#it's just the same platitudes over and over no original thought in sight

[alvadee]

i know it's really pathetic to have a parasocial relationship with a dead actor bla bla bla but how can i not be actually upset, annoyed or angry about people constantly talking derogative about Vic, about his looks, weight or "campy" acting when he's the the bullied kid to me who was always larger than the others, the one who only found his tribe when he started to do Shakespeare at the Globe, the teenager that was described as "wise" when he was just in high school, who always seemed older than he was and was always so nice to everyone, who turned pain into comedy, who was so good with kids and played Santa Claus with so much care for years, who was so generous with his time and advice, who everyone who met him just had wonderful things to say about, who hated to be typed as bad guy because it made people associate him with that image, who had an immense work ethic, who loved to bake bread, swim, read, visit junkyards because they had funny names and wait for snow. he's this whole person to me i've made people tell me so many stories about. i never knew him, didn't even get the chance to meet him, but i do feel kind of close to him. like he's the friend of a friend. he's in my life, as if he knows the people i know, i keep hearing about him but i haven't actually met him. and when people talk about him like that they talk about a two dimensional image, i get it, it's normal to talk about random actors that way. but i do think that often it lacks a lot of respect and i wonder why. it's that weird dude who also talked in this mocking tone about him over and over but unlike him others don't randomly grow wise and apologize.

#it's the swarm of birthday posts about him at the beginning of the year that just repost the same ugly old graphics #with the same stolen text from wikipedia or imdb to rake in likes #and then the rest of the year it's just LMAO KING TUT GUY LOOKS LIKE TED CRUZ and OmG Buono aged like milk! and so on over and over again #yeah there are nice comments too but no one ever says anything of substance if you get me #it's just the same platitudes over and over no original thought in sight #well when i find one i usually post it here because i'm so happy #alvadee's shit #vb

[ddarker-dreams]

mini love report — chrollo lucilfer

relationship health diagnosis — 70%*

symptom one — perceptive

this man is an information sponge. he notices everything. as a thief, he's accustomed to canvassing his surroundings. he'll have memorized the layout of your home by the second visit. it isn't for any nefarious purpose (probably), he's just always taking in information and cataloging it.

naturally, this sagacity extends to you. the normal cadence of your voice, mannerisms, favored words, and expressions; he'll know if something's bothering you before you realize it yourself. he isn't above using this knowledge of you for his own purposes. he'll gauge your body language and shift his approach to contentious topics. this is a lifelong habit of his that's difficult to break.

chrollo knows what people want to hear and he's used to utilizing that advantage. however, if you point this out, he'll try curbing the behavior. especially if you stress that it's his actual opinion you want to hear, not specially curated platitudes. he finds your desire for a candid approach almost... impressive? you'd rather disagree with his unfiltered thoughts than gloss over anything touchy. it bolsters his respect for you.

symptom two — enigmatic

there's a noticeable difference in what you know about each another. he knows the names of your co-workers, friends, and family members, as well as your hometown, job or school, etc... you can't say the same regarding him. he keeps his origins ambiguous. the way he frames his upbringing makes you feel guilty should you go prying. chrollo will tell you that he's an orphan who had a rough, destitute childhood, but that's about it. he could easily make up a story, but he doesn't like lying to you. he doesn't want the version of him that you love to be a false construct.

yes, there's the technicality of lying by omission. he doesn't get caught up on that detail.

symptom three — a lil lame

interestingly enough, the suave part of his brain starts acting up when he's known you long enough. this isn't to say that he loses his charm, but it stops being his go-to. now he just nerds out (he prefers the term 'discusses') whatever's caught his attention. there's this gleam in his eyes as he tells you about the history of a painting or antique, a childlike awe. he isn't elaborating to impress you with his knowledge, rather, he enjoys sharing his interests. especially since you care, you aren't just humoring him.

chrollo's emotions come out naturally when he's near you. it's subtle — a twitch of his eye if someone cuts you off, a light blush should you murmur his name while asleep. these simple forms of self-expression are foreign to him. he's used to playing roles, not the aftermath once the stage's curtains close. his corporeal form was all the evidence he had that he existed. lacking a sense of self invokes this numb, hollow feeling. you're his new, favorite proof that he's alive. his world's brighter with you in it.

primary area of concern

objectively speaking, chrollo's an ideal lover. he respects, cherishes, and admires you, altercations are rare. should disagreements occur, he never raises his voice or displays aggression. he'll hear you out and apologize should he feel he's in the wrong. he takes you out on dates, stares at you as if you were divinity incarnate whether you're wearing pajamas or a formal outfit. he's whipped and you both know it.

it's his immortality that keeps his score from being higher. he wouldn't ever hurt you, but his compassion for others is nonexistent. this unsightly side of him is hidden from your sight. at the end of the day, he's a murderer who experiences zero remorse for the pain he's inflicted upon others. he leads a double life. you won't ever completely know him.

selfishly, he doesn't want you to.

prognosis

everything hinges on chrollo preventing you from finding out about his illicit activities. luckily for him, subterfuge is his second nature. he rarely stresses about it. he has the manpower and resources necessary to make just about anything happen. if you're a civilian, the chances you'll uncover his identity on your own are next to nonexistent.

your future together is a priority to him — he doesn't take commitment lightly. you're likely the first person he's fallen in love with. if you'd have him, he'd want nothing more than to be your lifelong partner. marriage is a tradition he's never given much credence to. although, after meeting you, he understands the appeal. now it's a matter of finding a ring that matches your radiance...

*the universe has tried (and failed) to wrench you apart (0-20) your friends are praying that you'll break up (21-40) 'well it could/has be worse' bargaining mindset (41-60) a lil messiness as a treat (61-80) pure and wholesome (81-100)

#chrollo x reader #hxh x reader #chrollo brainrot #mini love reports #valentines 2024 event

[theconstantsidekick]

Captain America: The Winter Soldier ft. Static (2) | s.r

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Stark!Reader

Genre: Fluffy. A lil Angsty? Kinda?

Summary: So now Y/n Stark is a fugitive, being chased around the Triskelion by a horde of agents with a 'shoot to kill order' on her head. Isn't working for S.H.I.E.L.D. so much fun? Where the fuck is the H.R. department? She'd love to lodge a complaint.

(These scenes incorporate y/n, codename—Static, into the pre-existing story as a character without making drastic changes to the plot or mythos. All the major plot points from the MCU remain in place with the addition of the reader as Static, who is not only a Stark but also enhanced. Whatever events from the canon aren’t mentioned, take place without much change.)

Warnings: Swearing, Canon Typical Violence.

a/n: read Age of Ultron (ft. Static) to get a better backstory. Not necessary but recommended. But it's fun. I promise.

sidenote: Look, I was supposed to write a Bucky One Shot, but, Steve... That's it. Just, Steve, in this film. He's been living in my head rent-free since the movie came out. Also, expect a lot of gifs in this series, cause I love this film too much. And yeah, tell me you got who the guest appearance was? please?

Captain America: The Winter Soldier ft. Static (1) | Captain America: The Winter Soldier ft. Static (3) | Series Masterlist | Age of Ultron (Static Origin Story) | The Avengers (ft. Static) | Static Verse Masterlist | The Falcon, The Winter Soldier and Static | Iron Man 1 (ft. Static)

“Whoever did this, has to pay,” Alexander Pierce states grimly. “No matter who they are.”

Oh, really? That’s the angle you’re going for?

Y/n is sitting with her feet on the table—because fuck S.H.I.E.L.D.—in his office, with the man himself, Alexander Pierce, the elusive Mr. Secretary, sitting opposite her.

However, before Y/n can reply—with some grand speech about how Fury was a dear friend and no matter who the blame lands on, justice is always going to be her utmost priority, yada yada, yada—they are interrupted by someone entering the room.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I can come bac—”

“It’s perfectly fine,” Y/n cuts him off, getting her feet off the table and standing up. “We can continue this later,” she says, addressing Pierce, who just nods with a smile. She turns towards the exit and begins to walk out. That’s when she finally looks at the blond, dead in the eyes as she throws out a mock salute, “Captain.”

And the way his brows furrow, she knows the message that she wanted to send has been received. Because she doesn’t call him that anymore. Not unless she’s teasing him, and this is no teasing matter.

She sends out a prayer, hoping that the change in title is warning enough, and walks out.

As she exits the hall and turns the corner, she’s met with a sight so peculiar that stops her in her tracks.

“Bobbi,” Y/n greets.

“Y/n,” the tall, leggy blonde woman greets back.

Y/n nods towards the hall ahead, taking the hint both women begin walking. “Didn’t know you were here,” Y/n looks over at her, assessing, “in D.C.”

“Duty called,” Bobbi replies as two agents exit a conference hall on their right, and begin walking behind the pair.

“I bet it did,” Y/n remarks as she notices three agents walking out from the corner in front of them, blocking the exit, while pretending to stand casually and missing by a mile.

“Y/n—” Bobbi stops in her tracks, reaching out to grab Y/n’s elbow, making her do the same.

“Thought we were friends, Bobbi,” Y/n chides with a smirk, turning to face her, hands still in her pockets.

“We are,” Bobbi tries, she sounds a little desperate, which is very rare for the stunning blonde. “That’s why I’m asking you to come with me.”

Y/n looks around the hallway with three guarding her exit, and two more behind Bobbi. “Doesn’t seem a lot like you’re asking anything… Seems like you’re ordering.”

“Don’t make me do this,” Bobbi pleads, with a mixture of exasperation and distress.

Y/n scoffs at the painfully cliche line. “I’m not making you do anything.”

“Y/n—”

“If all you’ve got are platitudes, I’d rather we just fight and get this over with,” Y/n replies, pulling her hands out of the pocket of her dress pants.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Bobbi states, and she looks like she means it. Who knows? Maybe she does. But now is not the time to question motivations. Now is the time to get the fuck out of the Triskelion.

The sentiment doesn’t fail to make Y/n let out a chuckle, though. “I understand you’re on a schedule, but the debrief couldn’t have been that bad,” she says, noticing the agents move in closer, weapons in hand.

Fuck! Really?

Pierce put a fucking ‘shoot to kill’ order on me???? Motherfucker.

Jaw clenching, she looks back at Bobbi, “You can’t hurt me, Bobbi.” She smiles then. “But I’m generous enough to let you try.”

With that, they launch into the fight.

Now, Y/n might freeze at the mention of Soviet-made bullets, but this—this she can do, no problem.

Bobbi unfurls her batons, swinging them at her. She dodges, grabs her hand, curling it, turns around, and elbows Bobbi in the diaphragm, hard. As Bobbi sputters behind her, Y/n dodges a punch from her right only to run into another on her left. Her jaw aches, her eyes water.

Fuck, she hates face hits.

Tony’s gonna riot.

Turning around, she uses the momentum to kick the man who hit her, in the face and then knees the other. Another person charges at her, she dodges, grabs the arm, twists it. Putting pressure on the shoulder she turns the assailant overusing him as a shield and begins moving towards the exit.

She needs to get out, fighting in an enclosed space without a weapon isn’t ideal on a good day and this is a very very not good day.

But fuck Bobbi and her resiliently well-trained ass. Because now her batons are clashing with Y/n’s side from behind and two women are behind her.

“God! You’re being a real bitch, right now!” Y/n exclaims as she pulls harder on the shoulder of the agent she was holding, dislocating his shoulder and dropping him. She turns, trying to back kick Bobbi, only for her to dodge it.

“I’m just doing my job,” Bobbi replies, swinging her baton, which Y/n dodges. But then the two women begin shooting. Bobbi’s head turns at the action. The noise splitting both their ears. She looks back at Y/n with imploring eyes, “Come with me, or they will kill you.”

Taking the moment of weakness, she pulls out the gun from Bobbi’s holster, shooting both the agents down, “I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself.” Elbowing Bobbi in the face, she breaks into a run to the staircase.

She knows it’s better to kill Bobbi, she knows that. But she can’t. She won’t. They were friends once. So she won’t.

And Hunter will kill Y/n if she does.

She exits the hallway and stands next to the door, waiting for them to follow through.

The door flies open. She pulls the first intruder by the arm, pushing him over the railing, and down the middle of the staircase. Bobbi comes in next, returning the punch in the diaphragm that makes Y/n see a couple stars.

Coughing, she sputters back, aiming the gun at the agent behind her, she shoots. Next taking ragged aim at Bobbi’s shoulder, Y/n says, “You’re so fucking fake.” She shoots, but Bobbi dodges, throwing the baton at her hand, making her drop the gun. Fuck! She begins descending the steps, “Is anything real about you?” She dodges Bobbi's attacks, while they both make their way down the stairs. Clawing at her throat, Y/n asks, “Are you even really a blonde?”

Bobbi rolls her eyes, headbutting Y/n.

FUCK, it hurts!

But Y/n needed that. The proximity is essential, as Y/n pulls the grappling hook hanging off Bobbi’s belt, connecting it to the railing. She punches Bobbi, right in the jaw. When Bobbi looks up, Y/n pulls the cord attached to the hook, wrapping it around Bobbi’s neck.

Bobbi is quick though, she puts her baton in the middle, giving her enough expanse to breathe.

Good girl.

“Either way,” Y/n knees her once for good measure, “You’re really making me hate you.” With that, she flips herself over, cord in hand, and jumps off.

She makes it down a few flights before Bobbi cuts off the rope, making Y/n swing wildly to hold onto a railing. She barely makes it in time.

She pulls herself up and over. She falls onto the floor, huffing. “Maybe the elevator would’ve been a better idea,” she grumbles to herself, as she hobbles up and exits out onto the hallways.

Running, she spots the elevator and presses the button.

It doesn’t open.

Fuck it doesn’t even move.

Bobbi’s gonna be on her ass in a second, she needs the damn door to fucking open.

So, irrational as it may seem, she bangs on it. “Motherfu—”

And then the door does open.

The elevator’s not on the floor level, only the top half is visible. But that’s enough to catch a glimpse of a blond she does like seeing.

“Steve,” she greets.

“Y/n,” he nods back. He takes a breath, “Fugitive?”

She nods, “Fugitive.”

“You wanna?” He asks, motioning her inside.

Before she can reply a warning shot rings out from behind her. Her head moves away on instinct. As expected, Bobbi is padding down the hallway, ready to ream her ass.

“I’d love to, but first,” she points at her own arm then his, “do you mind?” She asks.

Steve gets the hint, “Oh yeah, sure,” he plucks the shield from where it rests on his arm and hands it to her.

She whips around, throwing the shield at Bobbi’s gut, dropping her. She catches it easily enough on her arm as it boomerangs back. She slides down into the elevator. Throwing up her middle finger behind her, she screams, “You know, it’s shit like this that made me choose Hunter in the divorce!”

As the elevator closes and begins its descent, she hands the shield back to Steve, with a hushed thanks. She then takes a moment to admire his handiwork of unconscious agents lying all over the floor.

Suddenly then, Rumlow gasps, beginning to get up.

She never really liked him. He looked like he was the guy at the frat party who would make girls uncomfortable. So, she kicks him in the face, purely as a means of catharsis. “Shame,” she grumbles, looking down at him.

“Yeah, I didn’t see that coming with Rumlow, at least,” Steve remarks from next to her.

She gets whiplash with how fast her neck turns to look at Steve. “Steve, his parents named him ‘Brock’... he was destined for this.”

Steve chuckles as she begins taking off her beige blazer. Honestly, she should just stop dressing up in any piece of clothing she cares about. Cause every time she does, she ends up in situations like this.

“You seem pretty calm for someone who’s being chased around by a building full of trained agents,” Steve notes with a smile.

His previous distrust from the hospital is missing.

It warms Y/n’s cold, pale heart.

She snorts, “Kinda what happens once you’ve fought aliens.” She drops her blazer onto some agent’s head-turning to Steve. She points at her neck, at the tie hanging off of it, “Could you?”

He looks taken aback but nods nonetheless. “Why are they after you?” He asks as he slowly undoes her tie, his eyes set on the task like it’s far more important than the conversation at hand.

God, he’s beautiful.

She can feel his feathery touch through the soft fabric of her collared black shirt. He’s handling the tie, handling her like she’s made of porcelain. He’s handling her with as much care as he can possibly muster.

Why the fuck did I ask him to do this, again?

She notices his lashes, bouncing as his eyes fixate on the Windsor knot.

Oh yeah. Cause I’m an incessant flirt.

“Why wouldn’t they be?” Y/n cocks her brow. Steve looks up at her finally. She blinks, trying not to get caught up in the blueness of his eyes. “The only person in this building I had any allegiance to was Nick Fury,” she states, rolling up her sleeves. “And Pierce is smart enough to know that.”

“I’m realizing Pierce is smart enough to know a lot,” Steve replies, brows furrowing as he unbuttons the collar of her shirt.

His hands are shaking, she can feel it. She decides to credit it to the rush of adrenaline because the other option seems a little too self-indulgent.

Suddenly the elevator stops. Stopping them both in the midst of their action.

Ah, fuck.

Steve looks alarmed but Y/n was kinda expecting it. She reaches over to the panel of buttons, looking over at Steve she tilts her head, “Could you?’

It’s almost like they can communicate without having to explicitly say anything cause he punches the panel, breaking it open. She plays a little with the wires, grunting in annoyance until the elevator starts back up.

She pulls back. Satisfied with her work, she looks over at Steve. And this gorgeous motherfucker just smiles at her.

God, she’d swoon just at the sight of that smile. It’s warm, and comforting, even in the face of the pure chaos they are facing.

She turns around, crouches down, and begins picking up weapons off the unconscious bodies of the agents.

“He’s gonna pin this on us,” Steve says, his expression is grim when she looks up at him.

“Ehh…” She grabs a gun off Rumlow and stashes it on her belt. “They’re gonna pin it on you,” she picks an electric baton, pockets that as well. “I’m not interesting enough.”

“Not interesting enough?! You’re Tony Stark’s sister!” Steve exclaims.

A knife off this guy, two more guns off that one, and ah, that thing will come in handy in a sticky situation. She stands back up. “Exactly, sister. Makes me a sidekick,” she explains. “Now, what would be easier to sell? Two agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. going rogue or…” she looks over at Steve expectantly.

It takes a moment but then,

“Killing you and pinning it on me,” Steve’s head falls back in realization. “I’d be the Manchurian Candidate.”

She throws him a look of confusion mixed with a hint of pride.

Feeling her gaze he looks back at her. “What? I read,” he defends.

Snorting, she nods. But she’s not done yet, “Better story, far more believable but also seeing as I’m the sidekick…”

Steve’s eyes flicker around, processing the information before, “It would antagonize Tony against me, making him favor Pierce.”

“Bingo.” She snaps her finger and winks at him. “I always knew you weren’t just a sinfully pretty face.”

And this goddamn Adonis, blushes.

Fuck her. She’s in for it. Isn’t she?

Fortunately but also unfortunately for her, this is the moment the elevator stops and the doors fling open.

Steve’s on her in an instant, wrapping her up in his arms, he pushes them both into the corner, away from the doors.

They are standing a breath away from each other. One wrong step and their lips might just crash. And for the life of her, she can’t remember why she wants to be right at all.

Despite the hail of bullets, Y/n can’t really hear anything except Steve’s breath that’s gently caressing her lips. Her hands are on his chest, while his are wrapped around her waist. The moment is charged with something she can’t put her hands on. But the way Steve’s heart is beating, she thinks he might be feeling it too.

But then again, it could just be the fact that they are being fucking shot at.

“As much as I like this, Captain… and I really do. I need to leave,” Y/n states slowly. And try as she might, to keep eyes stuck to his, they seem to have a mind of their own and prefer the sight of Steve’s lips far better.

Her statement seems to break the charged trance they were in, because—

“What?” Steve asks, incredulous. The gunfire muffles the sound of his voice now but his expression is loud enough to compensate. “How are you going to get past that? Am I missing some crazy superpowers you’re supposed to have?”

Life is a joke and Y/n is the fucking clown.

“Look, if we want to leave, we need something to leave on,” she argues.

“You’ve got a kill order on you,” Steve chides.

“Yeah, but I’m the less important target.”

“That’s not—”

“If I go, we can split them up,” she states.

“Or you die and Tony kills me!”

And that irks her more than it should. If giving a fuck about her is just a result of his weird sense of duty towards her brother, then screw the Golden Boy.

“Oh for Christ's sake, Cap! Stop patronizing me,” Y/n bites back, pushing him back a bit, pulling out the grenade that she had pocketed earlier, exactly for a sticky situation like this one. She pulls out the pin with her teeth and throws it out the door.

As the explosion rings out, Steve’s embrace around her tightens. He covers her with his entire body, holding her closer. And fuck, does this hunk runs hot.

She’s trying to distance herself from him and all this closeness is making it very difficult.

There are more pressing issues at hand, she tells herself. More pressing issues than Y/n’s feelings for America’s Golden Boy turned fugitive. So reluctantly, she clears her throat.

At the sound of it, Steve steps back.

Wordlessly, she begins to make her way out, but suddenly Steve stops her in her tracks. Pulling her by her elbow, he says as she turns back to look at him, “Please be careful.”

“Didn’t know you were this scared of Tony, Cap,” Y/n says sarcastically.

He huffs in exasperation, “I’m not—” he looks around, trying to form words, “I just—” She cocks her brow. “I’d rather you didn’t get hurt.”

Then her face breaks into a smile. “Was that really so hard to say, Cap?”

He lets her go, grumbling with absolutely no heat, while the edges of his mouth curve up. “You’ll see me downstairs?”

Tracing a small cross with her index finger, over the left side of her chest, she says “Cross my heart.” She begins walking backwards, still looking at Steve. “Hope ardently not to die.”

Steve, the poor man, just shakes his head with a smile, as the elevator door closes.

While making her way down to the garage, her mind clicks off.

She needs an outlet; an outlet for the rage and anxiety and the sheer fear coursing through her right now.

Her secrets are old. They are old and buried as deep as she could possibly muster. But time is a cruel mistress. The inhuman hand of the clock keeps marching on. No matter how deep you bury your anguish, it is bound to resurface. Because time—time stops for no one, not even the alien with the hidden secret identity as a spy, playing at being a lawyer.

So she switches off. She becomes what they had trained her to be, she becomes what she hates being. She becomes something akin to the man that incited her fear, to begin with; the Soldat.

But contemplation can happen later. It can happen when she’s outside, away from agents attacking her, shooting at her.

While the actions calm her somewhat, she is moving on autopilot, solely functioning on instinct. The motions are well learned, almost ingrained into her but she doesn’t especially love the idea of mindless violence actually being mindless violence. Frankly? She hates every second of it.

