nodded softly, the lump in his throat stopping any words he might have said.

“C’mere,” Roman pulled him into a hug.

He squeezed tightly before pulling back, wiping a tear from Janus’ face.

“Roman, Janus! Dinner’s ready!” Patton called.

Roman lifted an eyebrow at Janus, to which he let out a small laugh and shook his head. Roman grinned, then stood up and offered Janus his hand.

“Thank you.” The words were thick and dripping with way more meaning than was required for a hand up, but, well…

It looked like Roman understood.

Next was Logan.

Logan had approached him and asked if it would be okay if he asked Janus a few questions. As much as Janus didn’t want the others dabbling in his business, Logan had seemed so excited, which was a rare occurrence as of lately. So he let himself be lead into Logan’s room, sitting on his bed as Logan took a seat at his desk.

“So, it has come to my attention that you are ectothermic?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I believe Roman used the term cold-blooded?” Logan grabbed a lemon yellow notebook from a drawer, along with a pen.

“Mm. Yes, that I am.”

Logan flipped the book open and began writing.

“Fascinating! It had not occurred to me that this was even possible, what with us being projections of light while being on the physical realm. Does it affect you while in the physical realm and the mental realm?” Logan’s eyes sparkled.

“Yes, and it carries over between the realms.” Janus supposed he should feel like Logan was invading but… something about Logan’s analytic speech patterns made it seem less invasive.

“Mm… and I believe Roman also mentioned the Imagination affecting you more than our rooms and commons?”

“No, it’s not that the Imagination affects me more, it’s that right now the twins have made a point of keeping the Imagination cold for fall.” Janus couldn’t help it if his voice turned a little bit exasperated.

“Ah, yes, that would make much more sense. Have you any idea why you’re ectothermic?” Logan continued carefully writing in his notebook.

“Remus said at one point it might be due to my animal being a snake, but I don’t think that’s it. The scales and tongue are simply my appearance.” Janus fidgeted with his gloves.

“So you cannot shapeshift it away?”

“Mm, no. I must say it is incredibly irritating impersonating you, or Patton for that matter. Your short sleeves are horribly uncomfortable.” He smirked, moving so he was sitting criss cross on the bed.

“Well, it is incredibly irritating being impersonated, so perhaps it makes up for itself.” Logan glared at Janus for a moment, and he returned it.

Janus started softly laughing.

“Don’t laugh over my intimidating glare, it makes it seem insincere.” Logan’s voice kept an edge, but his eyes were smiling.

“Of course, Oppy, I would never even think of it.” Janus purred.

“Oppy? As in, the Opportunity rover?” Logan raised an eyebrow at Janus.

“Yes, I heard you had quite an attachment to her.” Janus smiled.

“I- um, yes, I suppose I did enjoy gathering information on the rover. The team that worked on her-it- had some interesting experiences during its mission. It supposedly lasted 50 times longer than they expected it to, and-“ Logan paused.

“I apologize, that was not your reason for being here. I will refrain from… rambling.”

Janus frowned a little.

“I wouldn’t mind veering off topic. Besides, it’s not like I’ve got anything else to do.”

Logan paused, his face blank, as if he was rebooting.

“I… okay. May I ask another question?” Logan tapped his pen against his notebook.

Janus gestured for him to continue.

“While I do enjoy the topic of the Mars rovers, I am a little confused as to what resemblance you see between them and myself.”

Janus smiled.

“Well, for one thing, robots are your thing. I may not have been present during Thomas’ puppet fiasco, but I did catch wind that you changed your appearance to match a robot rather than a puppet.”

“Oh, it was a puppet. I had not had enough time to plan and create a robotic body for myself, so it was merely a puppet shaped like a robot.”

“Yes, yes, of course. But besides that, you do remind me of those excitable lab robots who are simultaneously amazingly intelligent, kind, and assholes.”

That startled a laugh out of Logan, to which Janus held back a grin.

“Ah, thank you, I’ll make sure to write that down.” Logan bit back a smile, closing his notebook and placing his pen in its holder.

“If you… wanted to, I would not object to learning more about the Mars rovers.” Janus coaxed Logan a little, smiling when he saw his eyes light up.

“Oh! Yes, of course! The Mars rovers, affectionately nicknamed the “Adventure twins,” Spirit and Opportunity, landed on Mars on January 3rd and 24th, 2004 on a 90-day long mission, but they both lived well beyond that time. Opportunity, specifically, spent 15 years on Mars, collecting data that has proved that Mars could have sustained microbial life.” Logan tapped his hands on his legs as he spoke.

Janus asked questions every now and again, and Logan answered with a small smile and a light in his eyes. It was great to see Logan ramble without caution, much like when they were kids.

When Logan had finished, he seemed to be in an even better mood than before. His hands continued tapping, and Janus could see him fighting back a smile.

“While I have you here, Janus,” Logan glanced to the side for a moment, then nodded his head and continued, “Patton and Roman wanted me to ask you if you would accompany us at “family movie night” this Friday. Do not feel inclined to participate, I understand if it would be too much, as you are not one for social events, but if you would like to come, the invitation is there.” He bit his lip gently as he ended, glancing up at Janus.

“While I would love to, I’m not sure everyone would be as comfortable as they would prefer to be if I were there.” Janus’ tone held a pinch of remorse.

“If you are referring to Virgil, we talked to him beforehand and he stated that he would not be opposed to you joining us.” Logan seemed to be bargaining in some small way.

Janus nearly laughed.

“I’ll consider it, then.” He stood up and smiled at Logan and watched as the teacher startled, turning away a bit.

“Yes, that is… satisfactory.”

“And Logan, do-“ Janus’ voice abruptly cut out.

“Janus? Are you alright?” Logan leapt to his feet, placing a hand on Janus’ arm.

“Ye-“ It didn’t hurt, oddly enough.

He just couldn’t speak? Realization flooded Logan’s eyes, and he led Janus out of his room and into the commons, sitting them down on the couch.

“Are you alright now? It seems my room began to cut off your… backwards speaking. As well as lying.” Logan kept his hands on Janus’ elbows.

“I’m fine.” Janus smirked as Logan’s eyes narrowed.

“Communicate a falsehood, please.”

“My my Logan, whatever has drawn you to the dark side?” Logan rolled his eyes affectionately at Janus’ teasing.

“Janus.”

“Fine. Mmm… You enjoy nearly all jelly brands, other than Crofter’s.” Logan levelled him with a glare, causing Janus to cackle.

“Why must you hurt me like this?” Logan asked, his face completely devoid of emotion.

Janus' laugh rang loud and clear, and Logan grinned, for just a moment. He let his hands move to Janus’, squeezing them gently.

“You must be more careful in the future; spending too long in my room could permanently alter your function.”

Janus lifted Logan’s hands to his mouth, kissing them gently.

“Don’t worry your pretty head about it, sweet Logic. I’m fine.”

Logan went pink, breaking eye contact with Janus.

“Well, caution will do no harm to anyone. Please tell me if you begin feeling different while in my room, okay? You would do the same in Patton or Virgil’s, would you not?”

“Of course. I’ll tell you in the future, promise.” Janus rubbed his thumbs over Logan’s hands.

Logan threw him one last glance, then sighed and nodded. He pulled his hands away, adjusting his glasses.

“I should return to my work. Thomas has a brainstorming session with Joan soon that I must prepare for.” Logan stood up, adjusting his tie.

“Have you bored of my company?” Janus smirked.

“Oh, shush,” Logan smiled back, pressing a soft kiss to Janus’ cheek. “I’ll see you at dinner tonight.”

Janus let out some sort of squeak which Logan seemed to take as affirmation, as he returned to his room.

He should probably have felt a little irritated that Logan would do that and then run off but… when he blushed pretty like that? Janus couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Virgil had already known. Janus had told him long before the Melding, way back when Virgil had still ID’d as a “Dark Side.” He’d actually been the first person Janus had told.

They’d been about twelve, when Virgil had only been around for a short while. He’d walked into Janus’ room during one of Janus’ cold spells, when he’d had several blankets piled on him, and was shaking like a jackhammer.

Virgil had run in, asking what was wrong. Janus had, begrudgingly, explained what had happened, and Virgil had gone quiet. He’d lifted the blankets, sitting beside Janus and cuddling him as he warmed up. He’d been the one to suggest the heat lamp, and Janus would forever be in his debt for it.

Now, Janus sat on the floor with a heavy blanket draped over him as they watched Hercules. The four lovebirds were cuddling on the couch, Roman loudly belting out I Will Go the Distance. Patton was giggling, singing along to the parts he knew as Logan and Virgil watched on with endearment.

Janus couldn’t help but feel like a fifth wheel. Remus had decided not to join them that night, so Janus felt a bit invasive. Virgil continuously glanced over at him, as if ensuring that Janus wouldn’t ruin anything. The others also kept looking over to Janus, though it was decidedly for different reasons.

Patton seemed nervous, and Roman was trying to convince Janus to sing with him. Logan just seemed fond.

Janus tried his best to keep his attention on the movie, but it was hard when he continuously caught them looking at him out of the corner of his eye. At one point, Patton had gotten up to refill their popcorn, and had run a hand through Janus’ hair as he passed. Janus tried not to lean into it too obviously, but he’d practically purred at the gesture.

Virgil had glanced over to him, and Janus had caught his eye. He… he didn’t seem mad, or even upset. Just… nervous. It was the same way he looked before Thomas performed, or asked a cute boy out.

Janus and Virgil had at least been on talking terms for a while, so… what was that about?

The movie finished, and they voted on the next movie. Roman tried to rig the vote for Moana, but Janus immediately caught it and reversed the rig so it would favour Big Hero 6, Logan’s requested movie. Roman picked the paper from Janus’ hat and gawked as Janus snickered to himself on the floor. Virgil and Logan helped Roman move on from his mourning as Patton giggled and raised an eyebrow at Janus.

Janus shrugged, his signature gesture for “Yeah, I fucked with it, what can ya do?”

About halfway through the movie, Janus began to grow cold. As he noticed his shivering, he placed a gentle mirage over himself so the others wouldn’t notice. It wasn’t to the point where he was in any danger, barely any discomfort, and the movie would be over soon, so he could just leave his heat lamp on as he slept. Virgil frowned at him, and Janus froze.

There was no way he could see through the mirage. Janus had been very careful while placing it. Virgil, especially, shouldn’t have noticed it. As anxiety, mirages worked quite well on him.

“Hey. You’re cold. Come here.” Virgil spoke softly, but sternly.

Janus huffed.

“I’m fine. I simply forgot to bask earlier. I’ll survive until the movie’s done, I assure you.” Janus hugged his blanket a little closer.

“Don’t care. C’mere.”

Janus warily eyed Virgil, who moved over on the couch to make room for Janus between himself and Patton. He carefully made his way over, sitting down between the two of them and doing his best not to touch either of them too much. His efforts were immediately negated, as Patton cuddled up next to him as soon as he sat down.

He had to admit, it was very nice to be cuddling someone again. Especially Patton, who ran the warmest out of all of them.

Virgil also leaned into him, resting his head on Janus’ shoulder and turning his attention back to the movie. Janus slowly felt himself warming up as he grew more comfortable in the cuddle pile. Roman leaned over and took one of his hands, rubbing it with his thumb.

Janus felt like he was about to melt. Not literally, of course. He was quite comfortable in his position. No, he was going to melt as in there were so many warm, fuzzy feelings welled up inside him that he was sure they would start oozing out of him if he weren’t careful.

Virgil’s hands slipped around Janus’ waist, pulling him somehow even closer. Roman sighed happily as Virgil began softly purring, his eyes closed. The movie was nearly forgotten by all except Logan, who was completely fixated on it, muttering to himself quietly.

“What’re you thinking, Specs?”

Logan blinked, turning to Roman as he processed the question.

“My apologies, I didn't mean to interrupt the movie.”

“Mm, nope. No apologizing. What’s up?” Virgil blinked open an eye, glancing at Logan.

“I was merely wondering the logistics of the microbots in this movie. We have already achieved a high level of synchronization with drones, so creating a smaller version of said drones would not be incredibly difficult.

“The only problem I could see with them is the almost telepathic connection to them, though we have nearly created a program that can process and recreate images from the brain. So these bots are almost achievable right now.”

Roman whistled.

“Damn, wouldn’t that be cool? I mean there’s obviously the whole construction use, but imagine the special effects!” Roman grinned at Logan.

“I suppose that would be an adequate use for them. I imagine waves and particle effects would be much more easy to create with the bots.”

The two began bouncing ideas off of each other, debating the uses of microbots as Janus, Virgil and Patton watched on with fondness.

Virgil sighed happily. Janus fought the urge to kiss his forehead, and, wow, that’s back, that’s not good.

He must have looked sad, because Patton hugged him tighter and nuzzled his arm. Janus gave him a small, reassuring smile. Patton’s face turned stern, in a “we’re talking about this later” way. Janus wasn’t sure whether or not he should be worried.

Virgil’s breathing began to slow beside Janus, his face relaxing as he began softly purring again. Janus ran a hand through Virgil’s hair, laughing softly as he smiled in his sleep. Patton sighed happily, kissing Janus’ cheek before resting his head on Janus’ shoulder.

Roman caught Janus’ eye, and grinned.

“Aw, looks like you’ve hypnotized our dearest Emo and Pops.”

Janus smiled.

“Can’t say I’m upset.” He purred, continuing to play with Virgil’s hair.

Roman’s teasing smirk turned soft, and Logan wrapped his arms around Roman’s waist, sinking into him. Logan glanced up, and tiredly smiled up at Janus. Roman kissed Logan’s forehead, then reached for Janus’ hand and kissed it.

Janus felt a soft blush warming his face, and turned away slightly as Roman adjusted his hold on Janus’ hand, entwining their fingers.

“You wanna help me get them to bed?”

Logan frowned.

“I could’ve helped.”

Roman chuckled.

“I know, love, but you’re already half asleep yourself.”

“I am not. I’m completely awake.”

“Mhm, tell that to your eyelids.”

Logan huffed, then gently punched Roman’s shoulder and stood up.

“Asshat.”

Roman laughed.

“I’m serious. No kisses for you tonight.” Logan walked past Roman, over to Janus, and kissed his head.

“Babeee.” Roman reached out to Logan as he whined.

“Nope. Goodnight.” Logan smiled and went upstairs.

Janus chuckled as Roman pouted after him. Roman sighed.

“I’ll take Patton if you take Vee?”

Janus bit the inside of his cheek. If Virgil woke up, he’d probably be upset, but… he looked completely knocked out. And it would only take a minute, so…

“Sure.”

Roman stood, then lifted Patton off of Janus and into his arms.

“Night, Jan.”

“Night.”

Roman carried Patton upstairs. Janus sighed, then shifted Virgil off him gently so he could stand up. He picked up Virgil and began making his way to Virgil’s room. He was still surprised by how light Virgil was- Vee had always joked about it being because of his correlation with spiders, saying he didn’t have an endoskeleton. Well, he was pretty sure Virgil had been joking. Maybe he could ask Logan about it.

Janus arrived at Virgil’s door, which had luckily been left open, and slipped into the room, laying Virgil on his bed gently. He found Virgil’s make-up wipes and wiped off the eyeshadow that remained beneath his eyes, then stood to leave. Again, the urge to kiss Virgil’s forehead arose, and he indulged it this time, before turning to leave.

“Jan?”

Janus froze, and turned around to find Virgil staring up at him, his eyes alert and very awake. A chorus of ‘fuck’s ran through his head.

“Yeah?”

Virgil stayed silent for a moment, then spoke up, “Can you stay?”

Well, that wasn’t the response he’d been expecting. Maybe a “what the fuck,” or a “get out,” or perhaps even a “why.” But definitely not this.

Janus choked out a “yeah,” and walked back over to the bed. Virgil held the covers up for him, and he crawled under. Virgil cuddled up to his chest as Janus hesitantly laid his arm over Virgil’s waist.

“Why-“

“Shhhhh… in the morning, okay?” Virgil cut him off.

Janus swallowed nervously, but nodded. Virgil sighed and pulled Janus closer, his breathing steadying more with second. Eventually, soft snores came from his sleeping form. Janus rested his cheek against Virgil’s hair, and let out a breath.

He and Virgil hadn’t cuddled this much since… well before the Melding. It felt a little strange but… mostly it just felt safe. Like a warm cup of cocoa after a long day in the snow, or curling up in your favourite blanket after a hard day at work.

Janus let himself savour the moment, and silently prayed for whatever god was up there to let him fall asleep.

…

Well that’s a no.

Janus rolled his eyes. Of all nights, it had to be this one, huh?

Virgil twitched in his sleep, and Janus bit his lip. He knew Virgil was prone to nightmares, being Anxiety and all, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. He wondered if he would still…?

Janus moved his hand up to softly pet Virgil’s hair, and he seemed to calm down. Janus laughed quietly as Virgil resumed his purring.

Janus eventually noticed the gloves that still covered his hands, and groaned. That’s why he couldn’t sleep. Awful. He removed them, careful not to disturb Virgil, and placed them behind him on the nightstand. He continued playing with Virgil’s hair, until his eyelids grew heavy and his hands stopped moving. As the safety of sleep washed over him, he couldn’t remember being this happy in a long time.

“Virg- oh my goodness. Oh my goodness, Roman, you have to see this!”

“What’s wrong, Pa- oh my god. That’s adorable.”

“I know, right?! Do you think they’d be upset if I took a picture?”

“They might. Virgil doesn’t like photos without his eyeshadow on.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Aww Logan woulda loved seeing this though!”

“Heh, Specs would’ve gone so soft seeing this.”

Janus’ eyes slowly blinked open, the soft sunlight coming from the window flooding his vision.

“Oh shit they’re awake-“

“Language!”

“Go go go abort mission!”

The door slammed shut as Janus turned around, giggles ringing out from behind it. Even in his morning bleariness, Janus couldn’t help but find it endearing.

“Wha…?” Janus turned back around to see Virgil sitting up halfway, leaning on his elbow.

A knot twisted itself in Janus’ stomach, and his hands began shaking.

“Oh. Mornin.” Virgil mumbled, falling back onto the bed.

“Good morning.” Janus replied, sitting up.

He slipped his gloves back on, and began getting out of bed. Virgil reached over and grabbed his wrist before he was able to.

“Jan, what’s-“ He looked up at Janus, his eyes widening. “Fuck, you gotta get out of here.” Virgil suddenly sunk out, dragging Janus with him.

When he opened his eyes again, Janus was sitting on the couch in the commons. The scenario felt scarily familiar.

“Oh, I just love doing that immediately after waking up. It doesn’t feel weird at all.” Janus hissed.

“Dude, you had eyeshadow down to your nose. You’re welcome.” Virgil threw his hood up, then sank into the couch cushions.

Janus bit his lip.

“Thank you, I suppose.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Janus played with the hem of his gloves. They really should talk. Didn’t mean Janus had to initiate it. Even though he did. Because Virgil would be nervous about it, and they’d just continue skirting around everything.  

“We should talk.” The words felt alien in Janus’ mouth.

Virgil groaned.

“Do we have to? I, like, just woke up, man.”

“You asked to talk about it in the morning.”

“It was like 2AM dude, you can't hold me at that.”

“I absolutely can and will.”

Patton and Roman appeared at the top of the stairs, giggling to themselves. They glanced down and saw Janus and Virgil on the couch, and got quiet. Patton met Janus’ eye and gave him a reassuring smile, before gently pulling Roman back upstairs.

“Let’s...o...ake...gan.” Was all Janus could make out.

Virgil groaned.

“What, did you get my boyfriends in on this too?”

Janus scoffed.

“Like I would use your boyfriends against you.”

“Oh, you absolutely would. Though you’ve been starting to use yourself against me too.”

“Oh, Virgil, who knew you could be so forward?” Janus smirked as Virgil shoved him.

“Like you haven’t been flirting with my boyfriends for the past three months.”

Janus bit his lip.

“Is that alright?”

Virgil finally looked over to him, his eyes wide.

“Uh, yeah, of course.”

Janus frowned.

“You sound like that should be obvious.”

Virgil stared at him, then started laughing. Janus fought down a smile.

“What?”

“Dude, seriously? Oh my god, I don’t know how to tell you this, but if I’m inviting you to cuddle with me and my boyfriends, I’m obviously fine with you flirting with us.” Virgil grinned.

Janus lifted an eyebrow.

“Oh? Us?”

Virgil turned red, and pulled on his hoodie strings a little.

“Nope. I’ll talk about whatever you want, but I am not dealing with that this early.” Virgil mumbled.

“Fine. But you do want to talk?”

Virgil bit his lip, and pulled his hoodie sleeves up.

“I mean, whatever. I don’t really care. But Patton wants me to talk to you and you said you wanted to talk so… whatever. You have to go first though.”

Janus nodded, and brought his legs up to sit cross-legged on the couch.

“Okay. We both know that we both suck at this, so laugh if you please, but know that I then will not hesitate to do the same.” Janus figured that was a good way to start.

It had gotten a small laugh out of Virgil, so it should be fine.

“I… acknowledge that the way I behaved, both prior to the Melding and for a short while after was unacceptable. I know I hurt you a lot, especially when we were young, and I apologize for that.” He paused for a moment.

