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janeofcakes · 1 year

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The Final Solution

Here it is, friends. The one shot of which I spoke, the first of the two snippets I shared in the WIP Tag Game. I was inspired by a Tumblr post a few weeks ago, or maybe days, who knows? Everything oozes together into one sloppy puddle these days. I hope you enjoy.💜

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The tarmac around them was barren, bleak and lifeless. There was a line of planes some distance away from them. All had sunny destinations that were perfect for family vacations and weekend get-aways, but that was another world. The private plane they stood close to had an all-together different target, one that held nothing but pain and death.

“John, there’s something I should say,” Sherlock’s words were quiet and full of regret. He looked down at the cold, gray concrete beneath his feet and took a deep breath. He could get through this. He had to say this. He had to tell John how he felt, how he’d always felt.

He raised his eyes to meet John’s again and his breath caught in his throat. The doctor’s face was a mixture of discomfort, sorrow and agony. He knew. John knew what all of this meant. In spite of all Sherlock had just said, all of the questions he answered vaguely, John knew that Sherlock was being sent to his death. This was an assignment he would not complete and Captain John Watson had no delusions that Sherlock would still be alive when it all came to an end. The detective silently berated himself. He should have known that John was not so naive as to not comprehend the gravity of the situation, no matter how easily Mycroft thought it was to pull the wool over the doctor’s eyes.

“I’ve meant to say always and never have,” Sherlock continued, biting back a shuddering gasp that nearly overtook his words.

John must have heard it in his voice because his face twisted in anguish, but he quickly schooled it with the purse of his lips and squinting his eyes. Those deep blue eyes that told so much were fixed on Sherlock like a vice that would never loosen its grip. Anger born by helplessness shone through them, thrusting like spears into Sherlock’s mind, but it wasn’t alone. Unbearable grief filled John’s eyes into glassy orbs of thick water, slowly sloshing this way and that. His inherent rage held it like a dam made of the strongest stone. Anyone else who saw him would simply see the fury, but Sherlock could see it all and it slid into his heart with the cruel whisper of a sword.

“Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again,” Sherlock said hesitantly, his voice kept steady by sheer force of will, “I might as well say it now.”

Sherlock stopped speaking abruptly and bit his lip. His eyes slipped closed and he could hear John’s feet shuffling, his body full of nervous energy and tension. Sherlock shared the sentiment. He was on a great precipice, torn between the desire to confess his true feelings this one last chance he would ever have or carrying it to his grave. Both were exceedingly selfish. He believed John would want to know what he had come to mean to him, but it would make their parting all the more painful. John was Sherlock’s life, his conductor of light, his soul. He loved John with his very being. Why he had never found the courage to tell John was beyond his own comprehension. Sherlock knew what dangers they faced in their line of work. Any day could be his last, or John’s, but somehow it seemed as though there would always be more time. That wasn’t the whole of it though. Sherlock was scared of losing John and confessing his love was the surest way to push John “I’m not gay” Watson away.

Telling John would also mean throwing his whole life on its end. John was with Mary. He chose Mary. Sherlock told him he should forgive Mary for the sake of the child and for John himself. He loved Mary. Yes, she had lied. Nothing about her life was as she made it out to be. She was an assassin for hire, blackmailed by the most sinister of villains. She had shot Sherlock, but she made John happy and they had only just married. Sherlock could hardly tell his newlywed best friend that he loved him when said marriage was just beginning and there was a baby on the way. No. Sherlock couldn’t do that to John, not when things were finally starting to take form. No. John would have the life he had always wanted; a job, a wife and child, and Sherlock would disappear. It was better that way. Better for John, and Sherlock would always put the doctor’s happiness above his own.

“Sherlock is really a girl’s name,” Sherlock muttered at a loss for anything else. He tried to keep his lips from curling into a knowing smirk with mixed results.

One look at his face and John turned his head away, a huff of strangled laughter bursting from his lips. He put his hands on his hips and stared resolutely at the concrete beneath his feet, trying to collect himself. Sherlock had seen this before. A war waged within John and he was doing his utmost to keep it at bay. No one side could triumph over the other or chaos would consume John’s mind and the emotions he tried so hard to hide would flow out of the banks of restraint.

“I’m pretty sure it’s not,” John said through clenched teeth when he looked at Sherlock again. He let out a quick, fake laugh, but said no more.

Sherlock took a deep breath and blinked once slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground. With nothing left to do, he raised his right hand and held it out to John. Blue eyes full of confusion looked at it and then melted into sorrow as they reached Sherlock’s face. John immediately took the offered hand and squeezed it tightly in one final handshake. Sherlock saw the first time they touched hands in the lab at Bart’s in his mind’s eye. That first touch of fingers when John handed his mobile over was the impetus for Sherlock’s love. He could see that John was struggling with sorrow and self-loathing that day, and he had instantly wanted to make it better. He wanted to make John more again, into the man he once was. That small spark had grown into a love so large that Sherlock had to make whole wings in his mind palace for John and time spent with him. His very heart, which he had been reliably informed did not exist, increased in size and scope to accommodate the level of feeling he had for John.

“Goodbye, John,” Sherlock whispered when the scrape of John’s shoes on the tarmac brought him back to the present. He retrieved his hand from John and took a step back. John’s hand slowly lowered to his side as he watched Sherlock move. His mouth said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes and every one crushed Sherlock’s breaking heart.

Nodding at John one last time, Sherlock turned his back and began walking toward the door of the plane. He stared straight ahead, closing off his heart as he went. He mustn’t let the emotion overtake him. He would not let John witness his collapse, lest it add to the sorrow the doctor already felt. There would be time to allow the breakdown once he was alone on the plane. Alone. It was what he used to want and he guarded it closely. ‘Alone protects me.’ The words were so hollow now and not at all what he desired. John had changed his very way of thinking and he honestly wasn’t sure he could go back.

Imaging a small ball of ice in his heart, Sherlock willed it to grow until it could encapsulate the whole organ. If he succeeded, he could make it to the plane and into the air before his emotions betrayed him. He could feel the inevitable prick of tears in his eyes and fought to keep it at bay. He hadn’t even taken that many steps, the feeling of John’s body heat still warm on his back, and Sherlock furrowed his brow at that. There was more than enough distance between them, even with the few steps Sherlock had taken. John’s warmth should already be a distant memory. The detective’s shoulders sagged slightly. It felt like he had walked miles.

This thought fled his mind as quickly as it came when warm fingers wrapped around his left elbow, closing against a palm that was suddenly pressed against his arm. The hand tugged Sherlock around and he was facing John again. His John.

The doctor’s arms were around Sherlock, his face buried in the taller man’s shoulder before the detective could say a word. John drew him in snugly, pressing the whole length of his body against Sherlock tightly. A wet gasp sounded near Sherlock’s ear as the force of John’s bone-crushing embrace increased. Thoroughly startled, Sherlock’s own arms were suspended as far out to the sides as allowed by John’s grasp, his fingers spread in shock. His lips were parted in surprise and he was lost for words, solely unprepared for this reaction.

“Don’t…don’t go,” John begged into Sherlock’s shoulder. His voice was heavy with emotion and tears. “I don’t want you to go.”

Sherlock’s icy heart shattered with such force that he gasped aloud and blinked his eyes wide. His long arms wrapped around John almost of their own volition. He tilted his head to rest a cheek against the side of John’s head, the scent of his soft hair drifting into his nostrils as a tear ran down the other cheek. Sherlock fought with the emotions that threatened to overtake him, breathing deeply and slowly in an effort to maintain control as he hugged the stuffing out of his blogger.

“Fuck me,” Mary Morstan muttered from where she and Mycroft Holmes stood at a distance observing the scene.

Mycroft, ever the pragmatist, reached into his breast pocket and removed a thin bundle of pages folded into thirds. He passed the document to Mary without looking at her. Confused, she hesitantly took it, opened it slowly and scanned through the words of the first page. Once she had ascertained its contents, she looked up at Mycroft sharply, her chin jutting out in fury.

“I will give you one chance to walk away,” the elder Holmes said, his eyes still on his brother and the man he loved. “You will not return under any circumstances or contact either of them again.”

Mycroft paused for a long moment, allowing his words to hang in the air, heavy with intent. Mary didn’t move a muscle, her glare seering into his skin. Finally, the tall man turned his head slowly to stare at her with piercing ice-blue daggers.

“If you do not,” Mycroft’s tone was definitive and whispered with a dangerous promise, “I will drop you where you stand.”

Some distance away and well out of earshot, Sherlock shook his head and released his grasp, taking hold of John’s biceps instead and pushing him away. John stared up at him, face full of concern, as Sherlock stepped well back from his friend. He held out his right hand, palm facing John, to prevent any advance. Sherlock’s mind was reeling. He couldn’t organize the thoughts that spun this way and that, not while John was touching him.

“Stop,” Sherlock managed, taking a half step back and bracing himself when it looked as though John would reach for him. “I have to go. This is how it must be.”

“Bullshit,” John muttered furiously, taking in Sherlock’s wet cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. “Your brother can fix anything he wants.”

“This is different,” Sherlock’s voice was unsteady, despite his best efforts.

“When you were gone,” John began, his voice shaking with emotion. He obviously didn’t want to spend any more time on such a useless argument as what Mycroft can and cannot do, “all I wanted was for you to stop being dead. And then, when you came back, I just…rejected you.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say or do. He couldn’t seem to move his body. He was torn between wanting to hear every word and wanting to get as far away from John as possible. Still, he found himself looking at John inquisitively, silently urging him to go on.

“I never asked you where you were or what happened to you or why…” John trailed off as he gazed at Sherlock meaningfully. His expression made it clear that he did, in fact, know exactly why Sherlock had leapt off Bart’s and why he made John watch. Damn Mycroft, meddling in Sherlock’s life without consideration for how his actions affect others.

“You were injured. Badly,” John said flatly. He reached a hand to touch Sherlock’s shoulder, but the detective flinched back and John stopped a few inches from contact. Sherlock would never be able to go if John touched him again. The doctor’s hand hovered in the air as he continued: “I tackled you to the ground and hit you. Your back was covered with wounds.”

“You couldn’t have known, John,” Sherlock said. It was nothing John didn’t know already and obviously did not ease his guilt, but needed to be said. For the first time in his life, Sherlock understood the meaning behind useless placations. He needed John to know that however he felt about it, Sherlock did not blame him for his reaction to the return. It hurt Sherlock, of course. It still did, but he did not blame John in the slightest. John was shaking his head, ready to place the blame where he thought it belonged, but Sherlock would not allow it.

“I made a game of it,” the detective admitted with shame. “My conceit made me think you had done nothing while I was gone. I let myself believe you were lost without me and had just waited for my return like it was inevitable, but it wasn’t. Not in your mind. I was dead to you, and then I just waltzed back in with a fake mustache and a bad accent in a public place, no less. I set myself up for exactly what happened.”

John looked at him with soft, trembling eyes, unable to speak. The hurt was plain on his face and Sherlock’s heart wept for the man before him. God, how he wanted to fold his arms around him and take all the pain away. The pain he put in John’s heart with his carelessness.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock’s voice was low and reverent. He dipped his head to glance down and then met John’s eyes again, his face contrite and sad. “I’m so sorry. You gave me something precious and I…abused it.”

“You abused it?” John huffed a humorless laugh. His hands were at his sides again, his left clenching in and out of a fist. “I’ve done nothing but abuse you since you came back. Even when I was glad to have you back, I held your very presence against you as if I could never forgive it. Like things would never be the same between us.”

“Can you forgive me?” Sherlock asked slowly and against his better judgment.

He knew full well if John said yes he would never be able to get on that plane and he honestly wasn’t sure where that left him. John was right about Mycroft. His pompous brother could get Sherlock out of this mess with Magnussen. It would be difficult, since the British government wasn’t at all happy with the circumstance, and considering its public nature, but Mycroft could still do it. If he did though, what would it really mean for the future? John was married and would soon be a father. Things would never be the way they were. Was living that way better than the alternative?

“Yes,” John said definitively, surprising Sherlock with an answer to his unasked question. He met his blogger’s sincere face with wide eyes and parted lips. “I can only hope you’ll forgive me when I hurt you in so many ways. I was wrong and selfish and…”

“I do, John,” Sherlock interrupted him quickly. “Please believe that.”

John studied him for a long moment and nodded once with the barest dip of his chin.

“I do,” John said solemnly and this time he did reach for Sherlock, but not his shoulder as before. His left hand came to rest warmly on Sherlock’s cheek, cupping it as if it would break. Sherlock couldn’t help but lean into the touch and John’s lips parted ever so slightly to suck in a quiet gasp before closing again.

Suddenly, Sherlock had to say more. John had to know it all. He absolutely had to know the depth of Sherlock’s feeling for him, that he was home. I love you. I love you . Instead of simply saying that, however, his mind went back to the beginning.

“That day at Bart’s,” Sherlock began, already wanting to kick himself, “I saw you for what you had once been. A soldier and doctor, confident and pleased with the life you had chosen.”

John tilted his head curiously and let his hand slide from Sherlock’s face. The detective’s cheek felt instantly cold from the loss of warmth, but John did not simply pull away. He let his hand drift down to rest on Sherlock’s chest, directly over his heart. Sherlock hoped he couldn’t feel it beating wildly, but was sure he could.

“From that day, I’ve wanted to make you happy. I know I didn’t always do the best job,” Sherlock cringed apologetically. “Aside from fixing the psychosomatic limp and entertaining you with cases, I wasn’t terribly good at it.”

“I was happy, Sherlock,” John said quietly, but sincerely. “Very.”

“Still, I was inconsiderate and harsh and certainly did not take your feelings into account on many occasions. Most occasions,” Sherlock pressed on quickly, his tone changing to a more timid one by the end. He inhaled deeply before he went on: “I severely underestimated how my… absence would affect you. Had I known…”

“Don’t say you would’ve done it differently,” John’s voice was harsh and Sherlock only just stopped himself from recoiling. “We both know that’s not true.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed after a long pause, “I wouldn’t have.”

They stood staring at one another, John’s hand still on Sherlock’s chest. The warmth from that point of contact radiated through Sherlock’s body. It was what he had longed for as he looked down at John from the roof of Bart’s that day. What he had wanted every day and night while he chased Moriaty’s factions all over the world. He hadn’t said those three words on the mobile before he jumped because they would’ve done more harm than good and now, here he was on another precipice, ready to jump.

“But I would have put more thought into my return,” Sherlock said hoarsely. “I would have understood and regretted what you had experienced for two years. I would have said…”

“But you couldn’t,” John interrupted forcefully. “Mary was there and I was about to propose. It… It wouldn’t have gone any better.”

John cleared his throat and lifted his hand from Sherlock’s chest. The taller man blinked twice in rapid succession. His hands shot up to clasp John’s before it could retreat completely. John knew what he wanted to say. Had he always known? John stared at him in surprise, but did not pull his hand away.

“Since my return, I have done my utmost to see that you are happy. That your life is happy in every way,” Sherlock’s voice was clear and decisive, like a deduction. The most important of his life. It hadn’t been easy. So much of what he had done hurt him terribly, but he convinced himself he deserved it for hurting John so much and for so long.

He knew now he hadn’t deserved it. Not really. John had spent every day telling him that in his own way. Sherlock had seen that, but had not observed. Looking at John now, as he was about to leave him once again, and for good this time, Sherlock could finally observe.

“I planned your wedding,” Sherlock said bitterly. It wasn’t what he had meant to say and he wasn’t even sure where it had come from. He had wanted to voice it for a long time and could not stop himself from finishing the thought, the accusation, “and had to watch you marry someone else.”

He closed his mouth with a snap and dropped John’s hand as though he had been burned. His friend was shocked, his face slack. Sherlock had said it. Not the words, but he had told John he loved him. He had watched John become someone else’s husband, all the while wishing he was the other groom instead of the best man. He saved the life of John’s former commander, saying ‘We wouldn’t do that to John Watson’. Wouldn’t ruin his wedding day with such a trifle as ‘I love you. Marry me’. No. Sherlock had wanted John to be happy, he still did, so he sacrificed his own.

Now, with his words, Sherlock could see connections lighting up in John’s mind. The switch had truly been flicked on, and lightbulbs and fairy lights were springing to life to sparkle and shine. John’s eyes were wide, his brows raised to his hairline. He was probably trying to work out how his life had become so unhinged. Newly married to a woman who was pregnant with his child and his best friend in love with him, John “Not Gay” Watson. What would he even say to Sherlock? What could he, besides the obvious?

Sherlock stepped back abruptly. He knew John didn’t want him. He didn’t need, didn’t want to hear the words. The heart-crushing words that had danced through Sherlock’s mind for years now. The ones that would destroy him utterly if said aloud. I don’t love you, Sherlock.

The detective’s eyes flashed dangerously in panic when John made to speak, reaching for him as he did so. Sherlock jerked away from his hands, backing up and nearly stumbling over his own feet.

“Sherlock,” John began, but his friend was too quick for him.

“No!” Sherlock nearly shouted. His arms jutted out in John’s direction to hold him at bay. “I can’t hear you say it. Don’t say anything. Just let me go.”

Sherlock turned quickly towards the airplane, his body ready to sprint and run up the stairs. He was dimly aware of John’s protestations and tried to shrug off the hand that grasped his left elbow. He shook and pulled when it would not relent and finally turned to face his friend once more. Sherlock’s eyes were blazing, his expression thunderous. He jerked his arm once more, but John’s ironclad hold did not budge. Sherlock lurched forward and planted himself firmly in John’s personal space. He glowered down at the man in one of his most intimidating stances.

“Let. Go,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled the threat in a deep tone. His eyes were narrowed into razor-sharp slits that would have burned through anyone else’s skin in seconds.

John. John Watson simply stood in front of Sherlock, taking the full impact of his ire without flinching. In contrast with Sherlock’s sharp angles and fierce stare, John’s face was calm and soft. His features seemed lighter, as though the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. His blue eyes were deeper and darker than usual, welcoming Sherlock in to swim in their comfort and safety. The corners of John’s mouth turned up ever so slightly, flirting with a smile. Sherlock’s brows darted up, furious at the very thought that John would mock him for his feelings.

“I love you,” John’s words cut through the dizzying haze of anger. The sound of Sherlock’s rapid breathing and the murderous flow of blood in his ears suddenly vanished. The hint of a smile had vanished and John looked very serious. “I love you, Sherlock. I love you.”

Sherlock’s whole demeanor changed in a split-second and the wide expanse of his shoulders eased until he was more his own height, rather than the deadly looming and decidedly taller-looking one. His mind ground to a halt and he blinked in confusion. He stared at John for what felt like hours while his slowed brain struggled to resume its usual pace.

“I think I always have,” John said plainly and then scrunched up his brow, pressing his lips into a thin line. “No. No, that’s not right. I know I always have.”

Sherlock straightened his neck, angled his shoulders down and tucked his chin, observing John with a furrowed brow. He looked at him with troubled confusion, unable to piece together all he was hearing. Sherlock tilted his head to the left and straightened his neck again, trying to size up the man before him. The iron grip on his arm was more relaxed now, but Sherlock had no desire to pull away. He blinked once slowly and opened his mouth, but John seemed unwilling to let him speak.

“I’m an idiot,” John began solemnly, “but I’m not stupid. I felt the spark the moment we touched. When we burst through the door of 221, breathless from running our asses off that first time, do you know what I wanted to do?”

The silence hung heavily between them, hot and charged. Sherlock did not answer. He did not move or even blink. He felt as though his very life was suspended, its safe release dependent upon John’s words. He watched John’s darkening eyes as he stepped closer to Sherlock.

“I wanted to push you up against the wall,” John’s voice was low and intimate, “and snog you senseless.”

Here, John paused again. His breath quickening, eyes dilating. Sherlock blinked in astonishment.

“I wanted to bodily drag you up the stairs and stay in your bed until you came apart at the seams,” John’s throaty tone fluttered into Sherlock’s ears like a melody. He closed his eyes to fully absorb the words and absolutely not imagine the scenario John had described.

“Why didn’t you?” Sherlock’s own voice was a full octave deeper when he opened his eyes to look at John.

“You had just finished telling me you were married to your work, i.e. not interested. Get lost, Watson,” John quipped, the words taking on his typical tone.

A sigh passed through Sherlock’s lips and his shoulders drooped slightly.

“What an idiot I was,” the detective mused, then furrowed his brow again. “You never brought it up again. Why?”

“I was scared,” John shrugged lamely. “I’d spent so much time telling everyone I wasn’t gay. I knew you believed me. I didn’t think you’d even take me seriously if I did try again, or told you I was bi. I was a coward.

No, I was,“ John went on quickly when Sherlock started to protest. “My parents were furious when Harry came out at 15. They threw her out of the house, completely disowned her and spent every god forsaken minute telling me just how wrong it was to be gay. By the time I was done with medical school and had joined up, I didn’t care anymore what they thought, but their prejudice was so deeply ingrained in me that hiding that side of myself came so naturally. It had become my normal.

When I met you,” John’s voice went a little unsteady and he stopped to gather himself. “Once I knew I was in love with you, I knew I couldn’t hide it and I couldn’t ask you to hide it. I know I didn’t have to, but it took a long time to get my illogical and biased upbringing the fuck out of my head.”

