#he is such a complex little dragon i hold him in my palms

[gemkun]

@oneireth said : [ META ] + his vidyadhara form ( powers, thoughts on his appearance, whatever ) for dh :) ♢      —        send  [ META ] + a word / phrase / person / etc

personally , he prefers his human form , but that doesn’t mean he dislikes his vidyadhara appearance. his true being , well , there is a detachment from the nameless , which is where he feels at home and himself in. of course , the astral crew members have said otherwise , and accept him for who he is , scales and all , but dan heng still has this inward perception regarding his origin.

focusing on his vidyadhara self , we can analyse these sections with a breakdown.

powers : even if he is not an emanator , he is “ the closest being to the permanence ”. having been cut from dan feng’s powers , in canon it can be inferred that those powers were split between him and bailu — where the archivist received powers of combat whilst the dragon lady received healing abilities. that being said , he hasn’t undergone proper training of harnessing this passed down residual power , and with the absence of technique , the immensity of his powers are likely unmet in terms of their true potential. if it wasn't explicit enough , this means he is absolutely weaker than dan feng. fun note : dan feng was a smidge stronger than jing yuan but where dan heng is , the general is definitely higher. he might sit where welt is in terms of power across the characters in hsr.

appearance : it cannot be denied that the imbibitor lunae ensemble is extravagant. his robes alone are exquisite in their finery , and their intricate patterns weave a combination of symbols and tales. comparing dan feng’s garb to dan heng’s , there are plenty of differences with some being subtle whilst the others are noticeable.

i looked to this article which assessed an assortment of aspects regarding dan heng’s imbibtor lunae form , and i think it’s quite spot on. hoyo is notorious for sprinkling significant notes via inconspicuous details. the most obvious would be the clouds and lotus that are motifs for nobility and water which is attributed to wisdom , intelligence and quintessentially yin. neither can the equipment attached to his clothing that resembles armour be missed — indicative of the combat dan feng participated in , as both guard and a member of the high — cloud quintet.

green , in not only chinese culture , but in general is representative of vitality and life and i would argue emphasises his link to protecting the ambrosial arbour. speaking of , his horns are noticeably branch — like , and longer than dan feng’s , which elucidates to his role and perhaps , signifies growth. the growth of himself , however , which dan feng permitted in ichor ( although this was dan heng’s perception of what the preceptors had painted so we cannot use this reliably ). i also think the waist accessory of the oracle bone script is a hint at his position as the archivist but it could potentially be a sign that visualises how he balances between bearing the burdens of dan feng against carrying out the remainder of his life as a nameless — the bad luck vs the good luck.

his tail ( the one i know you were waiting on ) , is something i have always debated on as to whether it is a fully manifested appendage that he is capable of summoning or not , or is simply fluid in appearance staying true to his watery roots. the element he is bound to. when bailu pointed out the stark absence of it , and dan heng became rather withdrawn , i think it does spell out he can bring it out on command , but elects not to. otherwise , it is a proper and tangible limb.

i think ultimately , dan heng does accept and acknowledge the debt he has inherited , as well as the responsibility and role the high elder brings , but he cannot deny that it feels unlike him. in both regalia and in the inward sense the form brings.

it has its benefits , no doubt , especially on the battlefield when faced with powerful adversaries , but if he can fend off the enemy in his human build and with cloud — piercer , then he will opt for this choice instead.

#* ✦ 𝐈𝐈. ❮ asks ❯ ⸻ ❝ #* ✦ 𝐈𝐕. ❮ isms ❯ ⸻ ❝ #* ✦ 𝐕𝐈. ❮ muses ❯ ⸻ ❝ 「 dan heng 」 #* ✦ oneireth #i probably missed what you wanted me to address #because this turned into an analysis instead of a view #he is such a complex little dragon i hold him in my palms #it's insane to think that he finally stopped running towards the stars and looked back to confront this past he was forced into #i think he always knew it was inevitable but trying to evade it was more preferable than facing it #the article also said the lotus is in the mud which is indicative of dan heng being stuck with dan feng's crime and i just #exploded #anyways gives you pats with his tail #long post

[manawari]

Little One

(based on the storyline I've made with @i-bring-crack)

An AU! in which the Cup of Reincarnation worked differently, and the Monarch of Destruction found himself holding a human baby.