This all felt so staged. Like he’d stolen it from some story and recited it. Saying it out loud made him feel the same way Patton felt when lying. Like a hurricane had replaced his stomach and the rest of his organs had to deal with the consequences.

“I know I may not be able to remedy it, but I would like to try. I’m working on being more honest and vulnerable, and I would really appreciate it if I had you helping me out with it.” Everything he’d ever known about speaking to people had apparently left his brain.

He wasn’t making eye contact, why the fuck wasn’t he making eye contact? His words were blunt and inelegant.

He finally brought himself to look up at Virgil again.

“Yeah, I mean… thanks, I guess. And uh… I’m… sorry, for kinda being a dick to you after you introduced yourself to Thomas. I know how weird and scary that is so… yeah.”

Janus huffed.

“It was well within your rights to, I wasn’t exactly the nicest either.” His hands gestured as he spoke.

“Yeah, but I did kinda egg the others on too.”

“Ehh, we’re all petty bitches sometimes. I get it.” That startled a sharp laugh out of Virgil, and Janus smiled.

“I’m glad to finally have another petty bitch around to help me out when Roman steals my eyeshadow.”

“Who says I won’t be helping him steal your eyeshadow? Honestly, sounds like fun.” Janus grinned as Virgil punched his arm.

“Asshat.”

“Your asshat.”

Virgil’s smile turned a little softer.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

He stood, then reached to help Janus up.

“Come help me give my boyfriend shit for eavesdropping.” Virgil grinned.

Janus heard a quiet “fUCK-“ come from the top of the staircase, followed by pounding footsteps. He smirked, grabbing Virgil’s arm.

“Gladly.”

They hadn’t spoken about everything, they hadn’t spoken much at all, but they didn’t need to, not right now. It was a healing process. The fact that there was now a reaching branch, a bridge built over their last one, was enough for now. They’d work through it bit by bit, and eventually they’d get there. Until then, Janus was happy to accept this new, but familiar friendship. And as he listened to Virgil and Roman teasing each other, he knew he’d be more than happy with it.

This had to be a dream, of some sorts. This couldn’t be real. Maybe Remus was playing a trick on him, or maybe he’d tricked himself, or something. But he definitely wasn’t in reality.

In the morning, after breakfast, Roman had asked him to come into the Imagination with him for a little while. There had been this beautiful little green clearing among the fall-covered trees, and when he stepped into it, it was as warm as a spring day. They’d sat on one of the rocks, and talked about Thomas’ most recent musical obsession. Roman had, at some point, turned on the soundtrack and convinced Janus to perform some of the duets with him.

Then Patton had requested his help with decorations for their upcoming Christmas celebration (upcoming, as in, in about a month), and Janus had helped with that for a while. Patton put on his favourite Christmas music, and they’d started doing some weird kind of swing dance in the empty family room. Patton had asked for his assistance in hanging mistletoe over the couch, and given him a peck on the cheek before dancing away.

Logan had popped in, and asked if Janus could help him with a schedule. They’d gone to Logan’s room, and Logan had run the schedule by Janus, thanking him when he pointed out any errors or impractical time usage. They’d ended up talking about the new year, how illogical and silly their traditions were. Logan had grumbled something about New Year’s resolutions, then begrudgingly showed Janus a memory of Thomas, him, Roman, Virgil, and Patton singing a silly song regarding them. Janus helped him plan some reasonable, yet still exciting resolutions in advance.

Virgil had knocked on the door, and asked to borrow him. He’d been planning presents for the other sides but wasn’t sure about them yet. Janus helped him sift through ideas, and gave him the little push needed to actually make the gifts. Virgil sat on his lap as he started making the most elaborate one (Roman’s), and Janus hooked his arms around Virgil’s torso so he could see to help Virgil with the details.

So, all in all, a wonderful day.

Now, Janus sat on the family room floor, with Virgil’s head in his lap and Roman leaning against his shoulder, with the coffee table moved up against the wall. Patton was sitting on the couch behind him, putting little braids in his hair, and Logan was curled up against Patton. Something was on the TV, but Janus wasn’t really paying attention. He, honestly, couldn’t remember being this happy his entire life.

And then Patton asked if it was okay if they talked about something.

Janus felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. Surely, they weren’t upset with him, right? He couldn’t think of anything he could have done, at least recently, to upset them. Did they just… not want him around anymore? He’d been expecting it, at first, but he’d thought things had been going pretty well…

“What about?”

Patton gently nudged Logan, and the two moved to sit on the floor in front of Janus.

“So, Jan, we all know that the temperature has really fallen recently, and Christmas is coming up soon too…” Patton seemed to be fighting down a smile, like he’d heard the best joke and wanted to tell it to them.

Okay, so not anything to do with right now, but with Christmas. Maybe they needed his help with something? That seemed reasonable.

Virgil sat up, then walked over to the coffee table, grabbing a wrapped box from the shelf on the underside.

“We, uh, made a gift for you, but, we figured you’d like it before it got too cold out.” He sat down next to Janus, cross-legged, and passed him the gift.

Janus frowned, but began unwrapping it. Patton looked like he was about to burst with joy, and even Logan seemed cautiously excited.

He unwrapped it, setting the wrapping paper to the side, and found… A blanket?

“It’s a heated blanket,” Logan spoke up, “You can charge its battery, and it has a built-in heating pad. We figured you’d find it useful.”

Janus blinked, staring at the box.

“It also has lavender pouches in it, because Vee said you sometimes have trouble sleeping, and I figured it might help.” Roman looked up from his shoulder, smiling.

“So… do you like it?” Patton asked.

Janus remained quiet for another moment, as Patton’s grin slowly fell.

“I… this is… amazing.” Janus muttered.

“Are you sure? If you don’t like it, we can always get you something else, and-“

“Patton,” Janus interrupted, “I love it. Seriously. Thank you all, so much.”

Patton’s grin returned, and Virgil let out a sigh of relief from beside him.

“Hey, hey Jam, now, if you wanna, it’ll be easier for you to come into the Imagination!” Roman grinned, and Janus let out a happy laugh.

“Of course, I’d love to.” He placed a soft kiss on Roman’s forehead.

“In that case, would you like to join us there tonight? We were planning on star gazing, and we would enjoy your company.” Logan seemed somewhat flustered, like he’d rehearsed this.

“I do believe my schedule’s open tonight.” Janus smiled.

Patton squealed, and moved to hug Janus. Janus held him tightly, and waited for him to let go first. This all felt so amazingly weird. They’d planned out and worried about getting him a gift he’d like and use, and had absolutely nailed it.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must get to work on making sure the constellations will line up right.” Roman winked, and stood up, “Logan, I’m gonna steal your star charts, yeah?” Roman said, already halfway up the stairs.

“Oh, no you will not, I have them perfectly organized and you will not be messing them up!” Logan chased Roman upstairs, and Janus could hear Roman cackling evilly as he did.

Virgil smirked, and leaned back against Janus.

“Open the box, I think you’ll like it even more.” He muttered.

Janus gave him a quizzical look, but opened the box, and- wow.

It was a red, velvety blanket with yellow flowers embroidered around the edge. It had clearly been stitched together by Virgil, as his signature stitching style was along the edges. When he ran his hand along it, Janus could feel the heating pad in the middle, as well as the lavender pouches. It was like a little part of all of them had been sewn into the very cloth of the blanket.  Janus felt his eyes tear up.

“Thank you guys, so much.” He choked out.

Patton kissed his cheek, and cuddled him close.

“Merry early Christmas, Janus!”

Then, Janus did something that was probably really stupid, and was probably going to get him yelled at by at least three people.

He let his hand find Patton’s chin, and tilted his head up to look at Janus.

“I really want to kiss you right now, but I won’t if you don’t want to.” He mumbled.

He heard Virgil gasp softly. Patton blinked up at him for a moment, silent, and Janus worried that he’d horribly miscalculated, before Patton grabbed the collar of Janus’ shirt and kissed him sweetly. When he pulled back, Patton had a huge grin on his face.

Patton began giggling to himself.

“What?” Janus asked breathlessly.

“Roman and Logan are gonna be so pissed I kissed you first!”

Virgil gasped.

“Language! Jeez, Pat, one kiss with a snake and you’re swearing all over the place.” Virgil teased.

Janus glanced between the two nervously.

“I feel like I’ve missed something.”

Virgil cackled.

“Well, you see, Patton, Roman, and Logan have all been trying to kiss you before the other two could. A sort of bet, if you will.”

Janus stared at him blankly for a moment, then began snickering.

“Oh, please tell me who you bet for, Virgil.”

“Are you kidding me? Obviously Patton. If you hadn’t initiated it, his puppy eyes woulda caught you off guard eventually.”

“Fair enough,” Janus grinned, “What was bet?”

“Well, Patton gets to do Logan’s nails, which I’m like 80% certain he’ll love, because of the clicking, and I get to dress Roman for a day.”

“Oh, I cannot wait to see that.” Janus purred.

“Despite what he says, Ro loves hoodies, so I’m sure it won’t bother him too much.” Patton shrugged, leaning against Janus again.

“It was more of a joke than anything.”

Janus nodded. Virgil wasn’t completely merciless- The most he’d make Roman do is wear some really emo makeup.

The three sat there peacefully for a little while, Virgil scrolling through his phone as Patton and Janus talked about the winter garden they’d been planning to put somewhere in the Imagination.

“Hey, Pat, what’re we doing for dinner?” Virgil asked.

Patton gasped.

“Oh! Lo sent me this recipe a few days ago for us to make our own pizzas instead of ordering them! I’ve really wanted to try it out!” Patton said as he scrolled through his phone.

He showed his phone to Janus, then Virgil.

“Sounds good, want some help with it?” Virgil glanced across Janus to Patton.

“Sure, kiddo! C’mon!” The two got up, and Patton offered Janus a hand up.

“You wanna help too?”

“Of course.” Janus smiled, accepting the hand up.

Roman led the way as they trampled through the undergrowth of the Imagination. Janus was already bundled up in his new blanket, which- as he’d predicted- was the perfect temperature. It seemed to have some sort of spell on it that kept it to whatever temperature he wanted at any given moment.

Eventually, the forest broke, and they found themselves standing in a field covered in little white flowers, with patches of asters sprinkled about. The moon shone brightly above them, covering the field in a soft glow as they found the large blanket Roman had laid out for them. They sat down, Patton running his fingers over the flowers that poked out over the edge of the blanket.

Logan sat down in Janus’ lap, taking Janus’ hands and fiddling with them.

“Roman, this is… beautiful. The flowers are even season-accurate.” Logan mumbled.

“Well, of course they are! I know my flowers very well, dearest nerd.” Roman stuck out his tongue at Logan.

“Oh Roman, when will you learn not to lie around me? You stole Logan’s book about North American flowers a week ago.” Janus purred.

Roman let out an offended gasp.

“Betrayed! Betrayed by my beloved! How will I go on?” He collapsed into Patton’s lap, sending Patton into a fit of giggles.

“Roman, for the last time, you need only ask to borrow my books, it’s not like I’m going to say no.” Logan softly berated him.

“Mmm… no thanks. It’s much more fun to steal them while Jan distracts you.”

Janus levelled Roman with a betrayed look as Logan gently slapped him in the chest.

“Two can play at that game, Snakespeare.” Roman winked.

“You two will be the death of me.” Logan mumbled amusedly.

Virgil grinned, falling onto his back.

“Lo, did you look at the stars yet?”

Logan looked up, and it was if a switch had been flipped. His eyes lit up, and his mouth laid slightly agape as his eyes flitted from constellation to constellation.

Janus watched with adoration as Logan stared at the sky. He could see now why Roman was so excited about this. Patton sighed happily, playing with Roman’s hair.

“Hey, Lo, what planet is that?”

“Oh, that would be Mercury. It is lucky we were delayed by several hours due to Roman passing out on the couch at midnight, or else we may not have seen it.”

“Wow, Logan, shady much?”

“Of course not. Anyways,” As Logan began info-dumping about Mercury, Janus paid as much attention as his sleep-deprived brain would let him.

They asked Logan questions about constellations, and stars, and he rattled off the answers excitedly while gesturing with his hands. Eventually, they ended up in a cuddle pile, with Logan in the middle, being cuddled by Janus on one side and Roman on the other. Virgil reached over Roman and Logan to hold Janus’ hand, and Patton was cuddling him from behind. It was, basically, perfect.

Logan had started interrupting his own sentences with yawns, and his eyes started drooping.

“M’kay, I think it’s about time we turned in.” Patton mumbled, sitting up.

Virgil yawned.

“What gave that away, the sun?”

Janus frowned, and looked up and, oh. Yep. The sun was rising. He got up, stretching, then helped Logan up. Both Logan and Patton were practically walking in their sleep. The only one who seemed energetic was Roman, who sighed disappointedly.

“I suppose we should get going.” He said.

He snapped, and the blanket they had been laying on folded itself into a square. He picked it up, and carried it in his arm as he took Virgil’s hand and began leading them back through the forest. Logan hung off of Janus’ arm, and Patton walked beside Janus sleepily, holding his hand loosely.

When they arrived home, Janus was practically carrying Logan. Patton had sleepily kissed everyone goodnight, including Janus, which had thrown Roman for a loop, then drifted off to his room. Janus dropped Logan off at his room, confident that he could get himself to bed, and went back into the family room to sit with Roman and Virgil.

Roman sat on the smaller section of the couch, and Virgil sat in the corner, with his legs stretched out to rest on Roman’s lap. Roman glanced up, and patted the spot beside him. Janus sat down next to him and leaned against him.

“So… you kissed Patton before me? That’s illegal.” Roman grinned.

“Oh, shush.” Janus smirked, and gently tilted Roman’s head, pressing a kiss to his lips.

Roman held his face gently, like he was scared Janus might crack if he was too rough. They pulled back, and Roman rested his forehead against Janus’ and dissolved into a fit of giggles.

“Ew, get a room.” Virgil joked, poking Roman with his foot.

Roman just continued laughing. Janus tried to hold in his own laugh, but failed miserably.

“I have been desperately looking forward to this for literal months, oh my god, I’m so happy.” Roman grinned, and really, how was Janus expected to not kiss him again?

“I could get used to this.” Roman said breathlessly.

“Yeah?” Janus whispered.

“Definitely.”

Virgil snickered.

“Boo, get off the stage!”

Roman laughed, and launched himself at Virgil, covering his face in kisses.

“Stawwwppp, I’m tryna scroll through tumblr.”

Roman peppered more kisses on Virgil’s cheek.

“Nope. You are now forever trapped in Kisses Jail for your crimes.”

“What crimes?”

“Being a hypocrite.” Janus smirked.

“Wha- no, never have I ever gone all PDA-ish.” Virgil fought back a smile as he tried to push Roman off of him.

“Oh, please do pretend like you’ve never started making out with Patton in the kitchen, or Roman in the hallways, or Logan in the family room-“

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Virgil finally surrendered himself to Roman, who pressed a few victory kisses to Virgil’s face, then cuddled him.

Virgil gestured for Janus to sit with them, and Janus moved to rest his head on Virgil’s shoulder.

“So… I know we’ve never really had an actual real conversation about this, and we should probably talk about it with Lo and Pat too, but…” Roman paused, “I would really, really like to take you on a date. And later become your boyfriend, if you so wished.”

Janus stared at him for a probably worrying amount of time, but…

“Yes. Please. I’d- I would love that.” Janus stuttered out.

Roman reached across Virgil and took Janus’ hand, kissing it before adjusting his grip to hold in. Virgil leaned his cheek against Janus’ head, and smiled.

“And me. And almost definitely Patton and Logan. If you’ll have us.”

“Of course.” Janus grinned.

And if, in the morning, Patton found them cuddling on the couch and swooned, and if Janus spent the majority of his days cuddling his new boyfriends, and if they would sometimes use his need for heat to coerce him into affection, and if Janus occasionally spent the night sleeping in a cuddle pile on the couch, could you blame any of them?

After all, it is a well-known fact that Janus is cold-blooded.

———————————————————————————————————

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! :)

Taglist:

@girl-with-many-fandoms ~ @arodynamic-enby ~ @imma-potatoo ~ @canvas-the-florist

#dlamp #ts dlamp #lamp #ts lamp #Janus Sanders #deceit sanders #Coldblooded!Janus Sanders #Janus-centric #Janus-centric DLAMP #roman sanders #Princey Sanders #creativity sanders #logan sanders #Logic sanders #autistic!logan #patton sanders #Morality Sanders #Virgil Sanders #Anxiety Sanders #Moceit #Roceit #Loceit #Anxceit #royality #logicality #moxiety #logince #prinxiety #Analogical #sanders sides

[eat0crow]

Jasonette Prompt! Mari and Jason first meeting but it’s after a bunch of thugs tried to jump her (she beat them uppp). anyways they’re both in civilian form and she’s validly untrusting and he calms her down.

Bullies count as thugs, right?

116%

Partly by accident, mostly by self-preservation, Jason figures out that, in order to get everyone to stop looking at him like the poor-orphan-charity-case Bruce Wayne had taken in, he needs to instead get them to write him off entirely.

It’s a genius plan. Gotham Academy is nothing if not judgemental. All he has to do is wear his uniform loose, his tie undone, tell everyone exactly how little he thinks of their petty power plays, and get into a screaming match with his xenophobic history teacher about how people working minimum wage, “Absolutely should be making a living wage. Screw you, you bootlicking capitalist fuck!” within the first month of school. Honestly, he’s surprised he lasted that long.

So maybe he’s a little out of line, it’s not like he’s wrong. And it’s all worth it just to see the look on Bruce’s face when he walks into the principal's office. The man’s eyebrows are practically up to his hairline by the time he hears that Jason, in the face of his teacher's warning, had the audacity to ask, “What are you going to do? Expel me? unfucking likely.”

“It’s not like I’m actually going to be expelled,” Jason says. “Half the school’s annual budget comes from the money you donate. If I’m expelled I’ll have to go somewhere else. You’re not going to invest in a school I’m not attending and they’re not going to those funds.”

With unmasked glee, Jason watches the growing horror spread over his principles face-he’s a smart brown-nosing man after all. He knows exactly what kind of trap he’s walking into. It doesn’t matter that Jason’s history teacher is glaring the man down, looking like he's’ just bitten a lemon. Nope, Jason is not going to be expelled.

“Jason,” Bruce, simply sighs, looking far more put out than he has any right to be.

They settle for him being suspended for the rest of the week with detentions taking place after school on Mondays and Wednesdays for the next two months.

As all interesting gossip tends to, the rumor makes its way through the school before the day is even over-rich kids have way too much time on their hands-by the time Jason comes back the following Monday everyone seems to have decided that he’s a troublemaker unhinged just enough to be dangerous.

It marks the end of people trying to suck up to him, they all seem to have collectively decided that if they mind their own business and leave him out of it, he’ll do the same.

The thing about Jason Todd- fourteen-year-old high school freshman- is that he’s really bad at minding his own business. Like Dick’s Discowling suit levels of bad at it. He's a Robin, after all, you couldn’t be a Robin if you were actually able to keep your nose out of where it shouldn't be. It's practically a rule.

Never once has Jason ever had any fondness for bullies, it doesn’t matter if they were school kids or criminals or one percenters-looking at you Jeff Bezos, looking at you. He’s seen enough of them growing up in the Narrows, and maybe, it’s because his dad, the utter asshole, had been a bully. Maybe he just spends too much time fighting against people who think they can get away with pushing their weight around. It doesn’t matter.

Jason Todd could not bring himself to turn a blind eye, which is why by the beginning of his second semester he’s gained the title of actual-punk-you-know-the-kind-who-fight-the-man with his biweekly detentions being upgraded to triweekly and extended indefinitely. The number of fights he’s gotten into in the last couple of months has easily erased whatever Golden Boy standing Dick had established. Jason is confident that the only reason he’s yet to be kicked out is the fact that Bruce had almost doubled his donations.

So really, when he hears raised voices and the distinct sound of someone being thrown against a wall just as he’s leaving detention for the third time this week, he has to investigate.

Disgust is the first thing Jason can register when he turns the corner because there’s a ring of five students- two girls, three guys- all crowded around the new girl from France. Jason’s pretty sure he shares a class or two with her, maybe. She's easy to miss, small as all hell and stick thin.

This, this isn’t a fair fight. Or a fight she even has a chance of winning. Jason has a bad feeling about this.

But-

But Jason takes a closer look. Her back is pressed against the side of the building, yes. Her bag has been thrown to the ground and she’s shaking but that stance, it definitely doesn’t belong to someone who doesn’t know how to defend themselves. Sure these idiots have her backed into a corner, one point them, but her feet are firmly planted on the ground, her back is straight. She’s not going to run, at least, not before she throws a punch and, judging from the way she’s holding herself, a good one too.

Jason doesn’t really know how to approach this. This girl looks like a deer caught in headlights who will spook the second she hears a loud sound. Getting a teacher would be the most sensible thing to do. It would also require leaving, Jason isn’t confident enough in the situation to do that.

He’s almost talked himself into it, sure it might be a little off-brand for him but this seems slightly out of his depth, when Idiot Number Three, the smirking brunette addition, makes a move toward Marinette-Jason only just remembers her name-and Marinette lashes out.