John stopped and studied Sherlock’s face. The detective wished he knew what John saw there because the doctor’s shoulder sagged and his eyes filled with sadness. He let go of Sherlock’s arm to rest his hand on the taller man’s chest again. John seemed to relish the feel of Sherlock’s heartbeat.

“I was going to say something, you know,” John told him quietly. “I’d finally worked myself up to it. Knew I’d be ready if you said you really didn’t feel things that way, though I was sure that whole sociopath lark was bollocks by then. I was going to tell you just before you…”

John’s voice cracked and gave out and he looked down at his feet. Sherlock’s heart broke. He raised his arms and lightly placed his hands on John’s biceps. The doctor did not need holding up, but Sherlock felt the need to do so regardless. When John looked up at him again, there was defiance in his eyes and the line of his jaw was hard.

“I used to think he knew somehow,” John bit out as if the words were rotten, “at least for a while. I thought he’d done it on purpose because he knew how I felt and wanted you all for himself. Didn’t make any sense, but it didn’t stop me from wishing I’d killed him. He’d taken that away from me too. I was so angry, Sherlock, and so alone.”

Soon, John’s hands were on Sherlock’s biceps as well and their bodies were close again. Sherlock never wanted to be any further from John than this again. John loved him. John loved him. John “Not Gay” Watson loved him. He felt as though all of his Christmases had come at once. Never had he thought this day, this fantasy, would become a reality.

“And when you came back I…” John’s expression morphed into one of horror. Sherlock was ready to quell his guilt once again, but realized all too quickly that was not what put John in his current state. “Oh, shit. Mary.”

John dropped his hands and twisted out of Sherlock’s grasp so he could look to where his wife and Sherlock’s brother stood watching them say their goodbyes. Regretfully, Sherlock turned his head toward them. Only Mycroft looked smugly back at him, the picture of stuffy nonchalance. Sherlock furrowed his brow, assessing his brother as John stomped over to the man.

“Where is she?” John demanded. “She’ll kill him now that she knows.”

“ Now that she knows?” Mycroft repeated snidely. He fixed John with a condescending gaze and leaned on his umbrella. “You must have known she at least suspected before today, Dr. Watson.”

“I swear to god, Mycroft, if you don’t tell me where she is I will do some really unpleasant things with that bloody brolly,” John threatened, very close to the elder Holmes now.

Part of Sherlock didn’t mind watching John and his brother trade insults. He always loved seeing John outwit the insufferable git, but deducing Mycroft had brought to light something far more important.

“She’s gone,” Sherlock said loudly so they would both hear.

John instantly turned on his heel and stared at the detective incredulously. Mycroft lifted his chin and looked down his nose at the younger in self-satisfaction. Sherlock walked over to where they stood. He glared at his brother and then looked at John with a softer expression.

“What do you mean she’s gone? Where is she?” John asked, his voice full of tension.

“He’s sent her away, John,” Sherlock told him carefully. He did not want to say any more than that because he honestly wasn’t sure exactly what his brother had done with her. John stared at Sherlock for a moment, letting the words sink in, before turning abruptly back to Mycroft.

“What have you done?” John asked sharply. He looked on the verge of a good shout and Sherlock was trying to decide whether or not to let him. John did not need the added stress of whatever Mycroft’s response would be, but releasing his anger might help to calm him. It could go either way and was a difficult line to tread when it came to John.

Before either John or Sherlock took action, Mycroft smoothly reached inside the breast pocket of his coat and extracted a small bundle of folded pages. He offered it to John, who glanced at it and then fixed hard eyes back on the taller man.

“What’s this?” John asked gruffly.

“Annulment documents,” Mycroft answered haughtily. “All they require is your signature.”

John took the bundle hesitantly, unfolded the pages and began to read. He took two or three steps back as he scanned the words carefully, turning slightly away from the Holmeses in the process. Burning with anger at his brother’s interference, Sherlock squared his shoulders and took a step toward the elder.

“What the fuck, Mycroft,” he demanded and was gratified by the momentary flash of surprise on the older man’s face. Mycroft had known Sherlock his entire life, obviously, but even he could count the times he had heard the detective use that particular word on one hand. “Why can’t you just leave it be, you insufferable ass?”

Mycroft raised an imperious brow in response. His haughty attitude made Sherlock’s blood boil. He was certain that his brother had nearly pushed John away from Sherlock several times throughout their friendship with his intrusions into their lives, some very intentional. Sherlock moved closer to his brother as he spoke in a low, dangerous tone.

“Your obtrusion into my life is tiresome to say the least,” Sherlock began, his demeanor a deadly calm, “but you have no business nosing into John’s.”

“Now, Sherlock,” Mycroft tilted his head up to look down his nose at his brother, “I have no intention of interfering in Dr. Watson’s affairs, I assure you.”

“Bullshit,” Sherlock snapped, borrowing from John’s vernacular. He was toe to toe with Mycroft now, their faces close. “John does not want to leave his wife or child. He has responsibilities and is a man of great principle.”

“Done,” John’s voice sounded decisively from over Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock spun to face his friend, who had stepped closer to him and his brother again. The detective gaped and moved away from both men, his eyes locked on John. The doctor held out the unfolded papers in offer to Mycroft, who nodded slightly as he took them. Sherlock could see both John and Mary’s signatures on the top sheet as they passed from one hand to another. He looked back into John’s face, not giving a toss that his brother bore witness to his shock and confusion.

“I trust you’ll get these to the proper authority,” John commented tersely, adopting a military stance as he spoke to the elder Holmes.

“I will, indeed,” Mycroft replied superciliously. “It will be official within the hour.”

John chewed on his upper lip for a moment before pressing his lips together in a thin line and inhaling pensively. He met Mycroft’s gaze, his own eyes hard like that of a captain, and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Good,” John clipped. “Thank you.”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth lifted minutely and he raised his chin slightly in approval.

“Mary Morstan will not enter your life again,” he told John in a decisive tone before turning to Sherlock and saying, “Your name is clear. My car will return you to Baker Street immediately.”

With a tap of his umbrella, Mycroft turned his back on them and walked to the two sleek, black cars parked not far away from where they stood. John watched him a moment and then turned his eyes to Sherlock. His whole demeanor changed in an instant the moment he saw the detective’s stunned expression. His features softened and his shoulders lost that crisp, military edge. He took a step toward his friend, reaching out his palms cautiously as though assuring a skittish animal.

“Sherlock?” John asked in a quiet, uncertain voice.

“Why?” Sherlock broke in, the word catching in his throat. He swallowed audibly and tried again. “Why would you do that? Your life, your marriage…”

“Was a sham,” John finished for him. “It was all a lie. She lied from the moment I met her. I don’t even know who she is.”

“But you love her,” Sherlock protested, his voice full of confusion and hurt. John was a man of principle and high standards. He would never shirk that responsibility. Sherlock didn’t understand. He felt as though he was looking at a stranger.

“I hate her,” John said sadly and Sherlock blinked in disbelief. John took a small step closer, giving Sherlock every opportunity to move away, but he did not. The detective had to know everything. He needed to understand.

“She shot you, Sherlock,” John said so much more with his eyes than words could ever express. Anger and terror swirled in their oceanic depths, but also sorrow and fondness. There was an unspoken sentiment hovering around them all, winding in and out of the other emotions. Sherlock felt his own bemusement and uncertainty fading away.

“She killed you, Sherlock,” John whispered, feeling the impact of every word like a bullet. “I don’t know what brought you back, but I will thank my lucky stars for the rest of my life.”

John did touch him now. He placed his hands on Sherlock’s biceps gently and gave them a squeeze. His brows were high on his forehead as he searched Sherlock’s silvery eyes for any sign of comprehension. When John parted his lips to speak again, his expression and tone hardened:

“And I could never forgive her for it. You’re my life. You mean everything to me, Sherlock. I’m not me without you.”

Sherlock struggled to process John’s words. It was a lot to take in, even for his brain. He had admitted more than once that he was not an expert at emotions and sentimentality, but so much had changed since he had met John. His perspective had certainly altered dramatically during his two years of hunting Moriarty’s network. Still, it was difficult to wrap his head around the sentiments of others and John had always been an enigma. Some parts of him were so easy to read and others never failed to surprise the detective. It was one of the many reasons Sherlock loved him with such intensity.

As pieces of the puzzle that was John Watson clicked into place, his words making more sense as the seconds ticked by, Sherlock began to feel his confusion lift. The tense muscles in his body began to ease and his hands ached to touch John. Something still ate at Sherlock’s mind, however. One niggling, enormous, hateful thing.

“What about the baby,” it wasn’t a question. It was a blockade to all Sherlock wanted, all he hoped, however vainly, that John wanted to. He watched as John’s shoulders sagged and his brow wrinkled in a kind of anguish. The doctor did not take his eyes off of his detective as he let out a low, deep sigh.

“It’s not mine,” was the simple answer.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped. He had known this, of course, but that John had also was incomprehensible. His mind scrambled for an explanation, something that would explain John’s possession of this knowledge. He could only see one and the realization burned in his veins with the fury of an uncontrollable blaze.

“How?” Sherlock stammered and then growled, “Mycroft.”

“No, it wasn’t him. He didn’t say a thing,” John said quickly. He squeezed Sherlock’s arms again, knowing it would ground the detective.

Sherlock tried to slow his own breathing, looking into John’s eyes as he forced himself to concentrate on calming himself. Without intending to, he glanced toward the black cars a short distance away, knowing his brother sat inside one of them.

“No. No,” John snapped in a stern voice that regained Sherlock’s attention. “Look at me. Keep your eyes focused on me.”

His own words from so long ago stung and Sherlock flinched, only just resisting the urge to pull away. He knew John had not meant to cause harm, but must have realized what he had done because his eyes widened and then fixed on Sherlock more intently. John moved his hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek gently. It was warm and welcoming and more comforting than the detective could express.

“I knew,” John told him. He raised his brows as he looked up into Sherlock’s eyes, his own full of honesty and resolve. “I knew as soon as you told us at the wedding.”

Sherlock blinked and his brow creased, disbelief overtaking him once again. He thought back to that night, the moment after he told them both about the baby. They were both shocked, and rightly so, then happiness. Sherlock studied their faces right at the moment between the two emotions in his mind’s eye and saw it. How could he have missed it before when it was so obvious? Nervousness and then resolution danced across Mary’s features before she smiled happily. John’s had been pensive and then resigned. After he congratulated them, John had put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and thanked him. He had looked up at the detective with an uncertain smile that did not reach his eyes. It almost looked pained more than joyful. At the time, Sherlock thought it was because of how their friendship would change. No more midnight cases or taking risks, perhaps no cases at all. Now Sherlock saw it for what it was: John was trying to hide the fact that he knew his wife was carrying a child that was not his own.

“John, I’m so sorry,” was not what Sherlock had meant to say, but is what came out of his mouth.

“Don’t apologize,” John gave a shallow shake of his head. “I know you had no idea at that moment. I’m sure you figured it out as time went on, but…”

“I wanted you to be happy,” Sherlock interrupted quickly, hoping he could keep John’s inevitable fury at bay. “I thought you were happy.”

He watched John carefully. He wanted to wince against the onslaught, but the doctor surprised him again.

“I know,” John admitted in a soft tone. “I wasn’t. Honestly, I can’t even say I was up until that moment. I was happy with Mary when it was just her. She got me through something I’m not sure I would have on my own and I’m glad for that. I am, but it all changed when you came back. I just wouldn’t admit it to myself. I was so angry, but I still knew I didn’t want to spend my life with her anymore.”

John paused for a moment to inhale deeply, steeling himself for what he wanted to say next. For the second time that day, Sherlock became very aware of the fact that John Watson was cupping his cheek for longer than was custom and made no move to stop.

“I was always so careful because of it,” the doctor said with some shame in his voice. “I felt like I still had to marry her. I’d only just asked, after all. It seemed… like my duty to follow through, but I knew I didn’t want to bring a child into the mix. Two or three weeks before the wedding, she kept surprising me. She seemed to want to catch me off guard so I’d forget to use protection or something, but I didn’t think about it at the time. I had no reason to suspect her of anything. It all fell into place the moment you told us at the reception.”

John glanced at his own hand on Sherlock’s cheek in the silence that followed. He cleared his throat a little uncomfortably and let his hand slide back down to Sherlock’s bicep. Looking at his friend’s face, John bit his lip and loosened his fingers, allowing his arms to slowly fall back to his own sides. Sherlock’s arms felt cool with the lack of them. He looked into John’s haunting eyes and wanted to ask every one of the questions that skipped through his brain. He knew it would overwhelm his friend, but he found he could not stop himself no matter how much restraint he employed. His lips parted, ready for the words to fall from within, but John stopped him.

“I love you,” John said delicately, but surely. In his mind, their lives had led them here and this was the only possible conclusion. Yet, he seemed only hopeful, rather than sure, that Sherlock would reach the same one. “I’ve never wanted to be with anyone like I want to be with you for…for the rest of my life.”

His last words were a whisper, a prayer, a song drifting into the air and around their shoulders. Sherlock let them wash over his face and invade his senses. He drank them in and absorbed them instantly, deep into his body, into his soul. With his eyes locked on John’s, he swooped in and pressed his lips to John’s, even as the man began to speak hesitantly:

“That’s the bones of it, really.”

First it was a soft press of lips, warmth spreading from one man to the other and back again. They parted briefly, not but a millimeter between them, and kissed again. This time it was slow, sweet and chaste, and it spoke volumes. Every shared experience and feeling passing between them. All the unspoken words from months and years ago suddenly laid bare, both men aware of it all at last. All of the pain and hurt finally behind them as they shared a breath, the very essence of life.

Sherlock tilted his head and slotted their lips together, dimly aware of John’s hands coming to rest on either side of his face. His own arms moved until his palms were pressed against the crests of John’s hips. He wrapped his hands around the sturdy frame and settled on the small of John’s back. Their lips fit together perfectly, like a puzzle with a missing piece that was finally found. John parted his own to allow a soft sigh to escape from deep in his throat. He flicked the tip of his tongue across Sherlock’s lush, lower lip before closing his mouth again.

Feeling a sudden rush of heat, Sherlock deepened the kiss, raising his right hand to cup the back of John’s head. He skipped his own tongue along John’s mouth in a gentle question, the corners turning up at the answering part of lips. Their tongues slid together slowly, exploring and discovering, tasting. A low moan traveled from Sherlock’s mouth into John’s and he could feel a smile on the doctor’s lips.

When they parted a moment later and Sherlock pulled back to look at his blogger, the sight nearly knocked him off his feet. John was beautiful; soft and grinning, his eyes bright and excited. He was happier than Sherlock had seen in some time, since before the fall, and he knew the look was mirrored on his own face. Sherlock’s smile grew as he felt the light touch of fingertips playing with the curls that hung just around the nape of his neck. It was both teasing and luxurious at the same time, and he longed to feel his hair smoothed between full-length fingers.

“I love you, John,” Sherlock breathed. “Come home with me.”

“I’d love to,” John answered with a gentle kiss. He took the detective’s hand in his own and tugged playfully. “Come on.”

Anthea stood still as a statue as she watched the second black car drive along the airport’s winding path off the tarmac, 221B its final destination. With a sigh of satisfaction, she turned on her heel and walked to the back passenger door of the car that remained. She opened it efficiently and sat, tapping the glass that separated front from back. She took her blackberry from the pocket of her suit jacket as the car began to move. Typing out a message, she waited for her companion to speak.

Mycroft Holmes shifted next to her, still holding his umbrella in one relaxed hand. He turned his gaze away from the window to look straight ahead. Her own eyes still dipped down to look at her phone as she typed.

“Morstan has been neutralized?” he inquired in the steady tone of one who already knew the answer.

“Yes,” Anthea replied as casually as people talk about the weather. “She will not be found or missed. Your brother’s future with Dr. Watson is secure.”

Mycroft leaned back in his seat just a fraction more and let out a long sigh of relaxation. The barest of smiles flickered across Anthea’s face. His demeanor was all the commendation of a job well done she needed. She tapped send and replaced the blackberry into her pocket. They sat in silence as the car drove on, away from Heathrow and into London proper.

---------

Sometimes Mycroft isn’t so bad. Hope it wasn’t complete rubbish. 🤣 I’m off to work on my other WIP now and hoping I’ll be able to share it sooner rather than later. Love, Jane

#Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #john watson #johnlock fanfiction #Johnlock fanfic #tarmac scene #sherlock fix-it

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galacticwildfire · 1 year

Text

found.

Twenty Five

Pairing: Kenobi!oc x Din Djarin

Summary: Satine and Obi-wan’s daughter fought in the war against the Empire and lost her faith when she lost Mandalore. Until she found him. A lone Mandalorian searching for a Jedi.

Warnings/tags: Trigger warnings for flashbacks: suicide attempt, violence, gunplay, trauma. For the rest of the story: near death, jealousy, violent impulses, threatening, descriptions of ptsd and injuries, mentions of miscarriage, angst angst angst, Din and Lando united against Boba

Word Count: 7.9k

A/N: it gets worse before it gets better but the next chapter is angst to the extreme. I have the proceeding fight between her and Boba written but it would have pushed the chapter to 10k words so expect it in the next one. I wanted to spend some time in Boba's pov exploring the other side of their story from his eyes. Also one scene is very much inspired by the "we don't like him do we" one from ginny and gerogia,

ALSO THAT NEW EPISODE. NOW THAT IS MOTIVATION TO WRITE.

Boba Fett

From the cockpit I can hear the Mandalorian talking to her as if that alone could undo a missile impact. He loves her. Not that I can blame him. Once I was in the same state as him after pulling her out of that rubble after the oxygen in her lungs had been replaced with chemicals, not that she was conscious to see it. Much like now, but something tells me she'll know.

She always does.

Perhaps I said the things to the Mandalorian that I did out of spite, perhaps I respect the man, maybe I want to kill him, maybe it's the fact it was easier to voice the hate in my heart than to look at her dying in another man's arms.

He's terrified, I was as well when I saw the missile impact.

But I was right when I told him she's both too stubborn to die and too hard to kill. A trait the rest of the Jedi didn't share, one I attribute to her sheer spite more than Mandalorian blood, but what keeps me calm is knowing I've seen her perform stranger miracles than surviving a direct hit from a missile.

Fennec and I sit in silence as we enter the system until she finally breaks it.

"You neglected to tell me the woman who had your armour was formerly pregnant with your child."

There is frustration in her voice, almost repulsion, not that I can criticize it when she heard the whole of it. "Was. A long time ago."

She is hardly one to judge, but she does. "That information would have been valuable before engaging."

I scoff, forgetting most aren't familiar with warriors like Kyra "How so?"

"I hadn't accounted for a vengeful Jedi," she says and shakes her head, touching her throat from where Kyra strangled her. Her willingness to use the force to commit violence is something I had not accounted for, but I should have known threatening her would only make her snap.

"Well it seems she is the only one of those left in the galaxy," I say, glad to know at least one of us has not changed.

"We owe them Boba," she says stiffly. "For the child."

"I know," I say quietly. I owe her. If she has claimed this child as hers, whether as a padawan or a foundling, or more likely both, it's my duty to return it to her. "And we will help them if she lets me live long enough."

Physically I know she can kill me, she may be one of the few people still alive who can. I haven't been on the receiving end of an attack from her, not truly at least, but I've seen enough to know what she is capable of, it's only ever been her heart and damned code that's held her back from committing massacres.

I've heard the rumours, that her and Skywalker walked into a room with Vader and the Emperor and only they left alive. I hope she killed them, with Skywalkers strength and her skill they are they only people in the galaxy who could.

I'll never forget the day I stood in that throne room on Mandalore when Viszla challenged her, a hulking man with a full foot on her and still he ended up beaten.

And that was without her Jedi tricks.

"Mando filled the space you left in the guild after the Sarlaac," Fennec warns me, I'd done my research and came to the conclusion that Kyra would only find herself in league with a man who could rival her. "I can assure you that he's just as likely to drop you once she's safe."

"Great," I find myself saying. He's taken my woman and my reputation without even realising it. "He can take what he wants, but there is no other bounty hunter like me. Only me."

"Except for the fact you're in love with the same woman," she says, more frustrated I withheld important information from the mission than anything else. "That you had also neglected to inform me of."

"Fucking the same woman," I correct. "I never said anything about love."

"I'm not deaf," she shortly, no doubt having heard the conversation below. "I thought living with the Tuskans was what made you soft, not her."

"She did," I force myself to admit. "And it got me all but killed."

"Better not make the same mistake twice then," she says and that's the end of the conversation, yet for just a moment I remember what it was like to have Kyra beside me in this cockpit, remembering it all too well. Right from the first time we met, when she paid me to smuggle her to Mandalore after her mothers death, hiding behind a veil and giving no name.

"First time dealing with a bounty hunter?" I asked her, having picked up on the fact she was some aristocrat but I never could have known the Mand'alor herself was sitting beside me.

"Something like that," she answered. "I sat in that Cantina for hours, I approached you because of that armour you wear, those who follow the old ways have a code of honour about them for the most part."