——————————————————————

Antares showed up in front of the monarchs. Cradled in his left arm was a small human being curled up in his armor, dozing peacefully on his shoulder. All of them stared at the superior monarch with eyes trained at the new addition, sensing a strong aura that did not belong to them. They instantly flinched.

"Destruction Monarch, what such thing have you brought?" Yoggumunt asked.

"This," Antares lowered his gaze on the infant, "is not a thing. Rather, it is a human child."

"I knew it!" Queresha seethed.

"You must not be serious!" The Beast Monarch exclaimed.

"Are you out of your mind?!"

"I did not attend this meeting to witness something so foolish!"

"You better have a prepared explanation for this, Antares."

"QUIET!" The monarch thundered. The ceilings of the cave shook and debris tricked down in showers of dust. Suddenly, a whimper was awakened from none other than the infant herself, Antares placed his other hand over the small head that was the size of his palm. "Shh. . . Fear not, little one." He looked up to the irked deities. "As for all of you, keep silence. Why have I arrived holding an infant? I found her alone in Earth. Her parents, however, had been presumed to be dead."

He was strolling in the streets of the mundane world moments ago, searching for whereabouts of his arch enemy, only to stumble upon a weeping little girl. Sirens blared behind her, various vehicles halted in disarray, and smoke ascending in the air. Her golden tresses had small patches of ash and so did her cheeks, and her attire had several cuts marring her fragile figure.

So, he paused his mission and departed the world with her in his arms.

Unfazed with the everyone's bewilderment, Antares maintained his posture as he soothed the child's cries until she calmed down and returned to her slumber. The event must've exhausted her to the very bone. And it fueled his ire to witness neither one of them had a cooperative help.

"Listen here, I had decided to take her in because I don't think another mere human will be able to raise her. Humans are complex creatures and an example of it is how they care for the young ones, whether they share the same blood or not." Antares said.

"Same goes for you, Antares," the Frost Monarch said. "How will you raise that child when you do not even know how to care for one? I shall have no problems with the little human, but I worry what kind of future will she have under your roof."

Antares opened his mouth, only to close it as he spared a glance at the child. For an entity who was known for ruling the most dangerous domain in the cosmos, the little girl remained peaceful in his arms and sent an obscure sensation in his chest. No child like her deserved to lose a family who was supposed to be in her side as she grew. However, fate had twisted that future and led to this, misery and loss.

"I will do it regardless of that fact. I shall make sure that this child will experience no conflict in my domain." Antares declared, like an oath.

"Fine then. I bid you good luck with raising her as your own." The Ice Elf relaxed.

The Beast Monarch widened his eyes at him. "You are willing to slide the issue like that? How pathetic!"

"It is not an issue, you dog. Antares will be taking the responsibility in his hands, therefore none of us shall have nothing to do with it."

"I concur." The Iron Body Monarch nodded his head and grinned at the sleeping little girl. "That lass will grow up completely different than those earthlings."

"As expected of this result." Queresha sighed and pinched her nose bridge. "Well, since it appears that the King of the dragons had taken an oath, I hope you'll raise her well."

With her under my care, she will never be perished. Antares thought.

Cha Hae-in. . . The child's name was Hae-in.

It was one of the first words she had spoken to him. Antares made sure the entire place would be enough to give her solace, even ordering his army to assist and give the girl everything she needed. He also had one of the dragons accompany her while he got the place sorted. Hae-in seemed to be curious with her surroundings as she sat on the dragon's enormous claw, munching on the roasted meat the reptile had given her.

Antares had given her own chambers. It consisted of a bed that was comfortable for her body to rest and recover her lost strength. He had also given her clothes to change — which apparently became a bit too big for her size, so he attached a makeshift pin to hold the fabric together. The outfit that was supposed to be a shirt, now turned into a dress.

She followed him around and kept staring at him in curiosity. From days that was usually spent in sitting on his throne to Antares showing the child around his domain. He made sure to keep a close eye on her as he allowed her to study her surroundings in proximity.

Were humans had always been this curious?

Nevertheless, he found her manners quite endearing. She accepted whatever food he had given her and knew how to ask for his permission before doing anything. It wasn't long until he got to witness the smile on her face, Hae-in was sitting on his lap and asking him questions.

"So are you a King? Like in the fairy tales?"