Dead silence overtakes the yard as the girl goes down, her body crumpling to the ground like a wet paper towel. Marinette’s fist is still curled, her arm still outstretched. She looks like she can’t believe what she just did. Everyone stands frozen for one disbelieving moment before one of the guy's snarls, lunging to grab Marinette’s jacket.

If she was a deer in headlights before, Jason isn’t quite sure what to call her now. She looks like she’s on the cusp of a panic attack, frantically babbling a mishmash of jumbled up words. Jason sees what she’s going to do a second before the bully does, but by then it’s too late.

Marinette, with way more force than someone her size should have, brings her knee up and kicks her would-be attacker in the balls. Jason does not want to feel sympathy pains. He doesn’t, but still, if the way Idiot Number Five falls to his knees is any indication...well.

Idiots Numbered One, Two and Four run off without much fanfare taking their downed Idiot Number Three with them. Jason has a distinct impression they’re going to snitch and Marinette, who was only defending herself and is in no way capable of explaining her side of the story right now, is going to be in a hell of a lot of trouble.

Nope, not on Jason’s watch. He makes his way over. Closing the distance in three precise non-threatening strides. “So I’m thinking, this isn’t exactly what you had planned,” he says lightly.

“Fuck you, Todd.” Eloquent as ever Idiot Number Five.

“No thanks. You seem like you’re having enough fun clutching your balls for the both of us,” he says cooly, crouching down just enough to make eye contact. “Between you and me, I would run if I were you. Before she decides to come and knock your teeth in.”

“Like she would,” the bully scoffs.

“We both know she could and you know I would let her. Hell, I would help her if it kept your mouth fucking shut.” Jason cracks his knuckles, casually pressing his elbow further into the prick's collar bone. “Fuck, I kinda want to do it too. You really piss me off.”

At least he has the good sense to take Jason seriously. Jason can’t help the satisfaction that comes from watching him get to his feet and limp off. Some things really are poetic. Serves the bastard right, even if he promises that, “I’ll get you back for this, Todd.”

Jason snorts, as if he’d worry about what some schoolyard bully was going to do. Have you seen half the lunatics he fights on a monthly basis? “You good?”

“I-no!” Marinette cries, sinking to her knees in shock. “I am so going to be expelled. God, I’m going to be deported. I’ve only been in Gotham for a month! One whole month and already I’ve

messed this up. Momma is never going to let me out of the house. That’s if they don’t send me to jail. Oh, they’re going to send me to jail, aren't they? I can’t go to jail, orange is a terrible color!”

That's ... a lot to unpack. Jason feels something flutter in his chest. He has the strongest desire to comfort her. So, he does the only thing he can think of, he reaches out, wraps his arms around her waist, and promptly gets punched in the face. Hard.

He staggers back, clutching his eye, Jason barely registers Marinette’s steady stream of. “I’m sorry, so sorry I didn’t mean to hit you.”

Self-consciously Jason shrugs, he’s had far worse. The only thing in danger is his ego. “It was my fault. You were literally being threatened a minute ago, I shouldn’t have touched you. Sorry about that.”

“I’m panicking a bit,” Marinette says, pulling at the end of one of her pigtails. “I’m not usually...I just-I don’t want to be expelled.”

“You're not going to be expelled, Hermione,” Jason says dryly. “Yeah, those bastards are going to snitch but you were just defending yourself. They got what they deserved.”

“Do you think anyone’s going to believe that?”

Jason takes a moment to look Marinette over. There is so much earnest hope on her face that Jason...he feels really bad but... “Of course not. You kicked Pattrick Thomson in the balls, his dad’s on the school board. There is no fucking way any one of these teachers is going to believe that he actually got what was coming to him. No matter how much of a prick he is.”

“I’m doomed,” Marinette cries.

“You’re not doomed.” Jason catches Marinette’s look of pure utter disbelief and continues, “You’re not going to be expelled because you’re not the one who is going to be taking the fall for this.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly,” Jason says scooting down to sit next to Marinette. He makes sure to leave a good foot between them. One black eye is enough, thank you. “Unlike you, I won’t get expelled, trust me this isn’t anywhere close to my first fight. If they could have axed me, they would have like a month in. The good news is that this is the one corner of the school security cameras can’t see. So as long as we make our story sound believable, no one is going to question it.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re all going to find it sketchy when no one can agree on who threw the punch.”

“See you would think that but, no offense, you’re a literal wafer cookie. A strong breeze could blow you over. No one is going to believe you took down those idiots. Not when it’s so much easier to blame the one who’s admitting it.”

“I did take them down,” Marinette says, narrowing her eyes.

“And it was badass, but for this to work, we need to milk as many of their sexist assumptions as possible. So,” Jason starts, pressing his hand a little further against his eye, there’s a bit of blood slipping onto his fingers. Marinette got him good. “This is what we’re going to say. We’re going to keep it simple. Tell them that those guys were picking on you and I came over to see what was happening. Things got heated, Thomson punched me in the eye and I bumped into what’s-her-face. You were panicking and didn’t really pay attention until you saw me knee him in the balls. Short, sweet, and believable.”

“What are we going to say when they ask about why everyone is blaming me and not you?”

“Well, why were they bothering you in the first place.” Jason shrugs reaching out to grab some of the stray papers that had fallen from Marinette’s bag. “Just use that. Trust me, Thomson’s going to jump at the chance to save face. Once he changes his story the rest will follow.”

Marinette grimaces. “It feels wrong.”

“Please,” Jason snorts. “They’re rich, they’re cheating at life. They’d get away with murder if they dropped their wallets. You could tell them all exactly what happened word for word and the teachers would still only hear their side of the story.”

“That’s awful.”

“That’s Gotham.”

Marinette falters, as if she wants to dispute the inherent corruption of this city. She stares at Jason, who would probably be blushing if it wasn’t for the excruciating pain coming from his right eye.

“You’re sure.” Marinette bites her lip, nervously picking at her nails. “You’re absolute, one hundred and twelve percent sure you won’t be expelled.”

“I’m one hundred and sixteen percent sure,” Jason says and then Marinette smiles.

It’s a nice smile, Jason doesn’t think he’s ever experienced the full force of someone's relief before.

“Thank you.” Sincerity is dripping off every word, so much so it almost aches. “I-you’re really nice Jason.”

Marinette knows his name. That’s-not necessarily surprising given the act that yeah they do share classes, probably. It’s just this is the first time they’ve talked.

“It’s cool,” Jason says leaning further back into the wall. He can hear people coming, it won’t be long before they have teachers to deal with. Jason might as well get comfortable. “You’re Marinette, right? I think we have English….Math..something together.”

Marinette nods, scooting closer to him. “Yeah, I’m Marinette. Marinette Dupain-Cheng. I sit three rows over in Math and two seats up in English.”

“It’s nice to meet you Marinette. Officially.” Jason takes the hand off of his eye and holds it out to her. “Jason Todd.”

Slowly, Marinette’s smile slowly morphs into a look of pure horror. “You’re eye!”

#maribat #crow writes #jasonette #prompt fills #jason todd #marinette dupain cheng

[shannapage]

Stellae: Chapter 1

Author: Shanna Page

Status: Incomplete / Ongoing 

Genre: Fantasy / Sci-Fi

Synopsis: The gods do not exist. Divine intervention is only imagined by those too cowardly to act. No, we only have ourselves in this word. Ourselves, the weapons we wield and the evil we choose to tolerate.

Eline Ritvak is the most renowned thief in all three Kingdoms. Mentored by the infamous criminal, Nightshade, she lives by a strict code of honor seemingly at odds with her chosen profession.When the Prince of Nitenbeir requests Eline steal a sword for him, she is curious enough to accept on his terms. What happens next sends Eline’s world tumbling into chaos, and she finds herself on the run from the most feared man on the continent. All she has is a sword, a know-it-all bookkeeper and the realization that perhaps, they are not alone in this world.      

Word Count: 5,782

Author’s Note:  As part of my fundraising initiative on my other blog for BLM, I stated that if a certain number was reached, I would release the first chapter of my unpublished (non-fanfic) novel. Since this amount was reached, here it is! This is only the first chapter and I do not plan on releasing more on this website. Know that this fight is not over and we still have tons of work to do. If you can still donate, please do so. If you’re living in the US, ensure you’re registered to vote at TurboVote.Org. 

More information about this world / my novel can be found here on my page.

Those who frequented the gambling dens of Kebasa had a saying they told to anyone who would listen; the most fruitful of grounds often bore the most teeth.

The saying was old, stemming from the antewalk, an animal known equally for its migratory patterns as a distinct lack of self-preservation. There was a game amongst children named after the animal in which the smallest of them attempted to cross a field before they could be tagged by the larger, faster children. If they were tagged, they were considered out.

The game was cruel by nature but then again, most things were cruel by nature. Every summer, the antewalk migrated to their northern breeding grounds through the Beir Mountains. If any place could be described as ‘having teeth,’ the Beir range was a natural contender.

Spiders as large as a person’s fist dangled from shoddy webs, draped across caves which housed the fearsome gargantum – a predator as feared as death itself, whose jaws could easily snap a cougar in half. Snakes the size of tree trunks hid in the canopy above before dropping ten feet to feast upon unsuspecting prey. Despite all these horrors, the antewalk continued to make the same journey.

To them, the potential goal of their breeding ground was worth the likely cost.

Much as those who frequented gamblers row viewed the potential for riches to be worth its likely cost – bankruptcy.

It might be worth noting that the antewalk were nearly extinct.

Regardless, the gambling dens of Kebasa drew a multitude of customers, not only its regulars who sought to turn copens to riches. The dens were famous across the vast continent of Prima – and even further than that, drawing attention past the Farephen Sea. Merchants, nobles, and paupers alike were drawn to the gamble and in this way, the dens were amongst the most diverse places on the continent.

Lounged in a seat, one leg crossed over the other, Eline considered the Merryweather laid out before her.

Contrary to its name, the Merryweather was neither a cheerful place, nor was it exposed to the elements. As far as gambling dens went, the interior was much of what Eline had come to expect – crooked tables, crooked people, and an overwhelming stench of spilled ale in between.

At a first glance, she counted seven people in the crowd who did not belong. They were easy enough to spot, once one knew what to look for. Although Eline herself was not Kebasan, she blended in as though she might have been. Her gaze lingered near the bar, assessing a lone, pockmarked youth who glanced longingly at the door. Likely, someone had said this would be the easiest way to escape in case of an emergency.

Utter nonsense. Once a person entered the den, the only way out was further in.

Uncrossing both legs, Eline returned to her game. Casually, she tossed a gold coin on the table.

“Jinn,” she declared.

Murmurs of outrage rippled around the table – to Eline’s right a man growled, not bothering to conceal his state of frustration. The move was a provocative one, to be sure. Scarab was a game designed to confuse its own players, an eclectic combination of dice, cards, and boldfaced lying. It took several years to become proficient but luckily, Eline had learned the game from the best.

Jinn was a give me command. A player could use it only once per game, but once declared, all players were required to increase their bet or exit the table. By using it when she did, Eline had raised the game not by a copen – which was traditional – but by an entire talir. Such riches would have bought the very table they sat at.

“That’s not fair,” grumbled the man to her right. He spoke around the toothpick which dangled precariously from his lip. “Copen’s the norm.”

“It may be the norm, by my move wasn’t illegal.” Eline spoke with great boredom, as though the entire conversation were below her pay grade. “What’s the matter, Revani? Not good for the money?”

The man beside her started, not having expected her to know him by name.

Eline was no fool. She did careful research before deciding to enter any given situation; this was the main way she ensured she only walked into situations she could walk away of. Not everyone was as careful as Eline, but then, not everyone was as successful as her either.

Revani scowled and removed his toothpick. Much to Eline’s utter disgust, he placed this on the table beside her palm.

“I’m in,” he declared, tossing down a gold coin.

The hair beneath his cap could have been either blonde or brown; it was difficult to tell through its matted mess. The clothing he wore gave nothing away either; plain, loose fabric designed to resist the sweltering heat of Kebasa. The only hint of his heritage were his eyes, which were blue. Only certain parts of the southern Kingdom of Sur claimed such a color. 

After much hemming and hawing, another two players tossed their coins down. The rest pushed back their chairs, scraping the floorboards, and casting annoyed glances at Eline.

Beneath her crimson hood, she tried not to smile.

Only four players remained: a more manageable number. A lucky number as well, according to Surnese superstition. Eline was not the type who subscribed to good fortune, but when she did, she found the Surnese gods to be most obliging.

Stretching, Revani extended both arms overhead to reveal a wrist tattoo. Foolish of him to flash his crew’s sign so carelessly since it was not the same colors as those of the Merryweather. Men had gotten killed for less than gambling on other crews’ turfs.

He was not the only player Eline knew at the table. To her left was a man who called himself Lorcin and directly across from them were two called Copper and Jo. Those two seemed to move as a team, one of them shifting when the other went still, and vice versa. Eline wondered if they behaved like this always, or only when they felt they were cornered.

Eline was the only woman at the table, although this was to be expected. Many nations and Kingdoms underestimated womenkind. Eline supposed she could not be perturbed by this fact, since it meant those same people underestimated her, as well.

In her line of work, underestimation was a valuable tool.

Lowering her gaze, Eline looked once more her cards. They were not terrible, but neither were they a winning hand. This fact did not bother her since the prize Eline sought was not a singular card game. No, her quarry was far more valuable than that.

Thumbing the sharp edge of her deck, Eline sighed. “Are you going to take your turn, Jo?” she asked, looking up. “Or will we all die of old age before you realize you’ve lost.”

A low chuckle rose from the other men at the table.

Jo – a man whose mustache was the most defining thing about him – scowled. “Don’t know why you’re trying to rush things, ma’am. Scarab is a game best savored, not swallowed.” He paused, allowing a smirk. “I’d imagine you know a thing or two about that.”

How clever; a reference to Eline’s assumed sexuality. She’d dealt with far worse jibes in her lifetime though and so, she ignored him and awaited his next move.

Copper nearly choked at the remark, forcing Jo to reach over and pound him on the back. Eline tried not roll her eyes at this, although it was hard.

Ko women were not known for being overly revealing and this was Eline’s chosen character for the night. Beneath her bright cloak, she wore simple merchant’s clothing from Ko, a distant Kingdom across the Farephen sea.

It was one of Eline’s preferred disguises; it was infinitely easier to pretend she hailed from Ko than say, one of the northern lands, like Dagmari. Dagmari women all had skin the color of the bone underneath, with copper-colored hair distinctive on every continent. Their accent alone was difficult to emulate, full of clipped consonants and elongated vowels.

At least Ko women had dark hair, even if their eyes were known to be golden, not silver. No Kingdom on any continent was known for silver eyes though, and so in this, Eline remained squarely out of luck.

Whenever someone asked about the unusual color, Eline would brush it aside and claim bastard parentage. Likely this was true, but she had no way of knowing for sure.

Exhaling loudly, Jo reached for the dice.

His resulting throw was not favorable and based on his sour expression, Eline assumed his cards to be no good. Ruling him out as competition, she moved her attention to the other men at the table.

Twisting around in his seat, Revani flagged a passing waitress. “More ale,” he instructed before turning back. Glancing in Eline’s direction, he offered a wicked smile. “What about you, Lady? Care to partake?”

The word Lady was mocking and belied his nation of origin. Although the three Kingdoms of Prima were monarchies, Kebasa was run by wealthy merchants, Nitenbeir was militaristic and only Sur had retained the notion of nobility – in more ways than one.

The use of Lady indicated Revani hailed from the south, although none of their renowned education seemed to have stuck. From where she was sitting, Eline could see his whole cards, and they were not particularly good ones.

“Thank you, but no,” she declined. “I prefer to keep my wits about me when I play.”

Revani’s upper lip curled. “Ah. Womanly concerns.”

“I’d imagine so,” Eline said. “As one must first possess wit in order to be concerned about losing it.”

Revani’s cheeks reddened, his entire expression darkening as Lorcin released a chuckle. He had been the quietest at the table so far and thus, was the only one Eline judged as true competition.

Shooting her a bemused look, Lorcin crossed both his feet at the ankles. Based solely on appearance, Eline assumed him to be from either Nitenbeir or Dagmari. Both were northern Kingdoms, so the complexions were similar, although neither wore their hair in the way Lorcin did – long and unbound, hung nearly to his waist.

He kept one hand beneath the table to conceal his cards from view; the other lay casually beside his untouched wine. Smart, to blend in while keeping his head clear.

Copper laughed, the joke just catching up to him. “A clever tongue,” he said, reaching to pick up his dice. “That’s a shame. Isn’t it a pity when women are clever?”

“It is at that.” Revani accepted the flagon he had ordered. “Clever women always get themselves into trouble.”

Outwardly, Eline betrayed no reaction but inwardly, she burned. What she would not give to have these men know her true wrath; to let them know exactly who she was and what she was capable of.

She knew if these men only knew her other name – if anyone in this establishment so much as whispered the word Umbra – it would make them shake in her boots and yet, here she sat and pretended to smile. To reveal who she was meant losing the upper hand, and in Scarab – as in life – having the upper hand was tantamount to winning.

“Indeed,” Eline said. “Clever women often make men uncomfortable. I imagine those without beauty are often discomforted to find it has a voice.”

Lorcin burst out into laughter as Revani’s scowl deepened.

Eline imagined that under different circumstances, she might have been able to enjoy Lorcin’s presence – a pity then, that her line of work failed to leave time for meaningful connections.

In the corner of her gaze, she saw the door to the Merryweather swing inward, allowing balmy, summer air to escape from the street.

“Shut the door!” someone called from the closest table.

All the gambling dens of Kebasa were housed belowground. This allowed for the coolest environment, since Kebasa was a desert city half as often as it was mountainous. A narrow staircase at the front led to the street; a purposeful decision to restrict entrance or exit.

In Ko, humidity and high waters made underground enclosures impossible. There, gambling dens were tied together like rafts, bobbing in sea at the ends of each dock. Eline disliked these types of places; the small amount of time she had spent in Ko was enough for her to realize she despised the ocean.

With the entrance of Kebasa’s heat came an actual person – several people actually, each one climbing down from the mouth of the alley. This was not unusual; men rarely chose to gamble alone. What was unusual was the way they all gripped the balustrade, as though uncertain whether the stairs could support all their weight.

Eline hid her smile. Make that ten men in the Merryweather who did not belong.

At least the first two men tried to blend in. They wore breathable fabric paired with the colorful vests preferred by Kebasa’s working class. Of course, most Kebasans wouldn’t wear such attire to a gambling den. Bright clothing was how one got noticed; it ensured one’s memorability and most who visited the dens preferred to remain anonymous.

The last man through the door didn’t even bother with a vest, though. His back stayed straight as he entered, steadily scanning the premises with an air of disgust. His distinguished sideburns marked him as a high-ranking citizen of Nitenbeir, as did the thin sword he had buckled around his waist. A rapier, much preferred amongst the dueling sort of men. Eline had always found the weapon rather silly, preferring instead the flexibility of her short sword.

It was the scar though, burnt into the side of his neck, which revealed who he was.

As far as legends went, General Marksam was known across the whole continent. He had been captured in his youth by Dagmari forces, held for twenty days and twenty nights until he escaped by fashioning a knife from his spoon to kill two guards through the door of his cell. That had been years ago, but the man’s name remained feared across Prima.

Nitenbeir nobility was strange; they dressed in severe cuts and sharp lines, as though to emulate their method of thinking. It was surprising to see one Nitenbeiran in a gambling den, let alone two, but Eline had been certain Marksam would appear tonight.

It was rumored the General had a fondness for gambling, which was something his Kingdom frowned upon – at least they did in theory. It was the Nitenbeir way to present no external weakness, but to privately indulge if they wished. Whenever Marksam traveled, he was known to clean out a tavern or two.

The Merryweather had a reputation as the highest of stakes, the most varied clientele, and a mostly discrete owner – for the right price, of course. Travelers had recently swelled Kebasa’s town limits for the summer solstice festival; Marksam was merely one amongst the many. It was the perfect opportunity for him to slip away, get his gambling fix and return before he was noticed missing.

Their group were stopped just inside the entrance, searched, and ordered to hand over their weapons. Marksam looked as though he argued with the bouncer, pointing at something on his chest which might have been a medal. He should have saved his breath for how much he succeeded. Eventually, Marksam handed over his sword, as Eline knew he would.

The rules of the Merryweather were simple – disarm, or don’t play.

Of course, the bouncers did need to find your weapons in order to remove them.

This was something of a game to the locals but people like Marksam were obviously unaware of the rules. It was proper in Nitenbeir for a General to wear their sword at their waist. The gesture was intended to show discipline, decorum and had absolutely no place on gambler’s row.

Swords around here came for their target in night, cloaked with darkness and ill-intent. It didn’t matter if a person showed their sword when one couldn’t be certain what they hid behind their opponent’s vest.

Shifting her weight, Eline stretched her toes against the worn pad of her boot. There were several knives concealed on her frame, since Eline had been forced to leave her short sword at home. One knife was hidden in the sole of her boot, another in its lining and a third strapped to the inside of her thigh.

The key to remaining armed in the Merryweather was to look unimportant. Marksam was obviously unaware of this lesson.