"Then why are you suspicious of me?" I asked her, her body cues obvious enough.

"Because suspicion has kept me alive."

I was almost impressed although cautious when I realised I had a refugee onboard. "Would I be right to assume you aren't quite friends with the Empire?"

"No one is friends with the Empire," she said, and there was a regal yet frustrated tone to her voice that should have alerted me to who she was as it was all too similar to the Duchess Satine's. "We all live under their rule, for some that is more difficult than others."

"We all do what we must to make a living," I told her, just wanting to make my way through the galaxy with some credits in my pocket. "Why make life more difficult for yourself?"

"That's a good question," she said, she was a young woman but spoke with a self righteous wisdom that felt too familiar. "Some of us are born into difficult situations, it's all we know."

"With the wealth you have it can't have been that difficult," I dismissed. "You sure have enough beskar to keep yourself comfortable."

"Blood money," she replied and those words sparked my intrigue.

"What money isn't blood money?" I asked her, but she knew that and still judged it with the true hypocrisy of a Jedi. "Did you forget who you hired?"

"A bounty hunter," she answered simply. "And from the price you charged that man on Tatooine a very good one I suspect, expensive enough for these parts anyways."

"If you've lived your life on Tatooine you would know it is the rate for Bounty Hunters of my experience, it's in the outer rims where blood money runs thick," I said and tilted my head towards her. "Unless that is just another part of your story."

"You doubt I'm Mandalorian," she said and then left me stunned as she spoke in Mando'a. "I am more than most who claim to be."

Oh little did I know just how much until we were entering Mandalore's atmosphere and she was telling me to fly past Imperial ships straight for the palace and I felt like the greatest fool in the galaxy realising I was sitting beside the spawn of a Mandalorian duchess and a Jedi, a Jedi I'd once tried to kill.

She'd kept up her game of disguise all the way from Tatooine until that moment, even after I'd found the bodies of the stormtroopers she'd left on a layover planet the moment I'd let her out of my sight. I'd sat here in this very cockpit dumbfounded at having been blindsided for one of the very few times in my life, that the aristocratic woman I'd agreed to smuggle was a very capable killer and I didn't even know it. That I didn't know I was sitting beside someone who moved like a ghost and shed blood without blinking an eye.

I think that was the very moment I knew I was fucked.

Maker knows I still am and she might not even make it to Cloud City. But I can't afford to think like that, after all she's endured she won't die today. She can't. Not like this.

She's older now, closer to the age I was when I met her, and with age has certainly come both beauty and bitterness. She's no longer a girl shouldering the weight of Mandalore and the Jedi on her shoulders, but a battle scarred woman who has lost more than most could ever fathom. Something I did not understand, not until the murder of the Tuskans. It is easy to blame those with a responsibility until you are the one carrying it, and having failed.

I went to her on Tatooine not just for the armour, I didn't beat Cobb Vanth just for beskar, but for her. That was when I discovered the Mandalorian and knew something had changed.

All those years during the war, from retaking Mandalore after her mother surrendered it to that day on Tatooine, we found our way back to one another. No amount of hate or betrayal could ever change that. Even that last night together no matter how much she hated me it didn't stop her from pulling me into bed.

I tried to convince her to abandon it all, but she wouldn't. Even so, after Cloud City I turned on Vader. She can scoff at me and deny I'd ever draw a blade on him, but I did when he told me he knew she was pregnant when he tortured her but it was too late to undo the damage that had been done. I never knew she'd lost the child then. For months I tried to get back to her until I lured her to Tatooine, expecting her to be half a year or more pregnant and there she stood as I'd last seen her with such rage in her eye that I believed what Vader told me she would do and she let me believe it.

Vader twisted both our minds, and now I know the truth all I feel is shame. Shame that the one good thing in my life, my one chance at a future to be a good man as my father was, I ruined it.

I ruined her.

And yet I can't accept what is right in front of my eyes.

That she loves this strange Mandalorian in a way she did not love me.

All those years of running around the outer rims together so her family would never know about us and now this Mandalorian seems to know them all. That was what told me all I needed to know in my questioning. She loves him, I knew that when I watched her find him bleeding out on Tatooine, but here she suddenly is with a child and a man she'd brought to meet the people she loves most. The two things her and I never had, the two things that were impossible for us despite how close we came to having it.

Everything I wanted for us, the freedom to travel the galaxy with just her and our child, a life together without the war or the Empire or the Rebellion. Just us.

Everything I wanted, everything I spent years fighting for, suddenly she has with another man.

That wounds me more than any words she could ever say.

I would have done anything for it, but she would never abandon the Rebellion for anything, not me, not Mandalore, nothing.

We were in bed together in an inn on a world where no one would know us, it was the unspoken condition of our arrangement following our reunion after Mandalore. We were each others secret.

My arm was around her shoulder, tired smiles on both our faces as I watched her inspect my new blaster. She was warm in my arms, the only soft thing I had in my life.

"It's expensive," she said, despite her insistence that blasters were uncivilised in comparison to a lightsaber she had no problems wielding one.

"I'm expensive," I reminded her, not that she needed it.

"Oh I know," she assured me and it earned a low chuckle. I watched in quiet amusement as she lined the blaster up with a decorative plate on the wall, making blaster sounds with her mouth.

I raised an eyebrow at the display "It sounds a bit more sophisticated than that."

"Yeah alright shut up," she laughed and I reached around to put a hand over hers. She didn't need any instruction with a blaster but I knew she liked it and so did I.

"It's silenced," I told her as I watched her face. "Yet still able to penetrate the thickest of armour. It's a smooth design, not bulky. Perfectly rounded edges."

"Hmm," she hummed as her already naked body warmed and I ran the barrel along her jaw knowing how she liked it, and there was nothing more erotic than watching her face as I fucked her with my blaster. Nothing. She bit back a moan as I ran it over her lips, getting her just how I wanted her as she tilted her chin up towards mine, her eyes fluttering closed as she murmured my name "Boba."

"Princess," I said, liking how she melted with a single touch and tried in vain to get her to leave that damn inn with me when I had her in the only state I could ever get her to beg in "You should come with me for a while, wherever you want to go."

Her eyes opened and that lovestruck look was gone. "You know I can't."

"You can, you just won't." With that she sat up and held the blankets to her chest and I sighed as I tried to bring her back "Kyra-"

"Don't," she said harshly as I broached that one subject that was sorely off limits.

"Is it so wrong to want you with me?" I asked her and pressed my lips to her shoulder. "Would anyone know if you disappeared for a few days..."

"Yes, considering I'm leading an attack in a few days they would," she revealed, always in anger giving more than she would otherwise and sighed "Boba, you know I want to."

"Then what's stopping you?" I asked her, bit by bit trying to get her to see what she was too stubborn to admit. "The rebellion will survive without you."

"If you want me that badly then come with me," she countered, as defiant as ever.

"That would make things more complicated than necessary," I said, by then she'd had to have known what I was doing and who I was working for, how couldn't she when I was running into her rebel friends in the field.

"You're the one making things complicated by hunting down my friends," she finally snapped and I leaned back in defeat knowing it was only a matter of time before she brought up the last altercation. "Fuck Boba, of all the targets you could take-"

"Solo pays the most," I said and the way she shook her head in anger spurred something in me. "Why do you care?"

She said it as if it was obvious, painfully in denial Solo would fuck her if given the chance and she was far too defensive of him for my liking. "Because he's my friend."

I scoffed "Why are you fucking him too?"

Her eyes widened and I knew I'd certainly hit a nerve in the way she slapped me hard without a moment of hesitation and I grabbed her wrists, pinning her down beneath me despite how she struggled and spat out "Fuck you Boba."

"Are you?" I repeated and saw a sick pleasure in her eyes at riling me up how she did despite how deeply the accusation angered her.

"Why would you care if I was?" she countered, and this time it was her who crossed one of our many unspoken lines. "Don't tell me you love me?"

It had been two years since she'd found me in that cantina, since she'd paid me in beskar to take her to Mandalore and had somehow convinced me to stay as her commander. She was arrogant enough not to take no for an answer and for some reason I allowed it. Of all the work I'd taken, being paid to fight for her and then fuck her every night was far from the worst of it.

Until it became more than that.

I never expected to want to stay, I never knew how invested I'd become until she decided to give it all up to return to the rebellion and left Mandalore in the hands of her aunt. Being the daughter of a Jedi and a pacifist the vengeful temper was a surprise I couldn't place, not until I met Bo-Katan Kryze. They both knew that Bo-Katan was everything Kyra could grow to become, while Kyra was everything Bo-Katan could have been.

Bo-Katan had been defending the palace with the darksaber Kyra had handed to her upon pointing her regent whilst Kyra fought on the front lines against Darth Vader and his legion before the bombs came. They both survived, I don't know what words were exchanged but it was enough for Kyra to bring down the ruins of the palace upon herself while her aunt and her Nite Owls lived.

I didn't know I loved her until I pulled her out of that rubble on Mandalore, but I couldn't admit it, not to her. I was Boba Fett and she was an inconvenience, one I found myself indulging in every chance I got.

"Don't be stupid," I said but she looked right through me and I hated it. "I don't like other men touching what's mine."

"Last time I checked I'm not yours, not when the only time I can have you is like this."

"I'd beg to differ."

She pushed against my hold on her but I didn't let up until she said "No I'm not fucking Han you jealous bastard." Maybe I wanted to believe it so I had an out but the moment I released her wrists she grabbed my face and pulled me down between her legs as she told me "I have what I want." Her next words were the closest either of us could come to telling ourselves and each other the truth. "And that's you Boba."

I watched her eyes darken at the feeling of my blaster between her legs and knew I had her as I gave her a single command "Show me."

And even as she sunk down onto the blaster she still believed she was in control, but if there was one thing she knew how to do, it was to take what she wanted.

It was that attitude that put her on the throne of Mandalore but it was her loyalty to the rebellion that lost her it, her misplaced loyalty that put us on opposite sides of this war. For a moment I was more than a bounty hunter, I was the right hand of the Mand'alor, an honourable man. I watched her fight every challenge to her reign, I watched as she tamed the clans who would have overthrown her if they saw a moment of weakness.

That was until she received one call from the Princess of Alderaan and she put the darksaber in her aunt's hands to run off to the rebel base with her battalion of warriors. That was when it fell apart, the screaming match in the empty throne room in the dead of night. All because she was too afraid to lose her so called family, all because she was that vengeance mad after her parents deaths. I understood the thirst for vengeance and would have been by her side to take it with her, but not when she thought vengeance meant returning to the rebellion.

She should have been glad she was born after the fall of the Jedi order, or else she would have been cast out for her insufferable heart. Her one and only weakness.

Mandalore would have withstood the Empire under her rule if not for it. If she'd made decisions without it instead of letting her own stubbornness and vendetta against the Empire leave Mandalore unstable and open to attack. She was always too much like her mother in believing through sheer willpower alone she could save Mandalore and they both lost it. In the end her mother surrendered it to the Empire so it would survive whilst Kyra did it so she could avenge her parents.

Now she's running around the galaxy with a Mandalorian who won't take off his helmet and a kid that was one of Yoda's species without a clue in hell what she's doing.

If I know anything it's that she protects and avenges what she's lost with the fierceness of a true Mandalorian. I left the Mandalorian to die and the kid was taken whilst we had them at blaster point. We enter the planets atmosphere and I know if she doesn't murder me when she wakes up I'll call myself a lucky man.

"Slave I, turn your ship around or be met with force," the air traffic controller says and I just sigh having anticipated no less.

Before I can try to tell them their beloved rebel hero is on board the Mandalorian comes up to the cockpit and buts in to speak into the com.

"This is Din Djarin, tell Lando Calrissian I have Kyra Kenobi on board and she is gravely injured."

There's chatter in the background before being asked "Is Boba Fett on board?"

"Yes but the General needs immediate care or else she will die," he says, sounding how I feel. "Let us land without violence, either Calrissian or Solo will vouch for me."

I can't help but scoff at him being chummy with those two and Fennec gives me a warning look, clearly acquainted with this Din Djarin and not wanting a fight.

"Alright, proceed to land."

And so I land the ship in the same spot where she ran to me upon arriving on Cloud City, not knowing the Empire was already there and it being too late for her to escape.

Perhaps this time I can make things right.

I have to.

Din

The moment the landing dock opens I'm carrying her limp body out of that ship, being met with city guards and finally Calrissian who rushes out.

"What happened?"

"She has internal injuries," I say, knowing how is not urgent right now. "She's barely breathing.

"We've got a bacta tank," he says but just as we rush forward towards the building he comes to a stop, only just taking in the ship and immediately reaches for a blaster "Did he do this to her?"

"No," I say, gathering Calrissian knows their history. "We can deal with him later she needs help now!"

I can't keep the urgent edge from my raised voice, not when she's all but dead and we run inside. I'm cradling her head to my chest to keep it as still as I can as he leads me through the halls until finally we reach a medic bay. Calrissian immediately starts giving orders for the tank to be readied while I strip her of her armour to her underclothes without hesitation, this not being how I'd planned on taking it off when I first saw her walk out of that ship guns blazing in beskar.

Calrissian brings over the harness to hoist her into the tank and the two of us get her inside it, in any other situation I'd cut a man's hand off for touching her in this state of undress but it hardly matters now when she's minutes from death.

"Be careful, her head-" I begin as the nurses secure the breathing apparatus and it's in the way her limp body hangs as she's hoisted inside the tank for a moment I'm sure I'll be sick and I'm bracing myself on the wall, trying to keep myself from collapsing on the spot now she's out of my hands.

"Sir I need to ask you some questions," the doctor says and I struggle to compose myself as he begins "How did she obtain these injuries and how long ago?"

"Direct missile hit around an hour ago," I answer and watch the colour drain from her face. "She- she's a Jedi. The same missile blew my ship to ashes but somehow she survived."

Calrissian's swearing under his breath and nothing feels real as I'm bombarded with more questions he ends up answering.

"Age?"

"Twenty eight."

"Pre-existing health conditions?"

"Severe post traumatic stress," Calrissian answers as I step closer to the glass, putting a hand on it as if I could touch her, feel her pulse no matter how faint to assure myself she's still alive. "Previous head traumas, long term damage to her organs and nervous system from electrocution."

My head snaps around towards him at those words, suddenly finding myself overcome by panic at having not known this whilst she was dying under my watch.

"Force lightning it," he tries to explain but those words don't help. "It doesn't matter how but she's had heart palpitations for years but stopped taking medication for it. She has cognitive processing difficulties, memory loss and disassociation as lasting effects of torture. It's a long list of health conditions but nothing overly out of the ordinary for a war veteran."

Well it's too long for me and I repeat "Lightning?"

"The Emperor," he says and I only tilt my head in confusion. "She hasn't told you about when her and Luke went to kill the Emperor?"

I feel my eyes widen beneath the helmet and I look back at her in pure shock, I knew about Darth Vader but somehow she never mentioned that.

"They killed the emperor?"

"No, technically not but she definitely tried-"

It's then we're interrupted by Boba Fett "She still alive?"

"You can get out!" Calrissian snaps at him and immediately my hand is on my blaster as he appears in the doorway too calm for my liking.

"In the purge she suffered chemical burns to the insides of her lungs and crush wounds," Fett reveals whilst I stand there ashamedly ignorant of this information, knowing none of it aside from the effects of torture. "She suffocated and I had to restart her heart manually before I could get her help, you'll want to keep an eye on her vitals."

"Noted," the doctor says and hesitantly looks between the three of us before asking "Now before we can do a full body scan I need to ask if there is any chance she could be pregnant."

I freeze beneath my armour, utterly still at the possibility that has not occurred to me before now. I don't know how many times I've been inside her in these past weeks, countless, almost every chance we've gotten away from the kid and everytime I was always as deep inside of her as I could have been when I finished. She never mentioned any protection and I never asked despite knowing I should have, perhaps selfishly wanting the consequences of such an act to happen and silently hoping so did she as she always wrapped her legs tight and held me inside of her after we'd both finished.

Now after everything I've learned, that she was once with child... there are so many things we never discussed that we should have, so many things I never knew.

Finally I stammer "Yes- she could be."

Boba Fett stays wisely silent, that is until Calrissian awkwardly steps in and says "She has a birth control chip, it shouldn't be expired."

He doesn't look at me and I don't want him to, having tried to forget what I heard in the cockpit when she spoke to Solo after the attack on Tatooine. I was stressed over Fett coming after us when I'd heard Solo telling her they should let off some steam together, I certainly saw the panic that took hold of her and then the frustration when I asked if I'd have to worry about this one coming after us as well after she took off to hunt Fett down in the night.

She told me the truth about Calrissian with little emotion other than guilt, that he wanted to marry her and she ran away. Something that hadn't surprised me after that night. Although I was more than surprised to see him when I met her family, but quickly realised if she deems him family that is something I have to accept.

And as far as I'm concerned right now he isn't the one I need to worry about.

"Well I'll be damned," Fett says and realise Calrissian can't look at him either. "She let you fuck her after what you did?"

I'm caught off guard, trying to keep an eye on Kyra in the tank to see if she's making any visible improvements, but those words certainly draw me back into the conversation.

"What I did was nothing compared to what you did," Calrissian says but that sparks enough alarm in me that my hand is on my blaster.

"What you did?" I repeat and Calrissian's eyes are on the floor, guilt written across his face.

"Ah, you don't know," Fett says, almost amused.

"I know what you did," I counter and draw my blaster on Fett, Calrissian quickly drawing his own as well. "I know you're the one who betrayed her."

"I couldn't have done anything if Calrissian hadn't betrayed Solo and the others first by inviting Vader into the city to ambush them."

I keep my blaster hand still as Calrissian replies "I never invited him, and if I recall you were the one by his side as they laid siege to the city."

"But not before you'd told Solo they were safe here," Fett argues. "She would have never stepped foot in this city if you hadn't betrayed your old friend first."

"I was there that day Fett, I heard her screaming for you to kill her after you turned her over," Calrissian says, repeating what I know from Kyra to be true. "Don't act innocent."

"Oh I know I'm not innocent," Fett replies. "But neither are you."

"Enough," I say sharply, not having the patience for any more of this and tell Calrissian "Moff Gideon took the child and I need to find a lead. He had to take Kyra out with a missile to stop her from cutting through his troopers and I'll need her with me. How soon will she be awake?"

His face falls and he tells me "I'm sorry, I know what that child means to both of you." He looks at Kyra before saying "I don't know how long it will take, but you got her here in time to save her life that's what matters. As for the kid I'll call in the cavalry and we'll make a plan."

I give a single nod, it will have to be enough for now. It has to be enough to keep me from losing my mind. She trusts her family, and I have to trust they won't let any harm come to her child.

"You should leave," I tell Fett and Calrissian points his blaster at him. "Or she won't be the one to kill you."

"Her and I have business," Fett replies and looks at me as he says "I'd say find me when she wakes but I have no doubt she'll do that herself."

He leaves and Calrissian and I stand there, the doctor stands in the corner of the room with her head down going over the vitals and organising the medical droid to run tests.

"Fett's going to be a problem," I immediately say, not wanting to know what business he has planned.

"He always is," Calrissian warns. "I was there when she found out he was still alive, I broke the news to her and she went straight to Tatooine to kill him so why is he still alive?"

A good question, one I don't want to answer.

"I've learned she likes to draw these things out," I tell myself, I'd settle for watching her torture him over the alternative.

"You going to kill him?" he asks and I have no doubt he wants to almost as much as I do.

"He tries anything I'll take care of it," I answer, my finger itching over the trigger, the only thing stopping me is Kyra. It's her blood to spill not mine, no matter how badly I want to.

But what is truly stopping me as much as it makes me want to kill him where he stands is the thought she doesn't want him dead. That somehow she still loves him.

I'd suspected it from the start when I knew she'd come to Tatooine to kill the man that armour belonged to, with every piece of information she revealed I'd suspected it but it wasn't until that night after the attack when I woke to find her gone I realised it went far deeper than I could have known.

Unfortunately something tells me I'm about to find out just how deep.

Hours later I'm sitting there alone, the doctor out running the test results and from what I can gather she's confused as well as concerned. She should be dead, but after spending this much time with the kid I know these are things no scientist or doctor could understand let alone explain.

All I can do is guard her body as she rests before me suspended in the tank, as unresponsive as she was when I brought her in despite the doctor assuring me her vitals are growing stronger.

Despite knowing she will live nothing has ever felt so dark.

The kid is still gone and nothing will feel real until I have them both in my arms, until I can kiss her and do the one thing I thought I'd have more time to do.

I won't make that mistake again

Calrissian's called Solo to Cloud City since he's in the outer rims, if she's still unconscious by tomorrow morning I can rely on him to get me to Navarro so I can put a team together to get the child back. Time is running out and I need to do it with or without her as much as the thought terrifies me.

I want to keep her safe, I don't want to put her in the field if she isn't able to fight, but she's the best fighter I've got. She was able to cut through those battle droid looking troopers with her lightsaber when our blasters could barely take out the Death Troopers. If we face the ones who took the child I doubt blasters will do the job.