It earned him a chuckle. "No tale is akin to the reality you are seeing, little one. Yes, I am a King. I rule over this domain since the very first of my existence."

"Don't you get tired?" Hae-in tilted her head.

"No, if anything, I thrive joy in being control. The power. The domination. I can do anything with it." Antares said.

"Woah. . . " The little girl parted her mouth in astonishment.

"But do you know what else that sparks joy to me?"

She blinked. "What is it?"

"That smile of yours." Antares faced her with a smile of his own.

"You're too sappy!" Hae-in laughed. Then, she moved to another question. "Do you have a child?"

"Beings like me are incapable of producing an offspring. Rather, we are not fond of it as our powers are already enough for us." answered the monarch.

"What about me? Why did you take me here if you don't like having a kid?"

He chuckled. "I did not say I dislike children. You see, little one, the world didn't deserve to let such an event to befell upon you. I can tell how afraid you've been, so I am here to change that — I will make sure you can no longer feel pain as long as I am here."

"Does that mean. . . You are my family now?" Hae-in looked at him.

Family. A word he did not associate himself with. How could a primordial like him have a family? Well, the situation proved him otherwise. Not in a billion years he'd picture himself being a parental figure. He was born to conquer and battle.

He could never learn the word 'love'.

"Yes." He told her softly, meeting her gaze with the most gentle smile he ever wore. "I am your family as you are to me, little one."

Hae-in would have a throne to herself one day. And that one day would be the day they'd be indestructible. She was no 'mere human' to him, rather she was a gift fate had sent to him to care for and teach everything he knew in order for her to become the greatest warrior from Earth.

#solo leveling #antares #cha hae in

[floydig]

Keep My Skeletons In

@drarrymicrofic prompts: fresh and Saviour Complex. I was inspired by one of my favorite @fw00shy fics, “The Old Ways”. CW: mild burn injury, partial nudity

The smoke in the air is real bad today. Thick. The kind that lingers in your lungs and makes you think about every breath you take.

“Hard to breathe out there,” Harry says. He slams the door to their cabin, and it rattles the old wooden walls. “Fuck, sorry.” He grins, but his eyes are dark-rimmed; tired. He shrugs off his coat and strips off everything but his pants.

The dragon-fire burns are fresh on Draco’s hands as he tries to wrap them at the sink. “It’s my dragons,” he says. “I’m not sure what’s got them like this.” Draco winces and tries to hide it because it doesn't really hurt too bad. He’s felt worse anyway, so it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

Some days, Draco feels something gnaw and itch and boil beneath his skin, and it bubbles up into his throat. On these days, he wants to run and run and hold it in until the feeling bursts out of him.

So he works with the dragons, who only know him as the bloke who feeds them and nothing more. And he spends the evenings with Harry, who cooks plenty, but eats very little and hasn’t looked at his wand in months.

And now, Harry frowns and says, “you’re hurt.” His voice is gruff, quiet. “I can help.” He heads to the kitchen, almost naked to his bones. His ribs poke out sharp as he walks.

“Oh,” Draco mutters, and something strange and loose and warm seeps into his chest. Not something bad—something good, he thinks. He drops his crumpled bandages onto the counter. “Alright. Thanks.”

“Yeah.” Harry stands beside him, pressing against him.

Harry’s elbow is pointy and hard, and it digs into Draco’s side. Not on purpose, Draco knows this. But by accident, because Harry doesn’t always know what to do with his body at rest. It’s like he only knows how to live when he’s fighting.

“You should’ve worn your gloves,” Harry mutters as he starts to rub balm onto the blisters on Draco’s palms.

“Fuck off,” Draco says, and Harry grins some more.

Harry’s fingers are very thin and cold and trembling. They sting Draco’s hands, but it’s a good type of sting. Real. The kind of ache that reminds you that you’re living.

Harry begins to wrap Draco’s hands, fumbling a bit. “Sorry,” he mumbles, mouth twisting. “I wish I was better at this.”

“You don’t have to be good at it, Potter,” Draco says. “You’re alright.”

“Sorry,” Harry says again. He does that sometimes—apologises for no reason.

Harry finishes wrapping Draco’s hands and moves to work on his arms. He rubs the balm into Draco’s Mark, where Draco hadn’t realised he’d been burned.