She preferred the humdrum nature of practicing law, but then she knew she had to step back into this life. This life calls to her like the sea calls a pirate. What the fuck is the point of being a pirate if you’re not on a fucking boat, right?

And as much as she hates it; she’s good at this. Violence is what she was made for, she ventures. Violence must be destiny, like becoming a villain for Brock’s.

“Did you just jump out of the damn elevator?” She shouts out, somewhere between confused and… turned on?

Steve pushes himself off the ground, groaning (that doesn’t help) yet paying no mind to the glass shattered around him. “I said I’d see you downstairs,” he chokes out, getting to his feet. “I got a little impatient.”

Fuck her.

She smiles.

The people around her, agents mostly unaware of whatever is unfolding, look confused. Which, fair. They did just watch Captain America jump off from the 25th??? Floor.

“You going my way, handsome?” She nods at the motorcycle she’s currently sitting on, revving up the engine.

“Is there any other way to go?” Steve throws back, smiling as he gets on behind her.

As they ride away, making their way to the bridge, the gates begin to close.

“We’re not gonna make it!” Steve shouts.

“We’re gonna make it,” Y/n replies easily, punching down on the accelerator.

“Y/n—”

“Steve.”

“Y/n—”

“Steve.”

“Y/N!”

She pushes down on the motorcycle, only to launch it back up. The speed combined with the movement lifts it off the ground and they narrowly pass through the teeth of the closing gates.

“You were saying?” Y/n retorts with a smirk.

But her victory is short-lived because the spikes at the end of the road have risen and a jet whizzes past them, blocking their way.

“Stand down, Captain Rogers, Agent Stark. Stand down,” Jasper Sitwell’s voice sounds out from the jet.

Her face scrunches up. Tsk, fuck off! “I’m not an agent,” she grumbles under her breath.

It does seem, however, that they are really pulling out all the stops. Fuck. Y/n almost feels special.

“Repeat, stand down.” Sitwell reiterates.

As the jet begins firing, she swerves the motorcycle from side to side to evade it.

“If we wanna get out, you’re gonna have to take care of that, handsome,” she tells him.

“Get me close,” he replies, as he throws the shield, damaging one of the engines. The shield lodges into the propeller and the jet begins to descend.

And look, anyone who sees that will have to admit, the way Steve Rogers controls the shield is pretty fucking hot. Alright?

So she can’t be blamed as she says, “Yes, sir.”

Revving up, she speeds forward, getting as close as she can to the jet and then skidding to a halt. Steve takes the moment to jump off the bike and onto the jet, demolishing it almost far too easily. As the jet crashes into the water next to them, Steve lands gracefully on his knees.

He looks up at her, “Shall we?”

And she’s a little too breathless after that display so all she can muster up is a nod.

Steve climbs back onto the bike behind her and they drive off.

Read the next part here. Find other static verse works here. Find her origin story here.

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#steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x stark reader #steve rogers x stark!reader #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers angst #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fic #steve rogers series #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers fanfiction #captain america x you #captain america x reader #captain america tws fic #captain america tws #avenger reader #avenger x reader #avengers x platonic reader #avengers x stark!reader #avengers imagine #avengers series #avengers fanfiction #avengers fluff #avengers au #avengers fic #marvel fic #mcu fic #mcu x you #mcu x y/n

[shimmersing]

Constellation

Part One | Part Two | Interlude | Part Three

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: F/M, Gen Relationships: Female Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor/Male Republic Trooper, Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor/Republic Trooper Characters: Female Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor, Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor, Qyzen Fess, Yuon Par, Parkanas Tark-Lord Vivicar Additional Tags: Angst, Tython, Emotional, Mentioned Mutual Pining, Fluffy, Sad, Melancholy Returning to Tython after shielding the last master suffering from Vivicar’s Force plague, Aitahea is faced with more struggle in her efforts to heal the Order and keep the Force in balance. Tired, injured, and longing for someone she can’t have, perhaps ever, the lines of her responsibility as a Jedi and her own convictions begin to blur. As Aitahea nears the end of her quest to save Yuon Par and the other Jedi Masters, she’s confronted with painful revelations and answers that only give rise to more questions. Shouldering the lives and minds of Jedi across the galaxy – alone – may prove to be more than Aitahea can bear.

Part Three

AN: I highly recommend you read Impending, a once-upon-a-oneshot that snuggles right into Constellation here, between parts two and three. Enjoy!

May the Force be with you.

Standing in the airlock, Aitahea let the echo of Erithon’s voice roll over and through her, like she might flow through saber stances during practice. Six syllables, like the spiral of a breath, a last sigh of hope to cling to in her fierce exhaustion and anguished determination.

It was the first time they’d spoken since Alderaan; everything else had been missed calls and quickly dashed-off messages. She’d mentioned her return to Tython, but not her weariness, loneliness, or how since leaving Alderaan, the only dream she’d remembered on waking was of him, humming Star by Star and stroking her hair. As far-flung as they’d been, she had doubted he’d see her injuries in a grainy holo.

Instead, she’d simply listened.

Erithon’s mother and sister had given him no end to their questions about the “princess” - as his youngest niece had gleefully declared - having seen their gala appearance splashed across the holonet. He’d explained with proud reticence that he had been harassed into calling to say hello for them, but he hoped she was doing well, of course.

See-Too had whirred politely in the common room entryway, a subtle warning that the other crew had begun stirring in response to their arrival. Aitahea had gently interrupted Erithon a final time, thanking him for calling, but she was needed urgently. He’d nodded, evidently used to the same, and then… “May the Force be with you.” She hadn’t even had a chance to reply, to wish him the same, before the call had disconnected, and she’d been alone again in the dark.

Minutes later, the Luminous had docked to Vivicar’s stolen ship, though Sia had only done so under protest.

“I don’t fucking like this, Ai.”

“There’s no other way, Sia. I trust you to keep the Luminous safe.”

“Yeah, me too, but what about you?”

Aitahea had pressed her lips into a tight line and turned away from her friend, unable to offer anything more to assuage Sia’s concern or her own guilt. The Progress had made all reports on time, presumably under Lord Vivicar’s control, so no one in the wider Republic knew that anything was awry.

Qyzen had refused to let her board alone, though she’d helplessly argued for it. They both knew she was still healing, only maintaining the shielding by a hair’s breadth. Vivicar’s ruinous intrusion on the ritual had done more damage than Aitahea had been willing to acknowledge. Sia had muttered under her breath something about needing to get a kolto tank installed in the med bay.

The Progress was shrouded in flickering darkness, the black of deep space. The stars still glittered, but coldly, distantly. Aitahea wasn’t certain what they’d find on board; there were many lives, but they writhed beneath a shadow grown powerful. Qyzen waited beside her as the airlock cycled to admit them to the hijacked ship.

The first rush of soldiers took her off guard; she flinched at the sight of Republic insignias below fevered eyes and slack faces. A growled warning from Qyzen brought her back to the task of disabling them with as little harm as possible.

It all horrified her, this perversion of so many things she held dear. The horrible stain of the dark side flowed on the ship and everyone aboard. She could barely hold it in check, growing steadily more vulnerable as her shielding was meticulously assaulted.

Vivicar was blessedly silent until Aitahea reached the first computer console. When he finally spoke, it was like being plunged into dark water. The consular reeled, fighting to keep her fingers on the control panel and not digging into her own temples.

I wasn’t sure if you’d be foolish enough to come aboard, Aitahea. But I can sense your presence.

Aitahea swallowed hard against a wave of nausea. “And I sense a man tormented by the past.”

You are blinded by the light side. You can’t understand what you face.

Biting back a sharp retort, Aitahea shoved away from the console – she didn’t possess the necessary slicing skill to coax open the blast doors from there. She could cut her way through the thick durasteel with her lightsaber, but time felt too precious.

Nearby were a few barrels, each with a combustion risk label splashed across it. She could fling them into the door using the Force, but it would be violent and destructive.

Oddly, Aitahea found she didn’t mind that so much right now and lifted a hand. The explosion was terrific, throwing back her hood. The wave of heat quickly grew so intense Aitahea had to shield herself and Qyzen until it abated.

As they stepped through the hissing, superheated breach, Vivicar’s voice echoed in a hateful thrum. Come to me, Jedi. I’ll show you how light can be snuffed out.

Aitahea swayed briefly, closing her eyes. There was no part of her that wasn’t in anguish. If this wasn’t already snuffed out, what could possibly be worse? She felt alarmingly close to knowing exactly what.

May the Force be with you.

It was Erithon’s voice this time, no tainted whispers, just her own beautiful memory. A light in the dark. She could follow that through this horrific present; through anything, perhaps. Aitahea opened her eyes, signaled her companion, and forged ahead.

Most of the unwitting fighters in their path could be stopped with a Force wave, tumbling them unconscious but mostly unharmed to the floor; but the squad leaders would be hardier – she knew from experience.

The first squad leader, a hulking being of indeterminate origin, was waiting for them at the first intersection, alone. The soldier didn’t fall for Qyzen’s feint and instead hoisted his cannon toward Aitahea, spraying cryogenic fluid. She flicked it away, readying her lightsaber to deflect any shots from the holdout blaster she knew he’d be hiding.

Qyzen shifted into an effortless and decisive strike, taking advantage of a seam in the trooper’s armor. Aitahea shuddered, feeling the soldier’s perception flare out, leaving nothing but gleeful darkness seething in every shadow.

“Herald?”

“I’m fine,” she bit out. “Let’s proceed.”

After navigating a few more hallways, they located the secondary computer terminal. She’d barely set her fingers to the keypad when Vivicar splintered her thoughts.

Tell me, Aitahea, what was it like? Letting your life force drain away to shield a stranger from me - how did it feel?

Aitahea frowned at her suddenly balled-up fists, unclenching and resettling her fingers on the keys before replying. “Painful, but I endured it.”

Pain makes us stronger. And the pain I have endured is beyond your comprehension.

That is why I have won.

Her throat seized, but even after swallowing hard, no words came to her, all her skillful, diplomatic platitudes absent.

“Hunt is not over until beast is skinned, dark thing,” Qyzen rumbled. The console began blaring a klaxon warning, and droids began pouring into the room.

You will understand soon. If you live that long.

“Your power and tactics have brought you this far, but no further.”

Until now, Aitahea had imagined Parkanas Tark as a youth, bright with potential and the Force. But the being that turned to face her as she dragged herself toward the bridge was aged, wretched, and twisted by the dark side.

“This battle was decided before you stepped aboard.”

“I’m tired of your delusions,” Aitahea hissed, past exhaustion and numb with pain. “Explain yourself.”

Vivicar gave her a mocking bow. “As you wish. My plague isn’t just a disease; it siphons power from its victims. With the proper rituals, that power can be channeled. Soon, the combined strength of your Masters will make me the most powerful Force adept who has ever lived.”

The pressure against her shielding intensified, thousands of threads – lives, she realized – suddenly pulled taut. Trembling with the strain, Aitahea took a step forward. She hadn’t come here to bicker; she’d come here to help.

“Turn away from this path, Parkanas. The Order can help you.”

Vivicar laughed.

“Oh, Aitahea.” This time, she visibly flinched when he used her name. “Parkanas Tark died long ago. Even ‘Vivicar’ is merely a skin to be shed. Parkanas offered himself to me on Malachor Three, to crush the Order that destroyed us. He embodied my spirit.” He lifted his hands, a seething glow thick with the dark side writhing around him. “I am no lost Jedi, no ordinary Sith Lord. I am Terrak Morrhage.”

“You can turn away from this path, Parkanas,” she beseeched, fumbling for words while he stalked toward her. “The Order can help you. Just… just come home.”

“No one can oppose me, certainly no child, barely more than a Padawan.” He grinned, ghoulish and without remorse as he ignited his lightsaber. “I am beyond flesh… beyond death!”

Aitahea realized tears were slipping from her eyes, her vision blurring. She was so tired. “No one is beyond the will of the Force,” she whispered, uncertain who the platitude was meant for.

Morrhage laughed again, a sound like plasteel shredding. “I will crush you, Aitahea, and your shattered body will fuel my rebirth!”

For a fleeting moment, she thought of running. Simply turning about, dashing to the safety of the Luminous. She questioned the choice she’d made on Tython, to come here carrying so many injuries, so much guilt and fear. Should she have stayed to heal? She remembered what the Noetikon of Secrets had explained, that the Jedi Master who had created the shielding technique had given his life to end Morrhage’s first plague. Was Morrhage right? Had the light blinded her?

Aitahea took a breath.

The light didn’t blind. Light revealed, left no shadows to hide in. Light nourished; light gave everything yet lost nothing. Light was right now in this moment, not in the past, and would always be in reach in the future. If light called, light would answer.

Aitahea called out.

“Parkanas! I know you are there; I sense you!” Morrhage ignored her outcry, continuing to advance. Aitahea sucked in a breath, ignited her lightsaber, and took a defensive stance. “Help me stop this monster, Parkanas, please!”

Morrhage attacked with spectacular brutality, thousands of years of rage and hatred against Aitahea’s weakened shielding, against her physical self. The Jedi parried and dodged, evading strikes she couldn’t hope to block. Qyzen Fess did what he could to aid her, but Morrhage was fixated on Aitahea. Her body quailed under the assault, shredding her determination. There must be another way…

Morrhage’s next attack struck true, and Aitahea lost a few moments to fiery agony searing across her left side. Reckless with pain, she flung out a wild, violent Force wave that sent Morrhage to the floor and left several nearby panels crushed beyond recognition. A few precious seconds passed while she waited, panting, for her vision to clear.

The fallen Jedi, the false Sith lord, struggled to his knees, glaring death toward Aitahea as she approached.

“Impressive, Aitahea, but my victory is already complete. My plague has spread farther than you can imagine. Jedi Masters across the galaxy are succumbing to it as I speak. The plague binds these Masters to me. Hundreds of them… the heart and soul of your order.

“You feel it, do you not, Aitahea?”

No lies this time; Aitahea could indeed feel the mingled torment of hundreds more Jedi as Morrhage siphoned their lives for strength. Every crack in her shielding, down to the smallest hairline fracture, screamed in agony.

“Kill me, and you will kill every Master I have ever infected. Every one! Shielded or not, they are still bound to me.”

Aitahea dispassionately placed the blade of her lightsaber at his throat. It felt like someone else doing it. She spoke in clipped tones, her voice unrecognizable in her own ears. “Free those Jedi, Morrhage. Now.”

“And if I refuse? Will you cut us down? What choice do you have? You cannot let me live, and I am deathless.” Morrhage leered, his dark victory seemingly assured, and took one more jab: “Your shielding talent cannot harm me. You’ve lost!”

Everything went silent and impossibly still. Your shielding talent cannot harm me. Of course not. It was never meant to harm, only to heal, to offer a path toward the light that anyone could take at any time, without judgement, without conditions, just… a welcome home. The path that she’d longed for, that she’d tried to circumvent over and over, a path she could not offer until she, too, chose it.

Aitahea lowered her arm and deactivated her lightsaber. “I can save you, Parkanas.”

Morrhage reeled back as Aitahea drew the Force around her. The effort would not be without risk, but it was the path that lay before her. Another stillness enfolded her, this time of peace, willingness, and release. Fighting had never been her forte or focus; she was a healer, with words and hands and her lightsaber only when absolutely, undeniably necessary.

Now, she isn’t simply performing the shielding ritual; she is part of it, wholly within and throughout, a numinous space that feels like a Coruscant ocean, like the forests of Tython, like warm sun and a hand to hold on Brentaal, all at once.

Now, she realizes how to bring it full circle; she must allow the Force its will, stop trying to control it, and just let go. Light spills through the cracks in her shielding, and everything is suddenly and wonderfully illuminated.

May the Force be with you.

Parkanas – and it was with every certainty him; the sudden burst of hope where none had been the moment before was unmistakable – went flying backwards, away from Aitahea and leaving the vulnerable spirit of Morrhage isolated before her.

The spirit howled in fury. “No, this body is mine! Damn you, Jedi!”

Aitahea noted with detached amusement that she was levitating, Morrhage’s furious tirade a soft rumble in the background. She felt untethered, undefinably light. Closing her eyes, Aitahea exhaled a long breath and stepped softly down to the floor.

“When my strength returns, no matter the years – I will destroy you,” Morrhage snarled, but Aitahea was already walking toward Parkanas, feeling her own strength returning. She brushed past the raging specter, and in a few more moments, it had disappeared.

Qyzen had already lifted Parkanas Tark to his feet. He had a hand to his head, and Aitahea allowed a thread of sympathy to unwind, a guide to the path she hoped he would be able to take, too.

Parkanas Tark stared at her with open disbelief. “I’m… still alive. You spared me.”

She half-smiled. “Healed you.”

“My mind is…” Parkanas shook his head again. “Clearer now. But – it was your duty to kill me and destroy Morrhage.” His eyes – still smoldering amber, revealing a bitter internal strife – begged for an answer. Why?

“Too many Jedi have been lost already.” Aitahea lowered her gaze, the barest of brief moments to grieve for those lost. “Including Parkanas Tark.”

“Perhaps he deserves another chance, but…” Parkanas’ voice trailed off, adding in a pained whisper, “I cannot return to the Order.”

Swallowing hard against the lump in her own throat, Aitahea pressed. “Tython has its hidden places. Its forests.” That half-smile danced across her lips again, and for a flickering moment, she was light years away. “You could find peace there.”

“I could… go home.” Parkanas grew still, eyes distant and filled with evergreen leaves and rushing water. After a moment, he startled, reaching out to grasp her hands. “But first, Jedi, listen. Take this warning in exchange for my life: You can’t trust the Order. Or the Republic.” Aitahea drew breath to contradict, but he continued. “You may be their heroine now, but they will abandon you, too.”

Aitahea pulled away from Parkanas’ frantic grip, shaking her head while she scrabbled for a coherent thought. “Why…What do you-” Nothing coalesced, leaving her once again a diplomat with no words.

Parkanas held her gaze. “Remember that.”

“We felt it! A massive shift in the Force. The Masters you saved have reported a sudden improvement in their condition. The plague is over, thanks to you.

“And… I sense Parkanas Tark. For the first time in many years. How can that be?”

Aitahea nodded at Master Syo and glanced sidelong toward Parkanas, who was being assessed by Tharan and Holiday. “You can ask him yourself, Master. When he returns to Tython, he can answer all your questions.”

Her companions had dashed through the ship as soon as she’d signaled their safety. Bringing medical equipment to help with the injured and traumatized crew, Prelsiava Tern had even dragged along a protesting See-Two.

“I told you there’d be plenty for you to do; look at that console! It’s completely trashed! Go on, get on it,” Sia had ordered, and the affronted droid had conceded, tottering over to examine one of the smashed panels.

With the logistics managed, and a scant few moments to tuck away the memory of Parkanas’ unsettling words, Aitahea had commed the Council, Master Syo answering with his victorious statement: We felt it!

“Well done, Aitahea. The Jedi Order owes its survival to you.”

Relief swept over her like a wave. “It’s my privilege to serve.”

“Hurry home. We’re waiting for you.”

Aitahea felt nearly presentable again by the time they arrived on Tython. She’d had her injuries treated. She’d eaten and bathed. She’d slept, mostly dreamless but for dappled sunlight and burbling water.

As they touched down on Tython, Aitahea marveled at the incandescent radiance of the Force within the hallowed walls of the Jedi Temple. Each Jedi shone like a bright star, a constellation she’d missed terribly beneath the weight of the shielding. Even Qyzen shimmered, kindling with satisfaction and pride. Beneath all, the grand symphony of Tython itself soared.

In the Council chamber, Master Yuon, Master Syo, Master Satele, and Master Jaric were waiting. Schooling her expression into practiced serenity, Aitahea dropped into a bow, only lifting her gaze when Yuon spoke.

“You have saved untold lives through your defeat of Lord Vivicar and destruction of the plague.” Aitahea felt Yuon’s pride in every syllable.

Even Master Jaric was smiling. “There’s a title reserved for the most prestigious among us, whose wisdom and skill safeguard the galaxy. It hasn’t been bestowed in thousands of years.”

Aitahea became keenly aware of her flushed cheeks, suspended between delight and disbelief, and nodded in vague acknowledgment.

“You have proved worthy,” Master Syo declared. “Now, the Council names you Barsen’thor, warden of the Order.”

Absurdly, Aitahea’s thoughts turned to how much she’d enjoy reading about the other Barsen’thor that had preceded her. Would the archive even contain that knowledge? How many thousands of years? Who were they, who had they set out to be, and what had they done to arrive where Aitahea herself now stood? The Force bloomed with assurance. “I will do all I can to live up to this honor.” Aitahea clasped her hands, sweeping into a low obeisance.

“I never imagined your potential would take you so far.” Yuon beamed, and Aitahea returned the expression as she lifted her head.

Yet concern laced Master Syo’s next words: “And not a moment too soon. We have need of you. The Council has received word that the Republic is facing a new threat.”

“We need time to prepare a war council,” Satele clarified, much to Aitahea’s unspoken relief. “The Supreme Chancellor himself will be attending.”

“I stand ready, Master,” Aitahea assured.

Accepting her pledge with a nod, Syo nodded towards the doors. “Take time to record your journey in the Jedi archives. History must know of your actions.”

Aitahea blinked, more surprised at her own surprise than anything – of course there should be a record of the current Barsen’thor as well; that’s the first place to start, obviously – and almost missed Master Syo’s final words. “We will contact you when the war council is ready. For now, the entire Order will know that there is a new Barsen’thor among us.”

After a round of congratulations from each of the Masters, Aitahea and Qyzen left the Council chamber, ostensibly to bring her story to the archives.

“Scorekeeper smiles, Herald. Is great honor your people give you.” He gestured broadly, sending a few initiates scurrying out of the way. “Points beyond measure!”

Her heart sang with gratitude. She’d trusted him as her ally, her second, her friend; and he’d returned that trust hundredfold. Questioned and advised her, criticized and coddled her, but never judged her. Steadfast and patient, always. If what they had done brought points-beyond-measure to her, he’d have the larger portion by far. “We hunt together, my friend. Whatever my score, you share it.”

Qyzen paused, abruptly turning to face her. Traffic streamed around them; Temple life carried on. “Is… a noble thing you say. My thanks, Herald.”

“My thanks to you as well, Qyzen. Thank you for…” For protecting me? For challenging me? For warning and guiding and validating me? For seeing me when even I could not? “…for everything.”

“Must share the story of this hunt with your Order. It is good to share knowledge.”