I'd dreamed of seeing her in beskar and it was as much of a sight as I'd imagined it to be if not more, having never seen armour in such a design before but considering her fighting style it makes sense. Seeing her wearing a helmet made me want to get down on my knees as much as I'd anticipated it could.

I just never thought it would be on my knees screaming her name in vain.

I eye her saber sitting beside her armour and take it, having only held it to give it back to her and study the mechanics of it, wisely pointing it away from myself as I activate the ignition and the yellow blade ignites. It's lightweight, making a sound as I move it through the air, easy enough to maneuver so simply but nothing like how I've seen her move it. I can't imagine the years of training required for her to be able to wield it how she does with such deadly precision and mastery.

I disengage it as Calrissian enters the room telling me what I already know "She should be dead but she isn't and the doctors can't explain it."

I find myself repeating Fett's words "She's hard to kill."

"She is," he says and begins "Her and I... that had finished a long time ago, years ago, I only knew about the chip because we'd slept together a few times since then but that was over well before you two met."

While it's assuring to know she isn't still sleeping with him I don't care about that, not now. Now when she isn't in my arms and someone else is waiting for her to wake up.

"How much as she told you about Boba Fett?" he asks me, going where I didn't want to.

"Enough," I answer. She had told me everything important, except for one detail that I've gathered she'd convinced herself wasn't real, or at least tried to force from her memory. "She was pregnant when he betrayed her?"

He gives a stiff nod and lowers his voice "The empire had already garrisoned the city when she arrived. I saw him give her to Vader, saw her screaming for him to kill her and I saw the aftermath." He shakes his head, unable to look at her. "Leia and I found her in the cell after Han was taken away, we'd heard her screaming and trying to break out, there was blood all over the floor and she kept saying to Leia she didn't know."

I feel sick knowing now the true extent of what the Empire did to her and understand now why she's so fiercely sought to protect the child by any means necessary. I now understand her vengeful streak towards the Empire and know when she wakes I'll be by her side as she takes it.

"In all these years we never spoke of it, I think part of her had blocked it out completely," he says, confirming my suspicions. "I never knew her before that day, I only knew who she was after that but Leia told me she was never the same as what she had been before. Leia was the only one who'd known her before the Death Star. I loved her, but I wondered what she would have been like if not for the Empire."

"She told me you bought her a ring," I say and he nods in confirmation and that dark paranoia in the back of my mind from that night she ran haunts me. "She told me Boba Fett was what caused her to run."

"It seemed like it should have worked her and I, but it didn't. I loved her in one way but in these past years it's been in another, as family," he confides in me, not hiding his care for her. "I would have married her but I was never what she wanted or what she needed. Boba Fett was what she wanted and in her own twisted way she still loved him after she struck him down. That was until you and the kid came along." I still at hearing those words from a man who once loved her, words that couldn't be more different from Fetts. "You're what she needs and I know you're what she wants."

"And I need her," I say and it's then I catch movement out of the corner of my eye from the tank. "Kyra?"

We both stand and what was a movement of her fingers quickly turns into kicking and thrashing as she tries to free herself and I'm yelling "Help me get her out!"

Kyra

I stood in the ashes of Mandalore after having escaped Vaders ship. My aunt, the last of my blood, turned her back on me and left me there on my knees.

The world was dead, and so was I.

Cold tears ran down my cheeks beneath the beskar of my helmet. There was not a thought in my mind, only the crushing weight of the darkness. Vader had felt it too as he twisted my mind. Death would have been more merciful, but he would not let me die. No. He wanted to turn me, to make me his apprentice in his final act of vengeance against my father.

Everything was still, a wasteland of the life I'd once had and the girl I'd been.

Vader would come for me again, he was likely already on his way.

For the first time I believed if he finished what he started I would fall to the darkness. That despite my fathers counsel on the strength of those who resist the darkside I was no longer that strong anymore.

And so I slowly removed my helmet in the ultimate act of defiance against the Empire, against Vader. I would not die at his hands like my parents did.

The air was toxic, that much I knew with the first breath and I raised my gauntlet to record one final message knowing Leia would find me. Knowing she was the only person in the galaxy who would understand why I did it.

"Leia," I said, hearing the rawness of my own voice. "I survived the bombings but Mandalore is glass and ashes. There is nothing left." I knew it would break her heart, but she would understand. "Vader won't kill me, he won't stop until I turn and become a monster." My voice broke "I will not let him touch me again." The tears came and I whispered "I love you, and I'm sorry, but I can't let him make me into what he is. I can't live knowing my people are dead because of me. I can't." My voice was a mere whisper, feeling as if I'd broken the sacred vow between us two princesses after watching her survive her own planets destruction and Vaders torture, something I could not do. "I'm so sorry."

I wasn't afraid as I left my helmet in the open so they'd know where I was buried and stepped inside the ruins of the palace, it and I both barely standing. With each step forward I heard my fathers voice telling me to turn around and go to Luke and Leia and that was the first time I cut myself off from the force so all I would hear was silence as I got down on my knees and raised my hands to bring the palace down upon me, channelling the force for long enough I could hear my fathers voice in that final moment.

In the darkness my life flashed before my eyes from the start to an end I'd never seen before and the rubble crushed me, my chest feeling as if it would collapse from its weight and my lungs burned from the inside out. I was all but gone from the world when I heard a ship circling above and then a voice screaming my name as the darkness closed in on me.

"Kyra!"

In my slow death as the last bits of consciousness slipped I fought one final time at the sound of his voice and gasped out with ashes in my burning lungs, choking on the chemicals that replaced any oxygen left in the atmosphere, everything pure agony as I tried to dig myself out of the ruins.

"Kyra!"

But it was not the voice I remembered. No. It's his.

"Din!" I scream finding the strength to truly fight this time. This time my limp body won't be dug out of the ruins as I barely cling to life, this time my hand breaks through the rubble and reaches for his. "Din!"

"I've got you," he says as he grasps my hand, pulling me from the darkness. "You're safe."

I'm gasping for air as I come to, finding myself weighed down until I'm pulled free, my body falling against hard familiar beskar. "I've got you, I've got you cyar'ika."

"Din?" I gasp out and cling to him as he clutches me in his arms, dripping and shaking with no comprehension of where I am, only that I'm with him. That I'm safe. "Din."

He cradles my head, his own hands shaking as he pulls a blanket around me and I look up at him, hardly hearing Lando leaving the room yelling for someone to contact Leia until the door slams shut and I don't understand the fear, the pure devastation that consumes him.

"Din?" I whisper, my head spinning as I try to make sense of where I am and what's happened, but I don't even have a moment to think before he's pulled his helmet off and his lips are on mine, hard and desperate as I taste tears.

I'm frozen in bewilderment until he pulls away and orders "Open your eyes."

The request leaves me shaking my head, knowing something isn't right. "What-"

"Please," he whispers so heartbreakingly that I have no choice but to obey and my eyes open to look upon his face for the first time, finding beautiful brown tearful eyes and reach for his face wondering if this too is a dream. "Cyar'ika."

In my dreams he'd smile not weep, and I'm too overwhelmed by his own agony to truly take him in as he deserves to be. In my dreams I'd kiss him and tell him he's beautiful and mine and that I adore him. But in this moment all I feel is fear.

In this moment nothing feels real.

"Din?" I breathe, trembling as I search his eyes and my heart stops knowing only one thing could do this to him. "Where's Grogu?"

He shakes his head and pulls me to him, hand buried in my hair with my face pressed into the beskar of his chest as he quakes "He's gone, they took him."

Those words all but convince me this is a nightmare and suddenly I'm ten years old again, screaming as I was stolen from outside the palace walls of Mandalore except this time I'm feeling my own fathers horror at his child being taken from him.

Pure devastation washes over me as he clutches me tight and my shaking hands come to touch his beskar and yet I feel nothing as my fingertips run over what should be cold and know this can't be real.

But with the sound of a ship flying past it comes back to me in flashes.

Slave I.

Boba.

The child.

The Empire.

The missile.

My body jolts as I step out of Din's embrace, hyperventilating while I search for my saber, my armour, until I find them both nearby.

"Kyra," I hear Din say but the words echo around me, nothing is real. Not him, not me, nothing. Nothing but the cold rage that overcomes me. "My love."

"No," I whisper, my trembling hands moving to arm myself. "No-"

"We're going to get him back," he tells me as I struggle to even hold my armour with the feeling in my hands all but gone. "Cyar'ika-"

He turns me back to him and I look upon his face with cold tears running down my cheeks and he takes my hands in his, bringing them to his lips as I stand there a trembling mess, unable to remember how I got here. Unable to remember anything but flashes.

"We're getting him back," I grit out, looking into the eyes of the man I love as I swear to him "We're taking our son back, now help me with my armour."

He does, but not before kissing my forehead, the weight of what he's done unable to truly sink into either of us in this state and I pull his lips to mine, tasting his tears and mine both before the sound of footsteps has him pulling his helmet back on and helping me dress myself in my armour.

He's pulling my sleeves up and securing my weapons belt when I sense Lando and blink in confusion, it's only then as I truly look around I realise where I am.

Cloud City. Din must have brought me here knowing I'd be safe with Lando.

"Are you alright?" he asks me as he rushes in, speaking too fast for me to comprehend. "Leia knows you're here and the Falcon's just arrived." Still I struggle to comprehend the words being spoken to me until he says "Boba Fett is still here."

Boba.

Still all I remember are flashes, guns blazing and threats made until one sticks.

"I can kill the kid, like you killed our son."

He did this.

And he's going to die for it.

#din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandolarian #the mandalorian x oc #din djarin x oc #din djarin x original character #wildfirewildflower #the mandalorian x original character #Din djarin fanfic #the mandalorian fanfic #found.#din djarin x female oc #boba fett x oc

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lovehatecomics · 2 years

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Suli but she eventually leaves Darkseid and works undercover with Himon (am i spelling his name right?) to undermine Darkseid's plans and also make the lives of ordinary Apokolips people less miserable.

Sorry for not answering your ask sooner. My week's been very hectic 😩

I think if Suli was alive, maybe Darkseid would've been less likely to become the god we know him as today. bc comics tell us it was Suli's death that hardened Darkseid's heart, that she was the only one he's truly loved, etc. I've already talked about this a few times if you wanted to look through my "suli" tag, but if she had survived the initial poisoning I'd want Suli to take revenge on Heggra for trying to kill her. I'd lowkey want to toss Desaad's nasty ass in the mix, BUT Suli would know that he was following orders and therefore shouldn't be the reciever of her anger. Plus, we all know he'd probably enjoy it a lil too much tbh

Suli's a scientist and sorceress, so I refuse to believe poison would've killed her. Not only that, she's survived on Apokolips all this time in spite of her "softness". This leads me to believe she's got a sharp mind, capable of being two steps ahead, preferring Brains over Brawn, etc. A lot like Darkseid imo, I mean why else would they have gotten along so well and to the point that Darkseid not only marries Suli, but has a child with her behind his mother's back.

Hegra was a wicked mother-in-law who felt like she knew what was best for Darkseid and acted accordingly. She kills Suli before forcing Darkseid to be with Tigra, who was the EXACT OPPOSITE of Darkseid's beloved. Tigra was chosen specifically for her ferocity and I bet Heggra thought to herself, "Surely, this one will remind Darkseid about his purpose and he will stop being weak."

Now, if Suli had survived and wanted revenge on Heggra, I can see her allowing Tigra to bear a child for Darkseid. It's her love for Darkseid that drives Suli to ensure Tigra remains healthy so she can birth a strong child. When Tigra voice her confusion about Suli's actions, Suli could simply answer, "I do all of this because I love Darkseid. I refuse to have you bear him a weak child, so I will care for you during your pregnancy. Even I will admit that wretch had picked a fine mate for her son. Though, I imagine you had no choice in the matter."

(Imagine the Pact still taking place and the sheer terror Suli feels when she learns about Tigra's Declaration of her son Orion killing her beloved Darkseid. Here, I can see Suli being the one banishing her instead of Darkseid. AND instructing her son Kalibak to kill his stepbrother Orion in a desperate attempt to stop this "Prophecy". Even though Kalibak and Orion don't cross paths until they're adults, Kalibak remembers his mother's instructions to kill the New Genesis warrior who fights "like one of us, bearing the ferocity of Apokolips". Kalibak would know when he sees it in Orion, maybe doesn't know that they're brothers yet.... Anyway, I'm getting distracted! 😅)

I can imagine her telling Tigra about her plan to kill Heggra so Darkseid can have his rightful place as ruler of Apokolips. Then her son Kalibak would become his rightful heir and everything would be as it should be. Tigra agrees with the plan bc she's never liked Heggra and based on the Orion solo, we see in Tigra's memory that she was interested in a (royal?) guard who was then killed by Darkseid.

Heggra thinks that Suli's dead, Tigra's with Darkseid now, Kalibak won't become her son's heir, all is right in her little world. Now Suli would be a patient person to exact her revenge on Heggra by poisoning and weakening her. Stabbing Heggra with her dagger bc Suli can't think of anything better than watching the life leave out of Heggra's eyes. To watch her mind race as she tries to figure out how long Suli's been alive, why would she let Tigra bear Darkseid's child, etc. To see Tigra just within sight, bearing witness to her murder and doing nothing to stop Suli. Suli keeps the dagger and gifts it to Darkseid, confessing to him what she had done. Darkseid becomes new ruler of Apokolips and continues his battle against New Genesis while Suli remains behind the scenes.

So, maybe if Suli was alive and Tigra still had to bear Darkseid's child in an attempt to fool Heggra, maybe Tigra and the guard she actually loved could've raised Orion together for a moment. Then Orion wouldn't find out that Darkseid was his true father until later on bc he remembers being raised by Tigra's bf guard along with his mother Tigra.

Ooooooooh, what if Tigra's guard is killed trying to protect Orion bc Darkseid's guards came to take him for the Pact. Which could also be why we have Orion fighting the guards so fiercely before he's tossed through a boom tube to New Genesis. SO, Tigra loses both husband(?) and child in one day, and a friend as she chases Suli off to refrain herself from killing her. Suli had no idea about the Pact or that Orion would've been used (which Suli later realizes with horror that she unknowingly orchestrated Darkseid's inevitable end), but Tigra doesn't believe her.

NO WAIT LISTEN. OK OK OKAYYYYYY

Imagine Tigra busting into Darkseid's place of work demanding to know where Orion is. Tearing shit up, right? Her voice roaring into the atmosphere as guards try and fail to obtain her. In a parallel scene we see Orion, having witnessed the death of his father/Tigra's lover, is viciously attacking the guards who stole him. And we then get Darkseid's classic line of comparing the two as snarling, angry killer-cats. bc imo Orion takes more after Tigra than he does Darkseid and then we'd get the visual of the two fighting in similar fashion. In the OG New Gods comic, it took GROWN MEN to toss Orion through the boom tube to New Genesis and even then he was fighting them off.

Suli later confronts Darkseid about the Pact, Tigra's Declaration of her son killing him, etc. Darkseid states matter-of-factly that this was all done to buy himself more time to prepare. Suli warns about Orion and what he's likely inheritted from Tigra, a warrior Heggra had chosen as Suli's exact opposite. Suli had seen firsthand how dangerous Tigra was even as she restrained herself from killing her. The instinct Suli felt to FLEE from Tigra's presence, but remained frozen in terror. Warning that if Orion grows to be anything like his mother, that he will become a thorn in the side of Apokolips.

For the most part, what happens in canon can easily remain the same. Kalibak being raised with his mother might have changed things for him, too! He could still be known as Kalibak the Cruel, perhaps being cruel in a variety of ways to break the spirit of people as opposed to just physical harm 🤔

Now to finally answer your question, YES I could see Darkseid's pursuit of the Anti-Life Equation driving away everyone he held dear. Specifically Suli, who sees how far this obsession has driven him. Do I see her allowing Himon (you did spell it right) to help others escape Apokolips or at least make life easier on the planet? Yes. She wouldn't help with Scott Free though, knowing that it could lead to the Pact being broken and Darkseid's death brought faster. Unfortunately, Scott eventually escapes on his own even though this was part of Darkseid's plan as well.

As the war between both planets continue, Suli dreads witnessing Tigra's Declaration fulfilled in the inevitable clash between father and son. Perhaps her beloved had died long ago as he continued pursuing the Anti-Life equation. Her pleas have since been ignored as Darkseid remain transfixed on his goal. Maybe she had debated killing him, thinking it's better for Darkseid to die peacefully by her hands than brutually by his son's. Then Kalibak could rule and they find a way to end all of this.

OR Suli follows and supports Darkseid to the bitter end, finally meeting Orion full grown and looking so much like his mother. Feeling the same sense of dread and urge to flee like she had ages ago. Unable to move and stop Orion from advancing any further as he walks right past her. Hearing his footsteps echo further away as Suli falls to her knees, letting out a breath she held in before heaves shake out of her followed by sobs. Wails for the inevitable death of her beloved Darkseid. While a part of me don't think she could bear witnessing it, I can see Suli forcing herself to. Tigra would definitely be there to witness her Declaration come to pass along with all of Apokolips and New Genesis alike.

Sorry, if this is too long. 😅

#suli #darkseid #tigra #heggra #orion #kalibak #new gods #so many ideas to draw :0

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flameblessed · 8 months

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“Let me take a look at that wound.” (when they younger T___T)

I am not meme hunting sorry babe ♥ / @nivaera

The swollen and bruised flesh stung. Clive had been forced to fight. The brand upon his cheek meant he had no will of his own anymore. He resisted them still as if holding on to some dream that someone would come to rescue him. There was no one. No one would save him. He didn't even know the condition of Rosaria. He had hardly been able to leave the barracks or the prison, depending on whether he was training or in trouble for disobedience. It seemed like they could just kill him. Mayhap his mother was to blame for his continued existence. Or maybe it was the sheer potency of his magic. The blessing of the Phoenix was powerful. Magic fit for a First Shield and a portion of an Eikon's power. They would make him their weapon.

Clive had been forced into combat training with other branded. He knew how deadly his flames were, and so he tried to not use them against the other. However, it seemed the other was aware of their situation more than he was. Despite Clive being a good fighter, he held back. Not to mention the other was older than him. Not something that would make much of a difference if he had not been beaten often and refusing to eat the slop they provided him to eat out of pure spite.

They had disarmed him, pinning him to the ground and twisting his wrist behind his back until it broke. He still felt utterly ashamed of the cry he let out and the way the tears filled his eyes. He doubted he would have time to let it heal. He could only pray it was merely sprained and not broken. He had tried to make sure it was in the correct place, but even touching it made him feel sick to his stomach.

"I-it's fine..." He wants to scream at her not to touch it. It hurts so badly. Even now, hours after the injury was first made, he cannot stop his body from trembling. "It... it just has to heal so I can..."

He didn't want to die. He had to find the person that killed Joshua. But he was always so utterly torn. His rage and hatred were keeping him alive, and his spite and pride made him want to curl up and die rather than live as a slave.

He finally relents. If he did not want to die, he would have to learn how to obey. Even if it felt like every nerve in his body was stuck through with needles when he tried to. He hesitantly offers the bruised and swollen wrist to her.

"It's just a bruise..." He knows it is not. "I... I can still hold a sword." He wasn't certain.

#✶ — › ᴵᶰ ᶠᶤʳᵉ; ᶤᶰ ʷʰᶤˢᵖᵉʳˢ — ⌜ answers.⌟#✶ — › ᴵ ʲᵘˢᵗ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵗᵘʳᶰ ᵗʰᵉ ˡᶤᵍʰᵗˢ ᵒᶰ ᶤᶰ ᵗʰᵉˢᵉ ᵛᵒˡᵃᵗᶤˡᵉ ᵗᶤᵐᵉˢ — ⌜ in character.⌟#✶ — › 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥 — ⌜ pre ii.⌟#nivaera #/// injury #/// broken bones #/// abuse #/// slavery

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freakran · 2 years

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rebuilding after vecna, or, how my eddie fuckin’ survived the demobats/the upside down

HEAVY SPOILER WARNING FOR ST.RANGER TH.INGS 4 VOL. 2. PLUS A WARNING FOR GRAPHIC CONTENT. PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK.

the injuries that he’d sustained down there....they shouldn’t have been survivable. at least, not for most people. luckily for everyone else, eddie munson was not most people.

through sheer force of will and possibly a bit of spite (and a whole lot of amped up adrenaline and a surge of energy), eddie, with dustin’s help, managed to make it to the gate in his trailer before collapsing on the ground below it. all he felt was pain, and for a moment there, he thought he couldn’t feel his legs. that is, until the trio made it back and saw the state that he was in.

another rope is made from the icky sheets in the upside down and the end is tied to eddie’s waist. or at least what’s left of it. they had to be extremely careful concerning where they tie it as the demobats have almost ripped entire holes through eddie’s body. the only reason his organs hadn’t spilled out of the worst of these holes was because he’d made a makeshift skin out of his bandana and some duct tape.

he doesn’t get out without more damage, however, as in-route to the hospital, eddie coded twice before being placed in a coma. it was clear eddie needed so much surgery, but they first had to battle an incredibly nasty infection and stop it from spreading to his other organs.

by the end of it all, eddie spent two-and-a-half months in the hospital with the first two weeks having been in a coma and the remainder of the first month in and out of surgery. the second month-and-a-half were spent in rehabilitation. in total, he’d lost one of his kidneys and part of his intestines as well as chunks of muscle and fat from his thighs. he had to learn to walk again and rebuild strength in his legs, and most of his body is scarred from bat bites and claw marks.

on the plus side, while in his coma, his name was cleared by lucas, who vouched that eddie wasn’t around when max was ‘attacked’, and dustin, who lied and said he was with him the whole time and lost him in the ‘hawkins split’ as he called it. the people of hawkins are still unsure of who killed the teens and almost killed max, but they know now it wasn’t eddie.

he shouldn’t be alive, but he is. and god is he thankful for that.