Flapping his coat out behind him, Marksam gingerly sat upon a rounded stool in the corner. His table was closer to the front than Eline’s – which meant the stakes of his table were lower and his game was considered easier. Eline assumed he would move further back over the course of the night; men like him were rarely satisfied with a cheap thrill.

His back faced the door – again, not what Eline would have done. His two comrades seemed to be smarter; they faced the only entrance, keeping careful watch on whoever walked through the door. Eline could only assume Marksam had hired them because they were more familiar with the gambling dens than he was.

Smart of him to seek out their guidance. Stupid of him not to listen.

Returning her attention to her own game, Eline scanned the table before her. While she had been distracted, Jo had backed himself into a corner. Only she, Lorcin, Revani and Copper remained as contenders.

Scowling, Jo threw his cards down to stand. “I’m out,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “May your pockets stay strong.”

Another idiom; this one easier to discern, if no longer applicable. Back when Kebasa was barely a town, trade was exchanged using gemstones as currency. The stones were so ubiquitous to its natives, legends stated they didn’t know their true value until neighbors from Nitenbeir and Sur reached them across the Imir desert. That was when Kebasa began to blossom as a Kingdom and eventually, coins came to replace gemstones as currency.

While in use though, the gemstones had been heavy and to have sturdy pockets meant you had been blessed with good fortune.

Downing the rest of his ale, Jo slammed his glass on the table and stalked towards the bar. The same pockmarked youth Eline had noticed remained slouched in its corner; Jo squeezed in beside him to order another round.

Revani added a second gold coin to the pile. “And what of that, Lady?” he asked, leaning back. “Are you good for it?”

He mimicked her words from earlier. Eyes narrowed, Eline moved to respond but before she could speak, there came a shout from the bar.

“Thief!” The pockmarked boy pointed, wide-eyed, at the door. “THIEF!”

The response around the room was instantaneous.

Jumping up from their table in the corner, both bouncers rushed towards the rickety stairs. Alertness swept through the crowd, jumping from table to table as players craned their necks to look. Many did not seem to care – they had already bet their livelihoods on the games – but many more flinched and scrambled for their purses.

Including Marksam, who instinctively clutched his right pocket – after patting it once, he exhaled and let go.

Hiding her smile, Eline returned to her cards. Fool.

“In,” she declared and added a coin.

Lorcin increased the pile without comment, throwing his dice and losing his next turn. Copper took up the dice and shook, glancing up at the ceiling before rolling a sixteen.

His smile broadened. “Reveal.”

Groaning out loud, Revani slouched in his seat.

The rules of Scarab were complicated, but the final player in any increase round had the opportunity to roll to end the game if they desired. Copper had rolled high enough to do just that, which meant the rest of the table was forced to lay down their cards.

Eline kept her face casual as Lorcin revealed his hand to be better than hers – better than anyone else at the table, including Copper, who looked a bit green as he stared.

Placing her cards down, Eline revealed her hand to be slightly lower than Lorcin’s. Revani’s was worst, but Eline had already known that before he revealed them. His cards held no coherent order, almost as though he had never played the game before, nor learned what it was. Eline idly wondered how he had gotten a seat at their table. Probably money.

“I need another drink,” declared Copper, standing up from his chair.

He wandered over to Jo, who still stood at the bar. The youth who had yelled thief was nowhere to be found, likely scared off by the events of the night.

Undisturbed by his loss, Revani spread his legs wider. “Care to play again, Lorcin? Or you, Lady?” he added, shooting Eline a smirk. “I would have the chance to redeem myself.”

Eline pushed her chair back. “Unfortunately,” she said, gathering her coins. “Redemption is not something I’m in the habit of giving.”

Scanning the den, she drew her cloak tight and wondered where to go next. There was no purpose to her cloak’s color other than to be remembered. At the end of the night, she wanted her face to be paired with this cloak in the den’s memory.

“I agree with the lady,” Lorcin said, also standing. “Best to quit while ahead.”

“Nitenbeirans.” Revani sighed and rolled his neck. “All of them the same. So meticulously practical. Very well,” he said, glancing past them to where multiple players had lined up on the wall. “Which of you wants to try their hand?”

Several rushed forward, eager to take their departed seats and Eline slipped past them, unnoticed.

The den was more crowded than when she had first entered, the dense scent of sweat and alcohol hanging low overhead. Elin scanned the room as she walked, coming to a stop beside the wooden bar. Drinks stained its surface, blending into the varnish until it seemed part of its décor.

In the corner of her eye, she saw Marksam stand from his seat. One hand splayed to the table, he questioned his players and glanced away from the entrance.

There were several halls which led from the back of the Merryweather. One of them ended in a stairwell which climbed to other floors of the building. As it was with the rest of gambler’s row, the Merryweather was not only a place in which to take bets. Its owner, Ren Drago, dabbled in various illicit activities throughout Kebasa; the main floor was merely the tip of the iceberg.

Marksam nodded at whatever his table said, turning around to disappear into the crowd. Eline’s gaze followed him to the back where he entered a hallway marked with a green arrow. Its interior was dimly lit, she could barely see his cloak whipping around the cramped corner.

Eline waited a moment, then slipped behind a group of players to remove her cloak and pull it on inside-out. The other side was dark, a coarser material not unlike that of the other gambling patrons. Lowering the hood, she moved out from the men who hid her from view.

Anyone who saw her would fail to place her as the gambler in red. Another trick from the thieves’ manual – create a memorable character, then become someone else. No one followed Eline as she moved towards the same back hall, which meant no one would remember her as the person Marksam encountered.

He was not difficult to spot once Eline reached the hall. He stood out even amongst the shadows, glancing about him with a puzzled look on his face. It seemed not even the advice of his table had been enough to locate the washroom.

Eline paused before entering, reaching out to puck a flagon of ale from a table. Adopting an intoxicated swagger, she raised the cup to her lips as she pretended to drink.

The light from a singular gas lamp dimmed when she passed, the hood of her cloak blocking out most illumination. Said lamp swung from above her, attached to the weathered ceiling; all sconces in the hall had been pilfered, their metal likely stolen and sold to melt down into wares.

Hearing Eline’s approach, Marksam turned his head. Giving her a swift once-over, he apparently decided she was harmless and lifted a hand.

“You there!” he called out. “Madam.”

As though surprised by the address, Eline stumbled for some of her ale to slosh towards the ground.

Nose wrinkled, Marksam drew back as though he could smell the imaginary alcohol on her breath. Eline noticed he didn’t seem to be drunk – at least one of the Nitenbeiran principles had rubbed off on him. It meant he would be more aware though, which made this transaction dangerous.

“Are you familiar with this establishment?” Marksam’s other palm rested upon the hilt of his rapier. “Do you happen to know where one might relieve oneself?”

“Establishment?” Laying the Ko accent on thick, Eline came to a stop. “You’re out of your depths, soldier,” she laughed, ending the word with a hiccup. “This here’s no establishment, it’s a right pigsty.”

Marksam’s eyes narrowed at the title she gave him.

Nitenbeir social hierarchy was based upon military rank. Their system was complicated – overly so, in Eline’s opinion – but based on his attire, Marksam could be identified as at least a General. Calling him a soldier was an insult; one strong enough that in Nitenbeir he wouldn’t have been remotely out of line in challenging her to a duel.

And they had the nerve to call other Kingdoms savages.

“Regardless of where you think I belong,” he said stiffly. “I would hear your response.”

Lifting her drink, Eline’s hand trembled, more ale sloshing over the rim. “You would hear my response?” she mocked, mimicking his imperious tone. “Most people just piss down that hall to the left, I guess. That’s if they even bother to – ah!” she blurted, spilling the flagon down his front.

Marksam swore and jumped back, but the damage had been done. Brownish-gold liquid dribbled down his front of his shirt, seeping to stain the white silk underneath.

“S-sorry,” Eline stuttered, blinking at him in horror.

Marksam froze for a moment, staring stunned at his shirt. Slowly, his gaze lifted to hers. “You… vermin,” he hissed and lunged forward.

Eline cowered away from him, her right shoulder hitting the wall as she tripped on the end of her cloak. She cut a pitiful figure in the dark of the hall, both hands lifted as Marksam reached for his sword. Here he hesitated, chest heaving while he considered the pathetic figure before him. Eline worked to make herself seem smaller, hunching both shoulders as she stared at the ground.

At last the image seemed to work, since Marksam slowly exhaled and slid his sword in its sheath.

“Bah,” he grumbled, shoving past. “Filthy urchin. Not worth my trouble.”

Eline let herself be pushed, briefly gripping his cloak to steady herself – and then he was gone, disappeared around the corner. He left not in the direction of the gambling floor, but to the left, deeper into the den in search of a washroom.

As soon as he was gone, Eline straightened.

Trying not to smile, she slipped her hand into her pocket and ran the tip of her finger along the edge of a key. Here, at last, was her true prize for the evening. The entirety of the wealth played in the front room barely held a candle to the key inside her pocket.

It was one of twenty keys distributed by King Tulen himself, the ruler and monarch of the Kingdom of Kebasa. Each key granted entrance to the most exclusive level of the summer solstice festival; the highborn, an ongoing celebration to which only twenty people could enter at one time.

Eline had a buyer who wanted a key.

What her buyer needed it for, she did not dare ask, nor did she care. Eline had a job to do and that was all that mattered. After all, she more than anyone understood people often did desperate things in desperate situations.

Marksam was one of twenty individuals who had been granted a key. Each Kingdom on the continent usually received two or three to distribute. Marksam was considered important enough in Nitenbeir that the King had sent him in his place.

While Marksam had been distracted by the drink she spilled, Eline had dipped a hand in his pocket and pilfered his key – the very same pocket he had patted when the pockmarked youth at the bar had yelled thief earlier.

Yet another thief’s trick, and a widely effective one.

When a reasonable person heard the word thief, they immediately reached to protect their valuables. Of course, if another person – say, Eline – were also watching, said person would give away where they were keeping their valuables. All it took was a little distraction to ensure Eline stole the key out from under his nose.

She made a mental note to pay Jaspin, the pockmarked youth, double tomorrow for a job well-done.

Turning around, she strode down the corridor. At the crossway she turned in the opposite direction of Marksam. It would be a while before he returned from that particular hallway. Eline had purposefully sent him in that direction, since the corridor housed the back rooms where private games were held.

If no one stabbed Marksam as soon as he entered, it would take him a while to explain his mistake. Once he did, Eline would be long gone.

Paused at what seemed like a dead end, Eline came to a stop and lowered her hood.

Glancing above, she scanned the long grate in the ceiling – another common design on gambler’s row. Although there was only one way inside the den from the street, there existed another way out from the back.

It would be inconvenient for a den’s owner to barricade themselves in, along with anyone else they wished to trap. As a precautionary measure, most buildings housed a special exit: a crawl space between the first and second floors, just large enough for a person to move through while escaping to the next alley.

Glancing over her shoulder, Eline ensured no one was watching and backed up a few steps.

Bending both legs, she leapt to grab hold of a stone jutting out from the wall. Using the smaller crevices as handholds, she swiftly climbed to reach the ceiling above. Positioning her weight evenly on all limbs, Eline reached above to loosen the grate and push.

It clattered off to one side – frozen, Eline waited, but no one seemed to have heard. Re-gripping the grate, Eline swung her legs upwards and launched herself into the hole. Once inside the crawlspace, she carefully repositioned the grate in the floor.

Crouched to the ground, Eline examined her surroundings.

The space around her was dusty, as though no one had used the corridor in quite some time. Eline suspected this was the case; Ren Drago, the owner of the Merryweather, was amongst the most feared men in Kebasa. To break a rule in his establishment usually meant you’d break something else. There were not many a man like Ren would feel the need to escape from.

Not wasting any time, Eline began to move, carefully positioning her weight so she failed to make noise. It was unlikely anyone would think to look for her here, since the actual entrance to the crawl space was on the second floor, but it was better to be careful than dead.

At the end of the tunnel, Eline pulled a knife from her boot and went to work on the grate. Twisting the screws one by one, she calculated how much time had passed since she left Marksam alone. It wouldn’t be long before he returned – if she were lucky, he wouldn’t notice the missing key until he returned to his lodgings.

Removing the final screw from the grate, Eline jiggled it free from the wall. She hesitated a moment, listening to the sounds of the alley below.

Nothing unusual.

Setting the steel grate aside, Eline leaned out of the opening to glance at the ground. Nose wrinkled, she sighed. The grate emptied into an alleyway behind a butcher shop. Scraps of days-old meat were piled below, their blood trickling slowly to join through the cobblestones.

At least the meat would offer her a soft landing. Swinging both legs aloft, Eline held her breath as she dropped down from the ledge. For most people, this would have been a difficult task, but these kinds of feats had always come easily for Eline.

Straightening from her crouch, Eline immediately strode in the opposite direction of gambler’s row. Her footsteps were muffled, thanks to special boots Eline had designed herself.

Even if the alleyway was quiet, the city around her was not – each distant yell of laughter sounded at once too far and too loud. The dense, squatted buildings forced Eline to imagine she saw shapes in the shadows.

One hand drifted towards her belt as she walked; a pointless reflex, since her short sword remained at her lodgings, but she still found it comforting.

It would have been suspicious for her to run from gambler’s row, so Eline forced herself to calmly walk on. Each muscle in her body strained against instinct, yearning to be free now that the job was complete. All that was left was dropping key in its preassigned destination, collecting her money, and washing her mind of the memory.

Eline was good at that.

She was good at forgetting what she needed to forget, unseeing what she needed to unsee. It was why she made such a good thief, as her mentor once said. Eline could compartmentalize her soul in ways few even dreamed of and even while distracted, her senses remained intact.

It was how Eline heard the moment someone turned down the alley, their footsteps echoing hers around the sound of leaking pipes. Tilting her head, she listened as she walked, her stride never breaking as she pretended not to hear.

When the footsteps were barely a pace away, she exhaled and turned, yanking a knife from her belt.

Her blade was met with another, aimed directly at her heart.

The man on the other end of the sword smiled, his face hidden by shadow. “The famous Umbra,” he said, inclining his head. “I’ve been searching for you.”

  © Shanna Page, 2020. Do not copy or repost without permission.

#writeblr #fantasy #sci-fi #writing

[sierraraeck]

The Second Case (Pt.2)

BAU x OC Aundreya

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

(This is my gif so please give credit if used)

Summary: The second case with the team means revisiting Aundreya’s hometown of Chicago. It quickly becomes personal and requires her to use connections and skills she acquired on the streets. Story two.

Category: Just working a case with the team

Warnings: Normal CM gore. A case involving young teenage girls. Mentions of drugs. Cussing.

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: Just a reminder that this is all 100% fiction and I don’t actually know how gangs work.

“Ben Brady, 30 years old, with a history of peeping and a restraining order from his ex-girlfriend,” Penelope informed us.

“He fits the description,” Aaron said, as we looked at him from behind the one way glass.

Derek stepped out of the interrogation room, the third to do so. “He’s not gonna talk.”

“We have to keep trying. He knows where they are,” Aaron said.

“I’m telling you, we have got to start looking for other leads, because I even offered him a deal, and he still wouldn’t budge,” Derek said with just an undertone of defeat.

“I could talk to him,” I suggested. If we had already broken the rules by having me out in the field, we might as well just break them all, right?

“No. I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Aaron told me.

“Have you even ever interrogated someone before?” Rossi asked.

“Sure.”

“Sure? What does that mean?” Rossi pressed.

“It means that while I might not have FBI regulated training, I have interrogated people before. Plus, I think he might be a bit more accustomed to my methods,” I put out there.

“What makes you say that?”

“Oh, come on. I can smell the hood rat from here,” I said, scrunching my nose. Despite the fact that he looked like a middle class man that could have accidentally gotten involved with the wrong person, I could tell that wasn’t the case. Rossi’s eyebrows shot up. “What? Isn’t that what you hired me for?”

“I guess,” he replied.

“Hotch, isn’t this against protocol?” Derek asked.

“Yes, but I’m pretty sure letting a young girl die because the person who could be most useful in a situation like this isn’t allowed to talk to the guy in her field of expertise, is also against protocol,” I answered for him. When I received no protests, I went to my bag and pulled out a notepad and pen and set it on the table right outside the door.

“What’s that for?” Rossi asked me.

“We’ll need it later.” I hope. I continued to shuffle around in my bag until I found what else I was looking for. I put on the 6 chain bracelets and the two rings made up of small beaded links on my left wrist and pinky.

“How about those?” Derek asked.

“A means of persuasion.”

“Wait you’re not going to-”

“Calm down. I’m not going to beat him up or whatever crazy thing you think I’m going to do. These are just a form of identification,” I interrupted.

“Okay, but what are they,” Derek asked.

I turned to look at him and saw Reid approaching the group, and decided to let him explain, “Why don’t you ask Doctor Reid.” I turned and entered the interrogation room before anyone could stop me. I didn’t even have a file or pictures to show him, but I didn’t need them. I sat down across from Ben.

He looked up at me, “You’re a little bit young to be working for the FBI.”

“You’re a little bit old to be hanging out with 14 year old girls,” I retorted. He looked back down. I knew that he was probably part of the Angels before the Cloaks took them over, and that he probably left to either fend for himself, or join a different gang. I was hoping for the latter.

“Gaela,” I said. He shot me a quick glance. Good. He was from the Angels if he recognized the leader’s last name. Now I just had to throw out others to figure out if he was in a new gang or not.

“Dimitrov, Carden, Dominic,” I listed. No reaction.

“Novak.” Still nothing.

“Hoeye,” I said. There it was. The slight eye shift in my direction. “Ooh. I don’t think he’d be very happy if he knew that you and your buddy were going rogue.”

“I’m not going to talk to you,” he stated. I stared him down for a few moments before lifting my left arm so that he could process the jewelry covering it. His eyes went wide.

“Are those-”

“Yep,” I cut him off.

“And you have-”

“Yep.”

“Which makes you-”

“Yep. In the flesh,” I said with a smirk. He immediately shifted in his seat, becoming exponentially more uncomfortable. “Now do you feel like talking?”

“Oh, uh. Um, no. What are you doing helping the FBI?” he said flustered, but trying to regain his ground.

“Does that sound like any of your business?” I hissed.

“No, but-”

“No. It’s not. And from where I’m sitting, you’ve got two options. Give me what I want, or maybe I’ll decide to pay your friend Hoeye a quick visit.”

“You can’t. The FBI’s probably got you under intense surveillance.”

“That could be true. But considering they’re probably going to spit me back out by the end of the week landing me back on the streets gives me all the flexibility I’d need,” I squinted my eyes at him. I could tell his confidence was starting to waver and he was beginning to give in to me. Just to fully sell it, I pushed my hair behind my left ear, turning my head to expose that part of my neck as I did. It revealed the tattoos that indicated I’d been to a supermax prison and that I’d escaped. “Your move.”

He swallowed hard and started shifting his eyes around as I moved my hair back to cover the tattoos. I couldn’t forget that there was a secondary audience. I leaned back in my chair. “So, Ben, if you’ve heard of me, you’ve probably heard of some of my pet-peeves, right? Do you remember what one of them was?” I asked rhetorically. “One of them, is that I absolutely cannot stand people who waste. My. Time. Does that ring a bell?”

He shifted in his chair and started rubbing his hands together. I was close. “Have you ever heard from one of those lucky people about the pleasant things that happen to them? Especially if they were to piss me off enough after, say, elaborately getting a young girl killed?”

Morgan was right, though. He was a tough one to crack. “She’s only 14,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, and you were only 14 when you landed here and you did fine for yourself,” he countered, but his voice was faltering.

“True. But one of us has a chance of getting out. Which one do you think that is?” I pointed out. He just sat there. I got up out of my chair and walked over to him. I placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned in so that he could practically feel each word falling from my lips. “Just remember this moment, when you had the choice of self preservation, the number one rule on the streets, and instead you chose blind loyalty. He’d turn you in in a heartbeat, and he’d be smart to do so. He’ll probably move up the ranks, and get the credit he deserves. I mean, that’s what I did. But you? You will just be added to the long list of disposable low-lives who died by my hand.”

I slowly started walking away, giving him the chance to stop me. I reached for the handle of the door when I got what I wanted. “Wait,” he said. I turned around and took my place across the table from him.

“Do you have paper and a pen?” he asked. I smirked at him and lifted my left hand up like I was a waitress at a restaurant. I hoped someone got the memo because it would only add to the power I held over Ben if it looked like I already had the FBI wrapped around my finger. Luckily, I heard the door click open and the pad and pen were placed in my hand. I could tell from the shoes in my peripheral and the scented cologne that it was Rossi who did so. He quickly vacated the room. Without breaking eye contact with Ben, I put the pad down on the table with a satisfying slap. I pushed it over to him with the pen.

“So you really earned all of these?” he asked, suddenly grabbing my wrist and turning it over to admire the number of beads. He was looking at them in wonder and it was disgusting. I yanked my wrist from his grasp.

“Just start writing,” I said, and he did. He wrote down the address and a full list of all the girls they had taken over the last few months. He shoved it toward me and, as expected, ‘Jayana Orion’ was scratched down at the bottom. It made me want to hit the guy in the face right there. I looked over the list but there was one thing he forgot to add.