Aitahea thought of the Noetikons, the immense value of them for so much beyond the lore and history of the Jedi. Even after becoming one with the Force, they had set alight a path for so many Jedi after, herself included. Like she might, generations from now.

Blinking back tears and knowing full well she couldn’t have hidden them if she’d wanted to, Aitahea smiled. “Then I must make yet another request of you: that you tell the story with me.”

Qyzen regarded her for a long moment, long enough that she began to fret that she’d somehow stumbled into an insult. “You are Scorekeeper’s Herald,” he said solemnly, “and you are true Jedi.”

Aitahea nodded, feeling and breathing and illuminating the Force around them.

“I’m home.”

Part One | Part Two | Interlude | Part Three

#swtor fanfiction #swtor fanfic #star wars the old republic #jedi consular #barsen'thor #qyzen fess #force plague #vivicar #tython #sad #melancholy #lady put the breaks on #aitahea daviin #consular #that's my girl

[ejzah]

Where It Hurts Most, Part 3

***

“Kensi, slow down,” Callen told her, jogging slightly to keep up with her. Fatima had tracked down a single image from a security camera of the abduction and pinned down the exact location. She was now working on locating video from surrounding areas and tracking the three men who were visible in the picture.

“Deeks is missing, I’m not stopping until we find him,” she replied between gritted teeth.

“I know. We’re all worried about him-”

“Callen, my husband was just abducted, we have no idea where he is, and, Kessler is having the time of his life taunting me. I do not need platitudes or words of caution right now.”

“That’s what we all want,” he assured her. Squeezing her shoulder, he headed for the other side of the path.

She knew he was right. Sam and Rountree were currently at their home looking for any evidence, though Kensi doubted Kessler would leave any behind unless it was intentional. It made her skin crawl to think of Kessler touching their things, violating them.

Just seeing the spot where Deeks was taken made her slightly nauseous, the memory of Kessler’s message, running through her mind. She pushed it down, drawing on her anger. Deeks needed her to be strong.

It was easy to see why Kessler had chosen this particular spot to stage his attack. One side was bracketed by a small strip of condemned stores, blocking the path from view and discouraging heavy foot traffic. The other side was mostly patchy grass and side, with a rusting medal bench set in the middle It wasn’t a long stretch, but it was enough if the attack was well-planned.

It was further proof that Kessler, or someone, had been watching them for some time. He knew their routines and habits well enough to figure out where Deeks would be on a given day.

She could see the signs of a struggle in grass around the path and imagined Deeks struggling, fighting back. There were divots in the ground where sand and dirt had been kicked up. As she followed the signs, Kensi noticed a small trail of blood on the concrete and then another smear a few feet further down.

Kensi had known Deeks would be injured; there was no way he wasn’t fighting off several men at the same time. He wouldn’t go surrender without giving it his all either.

As she approached the bench, she noticed the sun glinting off something and hurried towards it.

“Callen, I found Deeks’ cell phone,” Kensi called out, quickly slipping on a glove before she picked it up. It was warm from sitting in the sun, but was undamaged, which she found more worrying than if it was destroyed. Callen jogged over, eyes narrowing as he watched her punch in Deeks’ passcode.

“You think there’s another message?” he asked. Kensi made a sardonic noise.

“It’s Kessler. Of course he left something behind. He loves taunting people.”

There was a new message, from a blocked number, with an attachment. Unlike his previous email, there was just a video without any text. Kensi turned the phone so Callen could see and pressed play, barely breathing as the video started.

It opened on Deeks surrounded by five men. He jammed his elbow into one’s face and kicked another in the knee. He spun faster than seemed possible, blocking a third man with his forearm and knocking him to the ground. As strong and fast as Deeks was, it wasn’t enough; two of his attackers approached him from the front and back. Kensi gasped when the man behind him punched him in the temple, making Deeks stumble.

The video caught off abruptly, the screen turning black. Once again, Kensi’s hands were trembling as they clutched at Deeks’ phone.

“Kens, you alright?” Callen asked quietly. She licked her lips and breathed in and out twice before she answered.

“Yeah.” She swallowed her fear down and nodded sharply. “I’m going to send this to Fatima. It might help her track down on of these guys.”

Callen looked like he wanted to say something else, but seemed to reconsider.

“Alright, I’ll keep searching for any other clues.”

***

Deeks grimaced as he twisted his wrist, trying to loosen the strap binding him to the chair. He’d been at it since Kessler left him alone at least a couple hours ago. His skin was already rubbed raw from the constant straining, but he ignored the pain, focused on getting free.

The memories of being in a similar position were getting harder to ignore with every minute that passed. Kessler’s ominous promise was also in the back of his mind.

“Getting antsy, Marty?” Deeks stilled immediately, pausing before he slowly lifted his head. When he did, he shook his his hair out of his eyes, and regarded Kessler expressionlessly.

“Well, I did have dinner plans today so…”. Deeks shrugged as much as he could.

“You’re good at bluffing and talking yourself out of situations,” Kessler said, moving closer. “I guess that’s how you lasted so long, but I think that’s about to come to an end.”

“Mm, that’s what my high school debate teacher thought too,” Deeks replied. “Guess which one of us resigned at the end of the year?”

Instead of replying, Kessler softly chuckled and came to stand behind Deeks again. The sound of something scraping on the floor made Deeks’ hair stand on end, but he forced himself not turn to look.

“I’ve been planning this day for months,” Kessler shared conversationally. “I wanted each detail to be perfect.”

“I’m honored.”

“You should be.” Dragging an innocuous box into Deeks’ line of sight, Kessler opened it. “It’s very difficult to find one of these,” he added, turning with a metal object in his hands.

Deeks’ stomach clenched, his mouth turning dry as sweat immediately beaded up on his forehead. If it was the same device Sidorov had used to hold his mouth open. Even thinking about it made his jaw ache with remembered pain.

“I thought this might shut you up,” Kessler commented. He turned it a few times and Deeks followed the movement unconsciously. “That was easier than I expected. Kensi will be disappointed.”

“I was just waiting to see if you had something more original,” Deeks said, his voice coming out slightly hoarse. He managed to conceal the trembling though. He wouldn’t give Kessler that.

“Don’t worry, I have a lot of plans for you, Detective.” He slid the torture device open, chuckling when Deeks couldn’t conceal a shudder. “But first, let’s do something about that pretty face of yours.”

***

A/N: So, how we feeling about Kessler? Too much, too little?

#ncis la fanfiction #marty deeks #kensi blye #Callen #Kessler #where it hurts most #deeks whump #ejzah fanfiction

[jocazep]

In the Whole Wide Train | Chapter 8

Pairing: Curtis Everett x Reader (Jo, OFC), slight Edgar x Reader

Warnings: Major spoilers for SNOWPIERCER, dystopian society and its countless problems, mentions of forced abortions, language, violence, deaths, slow burn, eventual smut

Synopsis: Having grown up in the Front Sections of the Snowpiercer, you venture down the train when a rare opportunity presents itself, but the excursion quickly changes flavor when you arrive in the Tail Section.

Taglist: Now closed

Series Masterlist

Chapter Eight - Catching Fire

The sight of the black soldiers, for lack of a better word, stunned the revolters into a eerie silence.

Before you could react, Curtis pulled you and Yuna behind him, his hand finding yours and clutching it. He could hear his own heart beating. Not only that, he could hear your heart beating as he stepped in front of you.

You looked back, and the revolters were all tense like never before. Everyone had the same look in their eyes. A look of fear, excitement, staring into the unknown.

This is it. This is the big one. This is where some of you die.

“Jo, take Yuna.” Curtis turned to you, whispering urgently as the soldiers lined up.

“Let me help, I can fight--” you started to say, but there was no arguing with Curtis. He cupped your face with his free hand, and stopped your protest with a quick but deep kiss, a soldier-going-off-to-war kind of kiss.

“Take care of Yuna and Tanya for me.”

“Just ’til you’re done with this. Then they’re your responsibility again.”

“Deal.” Curtis gave your hand another squeeze before he let you go.

You took Yuna and led her to the back, pushing past revolter men assembling around Curtis.

You came across Edgar, who probably saw your kiss with Curtis, and was now probably fidgeting in his boots out of fear. But he put on a weak smile at you, and said, “It’s all right, Jo. It’s all right.”

No it won’t be, you thought. But you force yourself to nod and went on.

Behind you, Edgar joined Curtis at the head of the revolters, and they started walking up towards the black soldiers. The sunshine came in through the windows, even stronger than Curtis remembered as it bounced off from the snow outside.

One soldier passed up a fresh tail of fish to the leader, who pierced it with his hatchet. The stark red blood dripped down from the fish, tainting the cold metal.

Curtis and Edgar watched this bizarre ritual, half marveling at the fish--which they hadn’t seen in almost 18 years, half preparing themselves for the battle up ahead.

“Be careful.“ Curtis said to Edgar, his eyes never breaking from the leader of the soldiers.

“Yeah, you too.” Edgar answered back.

In the back of the Protein Section, you stood on the steps of the cauldron ladder and watched the fish being passed down the seemingly endless rows of soldiers.

“What’s happening?” Gilliam asked from beneath you.

There were no words to describe the palpable tension on both sides. “It’s starting” was all you could say.

No sooner had you said the words than the two sides finally clashed. The disorienting yells from men, the sickening sound of metal cutting through flesh, the deadly thud of bodies falling onto the floor flooded the space.

You strained to pick out Curtis and Edgar in the writhing mass of blood and violence, watching as Curtis cut through soldier after soldier, splattering blood on the windows as he pushed forward. The sound of chaos faded away, and all you could see was Curtis. Your stomach turning each time he came across a foe, your breath returning each time he overcame one.

Curtis was also lost in the rhythm of violence, his early days of chaos returning to him, when all of a sudden--he stepped on the sacrificial fish, and fell on his back.

An axe came crashing down, and in that split second, his entire life threatened to flash in front of his eyes. His 17 fuzzy years on Earth, his 17 hellish years on the train. But then your voice and Edgar’s broke through the mist: “Just ’til you’re done with this...”, “Yeah, you too...”

And Curtis jolted into action--he rolled onto his side as the axe hissed on its way down, narrowly missed the back of his neck. Before he could get back up, Edgar came crashing into the assailant, knocking the latter on the ground. Curtis lost no time--thwack, thwack--he buried the hatchet into the soldier twice as red hot blood sputtered into his face. No time to process. He pushed on with Edgar.

“We’re pushing forward.” You shouted down to Gilliam and Grey, when all of a sudden--

A blaring horn resonated across the two sections. You saw three train conductors beyond all the onslaught.

“Upcoming, Yekaterina Bridge!”

Here comes. Yekaterina Bridge, and the long tunnel afterwards. They need a torch. You clambered off the steps, and found Namgoong, pushing past the men, pulling Yuna behind him.

“Namgoong, I need your matches.“ You said in your broken Korean.

"What?” Namgoong kept moving. The revolters had made decent progress along the section, so you quickly found yourself crossing the threshold.

You grabbed Yuna’s arm and yanked, forcing Namgoong to stop. “Matches, now.”

Whatever he was trying to do, he must be in a hurry. As you forced him into an impasse, the soldiers were counting down from 10 to welcome the “new year“. And you could see the anxiety mounting in Namgoong’s eyes with each number counted.

“Fine, take it.” He chucked you the matchbook, and threw in a few other Korean words along--which you were sure were quite advanced expletives.

You let go of Yuna, and turned back towards the Protein Section. Behind you, you could hear the soldiers chanting “Happy New Year”.

“Grey!” you yelled, “Catch!”

The book of matches flew through the air as Grey ran up, and closed his fingers around it. He looked up at you, somewhat perplexed.

“Get a stick, wrap some cloth around it--”

“IMPAAAAAAAACT!”

The snowpiercer rammed through an ice block on the railroad. The momentum sent you flying forward, right into the heart of the  fight.

But nobody was concerned about fighting anymore. Breaths were held, eyes were closed as everyone crouched low and prayed for the train to stay on the rails. Well, everyone except Namgoong and Yuna.

As you recovered from your fall, you saw the father and daughter stumbling towards a window, pressing their foreheads against the glass, looking for something below the mind-bogglingly high bridge.

Up front, Edgar also noticed. “Hey, Nam, what are you doing man! What are you doing! He’s high as a fucking kite.”

You looked towards the sound, and found Curtis and Edgar. They were seated close to the soldiers that moments ago were fighting them, but now all were hanging on for dear life.

You took this in, your father’s words resonating in your head again. What did he call it? The last sanctuary of humanity.

At that moment, it felt like one. However twisted, however artificially controlled, however problematic. This train was keeping everyone on it alive. If the train falls, everybody falls, front-sections, tail-sections, revolters, soldiers, even the great Wilford.

Two more gut-wrenching ice blockades later, the train finally roared onto solid ground again, as the conductor announced through his megaphone, “Safe passage!”

And just like that, the fighting resumed. Curtis grabbed a hatchet lying nearby, and parried a blow from the soldier sitting next to him. You followed suit as more men got to their feet, picking up a small axe to defend yourself.

That’s when you heard it. A voice you didn’t know you had missed.

“Happy Yekaterina Bridge, you filthy ingrates.”

It was Mason.

Curtis had heard all of Mason’s platitudes before, and had learned how to block them out. But this time, Mason said something else, something he’d never heard before, something that rocked him to his core.

“Precisely 78.4% of you shall die.”

What did it mean? Of course he understood the words literally, and the sheer arrogance behind it. But why would Mason say this? Why 78.4%? That sounded like an awfully calculated number, didn’t it?

Curtis felt his rage bubbling up as his mind raced with the horrible underlying truth behind Mason’s words, and without really understanding what he was doing, he raised the hatchet in his hand and threw it at Mason--

Clang! The Icing hammer stopped the hatchet from ever coming close to Mason--and holding the hammer was Franco Sr. accompanied by his younger brother Franco Jr. as usual.

You took your eyes from Curtis and Mason to outside the window--the tunnel should be coming up. One by one, the lights above your head started switching off, like a foreboding countdown of sorts.  Then came the rustling sound of the black soldiers putting on night vision head gears. You start retreated towards the Protein Block section--

“Grey! How’s the torch coming?!”

You ran back into the dimly lit section, almost stumbling over Tanya as your eyes taking a moment to adjust. Curtis’s voice came from up ahead as darkness devoured the fighting section, “Everybody back!“

There were already a couple of impromptu torches made, as Grey and Tanya struggled to make more.

“Gimme one and light it.“ You couldn’t afford to waste time. Every second spent in the dark meant more revolters dying. With fidgeting hands you took up a torch, and Tanya struck the last remaining match in Namgoong’s matchbook.

For a moment the life and death of the revolt hung on a small metallic match. “Please catch, please catch, please catch...” you prayed with shallow breaths.

And then--the warmth of a burning flame engulfed you. Grey lost no time, grafting the fire to his torch and running into the darkness.

“Everyone grab a torch and light it with mine!” You held up your torch by the gate connecting the two sections, lighting each torch as revolters came running through one by one.

Before long, the section was lit a bright orange with the torches. And the revolters fought back. You ran into the section as well, looking for Namgoong and Yuna to make sure they were safe.

You found Yuna huddled in a nook, the metal panel originally concealing her knocked askew during the fight.

“Stay here, it’ll be all right.“ You tried to comfort her amidst the blood-curdling screams, and placed the panel back. It was only when you stood back up that you realized Franco Jr. had been watching you. Your hand tightened around the wooden handles of the torch.

A flicker of recognition showed on Franco Jr.’s face. As you pondered whether to fight him, another soldier came charging towards you, and Franco Jr. pushed you out of the way, and decked the soldier across the face.

Losing your balance, you staggered and fell on top of the slowly building pile of bodies. As Franco Jr. walked towards you, he extended a hand--

Wham! Edgar landed a slash across the back of Franco Jr. “You get off of her!“

“No!” was all you could get out before Franco Jr. made quick work of Edgar and had him in a chokehold, holding a long knife close to Edgar’s ribcage.

Up front, Curtis fought on, and with Grey coming to his aid, was quickly gaining the upper hand. Grey took the train conductor hostage, but Mason was unmoved. So he was the first of the front-sectioners to die. Then Grey took on Franco Sr. and when Mason tried to run, he managed to throw a blade at her, piercing her right leg.

Curtis was just about to hunt her down when he heard someone calling his name--

He turned to see you lying at the feet of Franco Jr., Edgar held in a chokehold.

He looked back at Mason--a female conductor was helping her limp towards the gate to the Water Section.

He looked back at you one more time. Franco Jr. yelled across the room, “Surrender!” Curtis couldn’t hear it, but he got the message loud and clear.

He had to choose. The life of his best friend. Or the biggest bargaining chip for the revolt.

He never thought it would be him making this choice. He never thought he would be making any choice. He was no leader. But nevertheless, here he was.

Your heart broke for him as you watched Curtis close his eyes, forming a determination. And your heart broke again for Edgar as he watched Curtis turn and give chase after Mason, as he made his own decision in turn and fought back against Franco Jr.

You tried to stop the suited mobster, pushing and pulling at him, but he shoved you off your feet, and foregoing whatever courtesy he had before, held you down with his foot on your chest. Brandishing his blade, he grabbed Edgar’s throat, turning him towards you.

The moment was scorched into your memory. Edgar held at knife point, you thrashing beneath Franco Jr.’s step. As your eyes met his fear-stricken eyes, you mouthed to Edgar the same words as before.

“It’s all right. It’s all right.”

The moment lasted a lifetime, and then your eyes blinked as the cold glint of metal flashed, and your cry was drowned in the sea of violence.

Taglist: @torntaltos @emmalbg @ajosieface 

#curtis everett #curtis everett x reader #curtis everett fanfic #Chris Evans #chris evans x reader #chris evans fanfic #Snowpiercer #snowpiercer fanfic

[yeoldontknow]

Cherish

Author’s Note: this was originally intended to go up for minseoks birthday but i was so busy preparing for japan i never got a chance to edit. now that he’s leaving soon, it feels the right time <3 Pairing: Minseok x Reader (oc; female) Genre: romance; angst; fluff; au Summary: When you met Minseok at a wedding, you did not think you could swoon for a man quite so hard. But like the world, he is cyclical, and so you ruminate on all the ways he proves you wrong. Rating: PG Word Count: 2,154

The day you met him, you thought you could not love him any more than this.

Much unlike you and, surely, impossible, the sight of him made your heart stumble in his rhythm, tripping over the elegance of his hair, his jaw, his neck. Off to the side of the dance floor and holding a flute of champagne with the same care he’d give to a lover, he was talking. He was talking, lips moving and shaping words as though each deserved a kiss as they passed along his tongue, and you were surrendering to a minute state of mourning that you could not hear his voice. He was talking, and the world around you was changing.

For a moment, you thought maybe it was changing for worse, because to become unhinged at the sight of a man in a tailored grey suit certainly must mean danger. For a moment, you thought maybe it was changing without your permission, wings of longing emerging from your back, like branches, rounding up and over to reach for him - to cage him in your lust and to never let him turn from you again. For a moment you thought, he is a volatile, threatening thing, and to love him like this is the start of my unraveling.

For a moment, you thought the change was because you were needy. Weddings did that, you knew, turned men and women, often comfortable in their loneliness, into hungry, persistent things. And as much as you knew the transformation was swift and reckless, you knew the shades of this type of chaos rarely lasted past morning. Weddings did that, made love a thing to be consumed rather than nurtured, turned envy into rapture and made one night spread into an unattainable eternity.

Weddings, you thought, were fraught with celebration of possibilities, and too many were pushed beyond their expiration.

But then he laughed.

He laughed and, truthfully, you cannot recall who was standing beside him, because he was an act of reduction; a paradox that made the world impossibly finite and impossibly limitless. You cannot recall who stood beside him, because the insignificance of everything else was erased by the confrontation of something, someone, impossible.

Because, as though you had been waiting, as though you knew, as though you had prepared, the whole of your existence seemed to amount to this moment.

The reception hall was loud, crowded, yet over the DJ and the shrill laughter of the woman beside you, you could hear him. Low, musical - melody that made your blood burn, written and rewritten by the stars and meant only for you. It slid down your back, a torrent of yearning that made your spine arch and your mouth water - delivering you well beyond desire into the arms of need.

And when he looked at you.

When he looked at you…

He looked at you, and his fingers gripped the base of his champagne flute just a little tighter, affected but stoic in the way he delivered himself to paradise.

He looked at you and he exhaled, as though he were making room to breathe you in. As though he had been experiencing an endless missing, long since comfortable in the way emptiness makes a man feel consumed and, all at once, preparing to unmake himself, ready to be run raw.

He looked at you, and he smiled, knowing. There were secrets buried beneath the warmth of his cheeks, as though he too had been waiting, as though he felt you. As though he needed you, too.

He smiled, and you, already so far gone in your wanting and craving, thought you would not survive this. You would not survive him, and, for this destruction, you were glad. You hoped you would not recognize yourself when he was through.

The night he kissed you, you thought you could not love him any more than this.

Summer in the city was hot, the thick air making it hard to breathe, but, for you, the suffering was worth it because he was holding your hand. Long, delicate fingers entwined with yours, skin touching and burning as though separation surely meant death. Sweat was building between your palms, but neither of you cared.

Not truly. Not when it meant that you would carry each other home, bathed in residue.

For you, it was a flood. For you, it was an outpouring of all your longing, bursting from your skin to wash against his in an act of cleansing.

Your living room was an oasis of air conditioning, raising goosebumps along your skin and creating a map of all the uncharted places you wanted him to touch. Along his hairline, the sweat dried and made him glimmer, glowing in a human way that made your chest ache.. Sheepishly, he apologized for the state of his appearance, vulnerable and shy, and quiet in the way he hoped you would still want him.

Instead you called him the sun, defining yourself as the horizon on which he would never set.

It was easy to see he was nervous, but, then, so were you. He looked at the floor while you looked at him, admiring how his lip curved upward in the effort of keeping himself still, holding back from kissing and kissing and kissing you. He looked at the floor while you looked at him, heart racing at the sight of his long eyelashes, the way his speeding thoughts made his eyes dart around the carpet, mind struggling to catch just one.

He looked at you while you looked at him, and only then were you able to truly feel gravity.

You came together naturally, slowly, gently - a kinetic reaction to the build up of affection that finally pulled you into each other’s arms. Swollen with it, filled to the brim and unable to keep it in your chest any longer, you sighed into his open, eager mouth, and found yourself trembling at the wetness of his tongue.