#⌊ 002. ⇀ headcanon. ⌉#⌊ 000. ⇀ ooc. ⌉#( finally got this on paper )#( and it'll be linked when i finish up the doc with verse info )#( poor dude is eternally on the struggle bus )

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sssrha · 3 years

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transcription of slides under the cut:

[SLIDE 1] the vibes ao3’s top 9 mdzs ships give me (a really stupid thing i made on a lazy saturday)

[SLIDE 2] wangxian: the wholesome canon relationship (with a hint of spice)

ok maybe calling the union between a demonic cultivator and a secret sex fiend “wholesome” isnt exactly accurate…but that’s where the “hint of spice” comes in

other than that tho? i remember seeing a meme somewhere about wangxian and sangcheng and wangxian was described as “domestic gays with a house and a white picket fence and two kids” and honestly? yes

not that they cant be freaky. id say their particular brand of freakiness is vaguely surrealist suburban horror. make of that what you will

[SLIDE 3] xicheng: either its “pair the spares” or just about trauma

their dynamic is 500% “karen/enabling husband” but like in a good way

objectively the best-dressed couple you will ever meet. like seriously why are you even trying? theyve got you beat

jc would own a flower shop and punch you in the face for saying a single bad thing about his flowers. lxc would own a tattoo parlor and hand you a lollipop and tell you how proud he is of you for not crying while he gave you a tattoo

they dont strike me as a “every evening we relax and watch the sunset” type of relationship B U T every other week they go stargazing with a detailed map of the night sky

[SLIDE 4] xiyao: either a) the angst of betraying/being betrayed or b) the angst of killing/being killed

high society gays. they would both unironically wear tuxedos to a mcdonalds. lxc would see it as a fun couples thing and jgy would do it to assert his dominance

i swear they would be among the smiliest of the major couples. only one of them would give you a happy smile

dont mess with them. no like dont mess with any of the couples but so far jgy is the first one who would make your life living hell and keep you around long enough to suffer the consequences

[SLIDE 5] sangcheng: being simultaneously over- and underestimated

i saw a meme about sangcheng and wangxian where sangcheng was described as something along the lines of “wine aunt and vodka uncle” and honestly? yes

they’re both human disasters. nhs would have various splotches of color on his clothes and you cant tell if it was intentional or if theyre actually stains. jc is very neat and organized but will have a mental breakdown at the slightest inconvenience

sometimes they just sit down across from each other and. cry. its how they bond

idk why it popped into my head but they’re both ace Because I Said So

[SLIDE 6] xuexiao: cute domesticity but also murder

i refuse to believe that xy is anything but unhinged in every universe. whether or not thats a good thing is up to you

xy could and would murder you in your sleep and not feel bad about it until xxc told him off. even then he might still decide it was worth it

xxc doesnt exactly know about The Murder Stuff(TM) but he knows some shit is off but he trusts xy enough to not comment on it

they would meet and hook up in a bar and mutually decide that they may as well stay together for the rest of their lives the next morning

[SLIDE 7] xuanli: the token straights (but also? theyre really cute???)

i did not expect them to be as cute as they were but here i am

anyway jyl has jzxuan wrapped around her little finger and shes just too nice to use that to her advantage

if jyl asked jzxuan for some chocolate jzxuan would just buy her the entire hershey company and forget to give her an actual chocolate bar and jyl is too sweet to actually say anything about it

they would definitely have like 20 children. theyd fucking love being parents. the moment having another child became dangerous theyd start adopting left and right. theyre rich they can afford it and their hearts are big enough for all their kids so why would they not?

[SLIDE 8] songxiao: childhood friends to lovers AND perfect power couple

i know they have more nuance than this but i cant help but think of them as The Perfect Couple(TM)

not shipping-wise!! i mean like. theyre both law-abiding citizens. their house looks like a model house. theyre dressed super neat and handsomely. they both know cpr and first aid and one of them is a lawyer and the other is an award winning writer. idk who is who but yk.

they are who people call to deal with problems instead of the police and they delight in that fact. that is what i mean by them being The Perfect Couple(TM)

[SLIDE 9] chengxian: disasters through and through

uhh i am going to be spending the entirety of this slide ignoring the fact that i personally consider them siblings

they would live in a dingy studio apartment in the heart of a city and theyd both never be home

theyre both super fucking rich but theyd never have any money on hand so dont be surprised if they just starve out on the street one day because theyre just that stupid

they collectively have the self esteem of rotting cabbage but theyre keeping themselves and each other alive purely out of spite and sheer force of will

[SLIDES 10] nielan: childhood friends to lovers AND himbo power couple

psst heres a secret: neither of them are actually himbos

H O W E V E R they both 500% pretend they are. they intentionally act as stupid as possible just for the fun of it

the best part is when they stop acting stupid when something important happens. crouching-moron-hidden-badass at its finest

also the older brother energy is overflowing. it does not matter who you are or how old you are. if you meet them then youre going to walk away with two new big brothers

[SLIDES 11] the end (unless i gather the willpower to make a part 2)

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chaozsilhouette · 3 years

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Moonlit Musings

The night is such a perfect time to face one’s darkest truths. Shrouded in the moon’s light what can one do but admit to their flaws. It can be a time of rejuvenation and rebirth, only if you let it.

§~~~~§~~~~§~~~~§

It was a quiet night.

The full moon hung high in the heavens accompanied by millions of stars. Not a cloud to be seen, an ideal night for passions to run wild. Normally people would be taking out their telescopes or arranging romantic picnics.

Sadly, nights like these only filled Sun Wukong with dread. It was a night like this when he was finally able to return after the Journey. That was the night he learned he had lost a precious treasure.

When he returned, he expected to be greeted by his subjects until Macaque showed himself. He expected to be strangled as the pale furred monkie admonished him for his recklessness. He expected to watch as fury transformed into tearful joy as they embraced one another for the first time in over five hundred years.

But that wasn’t what happened.

The moment he set foot back onto Flower Fruit Mountain, he sensed something was very wrong. Like his previous return trips, his subjects greeted him with loud celebrations. The new mothers showed off their infants. The young ones wasted no time climbing all over him, taking in the scent of their king.

The immortal elders, however, looked concerned.

That was when he realized Macaque’s scent on the mountain was far too faint. Even the magical signature of his clones no longer felt fresh.

Macaque was nowhere to be found. The monkeys reported Macaque had returned a few years after he stopped by the mountain earlier in the Journey but not as his usual self. He didn’t respond to any of their questions. He didn’t even take time to check in on the infants. He didn’t say a word.

He just entered the mansion, but no one saw him leave.

Entering the mansion, Wukong dashed to their room desperate for answers. Opening the doors, he saw the room was horribly empty, sure all of his belonging were exactly as he remembered them, but all of Macaque’s stuff was gone. Macaque’s closet was empty and all his books had vanished. Despite his desperate hopes, there wasn’t any signs of a struggle or hidden messages to be found.

Macaque left of his own free will, but why?

He couldn’t bring himself to sleep in the bed they shared so many nights together. Every time he dared, he awoke expect to be greeted with the comforting warmth of familiar presence, instead he opened his eyes to a cold emptiness.

The lack of answers broke his heart, but he didn’t have time to start tearing the landscape apart trying to find him. Now that he was back for good, he had so many responsibilities to catch up on. He was determined to be a good king for his subjects and that meant ughthinking things through. Plus, he wanted to spend as much time with his master and brothers as possible.

Then there was the concerning fact all his previous allies had severed their alliance with him.

Apparently after all the fuss with the Demon Bull King, word had spread that Wukong broke their alliance by disrespecting protocol and attacking the royal family. Plus, his new position as a defender of humanity annoyed more than a few respectable demons. Combined with the sheer number of powerful demons he killed on the Journey cemented the idea that having an alliance with him would only end poorly.

He was banned from court meetings and the other kings in the surrounding areas wanted nothing to do with him. The chaotic nature of his past had finally caught up to him and in the worst possible way.

He was still recognized as the Monkey King of the Sun Court but was effectively blacklisted. No one wanted to mess with him, but they also didn’t want to interact with him. Not good for his mental health to say the least.

Simians are naturally social creatures. Wukong was used to constantly being around other people and learning new things. His time imprisoned was not kind. His first year of freedom had him constantly climbing over his brothers and master just to reassure himself that this was real.

And now that he couldn’t reconnect with old faces unless it was through a battle to the death…It forced him to delve into old memories. Memories that while sweet only made the emptiness more pronounced.

§~~~~§~~~~§~~~~§

Sun Wukong smiled as he watched Macaque’s reaction.

The six-eared monkie was furiously pinching the bridge between his eyebrows after he shattered a boulder with a careless headbutt as though it would make his life mercifully easier. “You’ll have to explain it to me again. What did you mean by ‘no longer under Yama’s jurisdiction’?”

“Exactly what I said. I was napping. Having some time to myself, when out of nowhere some idiots tried to take my soul to the afterlife.” Wukong explained as though having entities of death rip out your soul to drag it to the underworld was no big deal.

“Bet you weren’t happy.” Macaque couldn’t help but smirk at the flippant tone. He just made it so difficult to stay mad.

“Not in the slightest. I barged my way to the top brass, bunch of cowards called the Ten Kings (totally undeserved titles by the way) and demanded what the fuck was going on.” He was still ticked off even if the payoff was sweet. Seriously! Did immortality mean nothing to these cowards? They couldn’t even play it off as him dying in battle. He was in the peak of his youth! “Can you believe they tried to play it off as a misunderstanding? Should have smacked the loudmouth when I was there.”

“So, through a series of ridiculous events, you erased your name from the records of the dead.” Macaque could easily piece together the rest from there. No matter how ridiculous the odds. He learned never to bet against his friend when a problem could be handled with brute strength or intimidation. If it didn’t look like such an answer was possible, clearly, they hadn’t experienced the force of a determined Wukong. Something about facing a ticked off monkie of practically infinite strength and invulnerability left harden conquerors pissing themselves.

It was hilarious.

“Not just mine. In my infinite wisdom, I erased the names of several of the monkey inhabitants of esteemed Flower Fruit Mountain, including yours.” Wukong playfully booped Macaque’s nose.

Turning away to hide a light blush, Macaque scoffed to cover his embarrassing response. “Typical. I can’t leave you alone for five minutes without you doing something insane.”

“I know. I’m just that awesome.”

“So what? Are we now double immortal?” That was the question wasn’t it. Due to their master’s instructions, they were immortal and ageless, so what exactly would this give them? He didn’t feel any different. He couldn’t sense any new powers or changes in his instincts.

His counterpart, however, had other things on his mind. “Who cares. All I know is that those idiots have no control over our souls anymore.” And with that the King took his rightful place across Macaque’s lap as the other returned to his scrolls.

Wukong instead took the time to examine his friend, who finally gained enough confidence to fully drop his glamour and embrace his true appearance.

He still couldn’t believe Macaque actually had six ears. The weird part was how natural they looked, almost as if seeing him with only two was bizarre. The coolest part was how each pair softly glowed a different color. Blue. Purple. Red. Sometimes Wukong would just stare at them, imagining that he could see glittering stars emanating from that glow.

Suddenly those magnificent ears twitched. Macaque didn’t bother looking up from the bamboo scroll. “A trespasser...multiple, boar and vulture demon. Another hunting party”.

“Again. Ugh. Don’t these idiots ever give up!” Don’t get him wrong, Wukong loved a good fight. What better way to prove how superior you are to others than to steal what’s most precious to them? But even he was starting to grow bored with the sheer number of hunters that thought kidnapping his subjects was a quick cash grab.

After the fifth army he returned in pieces to the surrounding upstart lords, you’d think they’d take a hint.

Thankfully he wasn’t the only powerhouse on the mountain. “I haven’t tasted blood in a while. Why don’t I defend the kingdom while your highness enjoys a show?” Macaque set aside his reading material, eyes glittering with bloodlust.

Wukong returned the smirk with one of his own. “I’m always up for a good thrashing. One request: make it glorious.”

“Don’t I always.” Macaque joked as he retrieved his spear from his own shadow.

Wukong summoned his cloud and claimed a good vantage point. Once again, he marveled at his friend’s hearing. Judging by the distance it would have been at least three hours before he would have detected their presence.

Kicking back, he transformed some hair into a fruit platter and waited for the screams.

§~~~~§~~~~§~~~~§

To this day, Wukong knew Macaque was alive. Thanks to his efforts combined with the intense training, the monkie was double immortal. Besides, that monkkie was way too stubborn to die. He would survive purely on spite if he had to.

Macaque left, but why?

While he may have effectively isolated himself, that didn’t mean he didn’t hear about the other courts. A few centuries ago, he heard rumors about the formation of a new court by someone under the title of the Macaque King. Supposedly they were a powerful monkie who knew way more than he had the right to. For a brief moment, Wukong dared to hope it was his old friend, but it didn’t last. The few recounts he caught described him with black fur. Besides, he knew how much Macaque hated the title of King. Even when Wukong offered him the position as co-ruler of his kingdom, the pale monkie adamantly refused.

Still, he was curious.

For a few weeks he could have sworn he detected a familiar scent hiding underneath Mk’s. And he wasn’t the only one who noticed. A few of the immortal monkeys questioned him on the mango infused scent and what his plans were. It was almost too much to take in.

To think he returned to teach his student instead of showing his face. It hurt just to think about it. He chose to ignore the beckoning scent until it became impossible to ignore MK’s leap in progress. Then it just vanished like it hadn’t been testing his patience. Like it hadn’t brought him to the brink of shaking the kid upside down until he confessed where his old friend was hiding. The kid probably grew wise, or someone told him to change his bathing habits, and by the next training session it was all but gone.

Dragging his hand down his face, Wukong tried to reevaluate his thoughts.

Getting mad at the kid wasn’t going to solve anything. He knew he hadn’t been the most attentive master. Hell, the whole hammer exercise at its core was a desperate attempt to remove a painful reminder of better times. His master would be disappointed in how he was running away from his problems, but would encourage him to take the steps to be better. Zhu Bajie would be a sarcastic little shit, trying to get him riled up so the monkie would prove him wrong. Sha Wujing would sit him down and wouldn’t let him leave until they talked everything through.

He had to make things right with the kid. He deserved a better master. And this New Years he was gonna get one.

He spoke, praying the winds would carry his voice to his Warrior.

“Macaque. I know it’s been a while, but…I-I want to talk. I know you’re out there, somewhere I can’t reach. I miss sparring with you. I miss lazy days napping in the shade by your side. I miss defending the mountain as we held contests to see who could take out the most trespassers before their common sense kicked in. I miss you. Please come home.”

§~~~~§~~~~§~~~~§

The moon was high in the sky. Stars danced in the heavens as the faintest hints of vibrations pulsed through the concrete from the late-night dance clubs. MK lay awake, his mind struggling to make sense of it all.

Ever since Macaque disappeared in order to remain undetected, he kept thinking about his relationship with the Monkey King. Sure, he was being trained and he was definitely making progress. The monkie was still on his case for supposedly cheating on him with another mentor. Nothing MK said or did could make the monkie think otherwise. Thankfully, he was no longer shooting him suspicious glares, but the underlying tension remained.

The sad truth is they just weren’t that close.

He would have expected to learn more about the Monkey King on a personal and emotional level, but he just couldn’t get past that wall. Their training sessions felt more like just the Monkey King arranged just to get it over with. There was no passion at all.

Okay, perhaps that last bit was an exaggeration.

When you peered past the arrogance and pride, you found one socially awkward monkie. It was similar to Red Son the more he thought about it, both seemed to find it difficult to talk to or relate to others in a friendly setting. Sure, Monkey King projected a friendly demeanor and called him “bud”, but if he didn’t know any better he could have sworn the monkie was afraid to take that final step.

The last few sessions had taken a bit of a turn in a positive direction as Sandy would say. Maybe Monkey King decided it was time to make a change? Maybe this was all a trick so MK would lower his guard and reveal Macaque’s identity? Maybe he was just tired and should have conked out an hour ago?

Maybe.

Reality was so different from the legends. When Tang first introduced him to the Monkey stories, he was hooked. He loved listening to the tales of the infamous trickster that flipped off every major religious figure with unbridled confidence. Meeting the Great Sage in the flesh was like a dream come true until he was exposed to the King’s less pleasant tendencies.

Mk couldn’t help but wonder just how much confidence the Monkey King had in his training skills. Did he ever train someone before? Could MK talk to someone about this without appearing even more ungrateful than he already looked? Why didn’t he stop Red Son from unsealing his father when he was there? Why didn’t he simply seal the entire family when they were reunited? Why did the five times immortal sage decide that now he needed to train a disciple? Was Monkey King not telling him something important?

He had so many questions and not even the foggiest idea of where to start looking. Or perhaps he did?

The truth was he missed Macaque. The dark-furred monkie may have only taught him for a month, but the progress he made and the level of care he was exposed to made him feel as though he had finally unlocked the ability to fly.

He missed the regular grooming. He missed learning about the demon community. He missed learning new ways to mess with Red Son through appropriate court manners.

Watching the fire user freeze up at the term “honorable prince of the Iron Bull Court” just made him laugh, when his hair combusted it really matched his face. Now that he thought about it, were those horns starting to peek out of his forehead? And maybe the slightest hint of a tufted tail swiping the bottom of his coat? Seeing the demon frantically compose himself was a treat he didn’t know he needed. He still had the video saved as one of his favorites, didn’t hurt that Mei caught it at the perfect angle.

Oh yeah, he missed that.

With any luck, New Years would be the start of something better.

§~~~~§~~~~§~~~~§

On an island that remained surrounded by unquenchable storms, a single black-furred monkie sat cross-legged in a secluded part attached to the palace. All around him fruit trees and bushes bore a hefty bounty releasing an intoxicating scent of life.

Ears twitched.

Macaque opened his eyes, aroused from his meditation. It was odd. He had the faintest sensation that someone had been talking about him. Now that wasn’t exactly unusual, he made plenty of allies and enemies across the centuries. What was odd was that the voice sounded like someone he once cherished.

But that couldn’t be right.

The deceptive silence of his personal orchard gave him no answers. Not that he really expected it to.

For some reason he refused to identify, Macaque turned to the single peach tree in the grove. A tribute from his past and a reminder of his mistakes. But it was also a valuable resource once he learned the truth about the peach’s properties. He used its powers to protect many happy relationships, if only it could have helped him so long ago.

No matter.

He still had many projects to work on, including one successor just rife with insecurities. He honestly felt bad ducking out as he did. If things were different, he would have offered him a new life. His Stars were always happy to welcome a new member into their budding community.

As a bonus, his presence would have interrupted their constant attempts to set him up with new dates. He adored their efforts but being paired with partners who only wanted power or he would view only as friends was not something he enjoyed. Although watching them mentally destroy those they didn’t find suitable for him was quite entertaining.

Either way, New Years was coming up fast and he still needed to approve a few changes. His Stars were determined to make sure this event topped last years in every way possible, but they had to make sure they didn’t set the orchard on fire again. Or worse, they could launch the fireworks into the storm barrier. He wasn’t sure why or how, but the tornadoes and clouds turned different colors as explosions rang throughout the night.

It was beautiful but lost its charm after the third day.

#lego monkie kid au #Vanishing Shadow Au #sun wukong #mk #monkie kid #six eared macaque #liu er mihou #rainbow eared macaque #crazy family #Macaque!Dad

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agmapansa3008 · 3 years

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I love The Devil Judge, I really really do. It’s such a fantastic show with such an amazing cast. Truly one of my favourite shows I’ve ever watched.

But I still did a little rewrite:

Spoilers below the cut:

The ending left me a little empty, especially for Ga On. I sort of get why they ended it the way they have, but it still left me a little heartbroken, so without further ado:

---

Ga On smiled at Ms Ji after she finished telling him about her new store, but the smile felt a bit shaky on his lips. Yo Han was alive, he and Elijah were safe, that was good. That was the only important thing.

But something in him, he who was already cracked and broken and barely held together by sheer spite, crumbled even more as he realised that he was now alone.

Truly and utterly alone.

His eyes watered, but he quickly cleared his throat and turned away from Ms Ji to place the blueprints back on the armchair. “I guess this means Goodbye,” he said, his voice quiet and small. Shaking his head to himself, he turned back, pulling up the walls he had so expertly built for himself after losing his parents. He smiled at her, tight lipped, but genuine, and bowed slightly.