“Do you think you’re smart or something? Don’t try to bullshit me!” I yelled, as I walked over to his side of the table.

“I honestly forgot-”

“No you didn’t. Not. Smart. Complete the list,” I demanded. He frantically wrote down the name of his accomplice. Accomplices? There were two of them? “There. That’s better.”

“What are you going to do now?” he asked, but the concern was obviously only for himself.

“I guess I’ll consider not telling Hoeye about our little chat. As long as this holds up,” I gestured to his list, quickly raising my eyebrows at him before exiting the room.

Everyone was staring at me. “What in the hell was that?” Derek asked, but he didn’t sound necessarily irritated. I answered by turning the notepad around so that they could all see the list of information scrawled across it. I took a few steps toward Derek and I pressed the pad against his chest, with just a little bit of added force. I looked up at him.

“That was me saving a little girl’s life.” I walked out of the hallway and back into the bullpen to sit down.

Everyone started rushing around me, getting their gear together and leaving to go off and save those girls. Everyone except for Emily.

“Hey,” she said, sitting down across from me.

“What are you still doing here? Don’t they need you in the field?”

“Usually. But they’ve got about a hundred officers and the rest of the team headed out there. I think they’ve got it.”

“Ah. I see. You got put on babysitting duty,” I said. “Do you guys draw names out of a hat or something?”

She gave a single laugh. “No, not this time. I volunteered.”

“Oh, wow. Didn’t realize you had a thing for S and M,” I teased.

She rolled her eyes at me. “Is that what you really think? That you are that unpleasant to be around?”

“Yeah, pretty much. That’s the general consensus.”

Not exactly knowing how to reply and not wanting to push me any farther, she changed the subject.

“So you really got all those links?”

I was confused for a moment until I remembered that I was still wearing my bracelets and rings. “Oh. Yeah. Did the Doctor tell you about them?”

“Yeah. He told us that it’s a way for guards and inmates to track each other kind of like a ranking system. The more you have, the worse you’ve been, and higher ranked you are. You receive one for each time you went to the infirmary, sent someone to the infirmary, and a certain number for each type of crime you’ve committed. He also told us that the most anyone had ever gotten was four bracelets and a ring. You have that beat by a lot,” she recited.

“I do. Lucky me,” I said, removing them and placing them back in my bag.

“How did you know that you were going to need a pen and paper before you even went in to interrogate?”

“It’s almost like an unspoken rule as far as gangs go. People could be wired, so you don’t want to have to say things out loud. If the place has surveillance, you can easily just shield the paper from the cameras and a lot of people can write in code much better than they can speak it. Plus, once he knew I was The Figure, he would know that I always ask for extensive lists.”

“How did you know Rossi would come in and deliver the stuff to you?” she asked, almost in wonder. Almost.

“To be honest, that was a shot in the dark. It would help me scare him if it looked like I had power even over the FBI and I was just hoping one of you back there would pick up on it.” We were silent for a while before she asked me her next question.

“Do I want to know what you whispered to him?”

“Probably not,” I stated matter-of-factly.

“Alright, then would you tell me about your tattoos?”

I looked up at her. No one had ever asked me that question before. I must have seemed so dumbfounded because she showed me a tattoo of her own. It was on her right hip bone and it was of Saturn. Just two simple circles but you could tell it was Saturn.

“When I was young, I was always traveling places with my mom. I never really felt like I had one home and things were changing constantly. Whenever I got nervous before a move or I just couldn’t handle the stress of constant change, she would always tell me wherever I was on planet Earth, no matter how much things were changing for me, all the planets were still orbiting the Sun. Things weren’t changing for them, and I could always count on them to be constant. It helped keep me grounded and I like the reminder every now and then.”

It was a sweet story, and I knew it was my turn. “Pretty much all of mine are just for street-related identification purposes. None that have quite as good of a backstory. This one,” I said, exposing my right collar bone, “is for the Cloaks. This one,” I showed the one on my left hip bone, “is for my underground ring. Then I’ve got these ones on my neck,” I said pulling my hair out of the way for the second time, “which shows that I’ve been to a supermax, and then escaped,” I concluded. I wasn’t willing to tell her about the others.

“What about the one on your pinky knuckle?” I was hoping she wouldn’t ask, having just removed the rings that covered it.

“That one…” I trailed off. I was saved by the bell when she got an incoming call. It was Aaron, letting her know that they’d got the guys and were bringing them in. They’d found Jayana Orion, three other girls, and many more photos of victims-to-be. The four of them were on their way to the hospital.

“Let’s go,” Prentiss said.

I was confused. “Go where?”

“The hospital. We are going to meet them there and give their families an update.” I wasn’t given time to protest as she grabbed my arm, practically yanking me to the car.

# # # # # # # # # # # # #

At the hospital, Prentiss and the rest of the team went to the families of the other three girls to tell them what had happened, and were showered with hugs and words of gratitude. I sat in the farthest corner trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible, (which wasn’t that hard given my talent for it) dreading when Todd would show up. Prentiss waved me over to where the happy reunited families were, but I shook my head. Clearly that wasn’t the response she was looking for, because soon she was dragging me over to the group. I stood there awkwardly while the rest of them soaked in the glory of four saved girls.

“Just so you know, the FBI isn’t going to spit you back out onto the streets,” she whispered.

“Yeah, sure. I just convinced their best team to break the only rules set in place for me within the first two weeks, and I’m sure I’ll manage to find some other ways to screw things up,” I responded.

“Don’t worry about the rules. You helped save four young girls. Now, just focus on not screwing things up,” she said with a sly smile. I rolled my eyes.

“Easier said than done, but, thanks. Best pep-talk ever,” returning the same sly smile.

That’s when Todd walked in.

“Where is she? Where is my daughter?” he asked no one in particular.

Jayana was unconscious in her hospital bed, JJ explained, but she should be fine and waking up within the next day or so. He thanked her and the rest of the team for finding Jayana when his gaze landed on me. His mood immediately shifted. Anyone with eyes could see the pure hatred radiating off of him. I swallowed and turned away.

“Aundreya,” he spat my name like it physically hurt him to say it. It probably did.

“Todd,” I responded, flicking my eyes over to him. He sauntered toward me until I could feel his hot breath in my face.

“Why are you here? You need to stay away from my daughter, you hear me?”

“Sir, she’s here because-” JJ started.

“I don’t give a damn why she’s here. She’s already done enough damage to my family. I don’t want her anywhere near Jayana. Ever again,” Todd said, enunciating each word carefully. He grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me towards him, so that he could whisper his next words in my ear. “If I ever see you again, or your existence causes any more problems for my family than it already has, I will hunt you down and kill you without hesitation.” He released my neck with force, practically throwing my head away from his. He opened the door leading to Jayana’s room, giving me one last fiery glance before shutting it behind him. I’d almost forgotten the rest of the team’s presence until I felt a hand on my back. I looked up into Emily’s eyes.

“See? I told you that was the general consensus.” I didn’t give her time to respond because I crossed my arms and forced myself to walk past JJ and Morgan and Hotch and Reid and Rossi to get to the exit. “I’ll meet you at the jet.”

# # # # # # # # # # # # #

I waited for about 20 minutes before the rest of the team arrived. I only had one bag of stuff that I kept with me at all times, so it wasn’t like I had to do any quick packing. They all arrived together.

“What the hell was that?” Derek asked as he quickly got out of the driver’s seat. That seemed to be the only thing he knew how to say to me.

“Back off,” Emily said.

“What? You're not the least bit curious as to why that guy hated her?”

“A lot of guys hate me,” I interjected.

Prentiss continued on like I hadn’t said anything. “Look, I just think that-”

“Both of you, stop it,” Rossi interrupted.

“All I’m saying is that I think we should get an answer,” Derek said, stubborn and persistent as always.

“You want an answer?” I offered, switching my focus to Prentiss. “The tattoo on my finger? It’s to symbolize that I’ve killed someone. Not only that, but I’ve killed high ranking, important people, and I’ve killed quite a few of them. I’ve caused plenty of trouble, and you’re profilers. You do the math,” I stated, somehow keeping control over my voice. I was shutting down and pushing them away like I did everyone else. It was easier that way. “So are we going to board the jet, or not?” They all looked at each other, mouths sewn shut, then slowly climbed the steps to the jet, closing the door behind them.

#criminal minds fanfic #bau x oc #aundreya chambers #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid #dr. spencer reid #spencer reid #spencer #reid #derek morgan #morgan #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotchner #hotchner #hotch #jennifer jareau #jj #emily prentiss #prentiss #david rossi #rossi #penelope garcia #garcia #criminal minds #criminal minds fandom #criminal minds fanfiction #cm #behavioral analysis unit #bau

[kendrixtermina]

The Recruitment Freebies: Thoughts on Sylvain and Felix

Now when it comes to recruiting characters, there are 2 who kind of stand out and are, in their own way, somewhat ‘easier’ to get.

Sylvain joins you automatically if you’re playing fem Byleth, whereas Felix actually requires high stats/abilities that no one else does but since your primary weapon is most likely going to be a sword anyways and he requires sword skill, he’s actually not so hard to collect. Given that they’re both handy units (Felix kicks butt like no tomorrow, Sylvain is pretty customizable and gets a relic early on) you’re sorta encouraged to snatch one or both.

If you’ve seen them in their original environment, you’ll easily notice why: They’re kind of the kingdom’s token cynics. 

[Longer Essay Under The Cut]

The Initial Situation

One thing that stands out right away is that the Blue Lions are one of the tightest-knit groups: The Black Eagles have sort of vaguely heard of each other because most the imperial nobility lives in the capital and the one commoner used to be famous, but that’s it, only Linhardt and Dorothea really express any regret over betraying Edelgard if they do, and their fates don’t differ that much by whatever faction they’re in - Ferdinand is certainly sad to see the Empire itself go down (see that amusing line about an ‘Adrestia-shaped hole in [his] heart’) and has a minor existential crisis when his family’s lands are confiscated after he spend his whole life preparing to rule them, but while he gets that line wondering what might have become of him if Byleth had chosen a different path, he pretty much always becomes a statesman no matter who winds up on the throne.

The Golden Deer, meanwhile, are from wildly different backgrounds and even Claude just showed up last year. If they stay together, they eventually become a tight-knit group under Claude’s leadership (except Lorenz, if Byleth’s not with them), and if you recruit em,  they will largely pursue their own interests as they were never too unified to begin with, with most of the commoners saying they were never that involved in politics, and most of the nobles acting out of self-preservation or opportunism.

By contrast, most of the Blue Lions know each other personally and will be pretty conflicted about defecting from the Kingdom if you recruit them, and it’s no wonder:

Sylvain, Felix Ingrid and Dimitri were childhood friends and all big weapons enthusiasts, Dedue has followed Dimitri everywhere he went for the last few years, Anette’s father worked for Dimitri’s, Mercedes is Anette’s BFF from magic school and while Ashe didn’t know the others before since he was a poor village kid before Lonato took him in, he becomes fast friends with the rest of them due to their shared admiration of knight stories.

So in this more idealistic and old-fashioned groups, Sylvain and Felix can be thought of as the token cynics or more independently-minded characters. This is most obvious with Felix: He sticks out like a sore thumb, vocally expresses his dislike of the others and their values and basically keeps to himself on the training grounds, and its only through the other’s doormatsey dispositions that they seem determined to ignore his hostilities and continue considering him a friend whether he wants to or not. He doesn’t fit in with the other Blue Lions at all.

Sylvain, meanwhile, doesn’t stand out that much at first glance, he seems like another fairly common character archetype in the silly childhood friends lineup and gives Ingrid plenty of cause to get into Mom Friend mode,  but the whole thing with him is that while he pretends to be a hedonistic oaf, he’s actually something of a brooding intellectual type underneath, very ‘byronic’ overall.

Ultimately, both of them are motivated by a desire for, and love of freedom. (which is probably why a lot of ppl think they’d be a compatible and interesting as a romantic couple - for all their outward difference, they have a common ‘core’ there)  Sylvain has been treated all his life like his life and power don’t really belong to himself and he desperately strains against those binds by acting out, and Felix finds his countrymen to have a bit of a grostesque lemming mentality and wants no part of that.

At the same time both show their ‘cynism’ in very different ways, and neither of them is a ‘complete’ cynic, but the areas where you find their residual idealism are also different. I would say that Felix’ cynism is more apparent, while Sylvain’s runs much deeper, but more on that later.

Though he cares little about maintaining a reputation and indeed seems to sorta seek out or get a kick out doing what his father would hate, calling himself a ‘good for nothing/scoundrel/ someone who’s going to hell’, to sorta go against that pressure to be a good kid, when it comes down to it he’s actually still pretty honorable and does actually believe in The Power Of Friendship (as noted by both Ashe and Dimitri - it’s probably why they like him) He’s inclined to be a Good Guy, he just doesn’t want the pressure that goes along with it.

It reminds me a bit of that one Fiona Apple song: “Do I wanna do right? Of course./ But Do I really wanna feel I’m forced to/  answer you?/ Hell no!”

Felix meanwhile - well. Some might say he’s tsundere, and I suppose he is, stock phrases wise, but to put it more specifically what he is is counterdependent.  Which is a word commonly used to describe that teenage behavior of always doing the exact opposite of what your parents or the mainstream do, thereby being just as influenced as a dependent person. It’s closer to being dependent than indepedent - He wants badly to be independent, but doesn’t really know how. He still very much has attachments to his father and his oldtime childhood friends, he just rejects them fiercely, because between Glenn’s death and his first deployment to Sreng, he came to see that attachment as something that will destroy him, something incompatible with self-preservation. He still dearly loves Rodrigue, Dimitri and the others, but he doesn’t want to be like them. He wants to be free, he’s a reasonable man and sees that they’re all walking off a cliff and he doesn’t wanna jump of of it, but his opposition is so absolute because some part of his kind of wants to.

At the same time he’s not entirely a complainer for complaining’s sake. Though very fighting-focussed he has his own strong code of ethics and standards- Dimitri markedly falls short of them. They’re not that different, Felix too feels the wide open wound of being still bonded and attached  to people who aren*t there anymore (”Training for a duel with a corpse”, as he puts it) - But while Dimitri let it eat his life (though there’s more complexity here of course but that would derail this into a whole different essay), Felix kinda errs on the opposite side of pushing down all attachment, but at the same time, he does it because he’s concerned with saving the ones who are still alive. That’s the point he stresses in his paralogue where he argues with his father, “We’re here to protect our subjects”. He wants to protect himself, yes, but he also wants to protect other people. He’s all about that.  He wants people to protect themselves not glorify throwing their lives away.

Which is why despite all his vocal complaining he still ultimately hangs out with the others, cannot help but worry about their wellbeing etc.  They might be negative bonds now but they’re still very much bonds.

Meanwhile, in Sylvain’s case the cynism comes not from rejection but disillusionment and distrust. He’s a good guy but his ability to form bonds is almost completely destroyed. All his life he got showered with fake conditional love while being presented with an example of what would happen if he didn’t stay in ppl’s good graces: His brother, who’d been dropped like a hot potato. I don’t think he can think of himself as good; He kinda got treated as an unfair existence the moment he came into the world.   At least if you get no love, you still have the hope that you might eventually get love. But fake love? Fake love poisons everything. It’s disgusting wrong, it’s not really for you and it just makes you wanna get rid of it by any means neccessary. Speaking from experience here.

Apart from the bonds he got with his childhood friend and those with exceptional people skills like Byleth, Mercedes and Dorothea, he doesn’t really trust anyone beyond a certain level.

But that’s a subtle distinction.

At first the most apparent difference, and the first contrast to come up in their support chain, is focus. Felix responded to the unpleasantness in his past with absolute laser focus, particularly on fighting and becoming stronger, whereas Sylvain avoids ever the appearance of focus like the plague, downplays his capabilities and chases distractions in a way that may be rather relatable to those of us who had the whole weird-ass Gifted Child Experience. Hence, Sylvain might come off as extravagant/frivolous while Felix appears disciplined, even ascetic.

This is also apparent in how its implied that they “jump ship” - Sylvain does it on a whim because of fem Byleth’s ample bosoms, (whereas man Byleth needs to impress him with reason skill which ties more into his hidden dephts) whereas with Felix it would tie into his pursuit of strenght and how he focusses on that more than anything else. Byleth stands out as a badass, so Felix juins his class or that’s his reasoning in the dialogue he gets.

But at the same time what we see here is that both were born with great natural power but don’t want that defining their lives. Sylvain downplays and refuses to use his, while Felix is determined to get straight that he actually “earned” through his harsh discipline and dedication, and vocally disavows conventional wisdom (”Crests, lineagle, knighthood... all trifles. Only strenght and skill matter”)

Post-Timeskip

So while a lot of characters like, say, Dorothea, get alot of the same dialogues in each route, others kind of get different little arcs depending on where they end up - for example if you recruit Lorenz for the empire he will at first join out of pure opportunism (that, and trying to get mercy for his corrupt-ass father), but then towards the last few months, he’ll actually come around to Edelgard’s way of thinking.

Felix is one of the characters whose dialogue differs the most by route - church & Alliance overlap a lot though with a few pointed differences, and his ending narrations are totally different depending on whether you recruited him or left him with the Kingdom. Of course, this would have to differ to an extent as he can’t exactly become Dimitri’s right hand when there’s no Dimitri, but the outcomes are starkly different to the point that even his paired endings with different characters all have two versions.

In the Kingdom route he generally succeeds his father whereas in the other routes, he typically renounces his title and becomes a mercenary unless his partner or BFF convinces him otherwise.

Unlike, say, Ferdinand, who does about the same thing regardless of who he ends up working under, for Felix the decision to ditch his classmates is a big big turning point, a choice

Sylvain by contrast has rather more similar endings wherever he goes and his dialogues are more similar - one highlight being how he has the exact same “history is written by the winners, whoever wins will say they’re right war will probably always exist...” lines regardless of whether he’s fighting for or against Edelgard. Whenever he isn’t commenting on the weather of their next destination or the general suckyness of the war, he remains mildly sceptical of whatever side he’s on, including one memorable instance where he refers to poor Hubert as “Edelgard’s idiot sidekick” and thinks they should try more negotiating, though he’s not blind to Dimitri’s flaws either when they go fight him.

Not really a big joiner or believer, this one, no illusions about how they could always be wrong, which perhaps makes it more touching how he invariably ends up becoming a peacemaker and activist after the war, basically becoming a fulltime do-gooder.

Since the inner mechanics with Felix are quite different, so are his outcomes. Sylvain’s gonna be like “I’m not optimistic but I gotta try doing the right thing”, no atter who he’s following, but you get a whole different Felix depending on what route you’re playing.

Because for him, wether to stick with Team Kingdom or not kinda represents a choice between his lingering attachment and his drive to reject that.

In the Kingdom route, he stays a lot more like he was in his academy days: Complains a lot, but still sticks with everyone to the end. He sort of fills the role of the contrarian number two, the one providing a contrastic viewpoint (while, Sylvain, while not optimistic, is no less stubborn about sticking with a friend in need than the rest of Team Kingdom)

He comes across as the Only Sane Man at times, esp. when he calls Titanic on the whole Revenge Trip to Gronder, “Iceberg ahead? ya’ll seeing the iceberg right?” but of course if you’re just complaining you’re kinda part of the problem - He muses that he must be crazy too, if he’s going along with everybody. Can’t bring himself to leave. Eventually that attachment wins out and he doesn’t even bother hiding it especially once Dimitri gets his act together. At that point he figures that the best he can do is to keep him on-course. Though they don’t go back to the same dynamic they once had, they go back to being BFF and the new dynanic is probably more useful to Dimitri as a counterpoint, they pretty much each succeed their fathers in proper Kingdom Manner and stay an A-team for the rest of their lives just like their das were. Idealism triumphs, though it’s a more matured, well-thought out one that is less about high standards and more about forgiveness/redemption.

It seems like he kinda became what he didn’t want to be early on (in the paired ending with Dimitri he even winds up in one of those chivalric tales he used to hate!), but it also looks like that made him happy. Maybe because it resolved the contradiction and tension within himself, all the energy he expends in rejecting his feelings of attachment, to like, actively not care about Dimitri.

I mean in their B support at one point he almost accidentally lapses back into Nerding Out About Swords Like Old Times - He needs to actively remind himself that he’s supposed to hate Dimitri now, and he does an even worse job at No Longer Liking the others.

Indeed when he gets what he ostensibly wanted, or rather what he wants to want, it doesn’t seem to make him all that happy - This was indeed the realization that prompted me to do this analysis. He goes full lonesome cowboy and marches off and he doesn’t sound all that happy about what he’s done, and his paired ending with Sylvain is one of the ones that makes it very obvious - In the Kingdom route, they stay Together Forever as they were in childhood, like they never got estranged at all. In the other routes it’s a sad, melancholic, darkly romantic thing about how Sylvain inherited his title, Felix came to help him out once and they never saw each other again, and Sylvain eventually gets a keepsake from Felix... and this is if you recruit them both. They get a sad enough dialogue if you grab only one and make them fight each other, but even if they run away together, essentially, they don’t become happy together.

The circumstances aren’t that different, if they still wound up in the same faction - But Felix is different.