It was short, brief enough to feel as though he hadn’t been there at all. With a finger pressed against your lips, you watched the threads of his seams come partly undone, his face morphing into a profound affection; basking in the misery of your separation with an unbridled thirst, before he turned from you with a soft goodnight, and left.

His hand on your cheek as he spoke did not linger, fearing what it would mean if he let himself stay.

You went to bed that night hot, feeling the phantom limb of his skin against yours, and moving against the fabric of your sheets as though it was his hands sliding against your hips.  

The night he told you he loved you, you thought you could not love him more than this.

It was not a special night. By all rights, it was a night that should have faded into the distance, the conclusion to a day that had your permission to blur seamlessly into an endless, unnumbered infinity. This evening should have slipped, bending and shaping itself as it crawled away, to nothing more than the mere acknowledgement that I was with him and we were happy.

On this evening, you were cooking, hands gracefully cutting vegetables and turning meat - pausing only to sip your wine and look out the window of your kitchen. It was raining and the world was at peace with this cleansing, sun already set but sky not yet ready to be dark. It was raining, and so you should have seen his reflection as he approached from behind, but instead you surrendered to the shock of his arms around your waist, reclining back into him with a small, content smile.

In his arms, you felt a great undoing overcome you - the undoing of what it truly meant to be stable, secure, and hopeful. Home, for you, had never been a transient thing, your world colors by rules and laws through which it became easy to relate. Home is not a thing that has the opportunity to leave, not of its own volition, not by its own choice.

And so, in his arms, the shift of your definition was nothing short of unprecedented. In his arms, you felt the whole of the cosmos burst through you, erupting in your heart and turning it into a cauldron that made nothing but a love for him. You should have been surprised, you should have been alarmed, but it was him - your Minseok - and he was always so good at kissing your expectations full. There was a power to this love, driven to the brink of your affection and devotion as though to the edge of the universe, and your body did little else but birth stars of interstellar craving just for him.

There was no reason to speak, not really. From his chest into your back, you could feel the steady rhythm of his heart, radiating endearment into your muscles and easing away all the tension carried within. So often, this was how he loved you, silently and with the whole of his soul. So often, this was how he loved you, confident in the acceptance of his feelings and willing to be soft, weak, and malleable only for you.

‘I love you,’ he whispered into your ear, dragging his nose around the shell before resting in your hair. He inhaled, deep and full, taking you in and keeping you inside him until surviving only on you caused him pain, forcing him to exhale slowly.

‘I love you, too’ you said, meeting his eyes in his reflection.

You knew he didn’t need you to say it, but you thought it only fair you let the half formed image of him, blurred and smeared from rain, know that even this broken image of him was enough to command your will.

The night after your first argument, you thought you couldn’t love him any more than this.

You had barely opened the door before he was at you, mouth clamped over yours and hands fisting in your hair. Conversation and platitudes died on your tongue, choosing instead to surrender to the need of having him around you, inside you, beneath and beside you, for always. Every inch of your chemistry wanted to rewrite itself, burn away your atoms and put them back together with his, turning you into something whole, new, and unbreakable.  

He hadn’t called or texted for nearly twenty hours, and caverns in you were opening, ripping themselves wide and turning you into a void that begged to hold him, touch him, love him. You were apprehensive in his hold, nervous of a change in dynamic or passion; he was pale, sick with lack of sleep and eyes heavy with regret. For a moment, you thought this was what losing him felt like, saw him as an apparition of the man you used to covet, until you saw the way your hand on his cheek made a flush break across the skin - your touch alone commanding the flow of his blood.

You never apologized for the words you both said in the heat of rage, something that only crossed your mind after the soul shaking sex and the quietly wept tears of contrition.

You never apologized, and you’re sure you didn’t need to. Not really. Words as weapons held little power when the touch of his skin against yours was atomic, burning their residue away through the sheer act of love and forgiveness.

The day you married him you thought of cycles, circles and revolutions of pining for a thing that was yours and, likely, was always yours.

You thought of the day you met him, when first heard him laugh over a sea of noise and the worship of false realities. You thought of how he smiled at you, then, as though he were taking the whole of your soul into his body to keep you, learn you, remember you always.

You thought of how he kissed you, how he always kisses you - first with his heart and then with his mouth, giving you love always before lust, and never letting you break from him before he’s had his fill.

You thought of how he fights you, passionately and adamantly, arguing only because he cares too much - about you, about loving you, about every detail of the world you’ve built together with him, and caring little else for the excess in between.

You thought of how you love him, with fragments and pieces of your body you think you never had, yet are born daily just because you wake up next to him. He births these things from you, creates them every time he touches your skin, every time he presses his lips to your mouth, your hair, your shoulder.

Always, you think you cannot love him more than this.

Always, you are proven wrong.

#minseok x reader #exosnet #kpopwonderlandtag #prettyboysnetwork #kwriterskollection #xiumin x reader #minseok fanfic #xiumin fanfic #minseok au #minseok scenario #xiumin scenario #xiumin au #exo au #exo fanfic #exo scenario #minseok fluff #xiumin fluff #kim minseok

[talyn-the-warlock]

(Little idea I had based on the Chronicon! Let's assume it's mostly true for a moment, shall we?)

MCLXXVII, Forthcoming

Two years and seven months after City-fall...

Talyn was grateful they were moving again. 

The system was on fire. Cabal in Loyalist colors were all over the Sol's celestial bodies and their satellites. They must have consolidated the core worlds by now, Legionaries in shining gold gunning down anyone who stood in refusal of the Emperor’s delighted nihilism. Even without the might of their fleet, the universe’s fate had been sealed. Decided in the end by a single Guardian. The Hero of the Red War, the...Shadow of Earth, was power-mad. They had been fully seduced by the offerings of the opulent Emperor of the Cabal. Shiny trinkets and bits and baubles and wine had been more than the home they had done so much to protect. Regardless, their fury was still undeniable- and they were on a rampage. Ikora Rey had almost destroyed Mars in her blaze of glory, and Zavala had accepted his end in bitterness. Without leadership, with a foe from within, the City had been reduced to ashes in days. Earth was lost. Nowhere seemed safe, but Talyn and the fifty souls in her command had an option they were willing to gamble on. She had been certain if they stayed away from the carcass of the Reef, a freighter of their size would be able to slip by unnoticed in the asteroid fields between her dead home and the Jovians. She was wrong. Calus had sent his hunting parties far wider than she had anticipated. No matter her cunning or her care, they had found her. It embittered her to no end. 

She knew the hounds had her scent. There was no way the Shadow of Earth hadn’t given his new minions every single Tower override frequency, Dead Orbit’s included. Part of Talyn relished the idea of a fight after all this flight. Her Light still burned as bright as the setting sun, but she was alone in it. With only one Lightbearer aboard and limited ammunition for their meager forward cannons, the Fermi Paradox wouldn’t have lasted a picosecond against a heavily-armed Cabal carrier. If it was only her life to lose, she’d have tried. But fifty precious souls with only one death apiece hadn’t the teeth she did. Running and hiding was all she could do to keep them, now. The only way they could evade the Loyalist’s advanced sensor grids was to set down in a hollow asteroid and kill all power except the bare minimum needed for life support. The last ninety-five hours had been a hell of nervous waiting. They were no more than prey. Barely-cycled air hung stiff and thin in the frieghter’s cabins, each breath only just enough to fill the lungs. Slow suffocation had married in misery with tight rationing. Any hope of scavenging the Awoken’s ruins or harassing Fallen skiffs had been dashed by the Cabal’s harsh sensor sweeps. The ship was only stocked with enough food for a week, if each crewman ate one slim meal a day. Each of them had lost a frightening amount of weight, faces growing gaunt and constantly plastered with anxiety. None more than Talyn herself. She refused to partake in any of the freeze-dried delicacies aboard. If hunger took her men, they were a life snuffed forever. If it came for her...she still had her Ghost. Talyn had decided she would starve a hundred times before a single one of her people did. She continued to commit to it, even as the Cabal gave up and warped away to harass other, fatter prizes. 

The clawing pain in her stomach shot through each of her thoughts as she tried to stay awake. Fatigue was a beast the Light had no hope of pushing back. With zero caloric intake and barely a wink of sleep, Talyn was approaching her limit. Even as the engines coughed back to life and her ship limped the long black in search of opportunity, she struggled to maintain her grasp on conscious. Perhaps she was grateful she couldn’t see herself, for she looked just as she felt. Her hair had grown long, unbrushed and knotted behind her head in more of a tangle than a bun. The starlight eyes that used to be bright and full of wonder now barely stayed open, ringed in dark circles. Her fieldweave’s blue had faded, the armor dented and scratched from a hundred thousand final blows she had suffered. Even the cloak laid over her shoulder had grown to fray at the edges. Talyn had grown to rub it between her fingers as a ritualistic comfort, which did nothing to help its state. It was the least of her troubles. So long as she could see the sigil emblazoned on it, she was satisfied. The Broken Nomad had given her this last gift, after all. Her end had sent Talyn away to drift the old paths. Her best friend’s sacrifice was all she had in her knapsack. Perhaps it wasn’t just this piece of herself Soren had given, but the title as well. Talyn certainly felt the namesake. Perhaps she could ask the original Broken Nomad If she was worthy, when she saw her again in her dreams. 

A voice cut the tense quiet just as restless sleep threatened to overtake her. “Captain, we’ve got a vessel on sensors!” 

Talyn snapped herself back to awareness, rubbing one of her eyes with the back of her glove. Where was she? Settled in her captain’s chair, raised just slightly above a dozen or so bridge crew. A bulbous viewscreen showed the night before her, plastering the entire far wall with the light of stars they hadn’t the fuel or food to travel to. It was one of her officers who had spoken, a woman with mousy hair and a dark complexion. She had thrown Talyn a look of anticipation over her shoulder. What do I do now?, it said. These people still looked up to their only Guardian. They trusted her, took her orders, followed her guidance. No matter what state she was in, Talyn would die her last before she dissuaded these people of the last of their hope. She had to speak, even if her voice was cracked and edged. “On screen.” 

The view of the stars before them zoomed in, dialing closer to a vague shape nestled in the Milky Way. As it came into clearer view, Talyn recognized it as a ship. Not just any ship. This was a vessel she knew all too well. One she had ransacked on behalf of a spy order long-dead. One she had visited for game after game of Taken-hunting and Dredgen-slaying. The cylindrical shape and fins on the front making it look like a polyp were all-too familiar. The absence of its peculiar cargo was not. It floated still, hanging suspended in the vacuum like a fly stuck in molasses. Without the Haul, the thing looked so small. A tin can, kicked along dusty sidewalks like a piece of forgotten trash. She sought confirmation for what she already knew. “Is that…?” 

“The Derelict,” the mousy woman assured in a grimace. “Looks like she’s stalled out, we’ve got zero engine readings.” 

Her curiosity piqued. Was he gone? Had he abandoned his little mobile home? It looked next to new, not a ding or scrape in sight. Talyn needed answers for the questions it raised. “Structural integrity?” 

“Hundred percent,” her helmsman piped up in a gruff Exo crackle. “I’m not reading any damage, but...her fuel line ain’t running. She’s running on empty, ma’am.” 

The thought made her smile. It was petty, but the idea of Eli being stranded and out of luck like she was filled her with awful delight. His plan to outrun the end had been for nothing, after all. He’d run out of steam, unable to persist forever in the ways he always postured he would. She hoped he was hungry. 

Just as she was about to inquire further, her comms officer spoke up. “Ma’am, we’re...getting a hailing frequency,” the butch Awoken said. “I'm...pretty sure it's him. Should I put it on screen?” 

Talyn had been so numb since she’d lost everything. Trying only to keep strong for her crew, she’d refused to feel anything but grim determination to see another day. It changed in an instant. Something struck a match inside her, and ignited a pile of long-collected kindling. It turned from a spark to a holocaust of barely contained rage in seconds. He wanted to talk, did he? Why? To make platitudes at her, lay smooth words across a dagger-tongue before running it through her chest? To call her “sister” again and again, even though they shared no kinship? He would act as a snake when at such a disadvantage, plucking her fragile heartstrings like a harp. He would lie, just like he lied to Orin. He would make excuses and play to her sympathies. Talyn could already hear him tell her that he was right. Eli would say that they were all drifters now, and in the end he foresaw they were one in the same. If only he knew this Talyn wasn’t the same woman he’d tried to play all those lost years ago. This one was wiser. Stronger. Angrier. More, this Talyn knew precisely why the City hadn’t been able to stand against the onslaught of Calus and his betrayer Shadow. Any great empire falls when it fractures. Eli hadn’t cared in an iota what lines he was drawing in the sand when he enticed prospective Dredgens with shiny toys. He didn’t give a damn how it had all fallen apart when nobody was there to keep the disillusioned from dropping everything and running. It was all his fault. His selfish hubris had brittled the unity they’d used to slay Crota, and Oryx, and Ghaul. Now he was alone again, and he was a fool to believe he’d find quarter with someone he had stolen everything from. Her eyes grew dark, hands gripping the sides of her chair white-knuckle. Her crew were waiting for orders, and she gave them in a shaking hush. 

“Reject the hail,” Talyn shuddered. “And divert all power to weapons.”

The Exo tapped his console quickly, and a pair of cannons went live and locked on with an alarm flourish. He almost sounded sad. “...say the word, ma’am.” 

She only hesitated as long as it took to try and remember the Broken Nomad’s face. When she couldn’t find it, the words were effortless. 

“Open fire.” 

#destiny 2 #destiny 2 forsaken #destiny forsaken #season of opulence #the chronicon #fanfiction #destiny fanfiction #talyn maj #emperor calus #the drifter

[nepenthelee]

talia.

"I wouldn't dare to give you those--" I sighed, hesitating for a split second, indecisive about telling her or not. I pursed my lips and closed my eyes as I thought it through. She warmly embraced me with the arms that I have always treasured, and she put them underneath my shirt. The lovely arms that I am so fond of, with writing them tales and pithy poems of the buried memories we once shared. The feelings that were present in moments of reality turned into a conflation of verses, seemingly fictitious but definitely something experienced by two lovers.

But some people could never fathom a love so earnest and ferocious. And so I hugged her back.

She placed her head on my shoulder. Her slow and warm breath hitting my neck. Our hearts beating too loud for our comfort.

"Go on. Tell me everything you know," she muttered softly. Fuck, she is too gentle to be here in this tainted world. I will protect her at any cost. Even my life. Even everyone else's lives.

I smelled her hair. A nice feeling. Warmth.

"--distant platitudes people tell their lovers," I told her with immense passion and emphasis. She retreated from our hug with her warm hands still touching the imperfections on my back, watching every move of my facial expressions, and slowly touching my wet cheeks with her warm fingers. The most beautiful touch I have ever received, by the sweetest soul I have ever known.

She looks so meek and pulchritudinous, I am utterly dazed with the sight in front of me. It is so inviting and warm to the touch, the more I have it, the more I crave it.

"What do you mean by that, baby?" she asks with distinct curiosity in her eyes, fucking glorious, I can stare at her until she tells me to stop, I swear. I want her to know every part of me. I want her to destroy me and kiss me until everything falls apart. But she just wouldn't, would she?

I smirked. She frowned upon that. Sweetheart, don't do that, it hurts my heart every time you disagree with me, even with the littlest of things.

I maintained my posture and started telling her the things I have always wanted to tell her. I already have, but they were always expressed in the wrong ways, wrong words.

There was nothing I regretted more than using the improper terms at the supposedly right time. Heck, regrets were not my thing back then, back when I did not know her. Back when everything in the world was bleak and uncomfortable.

"Say, for instance," I prepared myself in case of frequent stutters. I hate it every time they happen. Why can't I just say things faster and more eloquently? I want to be good enough for her.

"'I shall swim oceans and climb mountains to express my gratitude and passion for you, you are the epitome of beautiful, inside out. I will love you for the rest of my life.'" I chuckled at the cliché sentences I sarcastically said. I could never say such inconsistencies to my baby. She knows what I meant but she still looks puzzled.

"Why would you say that? Love is love. No matter how shallow or deep and you should never laugh at that," and just like that, I hugged her again. I love everything about her. Especially her warmth. The birthmark on her shoulder. Her smile. Her opinions on certain matters. I could go on and on for as long as I can take. But more important things should be said.

"I know, sweetheart, I know. But hush first, baby," I moved my head down and pecked her cheek while the other one rested on my shoulder. So soft.

I took a smell of her hair again and smiled at her. I looked at the sky full of amazement and childish envy.

Why does it have the stars and the moon and the sun and the clouds? Does its profound celestial beauty make it so unreachable? Or is it only the inability of people to reach such high lengths? Is it the combination of the two? No one ever knows. And no one should. Because just like that, mystery is beauty.

I felt her cheek muscles rising up. She smiled back, "Okay."

And just like that, I am happy.

"Because sweetheart, how I would put it into words is-- I desire to capture this moment," shit, I forgot the sentence. I thought about it real hard and clenched my jaw.

She felt that and she kissed it, "It's all right baby, you can do it."

"T-To engrave this memory of us in my heart," I sighed devastatingly. Fucking idiot.

She pulled my hand and held it out to massage it, "Sing me songs, baby, your favourites."

With that, I grinned, "Sweetheart, you are my favourite song."

"Silly, you're so cheesy," fuck, even her laughter is beautiful.

"Not just a song, but the masterpiece of a god," I continued with a proud smile plastered on my face. We both laughed and I felt love in its unison.

I eventually sang and we danced underneath the moonlit street's embrace, with the city lights illuminating all over the horizon. The sight of the buzzing metropolitan faced us as we ardently waltzed, with her head on my shoulder. The drizzle woke me up to reality, I had to tell her the things I have always wished to say.

"This memory of us slow dancing in the rain," I said. She looked at me and completely broke the hug. Damn, I wish that lasted longer. But this could not wait.

"With me singing to songs we are both enamoured with. Because nothing is more heavenly than our love, and anything beyond it is irrelevant," I held her hands up and tenderly kissed one of them.

"You loved me when I knew nothing of the world. I am fortunate at a profound level, to be completely bestowed with your love," and I kissed the other. I put her hands back slowly and collected the courage to look at her in the eyes.

"I was a horrible person beyond society's expectations and comprehension, indifferent and apathetic, but you went through with it, to help me become a better person that actually feels things, and for that I was already grateful," she hummed and held my hands, squishing them with her own. We communicated with our eyes after I said that.

Sweetheart, please say something.

She closed her eyes and lowered her head as she understood, "Yes, you were. It was never too late to change, and you should actually give yourself more credit for that," She looked at me as she said the last sentence with glimmer and hope in her eyes.

I pursed my lips as I nodded, if she hadn't been in my life right now, at this moment, I don't know what sort of trouble I'd be in, but I digress, "The people who truly knew me, recognizes the fact that I was not able to establish proper relationships with them, but they knew I cherish them. Some people don't. It was just then that I understood, I can be misunderstood. I am also human. You made me very aware. And I am thankful again," she kissed the tear flowing through my right cheek, just like the way I kissed her precious birthmark. With a certain affection only us can comprehend.

"Because of you, I came to the realisation that people had disparate definitions of love. No matter how big or small one's thoughts are, to be able to express them clearly, is a gift. One should never underestimate them," I think that's very beautiful. Again, I stuttered. Fuck this shit.

"You're still stuttering, after 8 years of loving me and 7 years of being together?" She wondered as she cupped my face. I chuckled as I thought about it.

Slightly deviating from the original plan I had constructed so precisely yesterday, I said, "I prepared myself last night to tell you this albeit knowing I might slip up because I knew I would be a stuttering mess when I'm in front of you."

"After years of being in love with you," she tightly put her hands on my neck as I pulled her closer to me, "You have never, not even once, failed to make me feel fainthearted and bold at the same time," I kissed her lips softly as we closed our eyes to hold this moment captive in our dreams.

"For that, I adore you," I opened my eyes just to see hers slowly meeting mine.

I stopped speaking for five minutes as I struggled to imprint this comely sight in front of me into my soul. After five minutes of complete silence and exchanged stares, I finally spoke to her soul, "I am sorry for being verbose, and having an eccentric, spiritless choice of words sometimes. I know you know I do this. But still, I apologise," I bit my lips in embarrassment. Her cheeks were covered in crimson as she tries to recover from those minutes of silence and tranquility.

She chuckled as she said the exact words she told me whenever I apologised for stuttering too much, "You don't need to apologise, silly. I understand you."

I smiled. We are the only ones here in this realm that can truly understand each other. I am happy.

The words "I am in love with you" cannot possibly suffice these emotions I feel whenever I am near her, or even far from her, for she always appears in the visions of my daydreams. But she knows and she feels exactly the same. She loves me as I love her. Undeniably and unconditionally.

amor fati,

                                                                                    comet

#i'm in too deep #in love #spilled ink #true story

[justfangstvdto]

Open Coffin | Chapter 24: “All´s Fair and Karma is a Bitch”

Pairing: Kol x SalvatoreSister!Reader

Chapter Summary: A surprising return sets the reader and Kol on a path of no return..

Warnings:  canon-divergent lore (it'll make sense when you read it, I promise) this one is also mostly focused on Kol, angst, typical tvd violence, so much dialogue, canon divergence

Word count: 4389

Tags & Author Note at the bottom. Feedback is welcomed and appreciated.

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Recap:

What’s going on?”  Is all you could manage to bring out before you grab the couch again, this time covering the floor before you with a steady stream of blood. It feels like you’re drowning in your own blood.

With your brain in overdrive, you feel your vision declining the more blood is coming out of your mouth, before suddenly everything engulfs into black, as if someone flipped of a light in a dark room. You fall back against Kol unconscious, blood dripping from the corners of your mouth.

“What did you do?!” Kol grits through his teeth, as he scoops you up in his arms to lay you down on the couch behind him..

“Not a thing. She brought that on herself.” Mae shrugs without a care in the world “But this is only the beginning…Say goodbye to the Y/N you know and love. She won’t be the same when she wakes up.”   

“Speak. Now!” Kol demands. If she´ss not cooperating soon, Kol will resort to deliciously brutal alternatives, no matter if you claim that she’s your friend. He doesn’t care.

“Patience.” Mae says, her voice layer with a tick of annoyance “But first, I have someone here who is dying to talk to you.”

Kol straightens up, as the sound of heavy boots echoes in the hall. He couldn’t see the person’s face at first due to the blinding sunlight, but when he finally does, all he wants to do is run for his life….

“Surprised to see me?” Klaus smug smile evokes many feelings in Kol, but surprise? No, Kol is not surprised in the slightest. His brother has always managed to get what he wants, the way he wants. Of course, he would find a way to cheat death.