#drarrymicrofic #drarry microfic #drarry #cw burns #floyd writes

[ryosmne]

Safe Place.

Yakuza! Nanami Kento x gn Reader

Hello everyone, this fic is in collaboration with my dear friend @sunfloweroranges you can read their fic here :D

I kind of changed my writing style for this one, I'm trying out different things so let me know how it goes, feedback is always welcome, that's all from me hope you have a good time reading 💜

Summary: You're clueless

Warnings: mentions of blood, mature themes, mentions of murder and head chopping, language, yandare Nanami if you squint.

Grocery shopping is never fun when you're alone, especially making your way back home in the cold winter months, it gets dark so early.

A slight twist of your gut had made you walk back home in a faster pace. Turning your head every couple of steps, you never saw anything, yet this feeling never left even when you got through the main entrance of your apartment complex.

The elevator was broken once more, and you were already out of breath from rushing back, as you took the first steps up, your next door neighbor, who looked way too scary for your own liking bumped your shoulder on his way down.

Jeez he's in a hurry today.

Mumbling a quick apology, even though he was the one that was at fault, you quickly found the strength to run up the stairs and lock yourself in. Some short of commotion was coming from outside the complex that you didn't really care to hear.

That pink haired guy, your neighbor, who was build like a damn door, always got himself in some short of trouble, hearing him yell profanities or even throwing punches was a far too often occurance.

Why did he have to live right next door?

It's safe to say you did the best to keep the hell away from him, not that he seemed to bother with you, neitherless he was fucking scary.

Kento was ten minutes late, he was never late, except for the days that he had to clean up someone's mess, the days someone underestimated the power he held or the days someone dared speak your name. He wouldn't even tell them 'dont you dare speak their name' or anything along those lines. There was no warning when it came to mentioning yo,u only taking immediate action.

Naturally you were in the dark about all of that, Kento -or Ken as you would often referred to him as- kept you far far away from the darkness of his world. That was his way of keeping you safe and at the same time having you as his personal way out of his work and in his defence he didn't completely lie about his employment. He was an investor, just a bit of a different stock market than what you had in mind.

As far as you knew, Nanami Kento was an extremely successful business man, he chalked up his tattoo covered body as just his preferred style, since he is this good at what he does, he likes to say that his work place doesn't give a damn about his ink covered skin and the expensive gifts that he always pressures you to accept are just another benefit of his high profile job.

"Darling, I hope you didn't start without me." Wrapping your arms around your extremely sweet boyfriend you left a small kiss on his lips watching as the corners tagged upwards in an equally sweet smile the moment your lips left his.

"Of course not Ken, it's Friday remember?" Fridays are the established date nights in, you and Kento cook and dine together. More often than not you end up slow dancing to some jazz, or with you laying on his chest Infront of the fireplace, listening to his heartbeat, talking about life while he strokes your hair until the dawn.

Tossing him an apron, after he -like the gentleman he is- tied yours, you got to work on today's dish: Chorizo carbonara.

"You're never late on Fridays, bad day at work?"

You spoke while slicing some papers.

"Yeah, the stocks are all over the place and it's getting me stressed, but it's our night darling, anything else isn't of importance."

Kento always found a way of distracting you when it came to talking about his day, he is always quite vague and when his palm rested on the small of your back gazing down at you with those adoring eyes, it's hard to keep focused on anything other than him.

"Why don't you tell me about your day love?"

He always asked you that, Kento is in awful need of the calm that the mundane life you live carries. He craves to feel that, he still loves the power he holds over people, the way the mare mention of his name makes others tremble in fear of what the man will do to them shall they not comply to his requests -more accurately orders-

"Thankfully work was pretty good today, I finished grocery shopping so we could cook, I got us that wine you really loved too. The neighbor is being weird again but that's not new, maybe moving out isn't a bad idea."

Everything was like music to Kento's ears untill that last sentence. You had mentioned moving out before, but Kento always found a way to convince you not to. The rent was good, this house is close to your work, he would always reason with you until you changed your mind. He never pushed too hard fearing that you'd suspect something, but you only smiled and ended up agreeing with him.