“Young Master.” Ms Ji placed her hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. Her voice sounded warm. “I will never forget what you have done for this broken family. But this only means Goodbye to me, if that is what you want.” When he straightened, confusion evident in his eyes, she pulled out a note from her pocket and handed it to him. “The choice is yours, Young Master.”

And with that, she left him, note clutched in his hands.

Releasing a shaky breath, he opened it up and his eyes widened.

He started to run.

---

Yo Han was wearing his hair down and his suits had made way for a long leather jacket. He looked more at home in those clothes than he ever had in his business attire, Ga On suddenly noticed. He also looked suspiciously at home on Ga On’s balcony. “Chief.” His voice was breathless, either the run or seeing Kang Yo Han, alive and well again, leaving him faintly light-headed.

Twice in the same day, the man had made him think that he was dead.

A small part of Ga On wanted to hit him.

Another part wanted to hug him and never let go.

But he wasn’t sure what he was allowed anymore. What he was ever allowed.

The note, still clutched in his hand, was staining his hand with ink.

Your plants look rather dry, baby deer.

He almost hadn’t expected Yo Han to really be here.

“Chief,” he said again, slowly climbing the stairs. Yo Han was gently running his fingers over some of the rather pathetic looking plants. Ga On was a little heartbroken when he saw that some had died completely. “What are you-”

“I trust Ms Ji clued you in?” Yo Han’s voice sounded neutral. Like he was talking about the weather. Like he hadn’t returned from the damned dead, twice.

Ga On had joined him on the balcony, heart thudding against his ribcage painfully. “I… Yes. Switzerland.” He gritted his teeth against fresh tears. He couldn’t help it.

He was so confused.

“Well, Elijah and I talked and she-” Yo Han broke off, his eyes moving to Ga On’s for a split second before returning to the plants, shoving his hands into his pockets. “We both agreed that our family needs a little vacation. Maybe a permanent one,” he finished, clearing his throat.

Ga On frowned, but then quickly tried to hide it with a smile. “That’s good. You deserve it, both of you.” And they did. He had promised Elijah that he would bring her uncle back and he might have not managed it alone, but he had damn well nearly died to make it happen. He wanted the best for them, he truly did. But a small part of him, a small selfish part- “I wish you all the best.”

Yo Han huffed, hands moving out of his pockets to cross over his chest. “You’re not a baby deer anymore, are you?” He suddenly asked, the change of topic throwing Ga On off. He blinked at his chief and slowly shook his head, though he looked almost uncertain. “But you’re still very stupid.” Ga On’s eyes widened and oddly stung he retreated half a step. “Don’t look at me like that, Judge Kim.” Yo Han’s voice gentled as he sighed, his shoulders slumping.

For the first time, Ga On could see how affected the man truly looked by the last few days. New lines adorned his face and there was some grey just on the edge of his temple. “Chief, I don’t understand.”

“Ga On.” It still sounded foreign, when he addressed Ga On so naturally. But good. Definitely good. Seemingly steeling himself for something, Yo Han finally looked him in the eyes and kept the contact. “I’m here to offer you a choice,” he said slowly, eyes serious. “The choice is all yours and know that I will support you no matter what, but I need to give you that choice. For Elijah.” He hesitated and took a deep breath. ”And for me.”

“Chief?”

“You can stay here. Stay in Korea, take my place, but do it better. Do it your way.” Yo Han moved closer then, still keeping eye contact. “You won’t have my physical support, but I am still willing to help you in any way you want. You were more righteous than me from the beginning, had hope in a country that I had given up on years ago. You can try to bring it back from the brink.” Cautiously putting his hand on Ga On’s shoulder, he gave it a squeeze, not dissimilar to Ms Ji. “If someone has any damn chance, it’s you, even if you are a brat.”

Ga On couldn’t help the snort, but his ears were ringing with confusion and exhaustion. “Or?”

Yo Han’s lips barely twitched, the smile there and gone in moments. “Or.” He took another deep breath, the hand on Ga On’s shoulder moving up to cup the side of his neck. “Or you come with us.” And Ga On’s knees almost buckled with the sheer force of relief he felt.

They weren’t- “Are you sure?” They didn’t want to leave him behind. “Are you really sure?” His words were frazzled, barely coherent.

Yo Han’s eyes gentled as the smile returned, there to stay this time. “You are part of this family now, Ga On. If you want, that is.” The smile faltered, but it didn’t disappear. It looked forced though, Yo Han looking like he was barely breathing.

The gathered tears in Ga On’s eyes finally fell as he leaned forward, his forehead colliding with Yo Han’s shoulder, trusting that the man would catch him. “I am so tired, Yo Han. I’m just so tired.” He finally sobbed, feeling arms reach around him and pulling him tightly against a warm chest.

Yo Han chuckled above him, but it sounded suspiciously wet. “Then I guess you could use that vacation as well.”

#i trust you all know that I'm taking about the korea in-universe #because man angmapansa!korea was #rough #but yeah #anyway #lawful husbands #the devil judge #angmapansa #korean drama #kim ga on #kang yo han #darawrites #the devil judge spoilers

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queenaryastark · 3 years

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Elia Martell: Quote Masterlist

In preparation for Elia Week 2021, I compiled all of the times Elia is mentioned in ASOIAF and TWOIAF. It’s not surprising, but it is very troubling how little we get of her actual personality and characterization. There’s clearly an overemphasis on her rape and murder, the quest for vengeance on her brother’s side, and how she compared to other women. We get one flashback/vision of her after Aegon’s birth discussion song and prophecy with Rhaegar which is the only time she actually speaks. Oberyn’s courtship tour story gives hints at her characterization, while Barristan, who wouldn’t have known her well, gives us details like: good, delicate health, kind, clever, and sweet wit. It’s pretty vague, but unfortunately that’s all GRRM gave us.

Anyway, the quotes are under the cut:

Her Murder

Princess Elia of Dorne pleading for mercy as Rhaegar's heir was ripped from her breast and murdered before her eyes. -- Dany I, AGOT ----- The Dornishmen burn to avenge Elia and her children. -- Dany I, AGOT ----- Some said it had been Gregor who'd dashed the skull of the infant prince Aegon Targaryen against a wall, and whispered that afterward he had raped the mother, the Dornish princess Elia, before putting her to the sword. -- Eddard VII, AGOT ----- Ned remembered the moment when all the smiles died, when Prince Rhaegar Targaryen urged his horse past his own wife, the Dornish princess Elia Martell, to lay the queen of beauty's laurel in Lyanna's lap. -- Eddard XV, AGOT ----- In Dorne, the Martells still brood on the murder of Princess Elia and her babes. -- Eddard XV, AGOT ------ The prince is a sentimental man, and he still mourns his sister Elia and her sweet babe. "My father once told me that a lord never lets sentiment get in the way of ambition . . . and it happens we have an empty seat on the small council, now that Lord Janos has taken the black." "A council seat is not to be despised," Varys admitted, "yet will it be enough to make a proud man forget his sister's murder?" "Why forget?" Tyrion smiled. "I've promised to deliver his sister's killers, alive or dead, as he prefers. After the war is done, to be sure." Varys gave him a shrewd look. "My little birds tell me that Princess Elia cried a . . . certain name . . . when they came for her." -- Tyrion IV, AGOT ----- "Prince Doran comes at my son's invitation," Lord Tywin said calmly, "not only to join in our celebration, but to claim his seat on this council, and the justice Robert denied him for the murder of his sister Elia and her children." -- Tyrion III, ASOS ---- I did not come for some mummer's show of an inquiry. I came for justice for Elia and her children, and I will have it. Starting with this lummox Gregor Clegane . . . but not, I think, ending there. Before he dies, the Enormity That Rides will tell me whence came his orders, please assure your lord father of that. -- Tyrion V, ASOS -------- "It is justice. It was Ser Amory who brought me the girl's body, if you must know. He found her hiding under her father's bed, as if she believed Rhaegar could still protect her. Princess Elia and the babe were in the nursery a floor below." -- Tyrion VI, ASOS ----- "I grant you, it was done too brutally. Elia need not have been harmed at all, that was sheer folly. By herself she was nothing." "Then why did the Mountain kill her?" "Because I did not tell him to spare her. I doubt I mentioned her at all. I had more pressing concerns. Ned Stark's van was rushing south from the Trident, and I feared it might come to swords between us. And it was in Aerys to murder Jaime, with no more cause than spite. That was the thing I feared most. That, and what Jaime himself might do." He closed a fist. "Nor did I yet grasp what I had in Gregor Clegane, only that he was huge and terrible in battle. The rape . . . even you will not accuse me of giving that command, I would hope. Ser Amory was almost as bestial with Rhaenys. I asked him afterward why it had required half a hundred thrusts to kill a girl of . . . two? Three? He said she'd kicked him and would not stop screaming. If Lorch had half the wits the gods gave a turnip, he would have calmed her with a few sweet words and used a soft silk pillow." His mouth twisted in distaste. "The blood was in him." -- Tyrion VI, ASOS ------ Justice is in short supply this side of the mountains. There has been none for Elia, Aegon, or Rhaenys. Why should there be any for you? Perhaps Joffrey's real killer was eaten by a bear. That seems to happen quite often in King's Landing. -- Tyrion IX, ASOS -------- "I am not lying. Ser Amory dragged Princess Rhaenys out from under her father's bed and stabbed her to death. He had some men-at-arms with him, but I do not know their names." He leaned forward. "It was Ser Gregor Clegane who smashed Prince Aegon's head against a wall and raped your sister Elia with his blood and brains still on his hands." -- Tyrion IX, ASOS --------- "The gout I cannot help," she said, "but my father had no use for grief. Vengeance was more to his taste. Is it true that Gregor Clegane admitted slaying Elia and her children?" "He roared out his guilt for all the court to hear," the prince admitted. "Lord Tywin has promised us his head." -- Hotah, AFFC --------- "My sister Elia had a little girl as well. Her name was Rhaenys. She was a princess too." The prince sighed. "Those who would plunge a knife into Princess Myrcella do not bear her any malice, no more than Ser Amory Lorch did when he killed Rhaenys, if indeed he did. They seek only to force my hand. For if Myrcella should be slain in Dorne whilst under my protection, who would believe my denials?" -- Arys, AFFC --------

Oberyn VS Gregor Clegane

The Dornishman slid sideways. "I am Oberyn Martell, a prince of Dorne," he said, as the Mountain turned to keep him in sight. "Princess Elia was my sister." "Who?" asked Gregor Clegane. Oberyn's long spear jabbed, but Ser Gregor took the point on his shield, shoved it aside, and bulled back at the prince, his great sword flashing. The Dornishman spun away untouched. The spear darted forward. Clegane slashed at it, Martell snapped it back, then thrust again. Metal screamed on metal as the spearhead slid off the Mountain's chest, slicing through the surcoat and leaving a long bright scratch on the steel beneath. "Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne," the Red Viper hissed. "You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children." Ser Gregor grunted. He made a ponderous charge to hack at the Dornishman's head. Prince Oberyn avoided him easily. "You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children." ------- But the Red Viper of Dorne was back on his feet, his long spear in hand. "Elia," he called at Ser Gregor. "You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children. Now say her name." The Mountain whirled. Helm, shield, sword, surcoat; he was spattered with gore from head to heels. "You talk too much," he grumbled. "You make my head hurt." "I will hear you say it. She was Elia of Dorne." The Mountain snorted contemptuously, and came on . . . and in that moment, the sun broke through the low clouds that had hidden the sky since dawn. -------- Prince Oberyn tilted his dinted metal shield. A shaft of sunlight blazed blindingly off polished gold and copper, into the narrow slit of his foe's helm. Clegane lifted his own shield against the glare. Prince Oberyn's spear flashed like lightning and found the gap in the heavy plate, the joint under the arm. The point punched through mail and boiled leather. Gregor gave a choked grunt as the Dornishman twisted his spear and yanked it free."Elia. Say it! Elia of Dorne!" He was circling, spear poised for another thrust. "Say it!" Tyrion had his own prayer. Fall down and die, was how it went. Damn you, fall down and die! The blood trickling from the Mountain's armpit was his own now, and he must be bleeding even more heavily inside the breastplate. When he tried to take a step, one knee buckled. Tyrion thought he was going down. Prince Oberyn had circled behind him. "ELIA OF DORNE!" he shouted. Ser Gregor started to turn, but too slow and too late. The spearhead went through the back of the knee this time, through the layers of chain and leather between the plates on thigh and calf. The Mountain reeled, swayed, then collapsed face first on the ground. His huge sword went flying from his hand. Slowly, ponderously, he rolled onto his back. The Dornishman flung away his ruined shield, grasped the spear in both hands, and sauntered away. Behind him the Mountain let out a groan, and pushed himself onto an elbow. Oberyn whirled cat-quick, and ran at his fallen foe. "EEEEELLLLLLIIIIIAAAAA!" he screamed, as he drove the spear down with the whole weight of his body behind it. The crack of the ashwood shaft snapping was almost as sweet a sound as Cersei's wail of fury, and for an instant Prince Oberyn had wings. The snake has vaulted over the Mountain. Four feet of broken spear jutted from Clegane's belly as Prince Oberyn rolled, rose, and dusted himself off. He tossed aside the splintered spear and claimed his foe's greatsword. "If you die before you say her name, ser, I will hunt you through all seven hells," he promised. ------ Clegane's hand shot up and grabbed the Dornishman behind the knee. The Red Viper brought down the greatsword in a wild slash, but he was off-balance, and the edge did no more than put another dent in the Mountain's vambrace. Then the sword was forgotten as Gregor's hand tightened and twisted, yanking the Dornishman down on top of him. They wrestled in the dust and blood, the broken spear wobbling back and forth. Tyrion saw with horror that the Mountain had wrapped one huge arm around the prince, drawing him tight against his chest, like a lover. "Elia of Dorne," they all heard Ser Gregor say, when they were close enough to kiss. His deep voice boomed within the helm. "I killed her screaming whelp." He thrust his free hand into Oberyn's unprotected face, pushing steel fingers into his eyes. "Then I raped her." Clegane slammed his fist into the Dornishman's mouth, making splinters of his teeth. "Then I smashed her fucking head in. Like this." As he drew back his huge fist, the blood on his gauntlet seemed to smoke in the cold dawn air. There was a sickening crunch. Ellaria Sand wailed in terror, and Tyrion's breakfast came boiling back up. He found himself on his knees retching bacon and sausage and applecakes, and that double helping of fried eggs cooked up with onions and fiery Dornish peppers.-- Tyrion, X

General

Viserys, was her first thought the next time she paused, but a second glance told her otherwise. The man had her brother's hair, but he was taller, and his eyes were a dark indigo rather than lilac. "Aegon," he said to a woman nursing a newborn babe in a great wooden bed. "What better name for a king?"

"Will you make a song for him?" the woman asked.

"He has a song," the man replied. "He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire." He looked up when he said it and his eyes met Dany's, and it seemed as if he saw her standing there beyond the door. "There must be one more," he said, though whether he was speaking to her or the woman in the bed she could not say. "The dragon has three heads." He went to the window seat, picked up a harp, and ran his fingers lightly over its silvery strings. Sweet sadness filled the room as man and wife and babe faded like the morning mist, only the music lingering behind to speed her on her way. -- Daenerys IV, ACOK

------

She nodded. "There was a woman in a bed with a babe at her breast. My brother said the babe was the prince that was promised and told her to name him Aegon."

"Prince Aegon was Rhaegar's heir by Elia of Dorne," Ser Jorah said. "But if he was this prince that was promised, the promise was broken along with his skull when the Lannisters dashed his head against a wall." -- Daenerys V, ACOK

------

No doubt he was waiting for Prince Viserys to mature, or perhaps for Rhaegar's wife to die in childbed. Elia of Dorne was never the healthiest of women. -- Jaime II, ASOS

------

The king reminded Lewyn Martell gracelessly that he held Elia and sent him to take command of the ten thousand Dornishmen coming up the kingsroad. -- Jaime V, ASOS

-----

When the word reached court, Aerys packed the queen off to Dragonstone with Prince Viserys. Princess Elia would have gone as well, but he forbade it. Somehow he had gotten it in his head that Prince Lewyn must have betrayed Rhaegar on the Trident, but he thought he could keep Dorne loyal so long as he kept Elia and Aegon by his side. -- Jaime V, ASOS

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"It was when I visited Casterly Rock with my mother, her consort, and my sister Elia. I was, oh, fourteen, fifteen, thereabouts, Elia a year older. Your brother and sister were eight or nine, as I recall, and you had just been born." -- Tyrion V, ASOS

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The cell they gave me had a featherbed to sleep in and Myrish carpets on the floor, but it was dark and windowless, much like a dungeon when you come down to it, as I told Elia at the time. Your skies were too grey, your wines too sweet, your women too chaste, your food too bland . . . and you yourself were the greatest disappointment of all." -- Tyrion V, ASOS

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"Cersei promised Elia to show you to us. The day before we were to sail, whilst my mother and your father were closeted together, she and Jaime took us down to your nursery. Your wet nurse tried to send us off, but your sister was having none of that. 'He's mine,' she said, 'and you're just a milk cow, you can't tell me what to do. Be quiet or I'll have my father cut your tongue out. A cow doesn't need a tongue, only udders.'"

"Her Grace learned charm at an early age," said Tyrion, amused by the notion of his sister claiming him as hers. "She's never been in any rush to claim me since, the gods know.

"Cersei even undid your swaddling clothes to give us a better look," the Dornish prince continued. "You did have one evil eye, and some black fuzz on your scalp. Perhaps your head was larger than most . . . but there was no tail, no beard, neither teeth nor claws, and nothing between your legs but a tiny pink cock. After all the wonderful whispers, Lord Tywin's Doom turned out to be just a hideous red infant with stunted legs. Elia even made the noise that young girls make at the sight of infants, I'm sure you've heard it. The same noise they make over cute kittens and playful puppies. I believe she wanted to nurse you herself, ugly as you were. When I commented that you seemed a poor sort of monster, your sister said, 'He killed my mother,' and twisted your little cock so hard I thought she was like to pull it off. You shrieked, but it was only when your brother Jaime said, 'Leave him be, you're hurting him,' that Cersei let go of you. 'It doesn't matter,' she told us. 'Everyone says he's like to die soon. He shouldn't even have lived this long.'" -- Tyrion V, ASOS

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"As children Elia and I were inseparable, much like your own brother and sister." -- Tyrion V, ASOS

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"But that was the tourney when he crowned Lyanna Stark as queen of love and beauty!" said Dany. "Princess Elia was there, his wife, and yet my brother gave the crown to the Stark girl, and later stole her away from her betrothed. How could he do that? Did the Dornish woman treat him so ill?"

"It is not for such as me to say what might have been in your brother's heart, Your Grace. The Princess Elia was a good and gracious lady, though her health was ever delicate."

Dany pulled the lion pelt tighter about her shoulders. "Viserys said once that it was my fault, for being born too late." She had denied it hotly, she remembered, going so far as to tell Viserys that it was his fault for not being born a girl. He beat her cruelly for that insolence. "If I had been born more timely, he said, Rhaegar would have married me instead of Elia, and it would all have come out different. If Rhaegar had been happy in his wife, he would not have needed the Stark girl." -- Daenerys, ASOS

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"Aye. I will." Ulmer, stooped and grey-bearded and loose of skin and limb, stepped to the mark and pulled an arrow from the quiver at his waist. In his youth he had been an outlaw, a member of the infamous Kingswood Brotherhood. He claimed he'd once put an arrow through the hand of the White Bull of the Kingsguard to steal a kiss from the lips of a Dornish princess. He had stolen her jewels too, and a chest of golden dragons, but it was the kiss he liked to boast of in his cups. -- Samwell II, ASOS

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"Do you recall the tale I told you of our first meeting, Imp?" Prince Oberyn asked, as the Bastard of Godsgrace knelt before him to fasten his greaves. "It was not for your tail alone that my sister and I came to Casterly Rock. We were on a quest of sorts. A quest that took us to Starfall, the Arbor, Oldtown, the Shield Islands, Crakehall, and finally Casterly Rock . . . but our true destination was marriage. Doran was betrothed to Lady Mellario of Norvos, so he had been left behind as castellan of Sunspear. My sister and I were yet unpromised.

"Elia found it all exciting. She was of that age, and her delicate health had never permitted her much travel. I preferred to amuse myself by mocking my sister's suitors. There was Little Lord Lazyeye, Squire Squishlips, one I named the Whale That Walks, that sort of thing. The only one who was even halfway presentable was young Baelor Hightower. A pretty lad, and my sister was half in love with him until he had the misfortune to fart once in our presence. I promptly named him Baelor Breakwind, and after that Elia couldn't look at him without laughing. I was a monstrous young fellow, someone should have sliced out my vile tongue."

Yes, Tyrion agreed silently. Baelor Hightower was no longer young, but he remained Lord Leyton's heir; wealthy, handsome, and a knight of splendid repute. Baelor Brightsmile, they called him now. Had Elia wed him in place of Rhaegar Targaryen, she might be in Oldtown with her children growing tall around her. He wondered how many lives had been snuffed out by that fart.