He looks at his older brother, then back to the couch, stepping in his line of sight. Maybe he would focus his rage on him instead of you. But that's might just wishful thinking on his part.

“I'm pretty sure you went up in flames..” Damon Mutter, not quite believing his eyes.

“Oh, I very much did. Quite unpleasant, really. But my dear Maeyra used her vast resources to secure my well-being.” He says, moving his attention to Kol  “Cat's got your tongue, brother?”

“Well, brother, I´m not particularly surprised to see you,” Kol replies.

Using the word brother remains to be more of a dismissive term, and Klaus knows that. And he also knows that Kol´s statement is a lie, he didn´t overlook the obvious surprise on his brother's face. However mischievous Kol remains to be, he has always been a bad liar.

“Can we, uh get back to how you´re even here right now?” Stefan says “We drove a stake through your heart.”

“You?” Klaus scoffs, dismissing their involvement to nothing but a coincident “You, gentlemen,  were nothing but a pawn - an accessory if you will- to Y/N´s Shakespearean thirst for revenge.”

Stefan quirks his eyebrows up before letting them fall back to their usual resting position. He could reply to Klaus statement verbally. He had things to say about him, he just isn't sure he wants to waste time bothering.

“I knew you couldn´t be trusted.”  Damon says, averting his words to Mae “Y/N always did have poor taste in friends.”

“Congratulations, you got me. Boohoo.” Mae sighs, before giving Klaus a pleading look   “Would you mind? ”

Klaus smiles and vamp-speeds towards Damon standing nearest and snaps his neck, before quickly moving on to Stefan who couldn't even register what was going on before he too was engulfed in blackness.

“Now, that's better.” Klaus dusts off his hands,  “All talk those Salvatores. Well, except for one. “

“Look, “Kol says, having more pressing matters to attend than useless platitudes, “I´d love to chat about whatever this is, but I have an unconscious girlfriend covered in blood back there, so would you mind buggering off. Your betrayal is not on my to-do list today.”

“Betrayal?” Klaus laughs, fake offended “Don't be so dramatic, brother. Maeyra and I merely joined forces because you couldn't keep your girl in line.  She helped me lift my curse, I felt obligated to help her. After all, what's worth dying for if not love?”

Love...Kol could not even begin to associate that word with anything his brother does. It makes him sick to his stomach. Or perhaps it´s the worry about your current condition- either way, he senses a veil of danger in the air. Danger that feels different, blood curling and cold.

What if she's right and you won't be the same. But what if-  

He pushes the thought aside. If they want to lay their secrets bare for once, he’ll bite their bait.

“Curse?” He asks “What curse?”

“It ain't a curse exactly, but you know, it's six of one, half dozen of the other,” Mae says as she walks further into the room, going straight for your unconscious form. She reaches out, but Kol's firm grasp on her wrist prevents any contact.

“Hands off. “ He warns and everyone knows he'll only warn once.

“I could say the same. “Klaus says, the usual charismatic and boastful s voice nothing but a dangerous whisper.

“Oh, so much Testosterone…” Mae sighs under her breath and pulls her hand free from Kol and heads for the bar. The next bit requires booze. And a lot of it.

Kol follows her every move, while also keeping tabs on Klaus. He's unsure who out of them will screw things up first or who’ll drive him to insanity- whichever comes first.

“Long story short, the magic I once possessed was stored away in here before I became a vampire.” She says and brushes over the scar on her face “The sacrifice of an original was the ultimate source to overpower the protection spell. It was the only way to retrieve said power, alongside rare ingredients I've gathered for the last 100 years. This spell was supposed to set my magic free. But someone must have intercepted it. ”

“Wasn't us.” Kol shakes his head and judging by the look on his opposer they don´t seem convinced. “I never heard of a spell like this. And magic drains away during the transition, how would you retrieve it?”

“Because my magic was hidden away before I was turned,  it wasn't lost like yours was. See it as a loophole, no magic drains away if it's undetected.”

Kol read about witches hiding their magic in objects, but never in themselves.

“And what about Y/N? She never had powers.”

“Turns out Momma Salvatore had powers of her own. Weak power but enough to pass it on to Y/N. After her birth, she chose to hide her magic within her. She wanted to tell her when she was older, to give her a choice, but she died before she could do so.”

“And do tell, how do you know this?”

“I might have stolen her diary a few centuries ago. Apparently, everyone in this family is keeping diaries.” She shrugs before rummaging around in her bag, “It's no use to me now if you want it, it's yours.” She slides the worn leatherbound book over the table.

“Now now, love,” Klaus says and leans towards her as if he's sharing a terrible secret “don't skip the best part.”

“Y/N is in transition, fighting a battle in her mind that either leaves her with vampire advantages and witch powers or…” She says, and hesitates for a second “well…..dead. “

Kol feels like someone tightened a noose around his neck. If you look close, you could see the perfected mask of pretend crumbling down and ram emotions taking over. And Kol's first emotion is always its anger.

He digs his fingertips into the leather, and slowly drags his eyes off the carpeting and states at his opponents, ready for torturing the truth out of them if he has to.

“Before you go all Dexter on me, there is a way to help. But you ain't gonna like the cost.”

Klaus turns his head at her words, quickly shaking his head “Out of the question. I will not allow it.”

“Tell me.” Kol demands “Tell me what we have to do to save her.”

There's no question that Kol will do whatever it takes.

No matter the cost.

--------

Kol had forgotten how much he used to enjoy watching the sunrise. The light streaming into the living room is bold and free for anyone who cares to open their eyes in the dawn and watch the world awake.

Even when the world was drowning in grief and hardship, the sky remained beautiful. It always gave him hope that if the sun keeps rising, so could he.

Even though his name alone represents darkness, he always found it humorous when the rising sun would shine a light on his bloody indiscretions committed during the dark hours of the day.

But none of that matters, it hadn't mattered since he stumbled into his life. He doesn't need the sunrise anymore, he sees the light beneath the darkness on his own now. And he wonders how much good it´ll do him when-

A knock on the doorframe interrupts his thoughts, and he turns his head towards the intruder.

“Still nothing?” Stefan asks, and Kol shakes his head.

Stefan, alongside his brother, woke up in the midst the preparations to ensure your survival. They demanded answers as they do, but soon realized that the cost, however great it is, must be

The only opponent of said plan was, to everyone's surprise,  Klaus.

“The cost is too great, brother. Let her fight on her own.” Is what he said. Of course, his brother would only think of himself if he were in his shoes. Kol didn't expect anything else. Nonetheless, the plan was executed all the same, with or without Klaus approval.

“It will work, I assure you.” Kol says,  the tone in his voice, less confident than he intended  “But I have a favour to ask. Do not mention it when she wakes up. She won't accept it”

“I won't. Damon won´t either, I´ll make sure of it.”   

Kol nods his head as a silent thank you. Stefan attention bounces around the room, looking at the couch, then back to Kol, before he clears his throat and steps further into the room.

“You know I, uh. I wouldn't know what I would've done if she-”. He pauses, “Just.. thank you for helping. “

“Don't thank me yet. Y/N will-… you know how she is. She'll take it out on you when she learns the truth”

“I know. “Stefan sighs and looks over to the couch, suddenly remembering why he stepped into the room in the first place. “Uh right.. I found this upstairs. She's gonna need it” He reaches into his pocket and hands Kol your daylight ring.

Promptly, Kol reaches for your hand slides the ring on your fingers with care, holding onto your hand afterwards.

“I hope you can forgive me someday.” He says, his voice faint as a whisper.

He didn't care if Stefan - or anyone else for that matter - heard him.

“I´ll uh,” Stefan clears his throat “I´ll give you some space. Got some things to take care of anyway. My number is in Y/N´s phone, call if you need anything.”

Kol knows he should say something, a thank you perhaps, but he lets Stefan walk away against his better judgment.

---

You were out cold for another hour, the only sign of life was your shallow breathing and the occasional wincing. And Kol remained a wreck. He tried pacing the room to calm his nerves, he tried reading and drinking - nothing helped.

So he waited and waited. Then just as the hand of the clock strikes another hour, your hand that's resting on the sofa balls to a fist and he sees you sit up, breathing heavy.

“Darling?”  He asks wearily, rushing to your side. But He's met with nothing but silence. “Y/N, talk to me.”

“I'm fine, I just…what fuck? I feel like I’m.. honestly, I feel like I’m high on something. Everything feels more vibrant and.. weird.”

Kol smiles and thinks back to the time where he first tapped into his magic it felt like he was surrounded by buzzing energy, ready to be He´d count your reaction as a good sign that the plan worked.

“What's wrong?” You ask, not having missed the worry on Kol's face. “What did I miss?

He has absolutely no idea how to tell you the news without either setting you off to everyone involved, presumably raining hellfire upon them, or…….. actually no, that's his main concern, So he starts with your new and unexpected powers instead. How your mother had witch powers and hid it within your bones. And how the induced sleep intended to kill you but you fought through it. Of course, he left out everything else it intels.

“I think I’m gonna pass out. Witch powers, really? Me?” You scoff,  dragging your fingers through your hair, “As if I didn't have enough problems just keeping myself in check, now witch powers too? How long do you think before I accidentally set something on fire? “

“Not a chance. I will help you take control.”

“You teaching me control? We’re so screwed.”

Kol can´t help the confused look on his face, as he scrunched his eyebrows together and glances at you with concern.

“Hey, I'm kidding. But you should´ve seen your face. “

Kol sighs and it bleeds over to a smile, before disappearing completely. He had a job to do.

“There’s something else, two matters in fact.” Kol continues “But first..what do you say we make good on our promises? Travel the world, just you and me.”

“Do you even have to ask? Of course, I'm coming with you” You reply “Now tell me everything. “

----

His confidence held up for about 5 minutes before all your emotional stability went out of the window. Once he passed explaining that Klaus is alive and well, he moved to Mae´s indiscretion

Of course, Kol failed in his attempt to keep you calm. By the time he explained his agreement with Klaus and Mae´s..indiscretion, you were out of the door, tracing her down.

Kol said you should let it go, you were lied to, it wasn't your fault- but your trust had been shattered and you have a score to settle. 

“What the hell?!” You yell at her, your voice bouncing off the outer walls of the Mikaelson Mansion. You knew she wouldn´t be far.

“Hell's right here.” She says, before she´s met with your balled fist. She tumbles back, and laughs  “Whew! The infamous right hook. You still got it. “

“You´ve been working with Klaus all this time? After everything, he did to me, to Kol?"

“We all do what must be done, and I've done nothing more than profit off of your anger.”

“Do you even hear yourself? Profit of my anger?” You huff, not bothering waiting for an answer “How could you? Klaus ruined my life and everyone´s life he ever touched! How could you protect him? I had him, Mae. I ended this for all of us.”

“And what did it get you, huh? Did you feel better? Did driving a stake through his heart relief you of the pain he caused? Revenge means nothing, and it will give you nothing.    Your foolish scheme would have been the end of us, and honestly, you should be thanking me.”

“Thanking you? Are you fucking serious? You sided with my enemy!”

“I saved your life. And you have powers now. That´s a gift, a freedom I searched for decades. You better start being more grateful.”

“I didn't ask for any of this! I don't want them and I don't need them.”

“Well, you got ‘em. And you gotta to use them or they'll eat you alive. Literally.”

“I know all about it.” You brush her off.  Kol told you that the powers demand to be used or they´d claw at your skin until there's no skin left, 

“Just tell me how long you've been working with him." You continue "Then I’ll do the part where I tell you to go to hell, before we go our separate ways.”

“Shortly after you jumped ship, and joined Kol in his efforts, Klaus came to me asking for assistance and we made a deal. He would do anything he can to rid me of this curse and I will help him set his werewolf powers free. And protect him if anything goes south.

“I´m sorry, is this the point where I'm supposed to sympathize with you? Because that's not gonna happen. “  

“You might if you let me finish. “

“You know, I actually thought your efforts were noble when I first joined your community. I thought, hey finally something with purpose, something to make up for what I've become. And now I find out everything was a lie? Just another power play with me as the main act? And for what, more power than you already have?”

“Now do get off that high horse of yours. You ain't the saint you externalize either.” She snaps back but quickly regains her stellar demeanour  "But it ain't about power, it never has been. It's about being myself without having a part locked away. I deserve that freedom, no matter the cost.”

You almost have sympathy with her, but the fact that she has been lying to you pretty much ever since you´ve met melts any and all sympathy you had.

“But you broke my trust to get that freedom. I trusted you and I don't trust anyone.”

You could count on one hand the number of people that you genuinely trust, and she was on that list once upon a time.

“Let’s be frank, we never trusted each other.”

“We both know that's a lie. But if you're gonna stand here and explain it away, so be it. I have somewhere else to be.” You know full well that she's just trying to relieve her guilt, but you won't have any of it. Not anymore  “This is goodbye, Mae. If I find anyone coming after me, I'll kill them.”

With that, you turn your back on not only her but all the time you've spent trying to give her the benefit of the doubt. You actually thought you could trust her again.

“I know it'll mean nothing to you now,” She says, but you keep walking “but you will always have a home in New Orleans. No matter what happens or what you think of me, or my actions - you are always welcome.”

“Whatever.”

-------

Back at the house, you didn't think twice before packing your bags. Kol told you about the deal he made with his family; You both leave town, leaving Klaus in peace from now on. That's the price to pay for killing him or well, failing to kill him.  But if the past hours have taught you anything, is that if you´re presented a way out of a dire situation like this, you shouldn't hesitate. Maybe leaving town will finally give you the chance to leave all of this behind.

Perhaps everything you´ve done has finally let you here.

“All packed up, huh?” Stefan says from the doorway.

You look up and smile at him before turning back, throwing a t-shirt into your suitcase “Yeah. No idea where we´re going just yet, but I guess we're just gonna pick a place and go.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“You sure you don't want to join us? There´s enough space.”

“I would but I, uh, we have some things to figure out here.” He says and you nod, zipping up the suitcase in front of you.

“Come on, let me help you with that.” Stefan offers, and grabs the handle, disappearing out of the room before you can protest.

Downstairs, you´re greeted by Damon´s presence, having just come back from some kind of business in town.

“You're leaving already?” He asks as you descend the stairs.

“Don't tell me you're sad about me leaving?” 

“Maybe.”

“Maybe, huh?" You look back at Stefan behind you, quirking an eyebrow "The old Damon couldn't wait for me to go. What happened to him?“

“That Damon got his ass kicked and almost his head blown off by his little sister. I got rid of him.”

“About that.. “ 

“It's fine.” He waves it off. 

"Still, I´m sorry."  "But hey, we´re finally parting on good terms, who would've thought?”

“Wait for him to screw it up,” Stefan says and cocks his head towards Damon.

Damon grimaces a fake laugh, before reaching out and pulling you into an unexpected hug “You take care, little sis.”

“Oh god, don´t call me that, weirdo.”

“I'll call you whatever I want, weirdo.” He replies "Where´s your scary boyfriend?" 

Squeaking tires and loud music diverts your attention and you open the door, just in time to see Kol pulling up on the driveway.

“Right there.”

“You've got to be kidding me. Who is he trying to be, John Cusack in Say Anything? Not with a boombox over his head but with obnoxiously cheesy 80’s music?”

“Chessy?! Pft no taste. “Stefan mutters.

“If he's gonna turn that shit up, “Damon says  “I’m gonna punch the radio until my ears stop bleeding.”

“What did you say?!” Kol yells over the music, having just rolled the window down “I'm afraid I can't hear you?! Must be my old age. “

Damon groans “Just go already. I can't take it.”

“Fine, I'm going.” You approach the car, opening the passenger side, throwing your suitcase in the back before hopping into the passenger seat.

You lean out of the open window, looking back to your brother's, as Kol turns the ignition back on “Don't open the door to strangers, stay out of my room and don't call me unless you really have to. Actually, no don't call me at all.” You give them a wink before giving Kol the go, and he floors the car, driving away with squeeking tires.

Stefan and Damon remain behind and wave goodbye from the entrance to the house. Once you're out the driveway and out hearing distance, their smiles fall and worry spreads over them.

“She´s gonna hate us when she finds out.” Stefan says, chewing on the inner corners of his cheek “You know that, right?”

“Yup.” Damon nods “We're officially the worst brothers in history.”

“Yeah..You think she's gonna find out before...you know?”

“It´s Y/N, what do you think?”

“Yup, we´re screwed.”

Damon sighs and claps him on the shoulder “Royally screwed, little bro. Royally screwed..”

----

The road out of Mystic Falls is smooth black river in the dying sun. The sort where you'd follow them wondering if they'd ever cease to wind their way through nature.

You´re propped up on the hood of the car, legs crossed and soaking in the last rays of the sun. You asked Kol to pull over the car to savour this moment of leaving town, instead of just driving past the sign.

It reads "Leaving Mystic Falls" …  it's like music to your ears.

It was always the plan to travel the world together, to show Kol what he has been missing, and today, finally after hardship, murder and pain, the day has come. You wanted to leave this place for weeks now, but something, be it the ugly green hue of the sign or Kol´s unusual silent manner made you question your choice even just the tiniest amount..

“Who would've thought we're actually leaving this town behind for good?” You say, slipping your hand in his that's resting on his thigh before bathing in the sunset. “ Riding into the sunset even, how perfect is this? “

“I know,” Kol says, staring at your intertwined hand, rubbing his thumb over your skin.

You look over and instead of a beaming smile, you see his head hanging low.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Of course.” He says and lifts your hand, chasting a kiss on the delicate skin “Just...thinking about where to go first.”

“I don't care where we go. As long as you´re here, I have everything I need.”

“Let's not waste time then.” He says, and jumps off the car, throwing the keys towards you “Do you want to drive first? You've been eying this car ever since we left.”

“You know you're the only one I’m eyeing here.”  You reply, “Okay maybe the car as well.”

Kol laughs and finds himself tracing the cars shiny exterior in an exaggerated attentive manner “She's almost as beautiful as you.”

“Did you just...compare me to a car?”

“Your beauty knows no bounds, darling. Not even mechanical ones. ”

“Okay that's enough, get the in the car, Romeo.”

He laughs and you swear you never heard anything more heart-stoppingly beautiful.

You turn the volume up with a flick of the nob attached to the vintage radio and put the gear in drive, before flooring the pedal, leaving the town sign in the dirt.

Kol looks out of the passenger window, watching the trees fly by in motion and he feels an unfamiliar feeling settling in his chest, he could only describe as contentment.

He’s free. Finally.

And so in love.

And his life had 6 months left to run……..

A/N: Whew..on a scale from 1 to 10 how much do you hate me for the last sentence?  :D 

This is the last chapter before we have our  season finale or book 1 finale or whatever you like to call it. So prepare yourself for the next chapter, where we finally find out what exactly the price was for the reader's survival.

But I am so curious to know what you think! Any theories, criticism or any feedback are incredibly appreciated!!

Open Coffin Tags:  @shadylittlewonder @thegoddessofvampire @newurleans @originalbish98 @acourtofhopeanddreams @bonniebird @imnoaingeal @vaniileiinkeks  @relmi-llorrac @piercethepottorff @maliae14  @5-seconds-of-animals @the-geeky-engineer   @rock-n-magick @flymeawayworld @givemesomehybrid @mikealsonlover @nuteller28 @fandoms-fandoms-everywhere99 @drkplum @fandooomqueenforyou @free-the-fangirl @clockworkballerina @twisted1ginger @superwholocksociopath474   @pacifyprincess@mustachio1616 @thealyana @sandyclaws @unicorntrooper @buckysummers @sanity-is-overratedxp @akshi8278 @lunna-star-8 @graysonmalfoy @woodworthti666 @elenavaldez02 @lilulo-12 @selmasemlan @thelostallycat @characterobsessed @cococola-cocaine @crazyinternetgirl @tvdplusriverdale @-thatgirloverthere-  @alwxadria345 @trymexo @mizzezm @willieshakesqueer @spunky-89 @putyourherohaironstefan @xxdragonagequeenxx @thegingerthatwaited @shootingstarsaretearsofheaven @hinata7346 @controloffandoms

#kol x reader #kol mikaelson imagine #kol mikaelson #tvd imagine #the originals imagine #open coffin #the originals #the vampire diaries

[pannypancake]

Cut Through

Fandom: Heartlines - Florence + The Machine (Song) Characters: Original Female Characters Pairing: Female Soothsayer/Mermaid Rating: T Genre: Romance, Fantasy, Character-focused Perspective: Third Person, Past Tense Word Count: 2,293 (Oneshot)

For florencedrunk in Jukebox 2018.

Certainty is a gilded cage; love is its sweetest songbird.

Read On:

ArchiveofOurOwn

Or under the cut:

Before

“You’re going to be amazing.” Dalia’s mother had stopped a boy in the street, short for his age and scabby-kneed. He looked startled and embarrassed by the frankness of her attention, but he didn’t pull his hand away when she took it. Whether he was trapped by some measure of ingrained politeness or he knew enough to recognize what the patterned trim of her mother’s robes represented, it was hard to say.

Dalia picked at the hem of her own, plainer skirt and sighed with exaggerated gusto. She briefly debated the merits of carrying the baskets of produce home on her own, but thought better of it. They were a heavy burden, even for the two of them and the tomatoes were already overripe, so the sun couldn’t possibly do them any worse. She tried not to be bothered by the dew seeping through her clothing or the promise of grass stains that would be next to impossible to get out later; it was difficult to be sure how long her mother would be when a Moment struck her and she didn’t much feel like standing for the duration.

She only became aware of how far she’d allowed her thoughts to wander when they were interrupted by a warm hand shielding her forehead. “There are better ways to track the sun than with your eyes, girl,” her mother said, an amused lilt warming her voice. “Though I suppose wiser folk have lost their sight to less worthy causes.”

“I assumed that you’d tell me if you saw me going blind at the bottom of your morning tea,” Dalia said, gently brushing her mother’s hand aside as she moved to stand. She half hoped her mother would let something slip; it was hard not to see the motions of the day as pointless when her mother could have just told her the outcome before they’d left the house.

“I don’t need portents of the future to tell me what common sense already knows. Come on – or else the tomatoes will be cooked before we have time to prepare them.”

The last time Dalia saw her mother, she did not realize it would be the last until she was already at the door, pack slung over her shoulder while her mother smoothed over the fabric of her scarf until it wrinkled anew. The aged lines of her face were deepened by sadness and Dalia wanted to reassure her that she would return soon; they would see each other again.

But her mother smiled gravely and squeezed her hand and Dalia understood that, no, they would not. She would not be coming home.