You see, unbeknownst to you, your weird neighbor is Nanami's most trusted man, he's protecting you twenty four hours a day, even as you walked up the stairs today he dealt with another threat that was headed right your way. No, you cannot move before you know everything, but Nanami can't bring himself to break your bubble, he loves you and you love him, the real him, he would never scare you by letting you take a peek at his point of view. Maybe he should run away with you afterall.

"He doesn't look that bad, love. I'm sure he wouldn't hurt a fly."

Nanami knew he was capable of a lot more than that but it was true, your neighbor was an ally and although he would hurt lots of people, you were on the list of people to be protected and Sukuna took his bosses orders very seriously.

"Besides, my love, anyone would have to get through me first before attempting to lay a finger on you."

With the way his lips moulded on yours and his velvety tone, how could you not believe every single word that just came out of his mouth. Kento would die before letting anything happen to you, that little statement helped bring you comfort.

"You must really love my house Ken, can you pass me the butter?"

The moment your back was turned, Kento let out a breath of relief. That little voice in his head he always pushed away yelled at him to tell you everything, he burried it in the back of his mind once more.

"Can you believe that? I swear she drives me insane- Ken are you listening to me?"

That was weird, Kento always gave you his full attention. Perhaps he was tired today.

"Yes darling, you were talking about that Satoru guy, the one who annoys you at work."

Yeah you were, but that was while you were still eating, about twenty minutes ago.

"Babe, you're tired, let's go to bed, we can pick up where we left off another time, you need to rest."

The habit of staying up all night on Fridays had really stuck, but sleeping when your partner clearly needed to, is very much on schedule although it rarely ever happened.

Getting up from the sofa, tagging at Kento's arm to follow you to the bedroom had Kento irritated at how concerned you grew for him. He still feels you're too good at times, all the time to be exact.

You only heard him sigh before he pulled you back on the sofa, having lost your balance in his sudden move, you landed on top of him.

"Stay with me a little longer my love, I'm sorry I spaced out, I'm all ears for you now."

Another invitation for you to just talk to him, he didn't care about what. Kento loved the tone of your voice, how it changed pitch depending on what emotion you held or what you were talking about. His voice was quite monotone, like everyone else's around him. He had to grow thick skin and throw away all short of feelings, but everything he locked away years ago came rushing back the moment he spilled coffee on you six months ago. You hadn't even complained about the burning sensation on your skin as he helped clean you up, you just gave Kento a smile telling him that everything was fine and these things happen.

In his world they don't, someone can breathe the wrong way and lose their head, all it took was your damn smile and that statement to get him to need something different than what he had. Kento never thought he missed a thing, he found out how wrong he was that very day.

Sometimes he wished he never took the time to help you out back then, but that was only because he didn't know that he'd put you through all this.

"So I'm just sat there in a staring contest over the last price of cake, I won but my eyes still feel a bit dry."

You laughed, Kento stared down at you with a fond smile, your head on his lap and your hands tangled in his, brushing his knuckles and examining every bit of his skin with such care, God you were beautiful all over.

While Kento's hands were very interesting a small detail in the cuff of his shirt got your stomach to drop.

"Ken, is that blood?"

He swore he cleaned up, he always cleaned up before coming back to you, he never missed a single splatter. Maybe rushing home after not one, but two people tried to harm you today put him on edge.

He had missed a single drop. He was absolutely disgusted that even that tiny part of someone who dared to say the name y/n out loud infront of him and even threatened your existence was anywhere near you.

"Sweetheart that's probably tomato sauce from cooking, thanks for pointing it out, you know I hate staining my clothes, I'll go change."

Your meal didn't contain tomato sauce.

Why was your gut telling you that something was off?

Kento seemed a bit tense tonight, was it just a bad day at work?

He never really conversed on his profession. The huge dragon that started from the back of his thigh, ended on his left shoulder covering his entire back was just his 'style'. You swore you heard him talk to the pink haired man who lived next door but he told you he was on the phone. Everything little bit of suspicious behaviour you had previously payed no mind to, came to you. On top of that what was his reason to lie about a drop of blood on his sleeve? He could've said it was a paper cut or something, Why did he lie?

Behind the bathroom door Kento only cursed at him self.

Why didn't he lie better?