Because he doesn’t just leave because of Byleth’s heroic charisma like many of the others - He  goes because, in essence, he is putting his pursuit of strength over his lingering attachments for his friends. To leave the kingdom means to actually become what he pretends to be. To actually become a lonewolf warrior who cares only about strenght rather than an ultimately loyal tsundere.

Which is where the above rambles about counter-dependency come to bear: He says he doesn’t care but he does, so much he can’t stop. So to take this step, which at the time seens reasonable and sane and free to him, is to cut off part of himself.

Though even here there are different gradations depending on where you recruit him to.

In the Alliance and church routes he simply jumps ship on the kingdom out of self-preservation. Sanity before Honor, just like he was always talking about. The kingdom’s in horrible shape, it can’t win, or so he sees it, Sylvain’s reasoning is pretty much the same but more resigned/sad (”There was nothing I could do”), after all for all they know, Dimitri is long dead (though Felix, always one with keen insight, suspect him to be alive a bit before he shows up)

Then Dimitri turns up alive, but promptly gets himself killed, and Felix regrets it. Every bit as much as other kingdom characters. He wonders if he could have stopped Dimitri if he’d been with him. He channels this into avenging Dimitri first on the empire and then on TWSITD, and starts using his name at this point.

Tellingly enough, he refers to the local afterlife beliefs that are so prominently featured in the Kingdom route. The ones that Rodrigue taught to both Felix and Dimitri and that likely played a role in the latter’s inability to forgive himself for all that Rodrigue is largely a good man who was a positive influence. He talks about “facing” Dimitri in the afterlife or allowing him to rest in peace much like Dimitri’s own talk about appeasing the dead - As much as he’d like to be Felix was not actually immune to his upbringing. basically he really regrets it.

The church and alliance routes differ somewhat in the dialogue before the last stage in a way that makes the church route seem “milder” - He considers working under Byleth once they become King/Queen, so he doesn’t seem quite as “lost”, whereas in the alliance route he expresses interest in dueling Nemesis. Not that far beyond his usual “must fight worthy opponents/ blood knight attude” but certainly more of an embracement of it and also very reckless, since as far as we knew the zombie horde is blazing an almost unhindered trail through the land and pretty much had Hilda’s renowned invincible brother for breakfast.

The empire route, of course, requires him to go even further - it’s one thing to evacuate a sinking ship, another to go a path where there’s a good chance that he’ll have to go against, and even fight/kill his former comrades. The game sure included tons of unique dialogue for this. You can even have his feud with his father end quite lethally, and Dimitri will even comment on it when you engage him. Ouch!

Right after the holy tomb scene most the recruitees’ dialogues are either some variation of “I’m scared but I trust you sensei” or “Now that she’s actually explained her reasoning, Edelgard’s got a point” - Felix’ is neither.

Though he’d presumably agree that Crests and Status are overrated, that’s not what he talks about. He says he wants to forge his own path, one that isn’t his father’s or Dimitri’s.  

He may or may not be doing the right thing but it’s for the wrong reason.

It’s a decision that’s perfectly logical if you feature in all factors except for his own heart - by which I don’t mean some bullshit 19th century “head vs heart” contrast but simply self-knowledge, which is necessary to make choices that you won’t regret, especially when the ‘correct’ path is ambiguous.

He wants to be free, deeply and desperate but, there’s also the counterdependency in play. He’s not going with the Empire because he wants to go with the empire, but because he wants to go against Rodrigue and Dimitri. Rejecting them to prove to himself that he can.

And turns out he can. He can cut em all down, with fairly unfazed Dialogue about how he’s going his own path, will never bow to the likes of Dimitri, will pursue strenght no matter who stands in his way etc.

They all curse him for betraying him, only Sylvain who’s not the sort to have much certainty about being right, gets more of a “sad/tragic” line about their childhood promise.

But that’s on the battlefield. Back at the monastery it’s a different matter. In this route he shows significantly LESS regret about what happens to the kingdom peeps - after all, he knew he’d be fighting them. He’s just completely embraced the ‘living to fight’ thing here and you get the sense that some other parts of his may have been lost in the process.

Ironically he says he killed more ppl than he can count and that he’s practically as bad as Dimitri now (”Your better world better be worth this”, indeed...) and while he’s completely unflinchingly resolute he’s not exactly unphased.

You can certainly understand why he’d end up as a restless sorta wandering mercenary  (interesting, too that if you pair him with Byleth they’ll go with him - interesting enough in its own right since that’s the sort of life they use to have before coming to the academy)

So I guess this could all  ultimately be seen as a parable on ‘be careful what you wish for’, or, more accurately, ‘know yourself before making wishes’.

#fire emblem three houses #fire emblem: three houses #sylvain jose gautier #felix hugo fraldarius

[akapeterman]

should’ve stuck with the legos

Parker Luck strikes again when Peter gets shot not once, not twice, but three times and Tony has to come save the day: another short irondad drabble 

link to read on ao3

When Peter cancelled on their lab session to hang out with his friends, Tony was happy for the kid. Okay, yes, maybe a little salty he was being ditched for what was likely a new Lego set, but overall proud that Peter was actually living his normal nerdy teenage life instead of drowning himself in work and responsibility the way Tony knew he did sometimes.  

Plus, if Peter’s blushing whenever MJ was brought up was anything to go off of, it sounded like Peter had a crush. Tony thought this was healthy, the kid letting more people into his little bubble of trust and actually having fun for once. This was a good thing, and Peter deserved good rings. 

**

That evening Tony was in his lab throwing a stressball against the wall while he spun in his chair. He had to admit, without Peter rambling away about school and filled the space with his energy, the lab seemed kind of empty. And Tony was bored out of his mind without him, not that he would ever admit to that. 

“Jesus,” he thought, “When did I start relying so much on the kid as my entertainment on Friday nights?” 

He started half-heartedly working on upgrading a suit, but his mind was elsewhere. He was basically zoning out until the harsh ring of his phone cut through the previously booming music he had playing.

Tony startled at the sound and dropped a wrench on his foot. 

“Shit!” he swore, hobbling his way over to the phone to see the caller ID. 

Peter. Finally. 

Tony picked up on the third ring, swearing as he shook out his now-tender foot. 

“What’s up, kid? Aren’t you supposed to be hanging out with your nerd buddies?” 

“Mr Stark,” Peter paused, taking a deep breath, “I really messed up.” 

Tony’s heart stopped. 

“Talk to me kid, what happened?”

“I-I...um...I’ve tracking d-down this mob, the Manfredi crime family, and I kinda sorta...um...Ikindasortagotshot,” Peter mumbled, his breathing rapid and shallow. 

“Peter. Repeat that slowly.” Tony’s heart was racing as he asked the teen to clarify. He was already calling up a suit when Peter confirmed his fear.

“I got—I got shot.” 

“Shit, kid, hang on. I’m getting your coordinates from Karen right now, I’m on my way. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Peter breathed out, sounding even more out of it than he had seconds ago. 

“Hey, hey, hey. Stay awake, Pete. You can nap when you’re old. Put pressure on the wound.” Peter was quiet for a moment and Tony’s heart all but failed right there. 

“Peter?” he said harshly, trying to push the panic out of his voice. 

“What if there’s more than one bullet hole?” Holy shit. This kid was actually going to be the death of him. Rest in peace, Anthony Stark. Cause of death: reckless goddamn teenager. 

“How many times did they shoot you?” Peter coughed. 

“Three.” 

“Three!? How the hell did that happen with your...you know. Your Peter Tingle.”

“Spidey sense,” Peter grumbled irritably, “‘N its really hit ‘n miss. ‘Specially when I haven’t really been sleepin’.” If Tony could pinch the bridge of his nose through the suit right now, he would.

“God, kid. We need to talk about your self-preservation skills.”

“Mmm. Later. ‘M tired right now.” 

“You’re in shock, bud.” And have probably lost a lot of blood, Tony thought, but he kept that one to himself.  “Just keep talking to me, I’m two minutes away.”  

“Mmk.” Every time Peter went quiet, Tony was brought closer to a panic attack. He swallowed down the bile in his throat and kept talking. 

“What happened to your plans with Ned and that scary girl, MJ?” 

“MJ’s pretty,” Peter slurred. If Tony had been less terrified of Peter bleeding out, he might have laughed at the pure ridiculousness of this situation. Peter was gushing over a pretty girl with three gunshot wounds in him. Never a dull moment.

“I’ll bet she is, kiddo. Now don’t bleed out on me, or you’ll never get your chance to ask her out.” Finally, Tony spotted a crumpled up figure three rooftops away. 

He landed gently beside the kid and carefully removed the mask to reveal a very pale looking Peter Parker. It caught him off-guard just how young the kid looked there. 

“FRI, scan,” Tony ordered.  

“Mister Parker has 2 GSWs to the left leg. Neither hit anything vital, and his healing is already beginning to slow the bleeding. However, he has a GSW to the right shoulder that requires immediate medical attention.” Tony swallowed thickly.

“Am I safe to move him?” 

“Yes, sir. He is in suitable condition for you to fly him to the med bay as long as you are careful.” 

“Got it, thanks FRI.” Tony kneeled so he was face to face with the kid.

“This is gonna hurt like a bitch, are you ready bud?” Peter nodded tightly, his mouth set in pain. Tony carefully picked Peter up bridal style and his heart broke a little as Peter cried out. 

“Alright, kiddo. Let’s get you in to see Doctor Cho.” And with that, Tony took off into the night sky. 

Part-way through the short flight, Tony spoke up.

“Next time, Pete, just play with your damn Lego like a normal nerd. Save me the heart attack.” 

“Mmm,” Peter murmured into his chest, “Nah. Like to keep you on your toes.” 

“Shut up, kid.”

#iron dad #spiderman

[jeonggukieandcream]

Save Me and Hold Me Tight

Request: Kuroshitsuji AU where Ciel and Alois work their shit out but Claude is still dead, and Ciel and Sebastian kinda take Alois in and train him in tough love to be a more civilised person, and after a while he ends up being good friends with everyone - @flupetyflupflupp​

Word count: 2, 487.

They find him broken and bleeding underneath a large oak tree, its branches spindly; its leaves brown and dying. It was a sorrowful scene, but one in which change could be made for the better.

Ciel and Sebastian are here presented with a choice as they take in the grisly scene:

Leave Alois to die, or save him.

They have seconds to make a decision before Alois' heart gives out, the blood loss from the extent of his injuries too great, and the decision is made for them.

Blood spilled out from Alois' physical wounds; used though Ciel was to seeing violence, for often was he the one ordering for it to be carried out, Ciel gasped at the sight.

It was not the wounds which Alois had obtained which so disgusted Ciel, but the fact that this was a broken contract; a treacherous demon.

In that moment did Ciel know how truly lucky he was to have such a devoted demon, and a noise of shock and, dare he think it, pain ripped from Ciel's throat, though quickly did he attempt to disguise it as a cough.

“I know, Young Master.” Venomous rage dripped from Sebastian's every word, though his facial expression and body language was carefully schooled into one of indifference.

“We must help him, Sebastian.”

“Young Master?”

“That's an order, do you hear me? We will take him in. Heal him. Show him a different way. He's not so separated from me, after all.” Ciel's voice shook with barely suppressed anger and sadness, for himself and for Alois, but he swallowed the bitter taste down and used it for power, motivation.

“Young Master, he may be too far gone. So impressionable an age, so unseemly a demon...”

“We have to try.” Resignation. Determination. Sorrow. Rage.

Red eyes flashed fuchsia. “Yes, my lord.”

With as much tenderness as he usually displayed towards Ciel did Sebastian cradle Alois' abused, broken and battered body in his arms. He didn't hug Alois to his chest, though. That is a privilege only for his Young Master.

Soma and Agni were Sebastian's first thought; Alois would need constant supervision and a gentler touch while he was physically healing.

Upon hearing the very basics of what had happened to this boy – on a strictly need to know basis, of course -  one who had so many similarities to Ciel that he was a literal parallel, the two men agreed.

Soma would be the more eager of the two, wanting to make friends with Alois and spend more time with Ciel, whereas Agni would be mentally preparing himself, for he would know that a rough time was ahead for all of them; but most especially for this young boy.

Upon hearing even the smallest of details about the entire situation, everyone, even the household staff, wouldn't be able to stop themselves from comparing Ciel to Alois, and this makes everyone determined to help Alois as best as they can.

There is nothing happy about this.

The solemn air which was in the Phantomhive Manor seemed to grow exponentially as the reality of the matter settled into the fine layer of dust which covered the lesser used rooms.

People's attentions were directed elsewhere; particularly the kitchen staff, whom were kept far away from Alois' chambers – they would be easy targets and the last thing Sebastian wanted to tend to was more wounds.

His Young Master had enough of those, thank you very much.

For the first week or so, Sebastian keeps Alois well sedated.

It's for his own good; he's so injured that the slightest movement could rip open his stitches.

No Doctor from the nearest town is called, despite Agni's vehement and frequent advice.

Sebastian is quite proficient, and so he undertakes the task himself. He is, after all, simply one hell of a butler.

His wounds are so severe that it takes Alois weeks to heal to such a point that Sebastian feels that it is safe to keep Alois awake; this is where tenderness is replaced by tough love and everyone feels its effect within an hour of the teenager first waking up.

Firstly, Alois has two fears: the dark and being left alone.

These two fears are discovered at precisely the same time as a weary Agni bids Alois a good night and tries to remove the candelabra from the bedside table on his way out of the door.

Alois jumped upright, almost tearing his stitches and setting fire to his bed, as the candelabra wobbled when his hand closed around Agni's slender wrist.

“No! Don't leave me! You – you can't!”

“Oh, heavens,” Agni would go into full on Mother Hen mode as he put the candelabra back on the bedside table and sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. “Why ever not?”

“I'm scared.” A quiet, ashamed mumble.

A resigned sigh from the doorway. “I'll stay with him. Can't have him waking the household. You may leave, Agni.”

Ciel starts to camp out in Alois' room from that first night of consciousness onwards and within a week, Sebastian moved Ciel's bed and immediate possessions into Alois' room.

The two bicker and physically fight like no one's business, but Agni and Sebastian do a very good job at not only separating the two when it's required, but also dispelling any tensions before they really begin.

At night time, the fighting stops as the two teenagers fall back on mutual understanding; they're not so different.

Once, Sebastian and Agni walked in on Alois throwing Ciel off the balcony, and then jumping down after Ciel, pummelling him with punches after punches.

Somehow did Ciel manage to roll their lithe bodies so that he was on top of Alois, and they traded punches.

Hearing the scuffles from the next room over did Agni and Sebastian rush into the foyer, barely exchanging a glance with each other before they rushed over to separate the two teenagers; naturally, Sebastian scooped Ciel up and cradled him protectively to his chest, and Agni grabbed Alois by his upper arms and pulled him away from the scene.

“I say! What an unseemly display!”

Ciel huffed. “It was nothing. A misunderstanding.”

Sebastian's concerned, “are you quite well, Young Master?” was drowned out by Alois' indignant cry of, “you're all just like him! My Claude... My heart was trapped in his deceptive spider's web but I only desired him...”

Rage turned to sorrow, and the pain in his voice rippled uncomfortably throughout the room.

A click resounded in Sebastian and Agni's minds as they both realised that now could the true healing process commence.

Ciel shivered, clung to Sebastian's frame. Sebastian gripped him tightly – hold on to me – and the demon shot Agni A Look; this meant that each butler would take their charges and physically separate them for the duration of the day.

Agni, having to take care of Soma and Alois, left the two young teenagers while he cooked a curry for dinner – Soma, eager to get to know Alois, tried desperately to crack through Alois' facade, to break through the anger and reach the corrupted core of the sadistic but deeply hurting boy.

Something occurred throughout the day for both teenagers, for come night time, did Ciel end up climbing into Alois' bed after an hour of listening to Alois tossing and turning.

“Move over.” Ciel huffed, and though Alois initially stiffened up and refused to move, Ciel only moved to the other side of the bed and clambered in, taking Alois' agreement in his total apathy – Ciel knew that Alois didn't really want to say no, it was self preservation which made him rude and cold, and so in Alois' silence was consent.

Come morning, when Sebastian rapped upon the door with the second knuckle of his gloved index finger, Agni hovering behind him – both were braced for war, even at this early hour when the sun still hadn't quite risen above the horizon – they found the two teenagers in bed together, facing one another.

Alois' blonde hair spilled over the pillow like a halo, Ciel's raven locks mingled and joined with the blonde, so closely were they laying together, and it was like a physical representation of Yin and Yang.

To Agni, anyway.

To Sebastian, it looked like a devil (raven locks) and an angel (blonde hair); he found irony in this, for though his Young Master's hair was dark, he was decidedly more angelic than the boy with the blonde hair.

He was probably biased, though.

Another breakthrough was made this day, for any time after that, if one of them had a nightmare, then the other would climb into their bed.

They didn't hug, they didn't do anything more than simply share a bed, and sometimes would sentences fall from their lips, hushed confessions spoken into the darkness which enveloped them, and it was almost like therapy on their weary souls.

Sometimes, Sebastian would come in too; shadows writhing on the walls, between pieces of furniture, and he would stand just inside the doorway; carmine eyes flashing fuchsia as he listens to the two teenagers talking.

Both of them knew that the demon was there, as silently had Sebastian and Ciel taken Alois under their firm guidance.

It was hard. Sometimes, Sebastian would answer their whispered confessions with logical statements to dispel their sorrows, many of which were shared.

Sometimes, he would dip his chin so that the shadows in the room enunciated his aristocratic cheekbones, a devilish smirk on his face as he just listened with his arms crossed behind his back.

Sometimes... oh, sometimes, the space where his heart should be would clench in awe and almost sadness at how much grief, pain, rage and sorrow which these two souls – both so young, so young, and yet so tired, bore on their shoulders.

Over the weeks and months, everyone in the Phantomhive Manor had to establish a new system of communications.

Alois was short tempered and rough of manners. He was demanding, callous, sadistic and he behaved atrociously.

Even by Soma's standards, Alois was just rude.

Often times, after Alois snapped or yelled at someone, Sebastian's spine would straighten as he drew himself up to his full height, displeasure flashing across his face before his expression schooled into its usual calm indifference.

“Would you like to try again with a different tone, young Trancy?”

“No.” A petulant whine. Crossed arms and a pout.

“Very well.” Sebastian would leave it at that, cold and uncaring, and Alois, so desperate for approval and affection, would immediately stammer out the same words in a gentler tone, or he would try to reword everything in a wholly different tone; it depended on what he had said and the context in which it was spoken.

One time, Mey-Rin served Alois eggs for breakfast and Alois flung the plate on the floor.

Or, he tried to.

Sebastian caught the plate, set it back on the table so that nothing was disturbed – he had been so fast that the plate hadn't even gone over the edge of the table before he had caught it – and in the same movement scooped Alois up unceremoniously and without all the usual reverence which he displayed towards his Young Master,

Alois was sent to his room for the rest of the day.

By three in the afternoon, Ciel had huffed, flung his pen down, and gone to his shared bedroom with the blonde teenager.

Hours passed and none knew of what transpired in that room.

But when it was dinner time and Alois shuffled out of the bedroom with Ciel eyeing him pointedly, Alois offered a quiet, timid yet genuine apology to Mey-Rin and everyone else.

He knew he was forgiven when, in a clipped British accent did Sebastian say, “That is acceptable. You may join us for dinner if the Young Master is agreeable.”

Ciel was.

Almost six months after Alois joined the Phantomhive Manor did he meet Lizzie, and he was cooed over, hugged, cuddled and even kissed once on the cheek!

She had heard beforehand what had happened to him – she knew as much as Soma and Agni did, which is to say, they knew enough to know that he needed help, even if they didn't exactly know why.

She would definitely be the one to help Alois the most, treating him with all the kindness that she naturally carried within her – kindnesses which Ciel often shunned.

I feel like Alois would end up telling Ciel to treat Lizzie with more kindness and Ciel would scoff and remind Alois of how he treats everyone.

They would both promise to just try to be nicer to everyone and to themselves.

At every meeting, Lizzie was her usual exuberant self, Ciel his usual apathetic self, Sebastian his usual attentive self. Soma and Agni were off in London doing who knew what, and the household staff were all attending to their never ending duties with explicitly stated instructions spoken twice so that they knew that Sebastian was being completely serious when he said to not get into any trouble.

So. Recovery was slow. It was painful for everyone, but most especially for Ciel and for Alois; two teenage boys who had been through such similar horrific things.

If Alois had been given a demon like Sebastian, then he would have found a place to call his own, a home.

But instead he had been very nearly killed by his demon, the one being who was supposed to keep him safe.

Nothing was easy in their lives and nothing ever would be easy, but they took it an hour at a time if they had to, and a day at a time when it seemed to be going well.

Alois' sadism would be mellowed out, Ciel's anger soothed with a like minded companion, and Sebastian would find himself not wholly wanting to complete the contract, for he found that he rather liked what he had with this contracted soul.

It was bittersweet that something that grew into beauty came from so much pain, but it's a cruel fact of life that the most deserving of souls are fated to suffer the harshest hands.