She wept bitterly for the realization and her mother hushed her, squeezing her hand tighter until both of their fingers ached with the force of the farewell. “You’re going to be so happy,” her mother said; the first and only prediction she'd ever made about Dalia's life.

Oh, Dalia thought, weeping like a child on her front porch, remembering all the unproven young folk her mother had promised greatness, is that all?

After

Dalia picked her way down the rocks slowly, even as Chance bounded ahead, eager to explore what new smells might decorate the world. She could be reasonably sure that her life did not end on this particular moment, but a fall would still leave her with a nasty headache that she had no desire to deal with. Besides, the dog’s lead would barely become worrisome before he’d peer around and reluctantly start trotting back, as if he needed to guide her.

Chance’s name had been a particularly capricious decision. She’d idly considered many possible contenders in the fortnight before she’d met the scraggly puppy who’d bitten her in an attempt to steal her lunch pack, but he’d been “Chance” from the moment she held him. The name had served well enough in the years they’d been friends since.

The flatter landscape of the ungroomed shoreline was a welcome respite and she carelessly kicked off her shoes before sitting on the damp earth. It was funny how dirt concerned her less the older she got – she had been such a fussy thing as a girl. Stains on clothes and wrinkles on skin, no different than footsteps on the ground; if you were going to leave your mark upon the world, it was only fair that the world leave its mark upon you in return.

Birds cried in cacophony as they circled over head and Dalia whiled away the moments by sketching the rough shapes of their flocking in the dirt beside her. She already knew what they would mean – she was still waiting on the last prediction to come to fruition, after all – but it never hurt to check. She was not as gifted in the Sight as her mother had been in her prime, but she could understand enough to trust her own interpretation when a sign was left for her.

The filmy, pale eyes that broke the surface tension of the water to peer at her were a welcome non-surprise. “Ah, hello, young lady,” Dalia said, smiling in greeting. Truthfully, she found it hard to estimate her sometime-companion’s age; the alien green undercurrent of her complexion bore none of the tells that Dalia had come to rely on, as humanoid as the woman otherwise appeared – from the waist up, anyway.

“Hello, Dalia,” the woman said, voice rasping in a way that always made Dalia’s throat feel vaguely sore. She had not told Dalia her name during their first meeting and at some point, Dalia had given up on guessing it. She figured that if it bothered the woman enough, she would say so. They talked very little in each other’s company, anyway; the silence never felt empty.

“I haven’t brought you anything today,” Dalia said, “but if you catch a fish, I’ll cook it for you.”

The woman dove back into the water without another word, Chance bounding gamely up to the shoreline to bark after her, but too wise to stray where the current could grab him.

Between

Dalia blinked the sun from her eyes, floating spots and the imprint of her own veins dancing across her vision. It seemed that there was no such thing as a good day for bird watching. Too cloudy and she could see nothing; not cloudy enough and she risked her vision entirely. She gave up for the time being, even as the birds screamed mockingly above her.

The weather was nice for walking, at the very least, making the river water glimmer as she unhurriedly made her way back. The sounds of people at work had its own sort of pleasant rhythm – the drum beats of hammers kept tempo with the melody of idle chatter. She had traveled a lot in the time since she had first left home, but this town was the first where she had truly considered doing more than passing through.

Cilla was in the garden when Dalia returned to the small house with the thatched roof that they had been sharing for the better part of six months. Face caked with dirt and sweat, she still found a smile for Dalia as she re-latched the gate. “Good evening, Dalia. Good news, I hope?”

“No news,” Dalia said, “which might be good news by some definitions.”

Cilla nodded. “Then we’ll have some of the smoked meat tonight to celebrate. Why don’t you start a fire while I wash up?”

Dalia did as she was asked and they enjoyed a quiet meal by the hearth, complemented by easy conversation. It made it all the harder when Dalia packed her bags in the morning, leaving behind more than half the items in the house that might have been considered “hers”. At some point, her life had become too heavy to carry with her and that was how she knew it was time to leave.

Hard as she tried, she couldn’t avoid waking Cilla up and the other woman watched her with dismayed understanding from the end of the hall. “You knew this was coming,” Cilla said. She probably didn’t mean it as an accusation, but it sounded like one all the same.

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

Dalia crossed her arms, suddenly self-conscious. “Since before I met you.” She'd spent the first half of her life certain that the Sight had skipped her generation, but the remarkably clear path her feet now followed had laid those doubts to rest. She wished the rest of her doubts were as easily quieted. She wished the stars would use plainer language and offer more coherent explanations. She sometimes wished she had enough ignorance to believe that anything would last.

Cilla stared at her, nakedly aghast. “Then why even bother?”

“Do you wish I hadn’t?”

“I should say ‘yes’,” Cilla said, in a tone that made it apparent that the real answer was “no”. “I think I could have loved you, if you had given me more time.”

“Then it’s for the best that I’m leaving now,” Dalia said. She hovered uncertainly by the doorway, deliberating between a handshake or a warm pat on the shoulder. Cilla took the decision away from her by pulling her into a gentle hug.

“Is it your mother’s words that drive you?” Cilla asked, like she had wanted to for some time, but only felt free to voice the words when there was no longer anything to lose. “Or the lack of them?”

“She had no more control over the path she saw for me than I do to deviate from it now,” Dalia said, the stiffness of her body bleeding into her voice.

“I wonder why you need so badly for someone to tell you that you’ll be amazing, when it’s plain to see that you already are.” Dalia started to pull away, not in the mood for platitudes, but Cilla held her fast. Her voice was fierce when she spoke again. “I wonder Dalia – have you ever been happy? Even once?”

Always

“Happy” was a wind at Dalia’s back, strong and driving. She wondered if it would ever feel welcome.

She followed the curves of the river, current rushing like blood moved by a heartbeat. She knew how to do nothing else.

Between

Accidents were never accidents in truth. A slip of the tongue or the foot or the memory was just a domino tumbling in an ineffable game that a select few people could (sometimes) see the shape of (maybe).

It was for this reason that Dalia felt entirely comfortable hurling every colourful insult that she knew against the stars as she waded into the river after a puppy that she couldn't afford to feed anyway. She had half a mind to let the stupid thing drown, but her fool heart wouldn't let the thought take hold.

She had just pushed Chance onto the bank, shivering and water-slicked to half his normal size, when a small shift in the riverbed upset her footing - it was child's play for the current to do the rest.

When she woke after, it was to filmy eyes and the feeling of a wet, rough hand against her face. Oh, she thought, I didn't know they came this far inland. And then she made an unattractive spectacle of herself, coughing and choking on her own breaths as her rescuer wisely snatched her hand away.

Somewhere, fate was probably laughing. Sometimes, Dalia wondered if her mother would laugh along.

After

Dalia cleaned the fish with practiced precision. Two pairs of eyes watched the proceedings with interest. If the woman was feeling generous today, maybe Chance would find himself treated to a slice. If she was not, well, the world was not always kind, even to mangy dogs who had mastered the skill of emotional manipulation. For her part, Dalia focused on the knife and her fingers and tried to take in little else. There were messier forms of divination and if she let her eyes make the connection, odds were she’d see the same message waiting for her. It was almost romantic, in a somewhat disgusting way.

“Why do you keep coming back?” the other woman asked. Somewhere in the midst of Dalia’s concentration, she had pulled herself closer to the shore, bare back dappled by flecks of water and sunlight.

"Do you not wish me to?" Dalia asked, feeling the echo of long ago conversations. Fate either adored patterns or Dalia was too lazy to vary her speech enough to avoid learning habits.

"That isn't what I said." The woman's mouth was a thin line to underscore the uncertainty of her expression. It was endlessly fascinating how many unconscious gestures their two peoples apparently shared. Dalia sometimes idly wondered if the woman had family or childhood friends that she might like Dalia to meet one day. Even more often, she regretted that she had kept no such connections and could not offer the same; a consequence of treating experiences as inherently transient, she supposed. "I just wondered if you thought you had to."

"Not that I'm not grateful," Dalia said, "but saving my life doesn't obligate me to cook for you for the rest of it, no."

"That isn't what I said," the woman said again; they both knew what they were dancing around. Dalia merely smiled and the woman narrowed her eyes before turning away, stretching her torso over the rocky shore as if it was no less comfortable than the finest linen. "Fine, what do I care what reasons you use to justify your nonsense."

“Because I’m ready to be happy," Dalia said, letting her eyes trail up towards the sun.

“That’s all?” The woman's voice rose sharply, unconvinced and uncomprehending.

“No,” Dalia said, “but it’s enough.”

#heartlines #fanfiction #jukebox 2018 #mermaid #femslash #past tense #oneshot #romance #fantasy #character-focused #soothsayer #OFCs #rated t

[pingou7]

A car, two cops and a stardust — a RebelCaptain road trip fic

by @pingou7 pingou  for @thestarbirdfromtheashes Starbird

(aka the Road trip fic Diego Luna’s filmography made me write)

Read and enjoy, and please consider leaving me a few words.

Summary:

As the dusty roads criss under Kes Dameron’s old car, Cassian Andor lets the wind mess with his hair through the open window. Dust, sunshine, laughter, its easy to recapture the taste of days long gone.

(…)

At a gas station near Corpus Chirsti, when they climb back after taking a piss, both jump out of their skins as a random brunette, eyes thunderous, hisses dangerously from the backseat:

“Just pretend I’m not here.”

Update: Part 5 is (finally) up!

(I dedicate this one to @sleepykalena because she likes this fic so much it makes me happy. This update is for you especially Char, hope it delivers...)

Read more on AO3 (or under the cut)

Part 5 — From Tijuana to Caborca, Sonora, Mexico Day 3

There’s a sense of homecoming as Cassian stares out the window, dust flying around, rocky mountains... more colorful houses, more colorful life. But of course the quiet in the car was starting to creep Kes out and he switched on the radio. He too seems happy to drive back to mother land, as a man’s soulful voice carries out from the speakers.

Only on air it’s actually Propuesta Indecente — one of the Damerons favorite bachata songs — and soon Kes is wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at him. Andor struggles not to burst out of laughter and he hopes Jyn doesn’t have so much grip on Spanish as to translate what these lyrics mean:

¿Qué dirías si esta noche

Te seduzco en mi coche?

Que se empañen los vidrios

Y la regla es que goces

Well, to be honest, the idea of seducing Jyn in the car tonight until glasses get fogged wouldn’t be so far fetched — nor unwelcome — but Kes is here. So as evocative as the song might be, the sudden fantasy of a flushed Jyn lying on the hood of his brother’s old mustang is nothing but a pretty image.

He squirms in the seat, dry throated and changes the song. His brother sniggers, but as Quiero qué me quieras starts — again — he is lost in the song and forgets to tease him. Jyn is on the back seat, rummaging through the bag Gina lent her but at Kes’ demand, she reaches behind her, stretching, to retrieve his old white cowboy hat.

Cassian avoids to look at her to put the thing on top of the driver’s head, however, the sight is slightly ridiculous — he exchanged this for a baseball cap as a teen — and like the car, Dameron kept it out of sentimentality, despite having outgrown both.

He wants to broach the subject of Jyn, but he doesn’t know how. As usual, thanks to his sunny brother there’s a relative impression of carefreeness, but while she seems to be drinking the sights, the fugitive is far from sharing any kind goofing:

Her back is upright, her shoulders squared against her seat and she looks ready to bolt, more so than she did crossing the border. He realizes he didn’t hear the sound of her voice since then and it sits ill with him: the cop in Andor wants to interrogate her and the man just wants to reach out.

They stop in Tijuana to refuel and of course, Cassian insists on putting on his matching tourist cap. He’s not really Captain Andor here, just Cass — and if Kes-adillas gets to wear his old cowboy hat, then he doesn’t get to comment on it. Jyn rolls her eyes at their antics, but agrees to get a larger head cloth than the one she has. It covers her hair, twisting safely around her neck... it looks a bit exotic to be honest, oriental almost, but she puts it on with a long acquired ease that makes him wonder.

Everything she does and doesn’t say makes him wonder, and he doesn’t like it.

Eventually, as the urgency of their reaching San Diego no longer exists — God willing — Kes decides to stretch his legs, calling his wife for a bit. Neither Cassian nor Jyn leave the car though, as he ponders on the old fashioned map that marks their spots, like a way of the cross. After all, the original plan was their yearly pilgrimage to Bernal and the brunette behind him doesn’t alter that. In any way whatsoever. Of course not.

“So, Jyn, have you ever been to Mexico?”

“No, I’ve been to Columbia for a few months, but that’s all.”

“Vacation? Work? Schooling?”

“Nope, none of that, through it was really... formative.”

Her cryptic and elusive answers are driving him madder each time. If it wasn’t leisure nor work or school, what could have been her reason for going to South America? He senses she’s not lying, but as usual she’s the opposite of forthcoming. He thinks she’s voluntarily leaving clues for him, but these pieces only serve to confuse him more.

Kes slides in again, but he’s frowning, and the car is oddly silent. Cassian keeps his mouth shut, knowing he’d better wait for Kay’s information to provide a starting point on his probing. Meanwhile, his brother asks about their next stop — Caborca, in Sonora, still around six hours of driving — in a sullen voice that intrigues Jyn.

“I thought you wanted to ease up on the gas pedal?”

“I thought you were on the run,” Kes retorts moodily.

“Not at present,” she answers nonplussed,”which was the point. I mean, don’t speed up on my account.”

Kes sighs and slides out again, ignoring their surprise. Cassian goes after him, and they settle for a chat by the road. His brother is fishing for something in his pockets, if they were younger it might have been a pack and a lighter, but both had quit years before. Whatever it is, he can’t find it however, and lets out a curse.

“Care to tell me what’s wrong, cabrón?”

“Should I make a list? Gina, the wayward cat, the crappy car. My son misses me.”

“Hey, it was all the same an hour ago, only you were not an ass then.”

“We’re not all as good as you for compartmentalizing, Captain Andor. We should have flown there.”

“To Bernal?”

“Yep. Time’s short, life’s short. The sooner we are in Bernal, the sooner we can go back to our lives. I didn’t want to leave Tia.”  

Okay, so this is Kes freaking out, that Cassian can deal with. He won’t tease him or offer him platitudes, but he’d thought a phone call to Shara would have served as damage control. Clearly he’d underestimated Kes’ helplessness. He pats his shoulder, as he states:

“We knew she wasn’t great, cursí. Gina’s old.”

“Shut up rudo, old or not, it’s not okay. We’re talking about family here. Rules don’t apply.”

It’s Cassian’s turn to sigh this time, noting his brother’s petulant tone is exactly the same as little Poe’s. For all his nephew took after Shara, whining seems to be a Dameron trait.

“They do, even, perhaps especially when we don’t wish them to. She was happy to see us though, it counts for something right? And, you know, we’re gonna see her in a few days.”

“Remind me why we thought this long ass road trip was a good idea?”

“No money to spare on plane tickets.”

“Come on, this trip isn’t cheap.”

“But we wouldn’t have Jyn with us.”

“You’re clingy for a guy that picked a stray three days ago. What makes you think she won’t ditch us, now that she’d crossed the border? She may have left the car already for all we know, or better, stole it altogether.”

“Don’t be a dick. Let’s go back now, if you’re so worried she’s gonna disappear.”

“I’m not a worrier, you are.”

“Then start acting like it!”

When they get back to the car, Jyn isn’t in the back seat and for a heartbeat or two, both cops are stunned, speechless. Cassian feels his blood rushing out of his cheeks for the first time in more than a decade — he is usually level headed, a good element — and it takes the horn honking to snap him out of it.

Jyn, mysterious runaway that she is, has passed behind the wheel. He sees it, yet his brain takes a whole second to process the information. Kes opens the door on the driver’ side, puzzlement written all over his face.

“What are you doing?”

“I thought you were tired of the rotation by now, so... I looked at the map. I can do my share, if that’s okay.”

She’s impassive, but her voice hints at a slight uncertainty and she avoids their eyes, fixing the road in front of her like she could start the car by sheer force of will. Cassian exhales loudly — out of relief or resignation, perhaps — and chooses to regain his place next to her, strapping himself in. Once he’s done, he gestures to Dameron to get in the car too, which he does after some stalling, and says to Jyn:

“I’m surprised by the fact that you waited for us. You could have fled.”

“With this piece of junk? Not likely. Plus, ditching cops with their own car wouldn’t help my case.”

“It sure wouldn’t,” Cassian agrees while he watches her starting the car and resuming their travel.

“You’re doing okay with this side of the road?”

“What, why,” she asks dubiously, eyes narrowing.

“You’re Brit, right? Didn’t you drive the other way around?”

“Relax, officer Kes-adillas, I’ll do fine, besides, when I first started to drive, there wasn’t any road to begin with.“

“No exactly reassuring,” he mumbles, but since he doesn’t ask for the keys, Jyn smiles.

“You’ll have your baby back as soon as we reach the next city, if you want.”

But they let her drive for three hours before they stop for the night. She looks heartened by their compliance, expecting the cops to reclaim the wheel anytime, yet Kes concentrates on chilling out and Cassian prefers to focus on his emails — okay, he might steal a glance at her profile from time to time, so what if he does? He’s just checking she’s not getting tired or stressed by the road, and she does cut a fine figure in the bright tones left by dusk.

The hotel staff they’re staying at were able to point the trio a serviceable phone, so Jyn made her mandatory call to wherever her brother lives in the States. Cassian has more luck though, and thanks to her passport, Kay managed to send him intel right on his phone, that he reads up greedily, with Kes frowning at his shoulder.

When she gets back with a taco, she picks up instantly the rise of tension in the room. For a whole minute nobody talks and Jyn finishes her food with both men staring at her.

“So, guys, what’s the plan tomorrow? I’d thought you’d have lots to chat about, why the long faces?”

“Anything we have to say, you don’t want to hear.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You tell us, Jyn, or is it Liana? You sure spent a few months in jail under that name, so do you prefer we use Kestrel?”

“Wait, how do you... you snooped around my stuff,” she asks furiously, pointing a accusative finger at Cassian.

She looks comically affronted for a common thief, but now isn’t the time to point it out, though the corner of Kes' lips is lifting.

“I did, and if you think it was wrong of me, then you should have been more open, so I didn’t have to.”

“Sorry I’m not the kind of girl who unloads a lifetime of anecdotes on car rides. Chirrut told me I could trust you on the phone, so I did, but it’s just… I wasn’t sure I could trust you and you already proved us wrong.”

The name doesn’t ring a bell at all, and the cops frown in sync, crossing their arms — it’s their classic bad cops pose, Shara usually mocks — but nobody here feels like joking. Yet another thing Jyn hides from them.

“Does he know us, then, this Chirrut?” Kes asks.

“No, I don’t think so, but he doesn’t need to, okay? I can’t explain it but he knows stuff. If he says you’re trustworthy then you are.”

“You’re nuts, and even so, if you or whoever else think we’re trustworthy, then why won’t you bloody tell us what’s going on with you?!”

“I don’t have to tell you shit!”

“God woman, we’re trying to help you!”

“I don’t ask for help, I’m managing on my own!”

“Scuse me,” Kes interrupts in a milder tone despite his own frustration, “but you did hide in my car, and against all odds, we’re still dragging you with us, so...”

“Right, sorry I crashed at your Charolastras party, but for the record you insisted! Anyway I’ll be gone tomorrow.”

“We’ll see about that!” Kes retorts hotly, whereas Cassian’s ire runs so cold he’d fear frostbite.

His furor is leaving him thankfully tongue-tied, but he’s as furious as his brother. He’s just used to repress his angry bursts. She is too, but when nobody speaks or move for a few heavy seconds she storms out of the room and Cassian is so frustrated at her cowardice he can’t see straight, gripping the counter with sweaty hands.

Kes swears heartily, pours himself a drink. Cassian drinks too, four long gulps to settle his nerves. It does little. When they eventually decide to get to bed — the do need to resume the trip in a few hours — Kes pushes him towards the room next to  the one we reserved for him. When Cassian asks what the hell he’s thinking, his traitor of a brother replies:

“Our bromance means I have to interfere, so try to be persuasive with her. And man up, cause I’m planning to have phone sex or something.”

“TMI.”

“Don’t complain, if you play your cards correctly you might get hot, angry sex while I have to make do.”

“You left your wife only three days ago. She really has you by the balls.”

“Yep, I’m not ashamed of that, and I think it’s a feeling you’ll soon be familiar with Cass. Let’s just see how you’ll handle that then, at least my wife’s home, waiting meekly for me.”

“Fuck you Dameron.”

“You wish cabrón, but I’ll leave that to Erso, now shoo,” he exclaims in a cooing way, tapping on his own thighs for good measure.

“I’m not your puppy Kes,” Cassian grumbles a bit petulantly before the door closes behind him and he’s left to knock on Jyn’s room.

No answer, but she didn’t lock it, so he enters. If she doesn’t like that, she can suck it. She is already under the covers, doesn’t move an inch. She’s too still to be asleep — surely too riled up, if she’s anything like him — so he just foregoes all pretense and strands quickly across the room.

“Scoot over,” he says, taking off his shoes.

She turns her head sharply at the sound of his voice, but glares and remains motionless in the middle of the bed. Her facial expression clearly conveys her furious disbelief — no doubt she is a second away from telling him to get lost, at the very least, but Cassian doesn’t give her the time:

“Scoot over Jyn,” he repeats a little sterner, paying no heed of her murderous green eyes to lift up the blanket.

“Leave me alone! I don’t see why I got all the way here, honestly. You’re more ruthless than a hound...”

“I’ve been told that before, but you expect me to let you keep your secrets the entire time that you're with us?"

“I don’t have to answer you, you’re a cop, so I reckon you’re familiar with the right to silence.”

“You’re not under arrest, so it doesn’t qualify.”

“From the way you’re behaving, I wasn’t sure. I’m just going to leave and be done with it.”

Aggravated as she may be, he is as well. She won’t have him being guilty for invading her privacy. So far he’d been nothing but awfully patient with her, and respectful of the boundaries she set. Really Cassian? Kay’s dry voice interjects unexpectedly in his stormy thoughts, which makes him scowl harder.

She still has the gal to huff at him, mumbling invectives under her breath in a language he doesn’t know of, but her body language and tone make it clear that whatever she’s saying, it’s not flattering. He wants to shake some sense into her, or kiss her mouth shut. That would be more enjoyable, at least.