"Lannisport was the end of our voyage," Prince Oberyn went on, as Ser Arron Qorgyle helped him into a padded leather tunic and began lacing it up the back. "Were you aware that our mothers knew each other of old?"

"They had been at court together as girls, I seem to recall. Companions to Princess Rhaella?"

"Just so. It was my belief that the mothers had cooked up this plot between them. Squire Squishlips and his ilk and the various pimply young maidens who'd been paraded before me were the almonds before the feast, meant only to whet our appetites. The main course was to be served at Casterly Rock."

"Cersei and Jaime."

"Such a clever dwarf. Elia and I were older, to be sure. Your brother and sister could not have been more than eight or nine. Still, a difference of five or six years is little enough. And there was an empty cabin on our ship, a very nice cabin, such as might be kept for a person of high birth. As if it were intended that we take someone back to Sunspear. A young page, perhaps. Or a companion for Elia. Your lady mother meant to betroth Jaime to my sister, or Cersei to me. Perhaps both."

"Perhaps," said Tyrion, "but my father—"

"—ruled the Seven Kingdoms, but was ruled at home by his lady wife, or so my mother always said." Prince Oberyn raised his arms, so Lord Dagos Manwoody and the Bastard of Godsgrace could slip a chainmail byrnie down over his head. "At Oldtown we learned of your mother's death, and the monstrous child she had borne. We might have turned back there, but my mother chose to sail on. I told you of the welcome we found at Casterly Rock.

"What I did not tell you was that my mother waited as long as was decent, and then broached your father about our purpose. Years later, on her deathbed, she told me that Lord Tywin had refused us brusquely. His daughter was meant for Prince Rhaegar, he informed her. And when she asked for Jaime, to espouse Elia, he offered her you instead."

"Which offer she took for an outrage."

"It was. Even you can see that, surely?"

"Oh, surely." It all goes back and back, Tyrion thought, to our mothers and fathers and theirs before them. We are puppets dancing on the strings of those who came before us, and one day our own children will take up our strings and dance on in our steads. "Well, Prince Rhaegar married Elia of Dorne, not Cersei Lannister of Casterly Rock. So it would seem your mother won that tilt."

"She thought so," Prince Oberyn agreed, "but your father is not a man to forget such slights. He taught that lesson to Lord and Lady Tarbeck once, and to the Reynes of Castamere. And at King's Landing, he taught it to my sister. My helm, Dagos." Manwoody handed it to him; a high golden helm with a copper disk mounted on the brow, the sun of Dorne. The visor had been removed, Tyrion saw. "Elia and her children have waited long for justice." Prince Oberyn pulled on soft red leather gloves, and took up his spear again. "But this day they shall have it." -- Tyrion X, ASOS

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"Was she a fair maid?"

"She was," said Meera, hopping over a stone, "but there were others fairer still. One was the wife of the dragon prince, who'd brought a dozen lady companions to attend her. The knights all begged them for favors to tie about their lances." -- Bran II, ASOS

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"I was the oldest," the prince said, "and yet I am the last. After Mors and Olyvar died in their cradles, I gave up hope of brothers. I was nine when Elia came, a squire in service at Salt Shore. When the raven arrived with word that my mother had been brought to bed a month too soon, I was old enough to understand that meant the child would not live. Even when Lord Gargalen told me that I had a sister, I assured him that she must shortly die. Yet she lived, by the Mother's mercy. And a year later Oberyn arrived, squalling and kicking. I was a man grown when they were playing in these pools. Yet here I sit, and they are gone." -- Hotah I, AFFC

-------

"Tyene. Obara is too loud. Tyene is so sweet and gentle that no man will suspect her. Obara would make Oldtown our father's funeral pyre, but I am not so greedy. Four lives will suffice for me. Lord Tywin's golden twins, as payment for Elia's children. The old lion, for Elia herself. And last of all the little king, for my father -- Hotah I, AFFC

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"He went beyond anything I asked of him. 'Take the measure of this boy king and his council, and make note of their strengths and weaknesses,' I told him, on the terrace. We were eating oranges. 'Find us friends, if there are any to be found. Learn what you can of Elia's end, but see that you do not provoke Lord Tywin unduly,' those were my words to him. Oberyn laughed, and said, 'When have I provoked any man . . . unduly? You would do better to warn the Lannisters against provoking me.' He wanted justice for Elia, but he would not wait—"

"He waited ten-and-seven years," the Lady Nym broke in. "Were it you they'd killed, my father would have led his banners north before your corpse was cold. Were it you, the spears would be falling thick as rain upon the marches now." -- Hotah I, AFFC

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"And what is it I want, ser?"

"The Sand Snakes freed. Vengeance for Oberyn and Elia. Do I know the song? You want a little taste of lion blood."

That, and my birthright. I want Sunspear, and my father's seat. I want Dorne. "I want justice." -- Arianne I, AFFC

-------

"With me?" That is so like him. "For Lord Tywin and the Lannisters you always had the forbearance of Baelor the Blessed, but for your own blood, none."

"You mistake patience for forbearance. I have worked at the downfall of Tywin Lannister since the day they told me of Elia and her children. It was my hope to strip him of all that he held most dear before I killed him, but it would seem his dwarf son has robbed me of that pleasure. I take some small solace in knowing that he died a cruel death at the hands of the monster that he himself begot. Be that as it may. Lord Tywin is howling down in hell . . . where thousands more will soon be joining him, if your folly turns to war." Her father grimaced, as if the very word were painful to him. "Is that what you want?"

The princess refused to be cowed. "I want my cousins freed. I want my uncle avenged. I want my rights." -- Arianne II, AFFC

-------

Black cats brought ill luck, as Rhaegar's little girl had discovered in this very castle. She would have been my daughter, if the Mad King had not played his cruel jape on Father. It had to have been the madness that led Aerys to refuse Lord Tywin's daughter and take his son instead, whilst marrying his own son to a feeble Dornish princess with black eyes and a flat chest. -- Cersei V, AFFC

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"Her duty." The word felt cold upon her tongue. "You saw my brother Rhaegar wed. Tell me, did he wed for love or duty?"

The old knight hesitated. "Princess Elia was a good woman, Your Grace. She was kind and clever, with a gentle heart and a sweet wit. I know the prince was very fond of her."

Fond, thought Dany. The word spoke volumes. I could become fond of Hizdahr zo Loraq, in time. Perhaps. -- Daenerys IV, ADWD

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The lad flushed. "That was not me. I told you. That was some tanner's son from Pisswater Bend whose mother died birthing him. His father sold him to Lord Varys for a jug of Arbor gold. He had other sons but had never tasted Arbor gold. Varys gave the Pisswater boy to my lady mother and carried me away." -- Tyrion VI, ADWD

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Seventeen years had come and gone since the Battle of the Bells, yet the sound of bells ringing still tied a knot in his guts. Others might claim that the realm was lost when Prince Rhaegar fell to Robert's warhammer on the Trident, but the Battle of the Trident would never have been fought if the griffin had only slain the stag there in Stoney Sept. The bells tolled for all of us that day. For Aerys and his queen, for Elia of Dorne and her little daughter, for every true man and honest woman in the Seven Kingdoms. And for my silver prince.

"The plan was to reveal Prince Aegon only when we reached Queen Daenerys," Lemore was saying. -- JonCon I, ADWD

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That time was done, though. "No man could have asked for a worthier son," Griff said, "but the lad is not of my blood, and his name is not Griff. My lords, I give you Aegon Targaryen, firstborn son of Rhaegar, Prince of Dragonstone, by Princess Elia of Dorne … soon, with your help, to be Aegon, the Sixth of His Name, King of Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."-- JonCon I, ADWD

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Prince Doran frowned. "That is so, Ser Balon, but the Lady Nym is right. If ever a man deserved to die screaming, it was Gregor Clegane. He butchered my good sister, smashed her babe's head against a wall. I only pray that now he is burning in some hell, and that Elia and her children are at peace. This is the justice that Dorne has hungered for. I am glad that I lived long enough to taste it. At long last the Lannisters have proved the truth of their boast and paid this old blood debt." -- Hotah, ADWD

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"A start?" said Ellaria Sand, incredulous. "Gods forbid. I would it were a finish. Tywin Lannister is dead. So are Robert Baratheon, Amory Lorch, and now Gregor Clegane, all those who had a hand in murdering Elia and her children. Even Joffrey, who was not yet born when Elia died. I saw the boy perish with mine own eyes, clawing at his throat as he tried to draw a breath. Who else is there to kill? Do Myrcella and Tommen need to die so the shades of Rhaenys and Aegon can be at rest? Where does it end?"-- Hotah, ADWD

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"Oberyn wanted vengeance for Elia. Now the three of you want vengeance for him. I have four daughters, I remind you. Your sisters. My Elia is fourteen, almost a woman. Obella is twelve, on the brink of maidenhood. They worship you, as Dorea and Loreza worship them. If you should die, must El and Obella seek vengeance for you, then Dorea and Loree for them? Is that how it goes, round and round forever? I ask again, where does it end?" Ellaria Sand laid her hand on the Mountain's head. "I saw your father die. Here is his killer. Can I take a skull to bed with me, to give me comfort in the night? Will it make me laugh, write me songs, care for me when I am old and sick?"-- Hotah, ADWD

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It was his failures that haunted him at night, though. Jaehaerys, Aerys, Robert. Three dead kings. Rhaegar, who would have been a finer king than any of them. Princess Elia and the children. Aegon just a babe, Rhaenys with her kitten. Dead, every one, yet he still lived, who had sworn to protect them. And now Daenerys, his bright shining child queen. She is not dead. I will not believe it. -- Barristan II, ADWD

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A bride for our bright prince. Jon Connington remembered Prince Rhaegar's wedding all too well. Elia was never worthy of him. She was frail and sickly from the first, and childbirth only left her weaker. After the birth of Princess Rhaenys, her mother had been bedridden for half a year, and Prince Aegon's birth had almost been the death of her. She would bear no more children, the maesters told Prince Rhaegar afterward. -- JonCon II, ADWD

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Griff had heard enough of the captain-general's cowardice. "We will not be alone. Dorne will join us, must join us. Prince Aegon is Elia's son as well as Rhaegar's."-- JonCon II, ADWD

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Rhaegar had chosen Lyanna Stark of Winterfell. Barristan Selmy would have made a different choice. Not the queen, who was not present. Nor Elia of Dorne, though she was good and gentle; had she been chosen, much war and woe might have been avoided. His choice would have been a young maiden not long at court, one of Elia's companions … though compared to Ashara Dayne, the Dornish princess was a kitchen drab. -- Barristan III, ADWD

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She will never wash the stain away, no matter how hard she scrubs. Ser Kevan remembered the girl she once had been, so full of life and mischief. And when she'd flowered, ahhhh … had there ever been a maid so sweet to look upon? If Aerys had agreed to marry her to Rhaegar, how many deaths might have been avoided? Cersei could have given the prince the sons he wanted, lions with purple eyes and silver manes … and with such a wife, Rhaegar might never have looked twice at Lyanna Stark. The northern girl had a wild beauty, as he recalled, though however bright a torch might burn it could never match the rising sun.

But it did no good to brood on lost battles and roads not taken. That was a vice of old done men. Rhaegar had wed Elia of Dorne, Lyanna Stark had died, Robert Baratheon had taken Cersei to bride, and here they were. And tonight his own road would take him to his niece's chambers and face-to-face with Cersei. -- Kevan, ADWD

------

Fire and blood was what Jon Connington (if indeed it was him) was offering as well. Or was it? "He comes with sellswords, but no dragons," Prince Doran had told her, the night the raven came. "The Golden Company is the best and largest of the free companies, but ten thousand mercenaries cannot hope to win the Seven Kingdoms. Elia's son... I would weep for joy if some part of my sister had survived, but what proof do we have that this is Aegon?" His voice broke when he said that. "Where are the dragons?" he asked. "Where is Daenerys?" and Arianne knew that he was really saying, "Where is my son?" -- Arianne I, TWOW

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"Gregor Clegane ripped Aegon out of Elia's arms and smashed his head against a wall," Ser Daemon said. "If Lord Connington's prince has a crushed skull, I will believe that Aegon Targaryen has returned from the grave. Elsewise, no. This is some feigned boy, no more. A sellsword's ploy to win support." -- Arianne I, TWOW

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"I... it would give great joy to my father if Elia's son were still alive. He loved his sister well." -- Arianne I, TWOW

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So it was. "I was seven when Elia died. They say I held her daughter Rhaenys once, when I was too young to remember. Aegon will be a stranger to me, whether true or false." The princess paused. "We looked for Rhaegar's sister, not his son." Her father had confided in Ser Daemon when he chose him as his daughter's shield; with him at least she could speak freely. "I would sooner it were Quentyn who'd returned." -- Arianne I, TWOW

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Meanwhile, King Aerys was becoming ever more estranged from his own son and heir. Early in the year 279 AC, Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, was formally betrothed to Princess Elia Martell, the delicate young sister of Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne. They were wed the following year, in a lavish ceremony at the Great Sept of Baelor in King's Landing, but Aerys II did not attend. He told the small council that he feared an attempt upon his life if he left the confines of the Red Keep, even with his Kingsguard to protect him. Nor would he allow his younger son, Viserys, to attend his brother's wedding.

When Prince Rhaegar and his new wife chose to take up residence on Dragonstone instead of the Red Keep, rumors flew thick and fast across the Seven Kingdoms. Some claimed that the crown prince was planning to depose his father and seize the Iron Throne for himself, whilst others said that King Aerys meant to disinherit Rhaegar and name Viserys heir in his place. Nor did the birth of King Aerys's first grandchild, a girl named Rhaenys, born on Dragonstone in 280 AC, do aught to reconcile father and son. When Prince Rhaegar returned to the Red Keep to present his daughter to his own mother and father, Queen Rhaella embraced the babe warmly, but King Aerys refused to touch or hold the child and complained that she "smells Dornish." -- TWOIAF

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Chief amongst the Mad King's supporters were three lords of his small council: Qarlton Chelsted, master of coin, Lucerys Velaryon, master of ships, and Symond Staunton, master of laws. The eunuch Varys, master of whisperers, and Wisdom Rossart, grand master of the Guild of Alchemists, also enjoyed the king's trust. Prince Rhaegar's support came from the younger men at court, including Lord Jon Connington, Ser Myles Mooton of Maidenpool, and Ser Richard Lonmouth. The Dornishmen who had come to court with the Princess Elia were in the prince's confidence as well, particularly Prince Lewyn Martell, Elia's uncle and a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard. But the most formidable of all Rhaegar's friends and allies in King's Landing was surely Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.-- TWOIAF

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And when the triumphant Prince of Dragonstone named Lyanna Stark, daughter of the Lord of Winterfell, the queen of love and beauty, placing a garland of blue roses in her lap with the tip of his lance, the lickspittle lords gathered around the king declared that further proof of his perfidy. Why would the prince have thus given insult to his own wife, the Princess Elia Martell of Dorne (who was present), unless it was to help him gain the Iron Throne? The crowning of the Stark girl, who was by all reports a wild and boyish young thing with none of the Princess Elia's delicate beauty, could only have been meant to win the allegiance of Winterfell to Prince Rhaegar's cause, Symond Staunton suggested to the king..-- TWOIAF

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As cold winds hammered the city, King Aerys II turned to his pyromancers, charging them to drive the winter off with their magics. Huge green fires burned along the walls of the Red Keep for a moon's turn. Prince Rhaegar was not in the city to observe them, however. Nor could he be found in Dragonstone with Princess Elia and their young son, Aegon. With the coming of the new year, the crown prince had taken to the road with half a dozen of his closest friends and confidants, on a journey that would ultimately lead him back to the riverlands. Not ten leagues from Harrenhal, Rhaegar fell upon Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, and carried her off, lighting a fire that would consume his house and kin and all those he loved—and half the realm besides..-- TWOIAF

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From Dorne, in defense of Princess Elia, ten thousand spears came over the Boneway and marched to King's Landing to bolster the host that Rhaegar was raising. Those who were there at court during this time have recounted that Aerys's behavior was erratic. He was untrusting of any save his Kingsguard—and then only imperfectly, for he kept Ser Jaime Lannister close at all hours to serve as a hostage against his father..-- TWOIAF

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Birds flew and couriers raced to bear word of the victory at the Ruby Ford. When the news reached the Red Keep, it was said that Aerys cursed the Dornish, certain that Lewyn had betrayed Rhaegar. He sent his pregnant queen, Rhaella, and his younger son and new heir, Viserys, away to Dragonstone, but Princess Elia was forced to remain in King's Landing with Rhaegar's children as a hostage against Dorne. Having burned his previous Hand, Lord Chelsted, alive for bad counsel during the war, Aerys now appointed another to the position: the alchemist Rossart—a man of low birth, with little to recommend him but his flames and trickery. -- TWOIAF

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The Red Keep was soon breached, but in the chaos, misfortune soon fell upon Elia of Dorne and her children, Rhaenys and Aegon. It is tragic that the blood spilled in war may as readily be innocent as it is guilty, and that those who ravished and murdered Princess Elia escaped justice. It is not known who murdered Princess Rhaenys in her bed, or smashed the infant Prince Aegon's head against a wall. Some whisper it was done at Aerys's own command when he learned that Lord Lannister had taken up Robert's cause, while others suggest that Elia did it herself for fear of what would happen to her children in the hands of her dead husband's enemies.-- TWOIAF

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Dorne continued to be closely allied with House Targaryen in the years that followed, with the Martells supporting the Targaryens against the Blackfyre Pretenders and sending spears to fight the Ninepenny Kings on the Stepstones. Their loyal service was rewarded when Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, took to wife Princess Elia Martell of Sunspear, and sired two children by her. But for the madness of Rhaegar's father, Aerys II, a prince of Dornish blood might very well have one day ruled the realm, but the upheavals of Robert's Rebellion brought about the end of Prince Rhaegar, his wife, and his children. .-- TWOIAF

#elia martell #eliaweek2021 #asoiaf

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jimlingss · 4 years

Text

The Seven Year Itch

➜ Words: 5.2k

➜ Genres: 99% Fluff, 1% Angst

➜ Summary: The seven year itch is the curse of all marriages. Your own parents divorced after seven years. Your friends separated after that doomed number too. And now, you're trying to prevent the same downfall from reaching your marriage with Yoongi.

➜ Warnings: Implied smut and discussion of sexual topics.

You and Yoongi met at eighteen. It was during a crazy New Year’s festival on the beach around a bonfire when you were introduced to one another from friends of friends. Much to your mortification, you were totally drunk that night and hit on him while insisting he should make you s’mores since his toasted marshmallows were the best. The two of you started dating at twenty two after a few years of friendship and a tedious period of time wondering if he liked you like that. That New Year’s Eve was spent on a cute, romantic date holding hands while watching fireworks by the river. And now at thirty two…. “Did you do anything over the New Years break, Y/N?” Kijung asks as she stirs sugar into her steaming mug of coffee, leaning against the kitchen counter. She’s your colleague of several years now and part of the marketing team that attributed much to the profits and sales — or at least that was your opinion as part of the finance department. But your manager who has a stick up her ass and has a fixation for the research department would adamantly disagree. “Nothing much,” you reply. “Did you?” “Not really, but my boyfriend and I went on a road trip on New Year's Eve to the hot springs and we managed to catch the fireworks.” Kijung smiles and your eyes light up. “Oh, I went there a long time ago with Yoongi. It was nice.” “Yeah, I really enjoyed it.” Her cheeks are rosy and you muse how pleasant it is to be young and in love. Those old days of dating and shy flirtation seems so long ago. “Did you and Yoongi do anything special for the countdown?” “I don’t remember…” you murmur gently while you try to recall. These days, everything blurred together. Waking up, eating, television, bed time. “I think we just slept through the countdown.” “You make it sound like you’re fifty,” Seokjin laughs much to your chagrin, entering the kitchen and firing up the coffee machine. “Easy for you to say,” you retort back to your coworker with a light scoff. “Weren’t you having back problems a month ago?” “Nothing my chiropractor couldn’t fix up.” The human resource manager dramatically stretches out his muscles and rolls his broad shoulders as if to prove it. Much too early for his shenanigans, both you and Kijung exchange unimpressed expressions and choose to ignore him even when he begins to loudly protest. “Oh yeah, isn’t your wedding anniversary with Yoongi coming up?” Kijung asks, remembering that a few years ago, you took a long vacation to celebrate right around this time. “Yep.” You smile. “Seven years.” “Wow, that’s a long time,” Jin notes as he sips on his coffee. “My cat hasn’t even been alive for that long.” You’ve never really thought about it before. “It has been a long time, huh?” you hum. Kijung grins. “Congratulations.” “Thanks.” Time was so gradual, one day after the next, one moment after another. It was only when you stopped to turn around did you realize how long and extensive the journey has been. That you discover that you’ve actually been married to Yoongi for seven years now. Seven years…. Seven. Suddenly, it hits you. There’s a sickly feeling pooling in the pit of your stomach. It makes you nauseous like you’ve dropped from a ninety degree roller coaster. It propels you forward, making your mouth and throat dry, your face drained of all colour. You can’t believe you could’ve forgotten— The infamous seven year itch.