#alois trancy #alois trancy au #kuroshitsuji #kuroshitsuji imagine #kuroshitsuji au #black butler #black butler imagine #black butler au

[eldonash]

Venom || Kristof&Orobas

Timeline: Beginning of July; after this Chatzy Location: East End; Kristof’s Residence Possible TW: body horror with Orobas’ injury, death Summary:  Kristof finds Orobas after his bad injury, and takes him to his house to let him feed and heal up enough to walk. The two aren’t entirely on friendly terms, but share an deep past. Haxian comes to collect Orobas and learns Kristof is in town.

He didn’t know where he was. The delirium from the pain had made his mind slow, and hazy, and his steps had led him away from his car after he left Lydia’s side. They staggered over his usual elegant ways, and he kept remembering things from his past. Lost in the ghosts of them, following the feeling that these lands would transform into old villages in China, or the clock tower of London. All his lifetimes seemed to overlap right now. He wasn’t close enough to have a mental connection with his master and not having him there made Orobas’ further unhinge.  Haxian-- he thought out and finally settled on the ground, his knees stopping his fall and dirtying them up. Where was he? His eyes closed, and he tried to listen out for a heartbeat, anything that he could use to heal the burns in his mouth and throat, the holes in his cheeks ached and burned around the edges, like a smoldering log in flame. 

She told him that her name was Susanne, and that her place was only a few blocks away. Kristof was not a stranger to women being this forward, and so he accepted her invitation and walked out of the bar, already savoring the taste of her blood. In order to break routine, he decided to play a little game of cat and mouse since it was more entertaining when he made them think they had a chance to escape rather than end their lives so swiftly. Hope was the thing that humans clung to in moments of pure panic and desperation. He was not going to be the bastard to take that away from her. She screamed when she witnessed his true intentions. Amused laughter crept passed the vampire’s lips, watching as the female made a run for it. Heaving a sigh, Kristof started to walk down the alley after the stranger, his pace remaining rather slow. Of course, she had to be a runner, a fairly predictable action. It didn’t exactly change anything, though, he knew that he was much faster than her, so naturally he could catch up if he wanted to. If he wanted to. But it was the familiar scent that distracted him. Finding Orobas in the state he was in was both painful and satisfying. Painful because somewhere deep down in that cold heart of his Kristof still had some type of affection for the vampire who he once considered kindred. Satisfying because it was not him the one suffering and there was something about watching another creature in pain that just made his day just a little bit brighter. Kristof stepped closer to where Orobas was on hands and knees. If the other vampire were to open his eyes all he’d see were his black biker boots splattered with mud. 

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

Orobas’ head tilted minutely at the voice, only seeing soiled boots as he couldn’t move anymore. A rotten coil of annoyance settled in his stomach that Kristof was standing over him, but no matter how they all argued and fought over the many centuries, there was the smallest relief it was someone he knew. Well, he had hoped for a nice dinner with the four of them to establish some truce and say hello in a much more controlled manner, but he hadn’t predicted what happened with Lydia to turn this way. Not that he minded, the sadist didn’t care about the pain, but he also couldn’t do more without feeding. He fell sideways, landing with a dull thud on the ground. Orobas was always a man dressed impeccably, and the long black jacket was now coated in dirt. The dust from the alleyway puffed around him. He felt a coma like state slow his mind further as the injury was too grievous and a vampires natural inclination to shut down or go berserk dwindled the last of his energy reserves. He couldn’t speak even if he wanted too, his mouth ruined, and burned over. His eyes were in the distance, blurry, but he could hear it, the quick thud of a pulse. 

He paused, lighting the slender cigarette that lay limp, stuck to his damp bottom brim. Pursing his lips the stick rose and the flame, shielded by one of Kristof’s hands, licked at the tip before it began to glow. Sucking on the Marlboro red momentarily he pocketed the lighter before exhaling the scented smoke with a small sigh. The last time he saw Orobas it had not been a particularly happy occasion. It was days before he and Haxian left London and he had given him this look, as if Kristof had been the opposite of civilization. And now, over a century later, he was at his feet, twisting like a wet rat that had just been fed poison. He had two choices. Walk away and leave him here to fend for himself. Perhaps he’d be lucky and manage to feed off some stray before the sun came up or he could grab him and drop him off at Bloodhaven and have someone else deal with the problem. Kristof opted for option three, which was to pick him up and take him home with him. Why would anyone else take credit for nursing him back to health? Besides, he didn’t want to have to explain who he was and why he had found the vampire in the state he was in. So after giving his cigarette one last drag he flicked it, watching it land and drown in the mud. 

“Come on.” Kristof sighed, reaching down to pull him off the ground and throwing Orobas over his shoulder. Was not long before he was placing him on one of the beds in his home and it was then, under the lit room, that he could get the full picture. The horrible portrait of Orobas’ molten face. “You look like hell.” Blood, that’s what he needed. Thankfully he had someone there to use whenever he felt slightly peckish. 

In the past, Orobas’ memories were distant and rung together like a damp towel, spilling freely in a blending of years. Haxian had always made sure they moved a lot, letting Orobas go do whatever he wanted, and then quietly cleaned up behind him. There were long stretches of time that were filled with war, from sword fighting in ancient China, to the civil wars in America, and those periods Orobas killed freely, to a deliriously pleasurable point and every time, when he came out of those crazed states, Haxian was always there. Holding his arm, telling him he did well, encouraging him to be worse for him, a mantra of evil that was so easy to accomplish. How many lives have been taken by Orobas? Hundreds of thousands. Being in such a state wasn’t new for him, slayers had always eventually found them, to kill a legend like him was too good to pass up, but this was the first time ever-- in four hundred years, that Haxian wasn’t the one to grab him. 

Orobas wanted to lash out on instinct, to pull out his ivory handled dagger and jab it in Kristof’s throat, but the world was gone from his sight before he could move. When the words drew him hazily from the depths of his mind, and memories, he cracked open red iris’ to look at the space. It all blurred in and out of focus until Kristof’s face finally came in semi-clear. A huff of a laugh came out almost instantly, the faintest of amusement twinkling in his eyes at seeing his face. Kristof would know he needed blood, and so he would give him only a few moments to help him before Orobas attempted to find it himself. Even if he was fighting the darkness on the edges of his vision, his cheeks ached when he wanted to smile and laugh at the situation. Ah, Lydia was just so much fun. He couldn’t wait to have her for a night. All this, it was worth it. 

The side of his face resembled a wax statue, melting under the heat of a lamp, so hell only knew what the inside of his mouth looked like. Kristof was aware of what had caused it, after all, he was no stranger to holy water attacks. Orobas had clearly pissed someone off and even though he might have been curious at some point in time, lately he cared for very little. Besides, this was a vampire who was notorious for making enemies so the fact that someone had taken action against him was not exactly an unforeseen circumstance. Over the centuries they had spent in each other's lives, he had never witnessed him in this state for it was always his own maker who dragged him from whatever purgatory he had been in to protect both his life and his deadly reputation. Had to admit that the sight was rather enjoyable, especially when Orobas laughed, a grotesque spectacle of meat and teeth. 

There was a moment there when he considered ending his misery and putting him down like a wounded animal, not because he did not think Orobas was strong enough to make it but because there was a part of him that was so sick of sharing this planet with the likes of him. However, his own self preservation outweighed his animosity towards the younger vampire and so he left him alone to fetch for Marie. He had dragged her from Teeth a few days ago and she had been staying like a live in blood doll ever since. Her pale skin showed the marks that Kristof’s hunger had left behind, not a part of her left unblemished. “Sorry honey, this is where you get off.” He smiled at her, sweetly, knowing that Orobas needed to consume her and that she was not going to survive this. Shame, really, since she was quite the snack. Kristof watched as Marie approached the bed and offered her neck to the devil. 

Orobas was aware to the dangers of this situation. Any of them who lasted for centuries have at least a few times been in such a place. Circumstances dissolved easily, people back stabbed you, and luck always flipped, even on an immortal. When the throb of hunger struck him, it was like he was put back in a newborn mindset, his features sunk in, the graying around his eyes hollowing out as his body creaked from the intense snarl to his damaged jawline. Through the sharp ache that required his mouth to open and clamp on the young woman was fire, he attacked, with a feral need that swept over his mind. The crunch into her throat was loud and deadly, and the blood, was warm, and rich, a sweetness that took away the burnt scent. The blood leaked through some of the holes in his cheeks. His hand gripped on her wrist out of habit of people always attempting to hit him, pinned it down to the bed. When her heart stopped, when the last spasm came from her fingers, he paused-- closing his eyes as his body tried to heal.

Kristof had witnessed other vampires feed on multiple occasions and it was a sight that he fully enjoyed. There was just something about watching another vampire in their element that got his blood pumping. Marie was not expecting it to be this rough though, poor thing. Girl’s like her were easy to come by. Girls who loved the rush of sharp fangs penetrating their skin and feeling so close to death they could taste it. Eight times out of ten, they were sucked completely dry. It seemed funny to him, how they whimpered and cried when they realized that it was no longer a game. That they were in fact about to die. They would move their weak limbs to try and push him away, but it was always in vain for he was stronger and easily overpowered them. Tonight was no exception only he was not the one doing the act but he was merely a casual observer. He stood close by and watched as she exposed her neck to Orobas, showing her previous marks with a sense of pride that made him actually pity her for a moment. Just for a moment.Then fangs ripped into her like daggers with such force that they crushed the bones of her larynx, and there are so many small bones in the human throat. That was definitely not what she was expecting, and she delivered a gut wrenching sound that would have resembled a scream if her vocal cords had not been cut into ribbons. Blood gushed through the holes of Orobas’ cheeks, soaking the bed sheets with rivers of red. An inconvenience.

One second, and Orobas was on the other side of the bed, his ivory handled dagger drawn from the depths of his coat, he fell a little-- his head dizzy and exhausted as he needed to feed more, but regardless, took a defensive position across from Kristof. “Mhm,” the throaty sound, a demented, broken grin just managed to surface as he barely healed, all of him a mess against the pristine surroundings. His head tilted, observing, though obvious he was far from fine. It would take a long time too from this injury. “Kristof--” his voice rough, he licked the blood on his teeth, and fingered the drip off some down his cheek to bring it to his lips. “Is there a catch to this help, mmm? Back in town it seems. What timing.”

Her heart slowly came to a halt and immediately Orobas moved, standing in a more defensive posture, questioning his reasons for helping him in the first place. “Catch? There’s no catch between friends, is there?” Kristof chuckled, licking his own lips as the smell of death hit his nostrils. Soon enough Marie’s body would start to decompose and her beauty would be a thing he had committed to memory. “I have to say, I was expecting for our first meeting to be a lot more pleasant than this but beggars can’t be choosers.”

Orobas’ feral, distorted grin widened at the mention of friends, mouth stained and gums blackened. Sure. That was one way of putting it. With Francesca and him running through England finding parties and closing the doors to muffle the screams, in watching canvas’ painted in bloody, pretty splatters while they all lounged and drank in the warm summer nights. In causing mayhem with Kristof and Haxian to the point Orobas could actually hold a pang of longing for such a time-- those moments were friendship. Until it broke. Now-- hundred or so years later, he didn’t know what it was, and he wouldn’t ever fully trust it. He attempted to stand without leaning, wobbly, but didn’t make to ruin anything in the space with the blood on his person. 

“You know, I had dinner in mind. Something for the four of us to enjoy, catch up under nicer circumstances--” Orobas always spoke the truth, finding it proved better to make his words hold weight. His hand tightened around his ancient weapon, the ivory handle worn over the centuries to match his palm and grip. “Settled too?” So you are here to stay. He glanced around, the burn in his throat ached for more. “Didn’t come find us right away? You surely knew we were here. Haxian will be delighted to see you have survived.”

He would never admit to it, but he liked Orobas’ delight in being the hunter, the devil who took life with gluttonous glee. Some of the vampires he had encountered lately were so damn broody. “Yes, friends.” Kristof repeated, sternly. Surely it had been a long time since they have acted as such. The four of them, immortals following the call of their craving. Overgrown children, slaves to their more primitive emotions. Only the innocence was missing. These primeval Peter Pan’s were dangerous killers with razor sharp fangs that had caused more death and destruction between them than most dictators. “We can always have dinner. You have always been such an entertaining host.” When the other vampire pointed out that he was already settled there was a heavy, sarcastic snicker that expelled from his lips. 

“I arrived a few weeks ago. Wanted to be completely settled before announcing my decision to stay. It’s such a nice little town, isn’t it? Full of sweet things like Marie here.” Haxian? Happy to see him? That’s a laugh. “I’m sure he’ll be ecstatic. How is the old brute? I’m assuming he’s not as good looking as he once was?” The way Orobas was standing still was making the entire situation a lot more tense than it needed to be and Kristof found himself rolling his eyes. “For god's sake Orobas, you won’t need to use your precious dagger. Besides, shouldn’t your greatest weapon be inside your mouth?”

“Hm, I like to see my enemy’s pain and shock on their face when I kill them. They never expect a dagger when they are looking at fangs,” Orobas exposed himself without care, it’s why the hunters didn’t always know they were dealing with a vampire over the years. Because Orobas enjoyed hacking people up over feeding on them. He put it away, pulled off his jacket which was a mess, and folded it neatly to show he was conceding his aggression minutely. “Had to be sure. Such old relationships can’t always last with the wicked. May I?” He inquired, and moved towards the bathroom to wash his hands. He didn’t know how he looked at the moment, but the pain still throbbed like he had run into the sun for hours. The holes in his cheeks had somewhat sealed, but it would take days to mend likely. 

“Haxian is always beautiful,” Orobas mused, “he’s already begun his transformation, but you know it's a gradual thing. Every day he looks a little different. I find it quite mesmerizing.” He glanced over, red still tinted in his iris’, his words sweet sounding as usual, but rough from his injury. “You will too--” a dark truth spoken, as Orobas found none of his kind’s appearance haunting. “Of course, that will mark our permanent parting. Two elders in the same little city will only bring too much attention.”

“Right, cause you’re freaky like that.” In a way Kristof could understand the fascination that Orobas had with cutting people open since he himself has used many tools for torturing purposes. But when it came down to it, he found more pleasure in tearing them apart with his teeth. There was nothing more satisfying than to feel the crushing of bones in his mouth, the taste of flesh on his tongue but most importantly the eruption of blood from a torn carotid artery. “It has always seemed so primitive, but - to each their own.” He watched as Orobas removed his jacket, folding it neatly and then made his way towards the bathroom, dragging his dirt across the expensive tiles to reach the sink. The way he spoke of Haxian and his current state made him laugh because Kristof, in his own narcissistic mind, could not comprehend how anyone could look at an elder vampire and still call it beautiful. 

“Oh, you have always been such a romantic.” Truly Francesca would not share the same opinion of her maker once he started to develop signs of aging. You will too. The thing that has been haunting him lately. One more decade and it would be all over for him. Never, he thought, not daring to speak of it out loud. Not about to share with Orobas that another reason he was here was to find a way to stop this from happening. “Then we should take advantage of these next few years we have left. All of us together.” Kristof sighs, offering Orobas a gentle smile that seemed out of place on his face. “That’s why I came here. I want to be with family before it happens.”

Orobas quirked a brow, and sat down on the edge of the tub, pulling at his shoes, and in general wanting to be cleaned up was very apparent. Though someone who lived in carnage, guts, and blood splatters on a daily night. The dirt infuriated him, and his outfit under his jacket was shockingly expensive and he didn’t want it further soiled. “Romantic? I have no idea what you are saying,” Orobas waved at him lightly, blinded by his ability to care deeply for those closest to him, unable to identify love if it smacked him in the face. It was an ongoing frustration for those around him who have seen him go to the ends of the earth and back for his friends, someone capable of a deep caring that might need a different word to explain it. Kristof sounded like he was in mourning, and Orobas pondered that piece of information. It was a natural progression, it should be understood time for an immortal couldn’t hold human visages. 

His head swam for a moment, and he closed his eyes to remove the four Kristof’s from view, and the splitting of the room, his hand went up to his head and held it a moment. “Haxian’s master couldn’t handle being an Elder for long. Vanity, it seems, is a corrupted problem for my bloodline. I’m quite determined to be sure he doesn’t have the same thoughts she did and I am not asked to behead him.” He stilled, regretfully still weakened, and talking ached everything, the pain evident though Orobas didn’t let him stop chatting. “What is a decade to us but a blimp of time easily forgotten,” his gaze lifted, though hazy, still held his usual observing intensity. “Family is all us older creatures have when the world passes by. You should make up with Haxian. You two used to be close— I never did find out why he was mad with you.”

“Yes, romantic. You and Haxian have been together for how long?” Honestly has Orobas ever been without his maker? Kristof didn’t consider himself to have old-fashioned ideas about the way people seemed to form relationships these days, leaving each other behind like waste on the side of the road when they tired of one another. He wasn’t so naïve that he didn’t realize how normal it was, how much easier, to have liaisons that lasted only a night, brief hours in a cold city that would leave nothing behind but scattered memories, nothing substantial or familiar. A few times scattered over the years, and Kristof hadn’t considered anything deeper since he’d come to America. The creatures he met now, would never know him, really; and living that deception would be harder, he knew, if he let emotions get involved. Really, emotions were the death of anyone. Once they appeared, there was little hope of losing them; they could turn the world upside down, make logic look insane. Emotions hurt people as much as they helped them, and Kristof was wondering just when he’d gotten so cynical when he looked at Orobas, caught the odd note in his voice, and wondered if this creature who was as ice-cold inside as he felt sometimes has ever actually felt anything real. Or if all of that passion was reserved only for the one who made him. Feeling, really, was what got you killed. Feeling could make you care about ruined lives, and too much of it and you were gone, lost, swept under a wave of regret that would be impossible to shut down. 

He laughed shortly, genuine, shaking his head, that mischievous look on Haxian’s face burned into his memory and he wondered how he looked now - possibly miserably and about ready to end it. “It isn’t just your bloodline.” He confessed without really confessing to anything. Ten years was nothing. To a vampire it might as well be ten days. Kristof felt as if he was going to suffocate under the pressure of his own destiny. “I probably should. Haxian thinks I became too insufferable for his liking. Not that I disagree with him. I’m actually looking forward to catching up with my oldest friend.” He chuckled, partly joking. “You know the main reason I’m here is her, don’t you?”

“I have figured the moment I saw her, that you wouldn’t be far behind,” Orobas said about Francesca, having told her he had expected it sooner. “And I’ve never been without him.” The moment he said such a thing a presence was in the hallway, a flutter of bat wings that creaked in the space like a haunting sound, and materialized into a lean form draped in black attire. Haxian used to be shockingly beautiful, with fair skin that was always translucent and pearl like, eyes bright, and lingering on his prey to draw them in without needing to say a word. Anyone wished to get close, to touch. His youthful turning perpetually gave him an air of arrogance, but now his bones were transformed, bat ears, and fangs always present, the marble-like height to his cheekbones dented, and accentuated in hallowing around his eyes in gray hues. 

“We don’t change, so I expect you are the same,” Haxian said easily towards Kristof once all of him solidified into the cramped hall, the boyish energy he had finally gone, leaving a different, darker energy between them. Orobas staggered up from the tub edge, shoes in hand, and made to leave the bathroom. Haxian grabbed his bicep and pulled him towards him, looking at his face, and Orobas only offered a chuckle, and wayward smile that was clearly excruciating. “He didn’t do this, thank him master-- he did feed me.” Haxian looked up, and Orobas made to walk out of the place, pulling against the grip on his arm that finally let go, and lifted his hand in a wave goodbye. “Be seeing you, Kristof,” came Orobas’ sing-song tone. Haxian stood there between them. His expression is complicated. “Thank you--”

“I was biding my time.” The tone was dry and yet it had the usual level of playfulness in which Kristof used to speak of all things. It was this mockery that made it difficult to ever truly recognize his intentions or even his true feelings towards something or someone. The very reason why Francesca believed him to be a cold and cynical creature. For the most part, she was right. “Love and loyalty run deeper than blood.” He offhandedly commented before a wind broke inside the room followed by a swarm of bats. There he was, Haxian, denied of his previous boyish looks. Now he bore resemblance to something out of a horror novel. A flesh and blood Nosferatu. Haxian was not the first elder that Kristof had met during his 490 years of walking this earth but it was the first one he knew prior to the transformation. This was the first time that he came face to face to the thing he would soon become and he was not sure how to process it. “Haxian, I can see you’re still fond of dramatic entrances.” Kristof licked his lips, trying to hide the inner turmoil that he felt as he stared into the eyes of the creature before him. Unrecognizable, monstrous, deformity. Glued to this figure dressed in pitch black as he collected his belongings, his eyes ached. Orobas beckoned Haxian to thank him, even though the action was completely unnecessary. Thank you, he said. A voice still as sweet as ever. A ghoulish contrast to his macabre looks. “You’re welcome. What are friends for?”

“We are not friends,” Haxian said with a confident, cruel edge. Even with his age, he could always be childish, holding grudges. His stance kept himself between Kristof and Orobas who was barely making it out of the place on his own behind him. A clear line, a predatory, obsessive reminder. Orobas was always the one to bring them together. Somehow, Orobas with the most distant of emotions, could manipulate stubborn creatures into playing nice if he wanted. Perhaps that was why, like Kristof said, he always was a decent host. It was clear Haxian had much more to say to Kristof, the conflict shown easily on his face, always expressive, unlike his progeny’s. “Another time--” he spoke of his inner turmoil, certain that Kristof would sense it. Haxian wanted to be angry for an eternity at him, and was stubborn enough to carry on with it. He nodded lightly, and turned to take Orobas home. 