Yet when he’d thought about it — and in the past seventy two hours, the fleeting image came at least twice — he didn’t picture making his move in some grubby hotel room. She’s pissed, he’s frustrated in more ways than one and despite his earlier encouragement, Kes too is probably a tad wallowing. Perhaps the stuffy Poe gave him is coming handy, he thinks dryly. If she kicks him out, then at least he would have a chance to find out.

“Look Jyn, would you stay with us if I asked?”

“Why would you?”

“I don’t know, but I want to.”

I want you, he wants to stay instead. It’s not logical but it’s true nonetheless, he doesn’t want her to vanish just yet.

“I’m not used to people sticking around when things get bad,” she retorts, reluctantly.

“Let me prove you wrong, then.”

“I’m not worth the effort Cassian, really. I should have disappeared in San Diego like I planned to.”

“Let us be the judges of that, okay? I thought we were… something of friends, by now, you and me. And Kes too.”

“Friends don’t harass each other.”

“Friends trust each other, that includes confiding in each other when they need to.”

“Maybe for you, friends give me my space.”

“You’ll have all the space you want once what’s after you clears up.”

“You really have a bad case of hero complex.”

“Maybe, but I’d be easier to placate if you let us help.”

“I’m not gonna leave tomorrow,” she answers after a short silence, dropping the matter. “I wouldn’t even know where to start, and I promised Baze I’d wait until the coast is clear. So... if you want... I’ll tell you what’s necessary come morning, with Kes.”

“Splendid, we can fill the blanks from there, I’m looking forward to it. But for now let’s get to sleep.”

He expects her to send him back to Kes, maybe bidding him good night since she has cooled down, but she simply nods and turns the light off. He does not move an inch and she doesn’t breath a word. He stares blankly at the dark ceiling and he counts his blessings when she rolls to her side, her body turned towards the door.

He has a thought for who he just left in San Diego, and what awaits him in Bernal. Like he did the night before, he crosses himself, though he doesn’t feel the need to pray. He would have to count on his own merits to pull it through tomorrow.

#rebelcaptain #fanfiction #cassian andor #jyn erso #kes dameron #modern au #roadtrip #pingou writes

[omfgtrump]

The Tale of Two Viruses: Part 14

With the horrendous murder of George Floyd taking center stage in our country, this piece should probably be entitled “The Tale of Two Viruses and One Cancer”. But, first to the viruses.

To witness The Don this week is to beg the question: Is there still a pandemic going on? Has the great America tamed the virus? What’s all the fuss over 100,000 people dying? People die every day. Anyway, most of them are from nursing homes; you know, just a weigh station before the good Lord takes you away anyway. So what’s the fuss all about?

The delusional man with the little hands and devil’s heart is telling us they have little value, little value.

Many lost are black and brown people and because they are already a sickly bunch it’s actually their fault.

The delusional man with the little hands and the devil’s heart is telling us they have little value, little value.

America needs its meat, so sorry plant workers, we give so little shit about you that OSHA hasn’t bothered to set up federal safety guidelines for you.

The delusional man with the little hands and the devil’s heart is telling us they have little value, little value.

The delusional man with the little hands and the devil’s heart had to be convinced to fly the flag at the White House half- mast to honor the dead. Maybe for him, half-mast is wimpy, like a flaccid penis. Doesn’t project strength, like wearing a mask.

And guess what The Don was doing as we approached 100,000 dead? You guessed it: playing golf. Mr. Mulligan was tired of being cooped up and wanted to set an example to the country’s premature reopening by taking to the links. As he bragged about hitting his One Iron as far as Tiger Woods, moved his ball to better positions (called cheating!), took do overs of shots he didn’t like (mulligans) and then took whatever score he earned on a hole and lowered it by two (cheating again),ultimately declaring how extraordinary he was (bloviating grandiosity), the country was in mourning.

The Don was peeved that all this talk about mourning was going on as it was harshing his mellow, creating an unwanted hitch in his swing.

He turned to his caddie, and rumor has it, this is the conversation they had:

The Don: I thought Memorial Day was a celebration, a review of all the great things I have done as president. This whole virus thing is just so unfair to me, it’s trying to upstage me. Nobody upstages me.  I just say move on, the virus is dead to me. Isn’t that hilarious, the virus is dead to me. I will kit it!”

Caddie: Amazing, but how will you do it, Mr. President?

The Don: Just watch. I will tweet it away. Bam!

 Joe Scarborough, the MSNBC host, implying that he was under investigation for murdering a former staff member in 2001. “A blow to her head? Body found under his desk? Left Congress suddenly? Big topic of discussion in Florida.  “Big topic of discussion in Florida…and, he’s a Nut Job (with bad ratings) Keep digging, use forensic geniuses!”

Caddie: That’s a real zinger Mr. President. Though from what I read Scarborough wasn’t in Florida at the time of the death.

The Don: So? Anyone who can be so nasty to me could be a murderer. Here’s a great retweet. Boom!

“The only good Democrat is a dead Democrat.” Can you hand me my 9 Iron? Shit. That shot doesn’t count. You know what I mean?

Caddie: “Absolutely, Mr. President. I never even saw you take that shot.

And look at these cool retweets I am making by John Stahl. Remind me to invite him to play golf with me. Pow Pow.

Kamala (Harris) “Willie’s Ho.” (This is a reference to Willie Brown, the powerful California State Assembly speaker who was her mentor and onetime boyfriend.0

(Laughing) Stahl called Stacey Abrams “Shamu,:

And Stahl said this about MSNBC’s fake news host Joy Reid: “When you’re born butt-ugly, changing your hairstyle every day is only going to make you look phonier than your nonsense, pathetic show.”

The Don: (Swings his club) Now that’s the 9 Iron shot I wanted. Remember, I got to the green in one shot.

Caddie: Absolutely.

The Don: Trying to focus on your shot while tweeting is tricky. Makes you more error prone. Putter please.

And look at Sleepy Joe in the black mask. Quite a look. I am going to destroy him in the election.

How about this retweet. Shazam! Isn’t it the coolest thing ever?

And his demise is going to begin at the in-person Republican convention in August. Can you believe the nerve of the Democratic Governor of North Carolina saying it might not be safe?  The nerve. If he won’t do it other Republican governors will. And to show America how amazing we are no one who comes to the convention can wear a mask!

Shit. The wind messed up that putt.

Caddie: I know, sir, never saw it, don’t count.

The Don: Shit, the wind messed up my putt again.

Caddie: I know sir, never saw it, don’t count.

The Don: Now that I think of it the ball really should be much closer to the hole because the original shot was held up by the wind.

Caddie: Sure thing.

Shit. Let me move closer. Kerplunk. (The sound of ball in cup.) So satisfying a sound. Amazing how I one putted this from the edge of the green; I challenge any pro to do that.

And can you believe what Twitter did to my post about mail-in voting? That’s war! Do they know who they are dealing with?

Caddie: That was something. No one should ever start a war with you. But there is one thing. It seems what you are trying to change, you know, the law protecting folks who post on Twitter from being sued for spreading lies about people that might, as they say, come back and kick you in the butt.

The Don: That’s ridiculous. Why would I do something so stupid? What’s my score going in to the 10th hole?

Caddy: Um, let’s see. Do you want the real score or you know, the one you want it to be?

The Don: You know, the same way we deal with the virus.

  Now to the cancer.

Let’s state some simple, but harsh, truths.

America’s very being is founded on violence through its genocide of its indigenous people.

America was built on the backs of slaves.

Our constitution refers to black people as three fifths of a person. That is the foundation of the White Supremacy that rules this country.

The majority of the people in prison are black and brown, though they make up a smaller percentage of the population.

Despite some progress in their civil rights, blacks on the whole, suffer from gross economic inequities, are still targets of voter suppression and disenfranchisement and are targets of egregious and unrelenting police brutality.

If you are black, you can be gunned down for going out for a jog.

If you are black, a police offer can enter your home without a warrant and shoot you while you are in your own bed.

If you are black you can be suffocated to death by a knee in your throat by a white police officer in plain sight, all the while yelling that you “can’t breathe.”

The day to day stress black people endure just because of the color of their skin is impossible for white people to comprehend. They live in a world that continues to see them as more dangerous and more expendable because of the color of their skin.

For blacks. The “Land of the Free,” is for white people. For blacks it is more the “A People Under Siege.”

Black people are tired (and so am I) of platitudes that promulgate American decency.

Black people are tired of hearing that “America is better than this,” when we see riots in the streets.

Let’s be real: The rage we see is real. The pain we see is real. The White Supremacy we see is real. The cancer of American racism is real. The fact that black and brown people are dying from the virus at much higher rates is real and reflects the underlying cancer of racism.

The trope of American exceptionalism is taking a beating. The bottom line is that unless we are honest with ourselves and truly acknowledge our original sin of enslaving an entire people and its impact and treat it like we would a stage 4 cancer, America will never be exceptional.

I would like to believe this country can change. I would like to believe that we have the courage to do so. To not have this courage is to perpetuate the lie that “All men are created Equal…

The Don did not create this but he has built his brand sowing division, promoting hate, excusing (and encouraging) White Supremacy and has made comments during his presidency that have stoked the fires for the moment we find ourselves.

The Don’s responses to tragic death of George Floyd and the protests that have ensued is to quote Walter E. Headley, Miami’s former police chief, who in 1967 said, “When the looting starts, the shooting starts,

One of Trump’s most revealing tweets since the rioting began was a boast about the prowess of the Secret Service — and to threaten to sic “the most vicious dogs, and most ominous weapons” on the crowds outside the White House if things intensified.

We need to rid ourselves of this toxic White Supremacist before any healing can begin. We need a leader to bring us together, not further apart. I am not sure America is up to the task but as MLK said: We shall overcome because the arc of the moral universe is long but it bends toward justice.

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[inyri]

Equivalent Exchange (an SWTOR story): Chapter 24- Goodbye (Reprise)

Equivalent Exchange by inyri

Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic Characters: Female Imperial Agent (Cipher Nine)/Theron Shan Rating: E (this chapter: M) Summary: If one wishes to gain something, one must offer something of equal value. In spycraft, it’s easy. Applying it to a relationship is another matter entirely. F!Agent/Theron Shan. (Spoilers for Shadow of Revan and Knights of the Fallen Empire.)

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Chapter Twenty-Four: Goodbye (Reprise)

16 ATC. Yavin IV.  

She would have preferred a later start to the morning’s meeting, all things considered.

When Nine wakes to the beeping alarm her mouth is dry and she can feel her heartbeat pounding behind her eyes; she rolls over, pulling her pillow over her head with a grumble of protest, and briefly entertains the idea of falling back to sleep.

“If you don’t shut that thing off-” across the tent, Lana’s voice is muffled; when Nine peers out from beneath the pillow she can only see a blanket-covered form laying prone on the far cot and then one hand poking out, a faint blue-tinged light gathering around the fingertips.

“Don’t you dare.” Dragging herself upright, she reaches out toward the desk and pokes at her datapad until it quiets. “There. Awake. Under protest.”

Lana pushes the blanket off her face, rubbing her eyes. “Believe me, I know. I didn’t set today’s agenda.”

“And I doubt Marr’s battling this hangover, either. I’ve never even seen him eat, let alone being able to drink through that mask.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” As she sits up, picking her tunic off the floor and slipping it over her head, her tone turns sly. “He could use a straw, I suppose.”

“With a little umbrella?“ Now that’s a mental image- she’ll be thinking of it through the entire damned meeting now. She makes a note to tuck a pin into her jacket pocket. That’ll keep her from laughing if it comes down to it. “I ought to shower. After all the torches last night I smell like a cantina fire.”

(More like sex in a burning cognac distillery, frankly, but she can’t tell her that.)

Lana sniffs the hem of her tunic and wrinkles her nose. “I likely should as well. We’ve got half an hour yet- shall we?”

***

She downs three tablets of painkiller with her caf and steps into the Command tent, trailing two paces behind Lana, at eight o’clock sharp. It could have been worse. Marr was always spare with words and today’s no exception: no pleasantries and no small talk, just a sound-cancelling shield up to discourage eavesdroppers and a secure connection to the Intelligence mainframe as they set to work.

She would have thought it would be a shorter meeting. No matter how urgent the work this wasn’t the right place for operational discussions, especially with their temporary peace with the Republic still nominally in place- too many ears, shield notwithstanding, and poor form besides. Clearly, though, she’d underestimated the power of Sith bureaucracy. Three hours in they’ve got both Darth Vowrawn and Darth Acina patched in via holotransmitter and little settled but titles, ranks and whether Lana’s office ought to be in the Citadel or the Intelligence tower-

(Oh, don’t remind me. Lana groans. It took two weeks to even move in once we’d returned to Dromund Kaas. Do you know why it took so long to set the offices up?

I wasn’t there, remember- I was only home two days before you sent me off to Balmorra. But I assumed it was a protocol issue, she shrugs. A Sith Lord in the east tower. Goodness knows we mustn’t go against tradition.

That’s what I thought initially, too, but as it turns out it was rather more straightforward. When Intelligence personnel were all reassigned after the disbanding it left most of the building vacant, and the Citadel tower’s always been crowded- by her expression, she knew it from experience- particularly for the lower-ranking Sith. When word got around there was space for the taking, they claimed it.

That oughtn’t to have been a surprise. She’d just avoided the old headquarters building back then, after all- the Minister’s last act in office had been to build a remote access protocol for the archive, and there were far too many memories in those halls. Just like Sith. Always taking our toys away.

I took them back, Lana says with a grin. But a few of them didn’t take kindly to being evicted. It really made quite a mess.

That’s Intelligence for you. Two parts breaking and entering, a dash of poison, three parts embassy parties and one part wondering how people fit that much blood into their bodies.

Her smile broadens, teeth flashing white in her pale face. Yes, well. I was never very fond of parties.)

-and she simply starts pulling up dossiers on her datapad and ranking them in priority order as she keeps one ear to the conversation.

“I would advise returning the Watchers to service, but that decision will ultimately be yours.” Darth Marr gestures toward the hierarchical map projected above the table. “They were originally reallocated to the military and to Production and Logistics, however-”

She makes a noise despite herself: what a Force-damned waste. She remembers Watcher Sixteen working on a particularly tricky substitution cipher once, years ago; he’d had it decrypted and translated from Bothan before she finished her breakfast. Imagining all that brilliance gone to calculating troop numbers and patterning out fluctuations in grain prices- “Get as many of them back as possible, if they haven’t been ruined already.” Looking up from her notes as both Marr and Lana’s heads snap in her direction, she sets the pad down and folds her arms across her chest. “You know they were never meant for that sort of careless handling. You’ve taken-” oh, what’s a comparison they’d understand? “You’ve taken lightsabers and used them to toast your bread.”

Lana blinks and Vowrawn’s hologram scowls at her, but Marr only nods, impassive as ever behind his mask.

“An appropriate analogy,” he rumbles. “If we are to hope to regain an advantage over the Republic, we must use our resources to their full potential. Should you require any other former assets returned to your employ-” his gaze is turned toward Lana, now, but she can’t help feel as though he’s still partially talking to her- “that may be negotiable.”

“Yes, my lord.” They must have said that a hundred times in those few hours, the two of them; Lana inclines her head in a deferential half-bow. “I’ll prepare a list, with Cipher Nine’s assistance.”

“Then we’ll adjourn until tomorrow. While this truce served us against Revan, it will soon be over, and we have spent far too long having blinded ourselves to our enemies’ plans.” With a wave of his hand, Marr deactivates the projectors. “No longer.”

Well, she thinks as they step out of the tent, past the guards and into the midday heat, it’s about time.

***

And as we sat staring at the Republic, the Emperor destroyed a planet. Lana sighs. To say nothing of the Eternal Empire sneaking in through the back door.

Zakuul surprised the Republic too, to be fair, she shrugs. And I don’t know that handling Ziost differently would have done much good. Even without Kovach’s treachery, without Theron’s Jedi and Saresh’s absurd invasion attempt, he would have set our people to killing each other until he got what he wanted. How do we kill someone that doesn’t need a body, someone we couldn’t even see?

Interesting questions. In that moment Valkorion’s sitting beside her again, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, far too close for comfort. She tries not to flinch away when she catches sight of him out of the corner of her eye. How do you?

By the time she can turn to look at him fully he is gone.

That was then, old man, she says aloud, and hears Lana startle on her other side as the world snaps back into motion. I can see you now.

Lana’s hand is cool on the back of her neck.

***

At noon they gather in the center of camp, Republic delegates on one side and Imperials opposite, to say their goodbyes.

She doesn’t have to make a speech, thankfully. She isn’t nearly high-ranking enough for that. Instead she listens quietly, hands clasped behind her back, as Grand Master Shan and Darth Marr address the gathered crowd for the last time. (It reminds her a little of the speeches on Victory Day, when Coruscant fell- she was only a child then, still in primary school, but she remembers the parade, the figure of Darth Baras projected ten stories tall in the central square. All grand speeches were the same in that way, she thinks: the same platitudes, the same shallow promises.

The Sith Code has it right in one respect, at least. Peace is a lie.)

At the end of it the troops disperse to finish the work of disassembly, of loading the shuttles and troop transports, pulling down the tents and lowering the banners. They are left standing on the makeshift dais, turning to face each other, three and three, just as they did in their safehouse on Rishi.

It seems like so long ago. Has it really been less than a month?

“Are the terms we discussed still agreeable?” Satele’s tone is even, her hands folded neatly in front of her. “I’ve no particular desire for war today.”

“Our fleet departs for Dromund Kaas,” Marr replies, “the Mandalorian clans to Rishi and yours for Coruscant, and this is neutral space. We will not pursue unless given reason to do so.”

“And you shall find none.”

There’s an odd sort of formality to their cadence and when the two of them nod to one another the silence hangs in the air, almost palpable; beside her, Lana’s holding her breath. She catches Theron’s eye and he barely moves, one shoulder rising and falling in the slightest little shrug- if there’s something she missed he doesn’t feel it either, clearly.

More Force nonsense, then. It always came down to the Force in the end, no matter how hard the rest of them work, how many times they- Force-blind, defective, inferior- go to the wall in their masters’ names. It always will, probably. She’s used to it by now.

Doesn’t make it any less bantha shit, though.

“Then we will meet again on the battlefield, Grand Master.” As Marr speaks the breeze picks up, the air moving again. “But not today.”

Satele nods. “It will be as the Force wills it. I-” Then she stops, still looking upward at Marr as her head tilts subtly, and for a moment she’s almost staring through him, mouth still half-open around a word, her hands dropping to her sides. Behind her, Theron’s face scrunches in concern; he takes a step forward, but before he draws even with her Satele blinks and her gaze shifts rightward, straight at her.

It isn’t the first time she’s been stared down by a Jedi, but her expression’s something entirely different- in the past they always looked determined (the good ones, she supposes) or angry (the not-so-good ones, who often as not she didn’t need to fight at all, who only needed a little persuading). Satele looks-

-she looks worried, just for a second, before her face settles back into its usual calm solemnity and she keeps speaking as though nothing at all had happened, waving Theron back with a slight turn of one hand. “I don’t pretend to know the future, but yes, we will meet again. Until then, may the Force be with you.”

“May it serve you well,” Marr replies, and then they say no more.

(I don’t remember that, Lana says slowly. But perhaps it was a vision.

Of the future, or-?

She shrugs. It’s possible. With power like Satele has, the Force sometimes works in unpredictable ways.

You say ‘has’ as though you think she’s still alive.

I’ve no reason to assume she isn’t. I sensed Marr’s passing from halfway across the galaxy, and we had enough eyes on her to know that she survived the sack of Tython. She hasn’t been in contact with anyone- even Theron’s tried, without success- but if she’d died after that I would think I would have felt it.

She frowns, considering. I suppose. But they didn’t see each other again, did they- Marr and Satele? Before he died? It seems so long ago. It’s hard to remember.

Not in person, so far as I’m aware, though I suspect Grand Master Shan may have been meant to be part of the conclave on the Terminus but ended up delayed, just as I was. There were other Jedi there, yes?

There were, and Republic soldiers too. Still, it means she was wrong.

I can only imaging that interpreting the future might be rather subjective. It’s not a gift I share. Her nose wrinkling, Lana looks to her. Nor would I want to, I think. Imagine knowing what will happen and not being able to do anything about it.

An uncomfortable idea, indeed- a chill runs up her spine, prickling the hairs on the back of her neck. I wonder what she saw when she looked at me.)

Marr’s the first to turn away, dismissing her and Lana with a gesture as his guards fall in at either side. Opposite them, Satele starts to walk toward the far edge of the platform; Theron, turning, says something too quiet to hear at this distance and his mother shakes her head. I’m fine- her lips form around the words, then press together in a narrow line as he replies- leave it be, Theron. We’ll speak later.

He sighs as Satele descends the stairs, and then it’s just the four of them left- her and Lana and Theron and Jakarro, one final time.

She raises an eyebrow at Theron, a silent question, and he runs one hand through his hair and makes a face. Fair enough.

“So. I guess this is goodbye.” Theron’s looking at Lana, not at her, when he says it.

“I suppose it is. It’s certainly been…” Lana stops, clearly thinking better of whatever she way about to say. “It’s been an experience, hasn’t it?”

She can’t help it- she laughs a little at that, and Jakarro growls amusement and Theron grins as Lana flushes. “That’s one word for it.”

“I get what you meant,” Theron says. “And yeah, it definitely was. Maybe not one I’d care to repeat, but- well. We got through it, and now it’s back to real life. Like a really weird vacation.”

“Are you heading back with Theron, Jakarro? Much as I hate to admit it, the Empire isn’t the wisest destination for you.” Looking up at the Wookiee as he roars out a reply, she shifts her focus down to Dee-Four for the translation.

“We’re headed back to Rishi!” The droid sounds suspiciously cheerful, which never bodes well, and more to the point-

Lana says it before she can. “Jakarro, you hated Rishi.”

He gestures for emphasis, and Theron has to duck to keep from getting bowled over. “Exactly! That is why I must return!” Dee-Four keeps translating over a series of ever-louder roars. He clearly feels strongly about this. “Those pirates are the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen, but they have potential. I’m going to whip them into shape.”

“Hear, hear.” Shae Vizla, walking past with a few of her clanmates trailing behind, raises a fist in agreement. “Not worth my time, but someone ought to do it. Plenty of credits there if you’ve got the stones to tame that mess. You catching a ride with our ships, then?”

“We have a few stops to make first, but we’ll be there shortly.” She wishes, not for the first time, she understood more Shyriiwook. She’s pretty sure that’s not what Jakarro actually said.

“Fair enough. And Cipher?” Shae pauses in front of the dais and nods her head in her direction. “You find any more fights that good, you know where to find me.”