The seven year itch is a curse. It’s known to be the point where marriage satisfaction begins to decline. It’s the average length of a marriage. The point of no return. To some, it may just be a myth or a simple statistic, but your own parents were together for only seven years before getting themselves into a nasty divorce. And you know friends who were only together for seven years — Hoseok and Jimin were separated six months after their seventh year anniversary. Jungkook and Eunbi left one another before their seventh year… You can’t believe you’ve allowed yourself to forget about the cursed number seven. And now that you’ve realized, you’re worried you’ve allowed your marriage to become stale. “I’m home.” The house is quiet and dark except for the sound of sizzling coming from the kitchen. You follow the dim light and cross your arms, leaning on the doorframe as Yoongi turns from the stove. “The patties in the freezer were about to expire,” he says as if to explain what he’s doing and you nod. “Burgers for dinner then?” “Uh-huh.” Your husband is dressed in gray sweatpants and a black shirt oversized on his body, dark hair in a disarray as if he just rolled out of bed an hour ago. It might not be too off the mark considering he’s been working from home for a few months now, an arrangement he’s fallen in love with. Namjoon might never be able to drag him back to the office after this. “I fixed the plumbing issue in the shower, by the way,” he calls out as you drag yourself down the hall. You stick your head out the door. “You didn’t have to call Taehyung?” “Nope.” This was your life with Yoongi. He’s stable, a grounded and secure force, who lives in a consistent routine. It’s peaceful and you love it. It’s all you could have yearned for after your chaotic childhood and crazier teenage years. But now, you wonder if these habits you cherished will someday be your downfall. This mundanity might breed boredom and then discontentment. It’s only a matter of time now. “—took me two hours at the hardware store. But then I managed to find—” “Hey, Yoongi,” you interrupt him in the middle of his story in the midst of dinner, unable to shake the thought off your mind. There were more pressing matters to you than Yoongi trying to prove to Taehyung that he doesn’t need his help. The man blinks at you. “What?” “Do you want kids?” Yoongi puts his burger down, visibly taken aback by the sudden change of topic. “I mean, if you want to. But I thought we were going to wait until we were finished paying off our mortgage and had more saved up.” He’s right and having kids won’t make your mundane marriage any more exciting. If anything, it might just make it worse. “Where’s the diapers?” you would screech to the other while holding the howling baby in your arms, your phone sandwiched between your shoulder and ear in the meanwhile. “I thought you bought them!” Yoongi would emerge from the bathroom, juggling the other two shrieking babies in his arms with his shirt unchanged from a week ago and still stained with milk puke. Triplets, you can envision them as clear as day. A luck of the draw or a curse, you wouldn’t be sure of. “What?!” You dispel the horrible vision from your imagination, crashing back down to reality. “Never mind.” Yoongi catches your long sigh, but doesn’t comment. That night, you turn to him while you’re both in bed and the warm sheets are pooled around your laps. And more enthusiastically than you intended, you declare, “We should make our sex lives more exciting!” He flinches from the sheer volume of your voice but it seems to catch his attention and his brows lift curiously. Yoongi puts his phone down. “What are you thinking?” Your eyes are big and excited and you lean over as if to whisper a dirty secret in spite of being the only ones in the bedroom. “How about...anal?” Yoongi’s blank expression remains unchanged. “We already tried that and we weren’t into it, remember?” Oh. Right. You quickly retract, stuttering and bumbling, “I-I meant you can be the one on the receiving end—” “We already tried that in college,” Yoongi reminds. “How about role-playing?” you offer, a last ditch attempt at trying to come up with something creative that the both of you haven’t attempted in your fourteen years of being together. “We tried that on Valentine’s two years ago. It didn’t work out well,” Yoongi recollects. “Never mind then.” You sigh, giving up. You’re going to need to put a lot more thought into how to keep your marriage from being so mundane. But for now, you crawl out of the sheets to the bathroom and Yoongi takes off his rounded spectacles, placing them on the nightstand. He watches your backside with his lips pouted and his brows slightly furrowed, wondering what’s wrong. // For the following days, you begin to brainstorm ways to spice up your marriage with Yoongi and keep the seven year curse at bay. You read a few articles here and there and ask some married folks around the office how they keep their marriages exciting — to which they give you too many details over their sex life that you never wanted. But your attempt at a candlelight dinner ends up with the candles blown out when the tablecloth nearly sets aflame. Yoongi also cooks again when you undercook the fish. You try to surprise him by getting naked but you give up when he takes too long in the shower and you start violently shivering from the brisk air conditioning. You pull the whip out from the back drawer too to get freaky in bed, but one spank has you cussing him to stop. And when Yoongi denies you of your orgasm, you throw in the towel and call it quits, deciding to go at it the old-fashioned way for just some simple love-making. The two of you aren’t as young and adventurous as you used to be — it was something you were quickly realizing. But you weren’t going to give up so easily, not when you were so desperate to keep your marriage with Yoongi alive and keep boredom out of your partnership…. And it’s when you’re putting away the old leather whip to the back of your closet that another box comes tumbling out. It’s a memory box, full of high school yearbooks, knickknacks at amusement parks, and a bright pink book with pages and tabs sticking out of it. “I forgot I had this,” you mutter to yourself, holding your worn diary that’s filled with memories and nostalgia. Opening it up, the spine cracks and you’re met with your sixteen year old self encapsulated between the pages. There are scribbles and doodles, entries from random days, notes that you passed to your friends, pictures and movie tickets taped to the pages. There’s even a whole section dedicated to your old celebrity crush — Lee Hyun — and you cringe while reading the small blurbs around cut outs of him describing certain scenarios. First date. First time he held hands. First time he proposes and how the paparazzi go wild and you become famous too. But as much as you cringe, it’s kind of wholesome. You forgot what a hopeless romantic you were. Flipping the page, you’re taken aback by the decoration, vivid colours and washi tape. It lines the paper, bright markers that bleed to the next paper. But what takes your attention is the bold letters at the top. It’s written: Couples Bucket List. Your eyes skim the rest of the page.

Flowers delivered on doorstep :)

Receive a love letter!!!

Be confessed to***

Be serenaded outside a window!

Dance in the rain.

Go stargazing~

Take a long walk on the beach <3

The first on the list is to have flowers brought to your doorstep — which you muse has been completed many years ago. Yoongi did it once on Valentine’s….mostly because he had to go to work and you were busy running errands with your mom, so he had no other choice but to leave his gift for you at the doorstep. It still technically counts though. The second goal you have written is to receive a love letter. That would be impossible. Yoongi doesn’t do declarations like that. He’s not one to talk about his feelings. But ironically, the third point on the list you wanted to achieve with your future significant other is being confessed to and he technically accomplished that one too…. In tiny text, there’s a description of your fantasy — how your crush would call you out to the back of the school and declare it underneath that giant tree that kids used to climb. It’s utterly ridiculous but you find yourself standing, grabbing a red pen from your vanity and putting a check mark next to it. Yoongi might’ve never professed his love in the way you imagined it but you remember how he proposed to you. It was supposed to be in private, but the ring box fell out of his pocket and you noticed, picked it up, and he scrambled to get on his knee in the middle of the park. You smile at the memory. The fourth thing on the bucket list is to be serenaded outside your window. And you burst out laughing at the mere thought of it. Yoongi can’t sing for shit and he wouldn’t do it even if you paid him to. The following point is to dance in the rain, but your husband would never. He hates the rain. Yet the sixth task on the list has been completed. The two of you had gone to a planetarium on one of your first dates and you’ve spent many late nights outside together during winter where you were able to see the stars past the light pollution. You’ve taken a long walk on the beach too, holding hands and watching the sunset. It’s something you did on your honeymoon and you grin while recalling it. You flip the rest of the pages in the diary, giving it a skim before you’re about to tuck it back where it belongs, but you hesitate. Your hand tightens on it. You can’t let it go. There are still things that you have yet to complete. // “Hey, do you remember when we used to write notes for each other?” Yoongi’s eyes are plastered on the television playing some random Netflix original series that was on his recommended section, one you had not bothered to pay any attention to. He mumbles past his cheek full of food, “Kind of.” Your eyes pin onto your husband’s profile and you rest your cheek in your hand, elbow propped up on your knee. “We should do that again….or maybe we could write a really long letter to one another.” It’s still lingering on your mind — the couples bucket list and your unfinished task of receiving a love letter. “Why?” Yoongi chews haphazardly and goes quiet for a moment to watch the action on screen before he speaks again. “We did that when we were living apart. If I need to tell you something, I’ll just tell you now.” You hold your sigh in your nose. He’s not wrong, but it was still worth a shot. You fail to notice the way Yoongi glances at you, obviously aware of your disappointment. But he doesn’t ask. It’s already been long established that you can come to each other for anything. Yoongi knows that you’re fully aware of that. So while he doesn’t pry, it doesn’t stop him from wondering what’s the matter with you. // It’s a Sunday afternoon when you’re quietly watching the rain pitter-pattering on the ground outside and against the window frame, spraying like an artist splattering paint on their canvas. It’s showering, enough to collect puddles and to wash the grime off the driveway. The peaceful sound of the droplets hitting against the roof is interrupted by Yoongi coming up behind you with crossed arms and grunting, “Looks like we can’t pick up groceries today. We’re running out of toothpaste though. Do you want to pick that up tomorrow after work?” You don’t answer. You merely turn around as an idea flickers into your mind. A mischievous smile spreads into your features and you grab hold of your husband's wrist. “Let’s go outside.” It swirls in the forefront of your brain — dancing in the rain. But at once, Yoongi’s expression blanches and he looks as if he ate rotten eggs. “What?” “C’mon! It’ll be fun!” You drag the grumpy, old man and he stumbles forward from the sheer force. He whines childishly, already pouting at the thought of it. “We’ll get wet.” “That’s the point!” Yoongi’s not impressed with your antics whatsoever. When you open the door and try to haul him out, he protests and grips the doorframe like a child not wanting to leave a toy store. But he ultimately relents at your insistence and is yanked outdoors to the downpour of pelting rain. You burst out laughing the moment you see him despite his glare. Yoongi’s black hair shags down in front of his forehead, nearly pricking into his eyes. His clothes are becoming drenched, heavy on his body and dragging down. The sleeves of his flannel pulls past his fingertips. His tender features are wrinkled into distaste, lips pouted, his eyes unamused and full of hatred of the rain. Yoongi looks like an angry, wet dog. Unable to resist, you cup his cheeks, lean in and kiss his lopsided mouth. It’s a short peck, one you can’t draw out when you’re grinning and he refuses to reciprocate. “It’s cold!” Yoongi shouts as the rain becomes heavier. You giggle and tug on his arm, dragging him further out onto your driveway where the neighbours might be able to see and conclude that the pair of you have absolutely lost your minds — something you’re sure isn’t too far off. But you don’t dwell enough to get self-conscious. You clutch Yoongi’s hands tightly and slowly walk in circles as if you’re playing ring around the rosy. “C’mon, husband, you can be more enthusiastic than that!” you laugh much to his dismay. You step forward and back, dancing stiffly and Yoongi’s body is like jelly. He allows you to pull him along as you please even when you lift his arm, twirl around and land back in them. “Why are we doing this? Why?” True to himself, he’s trying to act like he’s not at least enjoying this a little bit. You’ve known Yoongi for long enough to see the way he’s trying not to smile and opts for whining instead. “I already showered, you know!” “You can always shower again!” Yoongi lets you move his body like a marionette doll, dancing along with you, and your giggles finally lets a smile on his face slip. But at that moment, lighting flashes over the horizon and thunder booms loud enough to shake the ground. The pair of you jump and rush back inside. You both enter in the midst of laughter and then Yoongi sighs lightly, looking at the mess on the tiled floor. “The floors are all wet.” “You were going to mop them today anyway,” you cheekily retort and he playfully spanks you, ordering for you to get into the shower before you make an even bigger mess. The two of you hop in together, but Yoongi finishes faster. He gets himself dressed while you enjoy the steaming water for longer. As he’s drying off his hair haphazardly with a towel in the bedroom, he picks up his phone. Yoongi notices the low battery percentage and searches for his charger. When he’s unable to find it in its usual spot, he assumes you stole it again and pulls out your vanity drawer. Yoongi doesn’t find his charger, but he discovers something else inside. A bright pink book with worn pages. Curious, he picks it up and flips it open. It automatically falls to the doodled page that you’ve been studying most recently these days and he skims it. After a moment, Yoongi scoffs. But a softened smile stretches into his face. // “You’re happy,” Seokjin comments passive aggressively as he observes your expression while stirring his mug of coffee on this cold Monday morning. “Yeah.” Your grin widens and your dismayed colleague wonders if you know that the week has barely begun. “I am.” These days, you’re having a lot of fun trying to find ways for Yoongi to secretly fulfill your wishes, even if it’s silly and childish. There were only two more things that needed to be done on your bucket list — receiving a love letter and being serenaded to, things you’re sure Yoongi would rather be killed than be seen doing. But your new fixation and ambition has kept you preoccupied from thinking about the seven year curse approaching in three weeks time. It’s a win-win. The bucket list might, quite literally, be the solution to the seven year itch. Completing it might just be enough to deter the curse and keep discontentment at bay. After a long day, you arrive home while brainstorming a strategy to get Yoongi to profess his love for you in a letter — perhaps something you might enlist Taehyung’s help in. But your thoughts are interrupted when after dinner, Yoongi suddenly grabs his coat. “I’m going out. Don’t wait up for me.” “What?” You’re utterly confused at why someone who was as an intense homebody like Yoongi would want to step outside the comfort of his warm home at such a ridiculous time of night. “We still need toothpaste, remember?” he says nonchalantly. “You forgot to pick it up after work.” “Oh. Well, I can always get it tomorrow.” “It’s alright. I’m going to stop by Jimin’s too. That brat keeps telling me I should come over, so don’t wait for me.” “Okay.” You nod, bidding him farewell. It’s a bit of a foreign sight, one where you can’t tear your eyes away from until the door shuts and he’s gone. You end up surfing the internet and playing on your phone for a good half hour in the serene silence before your boredom spurs on yawns. You decide to head to bed early and brush your teeth, completing your whole nightly routine. But before you crawl into the toasted sheets, an unfamiliar envelope on your vanity catches your attention. It's thin and rectangular without postal stamps or an address — only your name written on it in sloppy cursive. You approach the dim light of the lamp on your bedside table to get a better view and you rip it open. Immediately, a gasp tears out of your mouth. Your heart stutters in your chest. Your breath holds. It’s Yoongi’s chicken scratch writing. To my beloved wife, It’s me. Your lovely, amazing, best husband, Min Yoongi. This is really embarrassing and I don’t know what to write either. But I was just thinking about how difficult it is for us to meet and be together. If you think about it, there’s almost eight billion people in the world but we still met each other. I don’t know if it was luck but I’m relieved to have met you. I also can’t believe we’ve been married for seven years now. Thank you for making so many memories with me. Love you, Yoongi. P.S. please stop digging your ice cold feet into my feet at night. go to the doctor it’s not natural. You choke on your own saliva, tears flooding your vision as your overwhelming emotions swell into a lump in your throat. It’s Yoongi’s love letter. Everything that’s so unabashedly him encapsulated in a few sentences — not cringey, a bit distant, but tender all at the same time. You don’t know why he’s written this so out of the blue or how he knew you wanted this so badly, but you don’t care enough to question it. You hold the letter to your chest, head falling as your tears rise to squeeze out of you — but before you can melt on the carpet, you’re startled by a giant rock slamming against the window. You jump, screaming, and your face drains of colour. What’s left on the glass window is a jagged line split in different directions and you rush over in shock, opening up the latch to figure out who the perpetrator is. What you find is your dumb-ass husband standing below your window. “What the hell are you doing?! You cracked the window, you idiot! We’re going to have to get it fixed,” you hiss into the dead of the night. “Shut up, will you?” he sharply whispers back and your eyes adjust to the darkness. From the glow of the street lights and the lamp on your table, you’re finally able to discern the acoustic guitar slung over his body. Oh my god. Before you can even burst out laughing and tell him to get inside, much to your mortification, Yoongi begins to sing in spite of his tone-deafness. “If I should stay, I would only be in your way….” He strums one chord, the wrong chord, and it jumbles with the false notes streaming from his vocal cords. Yoongi stares down at his fingers, stretching them across the guitar neck and he strums every other sentence. His singing is awful and it’s noisy, especially when you begin to laugh. You’re tempted to grab your phone and record him, but decide to savour the moment first-hand. Your husband struggles and at some points, the pitch goes too high and his voice cracks so horrifically that he stops singing altogether. Yoongi’s only put out of his misery when across the street the lights inside the house turn on and there’s a grumpy voice shouting— “Shut up! Some people are trying to sleep!” You end up running downstairs at the same time he’s finally coming inside and you’re still giggling as he sets his guitar down, leaning it against the wall. “Where did you even get that?” “I borrowed it from Hoseok,” Yoongi sighs. “He kept on asking so many questions. I had to tell him that I was bored at home and wanted to give it a try.” You close the distance and encircle your arms around his neck. Yoongi’s hands immediately find purchase on your waist and you plant a fat kiss on his mouth before leaning away, confused curiosity not allowing you to prolong the affection. “Why’d you write me the letter and why….this?” Yoongi answers you by moving away to the entryway table past the foyer that’s there more for decoration than usage. He goes for the second shelf and holds up your worn diary. That’s when you realize you’ve been caught and Yoongi’s brows lift with a tiny smile. “I hope I got to fulfill the rest of your wishes, even if they were back to back.” The pair of you gather together in your cozy bedroom, guitar tucked safely away and the letter still displayed on your vanity where you’ll be able to see it for the rest of your days. But those silly antics are far from being over and you know it with the way Yoongi’s been looking at you. “You should’ve just told me if you wanted to do those things,” he says as he rips off his socks and changes into comfortable pajamas. “Yeah, but you would’ve refused…” You twiddle with the hem of the duvet and Yoongi hums after a moment, crawling into bed with you. He realizes that you’re right. He probably would’ve scoffed at the idea of writing you a love letter or serenading you if you asked up front. “I thought there was something wrong. You got me worried for a few days.” “I’m sorry. I just…..I know I’ve been a bit off.” You sigh, locking your gaze with your husband as you finally confide your concerns to him. “You know how our seven year anniversary is coming up, right?” “Yeah. What about it?” “I know this is going to sound really, really stupid and dumb, but I was kind of, a little bit, worried about the seven year itch.” Yoongi’s brows furrow and he squints. “The what?” “You know, the seven year curse thing.” When his expression remains blank, you exhale and explain, “it’s when marriages are known to go downhill and divorces happen because people get bored. My parents got divorced after seven years, remember? So did a bunch of our friends and I don’t know, the thought kind of freaked me out.” Yoongi softens and the corner of his mouth quirks. His arm reaches over and around your shoulder, and he pulls you closer to him in a loose hug. “I don’t know about you, but I have no plans of divorcing you any time soon.” You mold yourself against Yoongi’s embrace, allowing yourself to melt into his comfort. It was soothing to hear his deep timbre next to your ear, to let him reassure you in such a way. In one instant, all your doubts seem to vanish. “I’m not bored of you, Y/N.” Yoongi smirks and you lean your head on his shoulder. “I don’t think I’ll ever be.” “Are you sure?” “As sure as I was when we made our vows,” he consoles without even needing a second to think about it and pulls away with a tender, thoughtful smile. “Plus, we’ve survived this ‘seven year’ curse anyways.” You frown. “What?” “Didn’t we start dating ten years ago? Yeah. It’s our ten year anniversary of being together. So we technically passed it three years ago already.” You’re puzzled — you’ve sure the seven year itch only applies to marriages, but in a way Yoongi was right. It’s not like you want to disagree with him anyways. But the pair of you have been together for considerably longer than seven years. Your relationship had begun much farther back. You lean in, planting another kiss on Yoongi and it’s one he happily obliges to deepen. It’s a familiar kiss, but not one you’re discontent with. It’s practiced, skilled and full of technique. Not hesitant, lackluster or sloppy like the first time. Yoongi kisses you the way he knows you like it. After so many years and spending so much time with one another, it’s been perfected after all. He pulls apart and you snuggle in him with a giant smile, digging your cold feet into his warm ones much to his dismay. But this time, he doesn’t complain and molds himself against you. Yoongi plants one more kiss on top of your head, feeling sleepy and too tired to even turn off the lamp on the bedside table. “Is there something special you want to do for this year’s anniversary? We still haven’t talked about it yet.” “I don’t want to stay in,” you hum. “How about a road trip up to the hot springs? Kijung was talking about it and it sounded nice. We haven’t been up there in a while.” “Okay.” Yoongi is happy to oblige. “Sounds like a plan.” You and Yoongi met at eighteen. After four years of being friends, the both of you broke the barrier and started dating. It took only three years for him to put a ring on your finger and for you to share his last name. It’s been seven mundane but wonderful years since. And while it seems so long ago, you’re certain there will be many, many more years to come.

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #yoongi fluff #bts fluff #yoongi fanfic #yoongi scenario #yoongi married au #yoongi marriage au

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