Not friends. Kristof’s lips spread into a wicked smile at he words and the saltiness behind them. “Oh Haxian, aren’t we too old to hold grudges?” Of course he was being rather hypocritical since he was perfectly capable of doing the same. Monsters understood monsters after all. Orobas was still weak despite the feeding, more proof that whatever happened to him had taken quite a toll. Still, his curiosity regarding the incident remained muted for he had bigger things to worry about it. Deep down he felt a sting of jealousy while watching them. The devotion they had for one another was both sickening and captivating. The words that came next sounded almost solemn, which made Kristof wonder if Haxian was getting nostalgic now that they were in the same room after so many years. 

“It’s good to see you.” A whisper that no human ears could hear but that definitely reached Haxian’s and his progeny. And just like that, they were gone and Kristof was left alone with the memories of the past and the god awful prospect of the future. 

#x: kristof #body horror tw #x: venom

[the-rebel-archivist]

Love & Duty

The camp was so empty without him there. It had always felt full to bursting when Alistair was around. His personality pervaded through any space he was in, leaving no room for loneliness or sadness.

Lyna had set up her tent while it was still light out but now shadows cast by the light of her bonfire danced on the canvas. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted and its mate answered as they hunted together in the darkness. The sky was devoid of stars, the only light from above faded moonlight partially obscured by clouds. It felt a little like rain, heavy and silent. It would be appropriate if it rained tomorrow. 

She shivered in the chill from the evening and moved closer to the fire. Before, he would have put his arm around her and pulled her close, freely sharing his warmth; he always had run hot. Now she was alone.

She hadn’t had to be. She could have been inside the city at the palace instead of on her own just outside the tall stone walls. Alistair certainly wasn’t lonely tonight, on this, the last night before he was wed. He was probably completely intoxicated and surrounded by the gaggle of vapid women who seemed to dog his steps nowadays. It was embarrassing to watch them throw themselves at him. She would never fawn over him the way they did, simpering and swooning at every stray glance or word from his mouth. She respected him more than that. He’d invited her to come tonight, of course - she was his best ‘man’, after all. But attending the wedding and feigning happiness tomorrow would be trying enough as it was so she had made her excuses and left the city. She would return to the castle before the sun was up to dress for the grand event. She needed time alone to think, and couldn’t get it inside the confined, monochrome palace.

The fire was dying down and she threw another small log on, wanting a bit more time before she resigned herself to restless sleep. The light flickered and tiny pockets of sap crackled as the fire consumed the new wood. She would have to be up very early to bathe before leaving or else she’d smell like smoke, but she’d do it. She was determined to outshine any of the fine ladies who were far more suitable for court life than a Dalish elf such as herself. Ladies who were acceptable to be queen or princess or teyrna or whatever foolish, invented title they held.

This wedding had always been coming. She’d arranged it herself, a perfect marriage of convenience to secure peace in Ferelden. Of course, when she had pushed Alistair take up the kingship she had intended to share his throne. She was going to end the Blight and then have her perfect happily ever after ending; she should have known better than to believe that even then. She hadn’t been so naive as to think that her being an elf wouldn’t be a problem, but her feelings and misplaced confidence had blinded her. How had she allowed what she felt to cloud her judgement? She knew better than that. 

When she had faced resistance to her plans she had changed tack with barely a blink, orchestrating a union between him and the dowager queen, with whom she had made an arrangement that would allow her to remain by his side. Everything had been meticulously planned, all possible outcomes accounted for. She had only failed to consider the impossible. The hurt she felt now wasn’t her fault, it was his. There was no way she could have possibly considered that he would leave her. It was a variable that had she had never factored in.

She picked up her spade from her pack. With no one else to mind the fire she would rather wrap herself tighter in her blankets to keep out the chill than allow for the fire to potentially become unmanageable while she wasn’t conscious to control it. She should try to sleep anyway -  this disgusting self pity needed to be suffocated before it began in earnest. It served no one well for her to start thinking about what ifs. The flames hissed as she piled earth over them to snuff them out. 

It was much darker now that the fire was only scattered embers, but she knew instinctively where her tent was; she always set it up the same way when she was alone.

She hadn’t used this blanket in a while. For some time now she’d been recovering in the city and hadn’t needed it. This was the first occasion for her to take it from her pack. The smoke from the fire had irritated her eyes, she thought to herself when she unfolded it. That was why they were watering, no other reason. She hadn’t cried since she had seen that Alistair was still standing after the archdemon was dead and she blamed that weakness only on the sudden lack of adrenaline. There would be no tears now, even if the blanket did still carry the smells of leather and sweat and harsh lye soap, the same scents that she had loved to breathe in as she curled up next to him. That part of her life was as over as the Blight.

If Morrigan were here, she would know what to say. The witch had disappeared after the battle and so both of her dearest friends had departed, though only one was physically distant. Morrigan could have shaken her from this abyss she found herself in, knocked away the heartsickness that made her feeble with a few well chosen jabs. But she was gone and presumably pregnant with the child of the man Lyna loved. She felt a pang of some indefinable jealousy and swallowed hard. Her mouth suddenly felt dry. It was unpleasant.

For a moment she had considered refusing Morrigan’s offer to complete the ritual that would allow both her and Alistair to survive. Some brief dramatic inclination had tempted her to allow the archdemon to take her now that she was without the man she loved. She still didn’t know what had come over her then. Morrigan had helped. Even though Lyna was well aware that she had her own private motivations for the ritual, the witch’s words to her had rung true. It was not worth it to give up everything for any man, not even the one who had pieced back together her fragmented soul after she had become a Warden, the one that she needed to complete her. 

No, she didn’t need him. She shouldn’t allow herself to think that way. It was more than possible for her to be whole alone, she had never felt like she was missing anything before him. He was to blame for ever having made her so pathetic, with his idiotic, beautiful grins and stupid, clever jokes. It was his fault that she was heartbroken.

Maybe she flattered herself, but she thought he needed her too. 

No, not too. Stop that. 

He wasn’t shrewd or calculating. He was too trusting for his own good. She had decided to become his chancellor to help him. It was all for him. It was to preserve the peace she’d brokered. Her girlish emotions would be put aside so that she might be of service to him. She was not interested in any political gains for herself.

Squeezing her eyes tight shut, she balled up her fists and bit her lip until she tasted blood. It was all a lie. She had always made an effort to be brutally honest with herself when the situation required. The lies she whispered to herself were just that, and she was uncomfortably aware just how untrue they were even as she told them. She would never beg for him to take her back, not ever. But the thought of a life without him was intolerable, completely unimaginable. There was no altruistic desire to help a country that she felt little attachment to. She didn’t want to help him, she wanted to be near him because she was an idiot and couldn’t let him go. Perhaps helping him would allow her to assuage her own guilt.

Maybe this situation is all your fault, she thought as she stared upwards at the darkness. Alistair didn’t break your heart, you stupid child, you did. It was something she must accept; she had miscalculated. She had reduced people to chess pieces on a board rather than living, feeling beings and had grown upset when they didn’t behave like automatons. It was not a mistake she was liable to make again, but now she must endure this path she had unintentionally chosen.

She lay on her bedroll, unsleeping, for the rest of the night.

---

Nobody seemed to notice her entering the next morning. Servants fluttered about, busily preparing for the feast that would begin in the afternoon and not end for two days. No one had a single thought to spare the quiet elf, hair still damp from river water, resolutely striding down the halls before most of the nobles had arisen. Lyna was glad of it. It was going to be trying enough to converse with the other guests later; needing to put on her social mask early and act the happy Hero of Ferelden to any servants might overexert her before it mattered.

Her room wasn’t in the guest quarters. As chancellor, she had a room nearer to Alistair’s than was quite comfortable. She hadn’t taken any pains to make it feel like hers, but nobody who entered would have assumed that it was anyone else’s - it either belonged to her or was a storage closet for Grey Warden memorabilia. All of the commemorative glasses and dishes and ridiculous carved figurines of archdemons and griffins were stacked in a corner - Alistair had insisted she get one of everything made. It was unclear what their purpose was or what she would ever do with them, and so they sat, untouched, in a pile. 

The room itself was lavishly furnished, with a four poster bed made from some dark wood that gleamed with lacquer, a rug so plush that it made her somewhat uncomfortable to walk on in stocking feet, and reddish coloured tapestries with images of Mabari embroidered on them on the walls. Alistair had told her that he’d replace the musty old wall hangings with anything she wanted but she hadn’t made any suggestions. He took far more of an interest in her living space than she did. 

She had left her dress laid out on the bed and the tiny pots and jars that held the cosmetics she made herself by the glass in the room. The mirror was the only part of the room she had requested. It was the largest she had ever seen; she could almost see her whole body in it while standing up. She still wasn’t used to the luxury of being able to see her reflection when getting ready, but appreciated it today.

Piece by piece, she laid her armour on the stand in a corner. It had been broken and repaired so many times that it was likely beyond fixing now. It hadn’t seemed to be worthwhile to invest in something better - a week ago she had received a missive requesting that she travel to Orlais to meet the Warden Commander there and be fitted for new armour. She was sure it would look nicer than the leather that had grown soft and ragged; Orlesians were known for their fashion sense. It would be uncomfortable until she became accustomed to its stiffness though - new armour was always so unpliable.

Her dress was long and as green as her eyes, the fabric shiny and stiff in its own way. Though it was tight around her waist it had no corset. She couldn’t have worn one even if she wanted to anyway due to the long wound from the archdemon’s claw that wrapped from just under her right breast to the back of her left hip. It had mostly healed now but was taking longer than the mages and physicians had expected. Ever since the blight sickness that had necessitated her becoming a Warden everything seemed to take longer to heal, even with magical help. Her own frailty and powerlessness to make herself heal angered her.

The gown left her shoulders bare and revealed a decolletage that she was really quite proud of. It could definitely hold its own among humans, and Alistair certainly hadn’t complained. Golden threads were embroidered across her bodice and the loops of fabric that served as sleeves. Roses and griffons - it had been her special request that everything be connected by sharp, thorny vines. She could almost feel their prickliness. The seamstresses had done well. 

She looked impassively at herself in the glass. Yes, this would do. She cut quite a serviceable silhouette. This gown was far longer and nicer than any she had ever worn before, and yet it already felt like an extension of her skin, made exactly to her taste, protecting her. Anora’s dress would likely be overcomplicated and gaudy in its detail in contrast to the simple elegance of this one. Good.

Taking one of the jars from the top of the dresser she applied a powder to her face. The cut on her right cheek was still so ugly and angry. Just when she had thought it was almost healed it had gotten infected, twice. At least now it would be less visible. The powder covered her vallaslin too so she traced over it with something dark green, darkening and filling out the tattoos. She used the same green on her eyelids before darkening her eyelashes and pinching her cheeks, finishing everything off with a reddish-brown lip paint. There was a time when she didn’t wear makeup as heavily, but today she needed it. It would help her hide the feelings she was determined to suppress. It would allow her to be beautiful again.

Peering into the mirror again she took in the full effect of her transformation. Last few touches now, she thought as she dabbed perfume from a small vial onto her pulse points. Amber, jasmine, tuberose. All difficult to come by but important for the occasion. Hair down. He’d always liked that. She brushed it out and styled it quickly; it had dried nicely, the platinum waves cooperating for once and falling softly midway down her back. 

She was going to torture him.

There was a knock at the door. Arrayed for battle now, she was ready to be charming and sociable and nothing like the Dalish savage she’d heard herself described as.

His lopsided grin nearly broke the resolve to control her feelings that she had so carefully nurtured all night. She was going to torture him? The man hadn’t said a word and yet he’d dispelled all the determination gained the evening before.

“Soooo, how do I look?” he asked, as he exaggeratedly posed to show off multiple different angles.

Lovely. Adorable. Handsome. Happy. But she couldn’t tell him those things. Was there anything to say to that that was safe, for either of them?

“Like you could almost be the minor lord of some distant province.”

“Ouch! I think I clean up rather well, thank you very much.” He looked away from her face for the first time and was less than subtle in his appreciation of her dress. Oh, he was trying to be subtle, there was no doubt about that, but she knew him better than she knew herself. 

“I won’t tell you how nice you look - it’s plain on your face that you know exactly how distractingly beautiful you are and I don’t need you going and getting cocky on my day.” He had always been so good at deflecting with humour. Sometimes it had annoyed her, but today it seemed like it would be her saving grace.

“Now if you’ll let me in, I promise it’ll be worthwhile,” he said as he pulled a flask out from an inner pocket of his jerkin and waved it at her conspiratorially.

She looked at him incredulously. “I don’t know how you can even look at that after last night.”

“A fair point. And yet...” He laughed with that beautiful, full laugh that made her want to burst out laughing with him. She didn’t. “It ended earlier than planned, actually - less fun without you.” He looked down as he said the last bit and refused to meet her eyes.

She made a space for him and he entered the room, making a beeline for the stack of trash in the corner. Rooting through the boxes, he produced two low glasses with pewter griffins stuck to one side.

“See, I told you this junk would be good for something.” 

His voice was a little less confident than it usually was. It made sense that he would be nervous today.

Lyna sat down on the bed. While Alistair poured the whiskey, focusing intently on ensuring that the liquid was even in both glasses with his tongue to the side of his mouth, she took the opportunity to really look at him. He was starched and ironed within an inch of his life and the red and gold of his clothing was positively regal. Theirin colours. He might not like it, but kingship did suit him. Her Ali, put together for once in his life.

He’s not your Ali. What is wrong with you? Al-ist-air. No more nicknames.

A glass was placed in her hand and the space on the bed beside her taken up as Alistair sat down. 

“Just a little drink, is it?” she asked him as she swirled the rather generous amount of amber liquid around. She could smell how smoky it was even from far away.

A flush spread over his cheeks. “I needed a little courage, and well, I just kept trying to make them even and then there was so much…”

“You’re an idiot, Alistair.” She smiled at him softly and felt the doe-eyed expression on her face that she couldn’t seem to stop. You’re the idiot here, Lyna. Stop it. Why does he make you so weak?

“Cheers to my idiocy.”

The whiskey burned in her mouth, then left a sweetness on her tongue that faded away into a bitter aftertaste.

“I wanted to see you before everything, just us,” he said, meeting her eyes intently. “Lyna, I’m terrified. It’s going to be so… there are... a lot of people. It will be hard.” Somewhere in the middle of his speech he had had to turn away and look down at his lap. His fingers traced the embroidery at the bottom of his vest. She didn’t think her heart could break more - maybe it couldn’t for herself, but it broke for him.

He had never been one to mind an audience; she knew what he was saying. The stolen glances and studious avoidance of any physical contact told her that he was still pretending, too. If she was thinking clearly she would put her guard up now, shield herself with anger, but this was Ali. He needed her.

“I’m scared too,” she said in some attempt to be reassuring. Scared to lose him, scared that she would somehow become unhinged and scream or cry, scared that she wouldn’t. She wished that she could take his hand in hers, at least comfort him properly. But it was too risky. She couldn’t allow herself to do that if she had any hope of not telling him to run off into the sunset with her. She would not under any circumstances let herself be that weak. They both had duties to fulfill. 

“You can’t be scared! If you’re afraid then there’s no hope for me.” He was still uncharacteristically serious, but a slight twinkle appeared in his eye and a half smile played in the corner of his mouth. She did love that little smile, the one that so often broke out into a dopey grin. Sometimes, when he did that after he said something stupid and funny and looked at her like he was just waiting for her to groan she used to wipe it off his face with a kiss. It caught him off guard every single time.

That is enough, Lyna, why are you doing this to yourself.

“Tell you what,” he began, “If you can keep it together then so can I. I’ll take your lead, just like old times.”

Like old times. Times when this ridiculous boy had been so afraid of command that he put an untested girl in charge - and she’d made him king. Another reason why she needed to stay here in Denerim to look out for him.

“I can guard your flank and pick off any enemies who get too close.” 

He chuckled. “I’m glad you’ll have my back. You were always good at that - except for that one time, you remember, the day I said something that was very likely quite horrible to Morrigan and she hit me with my own frying pan while you just watched.”

“I didn’t have time to react! And besides, it was just a little tap.” She was truly smiling now. It had been really funny, though she had worried for him at the time. Morrigan had been so angry; she couldn’t even remember what about now. 

“Oh was it? Easy for you to say. I’ve never felt more betrayed by something that usually brings so much joy. By which I mean the pan.” He grimaced petulantly and Lyna took another sip of her whiskey to try to contain her laughter.

That solemn expression returned to Alistair’s face and he shuffled slightly in his seat before opening and closing his mouth as though he was working up the courage to say something.

“I’m glad you’ll be with me,” he said softly. “I could use my family being near - we are still family, right?” They had promised to always be that to each other, but that promise was so very long ago, before everything.

“We’ll always be family.” She still meant it, even if she was hurt, even when it was difficult to spend time with him. It was the only way left that she could allow herself to care for him.

He gathered her up in one of his enthusiastic, tight hugs and she had to take care not to spill her glass due to his fervour. Her face was pressed against his shoulder, the satin of his finery soft on her skin. He smelled like soap. And warmth and love. The heat from his body made her realize how very cold her arms were. She was afraid to let go; letting go meant that all of this was over.

Her clan had never stayed in one place for too long, certainly not long enough to grow attached to a place. The concept of home was one that she had barely understood - until she had met him. Here, now, together: this was home. 

I’m so sorry, she thought, not sure whether she meant it for herself or for Alistair.

---

The golden band in her hand felt as though it was burning a circle into her flesh. 

Some insane part of her had never truly believed that it would actually happen, even as she got ready - even while she took her place slightly off to Alistair’s side. Why had she agreed to stand beside him? She could have refused. She could have been a guest, like their other friends in attendance. There were so many eyes on Alistair, and on her, their hero. She would need to keep tight control over her features so that she didn’t accidentally betray herself. At least she was sure that she wouldn’t cry. She had held it together with Alistair earlier. She would be fine.

Music played as Anora walked from the back of the great hall towards where he stood. It sounded joyful, but to Lyna it was as mournful as a funeral dirge.

Alistair shifted from one leg to the other uncomfortably and pulled at his collar before turning to her for reassurance. Their eyes met and a wash of understanding flooded through both of them: it was a goodbye. There had always been some hope while they were both still free, but this marriage denoted a definitive break. 

I love you too, Ali, she told him in her answering gaze. He turned back and squared his shoulders, prepared now to do his duty.

She would never again express her feelings on the matter. Not with words, not with her eyes, she would hide it all.

Anora caught her eye as she approached and looked at her graciously, inclining her head ever so slightly toward her with a polite smile on her face as befit such a well-bred lady. She knew she had won; she understood courtly games and intrigue far more than Lyna did. The place she filled could so easily have gone to another - maybe even to Lyna, had she been more experienced and well connected. Maybe something could have outweighed the fact that she was an elf. Lyna was a quick study; she smiled back, beaming at her as though this was the outcome she had intended all along and made an effort to hide the ice in her eyes. 

Wedding dresses in Ferelden were going to be black for years to come, Lyna could already see it. Anora’s gown was as decorated as she had expected it to be, a dusky satin overlaid with complex embroidery in golden thread and embellished with rubies. It wasn’t simple like her own dress, but it was far from gaudy despite the sheer amount of ornamentation. Anora had impeccable taste. She could choke on her perfect fashion sense. Was there anything that Lyna could do that Anora couldn’t do better? She stood a decent chance to be a good, perhaps even great monarch, but dread wolf take her.

She had never seen a chantry wedding. It didn’t seem much different from the bonding ceremonies in her clan, just presided over by a woman in a big hat rather than a keeper. There was a time when had wondered if Alistair would have agreed to be bonded in the Dalish way. Maybe if she’d pushed to run off and get married in the woods she wouldn’t be standing here now, watching the queen promise to love and care for the man she loved.

She was going to keep that promise - Lyna had made it clear to her how seriously she should take it. She wasn’t sure if it made it easier or more difficult to know how little Anora cared for him.

As Anora made her promises in her clear, confident voice, Lyna could have sworn that she heard a sharp crack as her heart broke. 

It was Alistair’s turn next. She had to hand him the ring. Something that was not Lyna but took her form walked forward and placed it in his hand before returning to her place. Their fingers touched, but she might as well have been made of wood for all she felt. She was frozen, lifeless and cold, watching with unseeing eyes, listening with unhearing ears as Alistair said his vows. 

Somehow, it didn’t hurt.

The chantry mother pronounced them husband and wife and more music played. Very little was different, only a few words had been spoken, and yet everything had changed. She had worried that what came next would be the hard part, but it seemed that the hardest part was already over and she had come out the other side. Here there was no sadness, no pain… no feelings at all. Now she could be strong again, no longer distracted by childish dreams. 

Her heart was buried, the dark closing around it. There was some comfort in the knowledge that it would not be disturbed any longer.

She played her role as the supportive friend, the Hero of Ferelden, for the rest of the day and felt absolutely nothing.

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