She grins. Short a punch in the teeth that’s as much respect as she’s ever likely to get from a Mandalorian. “I’ll keep that in mind. Ret’urcye mhi.”

Her pronunciation’s shitty and her mouth catches on the glottal stop, but Shae just grins. “Not bad, Imp. Not bad. Ret’urcye mhi.”

“Well, then”- turning back to Jakarro as the Mandalorians continue across the courtyard, she holds out her hand- “good luck, big guy. Dee-Four, try not to let him rip too many arms off.”

Unexpectedly, he pulls her in for a hug- oh, stars, that might have just been a rib cracking- as he sweeps Theron and, surprisingly, Lana, in with his other arm, nearly pulling them off their feet. “Be safe, little friends.”

“I- oof- I will.” Extracting herself from his grip, Lana takes a deep breath. “And you too, Theron. Be well. I suspect you’ll have an easier time of it without me around.”

“Now you admit it?” Theron blinks, then chuckles. “You’re probably right, yeah- but you too, Lana. Try not to get in too much trouble, all right?”

“I’ll do my best. Cipher-” she looks toward her- “I’ll see you back at the tent. I’m going to go start  packing things up and we can continue our earlier discussion.”

When she nods agreement, Lana steps down onto the cobblestones and sets off toward their side of camp; Jakarro, with one last wave, heads toward the Republic shuttle pads. After a moment, they’re both out of sight behind the rows.  

Theron turns to her, then. “So-” too loud, meant to be overheard even if they can’t be sure anyone’s listening- “you’re finally getting rid of me, huh?”

“I will admit, I’m a little sad to see this end.” She gestures around them, at the little camp that was their home. “I’m going to miss you.”

“Me, too. C’mere.”

It’s a brief embrace, chaste and appropriate in sight of the soldiers still hard at work clearing the courtyard. If she had any sense that would have been the end of it.

He whispers in her ear, though, as his fingertips brush along her back. “Do you still think you can get away, or-?”

“I’ve just got a few things to take care of,” she murmurs in reply. “Give me an hour or two, but I’ll send you a message.”

“Good.” Theron takes a step back, his voice picking up volume again. “Take care, Cipher. See you in the ops reports.”

“Not if I’m doing my job properly,” she says, and he winks before he turns away.

(I should have known. Lana sighs. But-

We were careful, as I said. Not careful enough, of course. She raises one hand to her throat at the memory, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Although I’ve been meaning to ask you- what happened to Jakarro? Do you know?

Lana shakes her head. He and Dee-Four did go to Rishi. When the war hit, though, Zakuul blockaded the hyperspace lanes. The pirates and smugglers didn’t stand a chance. I looked for him when I started to pull the Alliance together, but- she frowns. Nothing. And they weren’t exactly inconspicuous.

No, they weren’t. She sighs.)

Back in the tent, she throws her things into her duffel- everything needs washing in any case, so there’s no point in folding- and strips the linens off her cot. Lana’s still packing, setting everything neatly into her own bag, and looks up as she dumps the sheets onto the floor.

“I’ve got people coming to haul everything away. Don’t worry about taking those to the laundry crates.”

“Perks of rank, hm? All right.” The console needs to go, too; she starts an erasure program, setting the storage chips to purge their data. A hammer would be quicker, but the unit could be reused. Waste not, want not. “I’ll start making holocalls, unless you’ve got another task for me.”

“Hm? No, I think anything more than that can wait,” Lana says, rummaging under her cot for a stray tabard.

She nods. “Fine. You don’t have any particular objection to non-humans, do you? Some of my contacts are a bit on the unconventional side. I’ll need to reorder my list-” she holds up her datapad- “if you do, though it’ll be your staff. It’s up to you.”

“Define unconventional.”

“Nothing scandalous. Chiss, mostly. Twi’leks. One Nautolan, if she’ll hire on. Sweetest-looking face you ever saw and she could kill you in a dozen ways with a credit chit and a roll of spacer’s tape. Also a trained receptionist. I was thinking of her for a bodyguard for you, at least until Zhorrid’s been managed.”

Her bag fastened, Lana lofts it across the tent with a wave of one hand until it settles just next to the entrance. “I’ve no objections. If you think they’re suitable, I trust your judgment.”

“Famous last words.” Setting her transmitter on the desktop, she dials in the first address. “It’s been a few years. Let’s see if anyone remembers me.”

***

She oughtn’t have worried.

For better or for worse, people in her line of work have long memories. She learned long ago not to burn bridges unless she didn’t have a choice and it makes the calls that much easier; a dozen conversations later, she’s got their first agents heading back to Dromund Kaas- three Minders, two Fixers, five security specialists including the Nautolan and, in a stroke of excellent luck, Cipher Seventeen. Her only failures are Minder Eight (hugely pregnant, when she answers the holo; she only laughs and points to her belly before Nine can even ask. “I’m sorry, Cipher, but I’m afraid I’ve retired from that particular line of work,” she grins, and Fixer Twelve peeks over her shoulder and waves hello) and one old Nar Shaddaa contact who simply hangs up on her (in retrospect, she did promise she’d call him the next day, didn’t she?).

All in all, a good start.

Two soldiers peek through the tent opening as she disconnects the final call. “Sorry to interrupt, Lord Beniko- and Cipher. Thought you’d told us to come and pull the tent down, but if we should come back later-”

“I was just finishing up.” Tucking the holo into her belt pouch, she rises, stretching. It’s later than she thought. She should find Theron. “I’m sure I can find somewhere else to be.”

Lana nods, too. “I’ll find a sunny corner to meditate in. Once we’re home again, Force knows when we’ll next see actual daylight.”

“D’you want us to take your bags to loadout?” The second soldier chimes in, even as she’s already starting to take one of the desks apart. “We’ve got to head back that way either way, and it’s no trouble.

One less thing to do. Why not? “Fine. Let me just grab my rifle-” she picks it up from its resting place atop the duffel bag, sliding it into her back holster until it clicks; no one touches her guns but her and her team, a lesson she learned the hard way early on. That misfire nearly cost her a finger- “and it’s all yours. I’ll see you in a few hours, Lana.”

She barely sees her wave as she steps out of the tent- she’s already looking down at her commpad, typing out a message.

Did you still want to talk? Free now until shuttle launch.

His reply’s immediate.

meet me by the war table?

She smiles. On my way.

***

When she reaches the stone table it’s bare, now, all the monitors and equipment already hauled away and only faint outlines on the ground left as signs they were ever there. In another few weeks the vines and weeds they’d cut away will have grown back and there’ll be no trace of them at all save only the wrecked shuttle across the clearing and the perimeter sensors left in the field; in a year even those will be gone, rusted relics mixed in with the crumbling stones. It’ll be as though they were never here.

It’s a sobering thought.

She doesn’t see Theron at first. When she turns, though, there he is, leaning against the wall of one of the ruins, and he smiles at her when she

“For a little while there I thought you might be standing me up.” Taking her by one wrist, he draws her around until they’re out of view of the archway.

“Oh, you know,” she says, “no rest for the wicked. Plus, I had to pack.”

“More work already?” Theron wrinkles his nose at her. “It’s bad enough that we’re back to the same damn war, but they could have given you a day off, at least.”

“We’re not big on vacations in the Empire.” After a moment, looking at him still frowning, she reaches out with her other hand to touch his arm. “That came out less funny than I meant it. I wasn’t going to leave without saying goodbye, Theron, regardless of the circumstances.”

“Us being on opposite sides again, you mean.”

She sighs. She should have known he’d think of things that way- he never was going to be the no-strings type, no matter what he said. “Yes. But we knew that was going to happen from the beginning.”

“I- yeah. Sorry. I’m just not-” he shakes his head, leans down to brush his lips across her forehead and despite herself she tilts her chin up into the kiss. “I keep thinking that now I’ve got to go back to real life and make myself forget, that all of this was a mistake, but-”

“You do. I do, too,” she says against his throat. “And you’re allowed to make mistakes, Theron, whether you admit it to yourself or not. You’re allowed to want things even if you know they’re bad for you.”

“You aren’t- you weren’t bad for me. You saved me.”

She closes her eyes as he cups her head in his hands. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”  

“I know that. But you weren’t.” Another kiss, punctuating the words. “Somehow I didn’t picture this, that first day on Manaan.”

“Quite a ways from Mysterious Ally, hm?” She grins as he mutters something against her skin. “And to think I thought you’d be dull.”

“Really?” It’s only mock offense in his voice, and when she glances upward he’s grinning too. “Not roguishly charming?”

“You’re more the brooding type, but I had you figured for Standard Republic Issue- too serious. Hot, though.”

Theron laughs out loud at that, hands drifting downward, settling around her waist. “I take a while to warm up, ‘s all. Though I’ll admit I was wrong about you, too.”

“Oh, do tell,” she purrs, leaning against him. They’ve got a little time, still. She doesn’t need to leave quite yet.

(She doesn’t want to leave yet. She tries not to think about that too much.)

“Only if you promise not to get mad.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Don’t be absurd.”

“You popped up on holo down in that base, covered in Selkath blood and half on fire, and I thought-” he stops-  oh, stars, is he blushing again?- “I remember thinking, y’know, crazy doesn’t normally do it for me but damn- ”

“Ah, romance,” she says dryly, and winks. “You hid it well. I rather got the impression you loathed me.”

“Thought you said it was overrated. And no, I just- it’s hard training to break, you know? All we ever learn from day one on is you versus us, but once we knew each other better-”

“Oh, it is.” He’s still got a scratch along one cheekbone from yesterday and she traces it with an idle fingertip, curling in closer as his arms tighten around her. “And yes, I know. Though I meant what I said before. I am going to miss you.”

Theron’s quiet for a moment, his head tilting into her touch. “I’m going to miss you, too. I wish you-”

“Don’t.” She lets her hand dip lower, presses her finger to his mouth. “Don’t.”

“Do we just say goodbye, then?”

(She should have known better. Leaving is one thing; leaving is easy. Forgetting is easy. But she doesn’t want to hurt him and someday she’s probably going to have to and that-

That complicates things.)

She nods. “It’s easiest that way.”

“What time is it?”

Turning her wrist, she looks at her chrono. “Nearly four. Why?”

“We still have an hour, then, don’t we? Before we need to be on the shuttles?”

“Yes, but-”

“Then we can say goodbye-” Theron nudges her hand aside, catches her mouth with his and she shouldn’t but oh, to the Void with that; she is allowed to want things that she knows are bad for her- “in an hour.”

She lets him push her back against the wall.

***

And- well. Not exactly love at first sight, but you know what happened after that, she finishes, grinning, with a little shrug of her shoulders. He went back to the SIS, and I went back to work, and that was the end of it. No one else ever knew but Vector.

(His nose twitched as she slid into the seat beside him on the shuttle back to the Terminus, and after a moment he leans over to murmur into her ear. “We wondered where you’d gone. Agent Shan, hm?”

Killiks and their damned pheromones. She never could get anything past Vector, not that she’d ever really tried; he could read her like a book.

She sighed. “Spare me the lecture, Vector, please. I know.”

“Lecture? Never.” As he adjusted the harness straps across her body, he raised the edge of her collar to hide her neck. “We were only going to compliment your taste.”)

I do know, Lana mutters, rather too well. But you’re honestly telling me that nothing happened between then and Ziost?

Nothing happened. We never even spoke, and I was telling you the truth on Ziost. I didn’t know he was there until Kovach mentioned his name.

And after that?

She shakes her head. We spoke once, briefly, a few weeks later. Not in person- she clarifies as Lana’s brows start to creep ceilingward- I was shipboard off Alderaan and he was on Coruscant. I- I gave him the implant he wears now. He probably told you that.

He did. I’m not sure he meant to. Lana rubs her forehead. It was on Asylum, and we were both very drunk at the time.

And the next time I saw Theron, she says quietly, outside of five years of carbonite dreams, was here.

The day I called him, when I was sure you were alive, was the anniversary of the day we thought you’d died. I didn’t even think of it at the time, but- Lana sighs. He was a wreck, Nine. The war was hard on all of us, and I knew you’d been lovers, of course, but I didn’t realize how much he- she trails off.

(She remembers the night of the party. ‘I mourned you,’ he’d said, curled beside her, and she never really understood the depth of what he meant until now.)

Theron kissed me on Ziost. Did he tell you that, too?

Lana blinks, surprised. No. He didn’t.

Before it happened- on the orbital station, while we were in the medical bay; I’d told him that you knew. He was trying to prove your point about objectivity. I stopped him then, but-

Was I right?

She chuckles. What do you think?

I think that right now you deserve to be happy despite everything that’s going on around us, despite everything going on inside your head, and I think Theron looks better than I’ve seen him in years. And I think- Lana smiles- it would be awful of me to be anything but happy for you.

Thank you, she says; Lana stands, then, with a barely stifled yawn. But do me a favor, won’t you?

Hm?

She stretches out until she’s laying flat on the couch, sprawling across the space left vacant by Lana. Go talk to Koth. Don’t keep dancing around things- it’s better to have it all out in the open.

You ought to take your own advice. I saw Theron sneaking out of here yesterday morning.

She makes a face- guilty as charged. Do as I say, not as I do. Still.

But I don’t think I want-

I know that, she says. I don’t mean sex, or romance, if that’s not what you want. Just… talk. I don’t want something else ruined because of me.

You didn’t- Lana stops herself. All right. But tomorrow, I think- for now, I should sleep. As should you.

I will. I might see if Theron’s still awake, first. I…

(She isn’t used to any of this.)

I miss him.

I know. Lana smiles. Good night, Nine.

***

Up next- Interlude III: Liminal Space. A holocall, two leads, and a cure for insomnia as we return to present time.

(Don’t worry, we’re not skipping over the shuttle entirely, but that’s a memory better shared with someone other than Lana, I think. I leave it to you, readers- how much do you want to hear about that final hour?

And for those of you who are familiar with this week’s spoilers (5.4): yes, I plan to continue this story regardless of how things play out. How I’ll approach that particular turn remains to be seen, of course, but I do have an idea- one of the seeds of which appears somewhere in this chapter.)

#inyri writes #equivalent exchange #swtor fanfiction #imperial agent/theron shan #cipher nine #theron shan #writing is the best form of denial

[dragonshost]

There Are Corpses Beneath The Cherry Trees

GrayTear Rating: T (for safety)

Written for the GrayTear exchange, as a gift to @itsajoshyboy! Super late, but in my defense life recently beat the shit out of me, and I lost a ton of WIPS to a crashed computer. Wanted to do so much more symbolism with this, but ran out of time. Please enjoy.

Inspired in part by Kajii Motojirou's short story, "Beneath the Cherry Trees."

It's chilly.

Or it would have been for anyone without the constant flow of ice magic in their veins. But for Gray, it was a comfortable sort of feeling. The cold wind blew with it the perfume of sakura, tinged with the bite of winter. Lungs filling with it, it burned inside Gray's chest. It was as familiar as a favorite blanket to him, and did not even warrant the opening of his eyes to investigate further.

For he was... not entirely sure where he was, or how he had come to get there. A suspicion tickled the back of his brain - a sense that he was somewhere elsewhere from where he was supposed to be. And while this should have alarmed him, the lulling breeze forced the notion under a heavy insulation of calm, and Gray found himself without the motivation to dwell too deeply on the abnormality.

Then he felt a gentle pressure on his cheeks, and Gray finally opened his eyes, blinking rapidly against the sudden bright light sending spears of pain through his skills.

"Looks who's awake after all." Gray thought he caught a glimpse of a half-smile and long, dark tresses bound with white ribbon, before a hand lifted from his cheeks and rested over his eyes instead. "Your sight should adjust in a second; just be a little more patient."

He sighed, relaxing and closing his eyes once more. "Alright. Whatever you say, Ultear."

Though he couldn't see it, he could hear the wry smile in her words. "I don't recall you being quite so compliant with me before."

"Yeah, well..." Gray's voice trailed away, whatever he was going to say lost to the pervasive calm enshrouding him. "Things are different now," he finished, the surety in the words surprising him.

Different? From what?

"I suppose they are." Light drenched the back of his eyelids as she removed her hand. "You should find it easier to see, now."

Gray blinked. Although still intense, the brightness no longer hurt him. He turned his head, grass tickling his nose, and stared at the woman kneeling beside him in a white dress, unmindful of potential grass stains. Behind her, the wide trunk of an ancient rainbow sakura rose from the earth - the boughs high above them casting them in intermittent, many-hued shade.

Ultear raised an eyebrow at him. "Just going to lay there and stare at me, are you?" Then she patted her lap. "Well if you're going stay lying down, I don't mind being your pillow for a little while."

Heat flooded Gray's cheeks, and he quickly rose to a sitting position. "No way, that's too embarrassing." But as he moved, his vision swam with darkness and firework flashes, and before he knew it, Ultear had pulled him down to her lap.

Her cool, calloused hands stroked his hair as his vision returned to normal. "Almost had a blackout there," she teased. "Try to sit up too fast?" Gray turned his face away from her and her smug expression, and she giggled at his petulance.

They remained like that for some time - Ultear running her hands through his hair, and Gray staring out at the orchard that surrounded them. He was all too aware of the warmth and hard muscles beneath his head, and the prickle of unseen twigs on the ground he laid on. The rainbow sakuras from which they came stretched on without an end in sight, their petals drifting on the breeze in great clouds of color. Through their branches, Gray could see a blank white sky - cloud cover so thick and so bright that he couldn't tell where the sun was at, or guess the time. The light cast strange halos around the sakura and the images of the trees wavered, as if they were reflected on the surface of oily water... no matter how hard he tried to focus. His head starting to ache from the strain, Gray closed his eyes again.

"So... Gray," Ultear began to say, and then paused, her hands stilling their movement.

"Hmm?"

"How have you been? It's been quite a while."

Had it?

"Been fine, mostly." He didn't feel it appropriate to return the question.

"That's a lie and you know it," Ultear admonished.

Gray frowned, but didn't correct her. "...Better," he amended.

Better from what, though?

Her reply was soft, hardly louder than the rustle of the sakura leaves. "Liar."

Pain squeezed his chest, dark claws digging into his flesh and robbing him of breath. "Where... did you go, Ultear?" Like hers, Gray's voice was a hoarse whisper. His throat and eyes burned. "Meredy looked for you, you know. After the Eclipse Gate."

Fingertips pressed against Gray's temples, not hard enough to hurt. "Jellal didn't, did he."

The bitter hurt in her voice struck true. "I looked for you, too," Gray offered.

She was silent for a long moment. "...I'm sorry."

Opening his eyes again, Gray looked up into Ultear's, which glistened with unshed tears. "We missed you."

She let out a short laugh. "Meredy is one thing, but what was there for you to miss? You and I hardly knew each other. Even if you combined all of our time together, you and I have maybe only known each other for a day. Maybe two. You didn't know me, Gray." She swallowed thickly. "There shouldn't have been anything to miss. What impact did I have on your life? Is it because I look like Ur? Is it because I'm her daughter?"

"Of course not," he said, his frustration stirring. "You know that's not it-"

"Is it because I made the same choice?"

Her quivering voice strangled whatever response Gray had been about to provide, comforting platitudes dying in his throat.

The same... choice?

"What difference did I make, Gray?" Another laugh, and a teardrop slid down her cheek. "One minute. That's all my life was worth. One measly minute."

Gray had no clue what she was referring to.

And that felt a worse betrayal than her disappearance.

His stomach began to burn.

Ultear shook her head, and then smiled at him. Gently, she stroked his cheeks with the rough, calloused pad of her thumbs. "All I wanted was to make a difference."

"You did," he insisted. "You did."

To Meredy. To me.

"I wish I could believe that," she whispered.

"Yeah. Me, too."

A sigh fell from her lips, and she shut her eyes. For a moment, Gray watched her steady breathing, soaking in the touch of her hands on his face. Gray couldn't remember the last time someone had been so... tender with him. Juvia was mostly force, even though she could be endearing in her quieter moments. But she wasn't like this when she tried to touch him.

The burning in his abdomen was spreading.

Ultear licked her lips, and then opened her eyes to gaze down at him once again. "I fear we're almost out of time." The thought made her lips curl into a half-smile. "Ironic though that is."

Confusion met sorrow, as Gray stared blankly up at the woman.

"Why did you do the same thing we did, Gray?"

His heartbeat thudded in his throat. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The smile she gave him was pitying. "Yes. You do."

Pain shot up his gut.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he repeating, with a groan.

Ultear's gaze drifted from his, resting on his exposed stomach.

Gray's, too, shifted to look down at himself.

Dark, dark liquid poured from a gaping hole in his body, seeping into the ground and staining Ultear's white dress crimson.

"Why did you repeat our mistakes? Aren't the students supposed to learn from their teachers?"

Gray gasped, as intense pain overloaded his senses, and images of battle and chains of ice assaulted his mind. "I... I didn't..." He let out a strangled laugh, though it came out more like a sob. "I didn't see another option!"

"Shh," Ultear hushed. "Don't worry." She smiled at him, affection clear in her eyes. "I won't let you face the same fate as us. It's the only thing I can still do for you. It's all the time I have left in me, but I can close your wound."

"But... your magic doesn't..."

"My magic does affect living things - it's always been able to. I just hadn't seen it before. Think, Gray. How else could I make trees grow? And unlock your second origin? I can reverse this time, as well. Although... I can't put your blood back in your body. But Juvia is already seeing to that, and I've asked Wendy to come. She'll reach you and Juvia soon, I think."

"Then what's going to happen to you?"

She shrugged slightly. "I'll become one with time, and lose my sense of individuality here." Ultear laugh rang out, clear as a bell, at the anger and sorrow that clouded Gray's face. "Don't make that face! Time is a stream that flows through all worlds, and all streams lead to the ocean." Her smile was more brilliant that the unchanging sky in this place. "I'm going home."

"And now... it's time for you to do so as well."

"No. Please, no," Gray whispered. "I don't want to go just yet."

She leaned down, and placed her lips against Gray's forehead, even as he clung to her hands like a man drowning.

"Goodbye, Gray."

There are bodies buried beneath the cherry trees!

You've got to believe it. Well, otherwise you couldn't possibly believe that cherry trees could bloom so beautifully. I've been out of sorts these past two or three days, because I couldn't believe in such a beauty. But now I've finally understood it: there are bodies buried beneath the cherry trees. You've got to believe it.

-"Sakura no ki no shita niwa", by Kajii Motojirou

#graytear exchange #graytear #gray fullbuster #ultear milkovich #fairy tail #ft #fanfiction #tw: suicide #just in case #because canon Ultear and Gray