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #nanami x reader #nanami kento #nanami kento x reader #yakuza nanami #au nanami kento #jjk drabbles #jjk anime #jujutsu kaisen drabbles #jujutsu kaisen oneshot

[dizzydancingdreamer]

Ignorant | Steve Rogers

Wow I was really going through it with this one, huh? I think I listened to Bring Me To Life by Evanescence for the entire two hours it took to write this. I never write this fast-- I'm really going through it LOL! I hope you enjoy lovelies! It's the first Steve fic for Dinner at DIzzy's!

Appetizers (Tags): Angst

Entres (Pairing): Nomad!Steve Rogers x F!Reader (Third Person)

Sides (Prompts): 3: “Apparently I’m volatile, self-obsessed, and don��t play well with others.”

Notes: This has a ton of swearing, Requested by Anon

Word Count: 1.8k

Dinner at Dizzy’s Master List

“Just because you’re the leader here doesn’t mean you have the right to be an asshole, Steve!” Y/n hisses at the man, fists balled at her side.

She’s not going to swing. She would never swing on him— at least she doesn’t think she would— but right now she’s so damn close. All day he’s been pushing her around, yelling at her for the slightest trip ups. Yelling at all of them. She understands that being fugitives isn’t easy but holy shit can the man chill out for five minutes? She fell asleep in the backseat of the car for five fucking minutes! Certainly that doesn’t warrant the hour tongue lashing she just got. It does, however, warrant her retaliation.

He takes a step towards her, face twisted in a snarl unlike anything she’s ever seen before. “Watch your language!”

She doesn’t back down— she’s not scared of him. “Don’t fucking yell at me then! Stop being a dick!”

She doesn’t feel bad for the insult or the way he flinches, his eyes darkening immensely. She had tried to politely ask him for space thirty minutes ago and he didn’t give her any. If he gets to blow off steam or whatever the fuck he’s doing than so will she.

“I’ll stop being a dick when you get some common sense!”

Steve’s raising his own voice now, getting right in her face, and she only pushes forward, her cheeks filling with heat and her stomach clenching painfully. The audacity of this man is incredible. His usual light eyes are a deep navy color now, almost black from his blown pupils. He looks crazy— she doesn’t doubt that she does as well. She would bet money that she looks insane.

“I fell asleep for five fucking minutes and Sam was right fucking next to me! What the fuck is your problem?” She’s doing it on purpose now— if he doesn’t want her to swear then that’s all she’s going to do.

Maybe it’s the triple F-bomb that has the sound of feet pounding against concrete echoing through their shoddy apartment. Maybe it’s just the yelling in general. Either way it’s a good thing that Natsaha and Sam come sprinting in from the other room of the two room complex because if they hadn’t then she’s sure her fist would be cracking against the jaw of Captain Douchebag right now.

“Woah, woah, woah— what the hell’s going on in here?” Sam is quick to get in the middle of them, pushing the super soldier to one end of the room while Nat yanks on y/n’s hoodie. “We could hear you idiots from the stairwell.”

Y/n struggles against Nat for a moment, vision tinted red at the edges. From across the room Steve glares at her, seething. She can practically feel the hatred pouring off of him. It stings at her chest, biting into her veins. He would have kept yelling at her if they hadn’t stopped him, she just knows it. She wishes he would so she could scream back— her stomach and muscles are still tight and she’s aching to lay into him some more. She barely even started and now she feels like she’s about to bubble over.

“Seriously—” Nat tugs again and y/n stops fighting, opting instead to glower at the blonde from across the room— “What’s gotten into you two? You’re supposed to be the responsible ones!”

Steve tears his arm from Sam’s hold but doesn’t clear the space between them. “Why don’t you ask y/n—” he tilts his head, sneering again— “What was it you said ten minutes ago? Oh yeah— apparently I’m volatile, self-obsessed, and don’t play well with others.”

Why that little fucking— “Don’t put fucking words in my mouth!”

She storms past Natasha, dodging her arm as it flies out— you’re not the only trained markswoman here Nat. Steve does the same, bowling past Sam easily to meet her in the middle of the room.

“Why not? It’s what you meant right?” He’s in her face again, breath hot on her face, and she only retaliates by fuming right back.

She feels like a dragon facing down her enemy— she’s ready to burn the entire building down if it means lowering him a peg or five.

“Actually it wasn’t but now it is you narcissistic dick.”

She can feel Natasha start to pull on her hoodie again but she’s not done— not now. Not when she’s just gotten started.

“You just can’t handle hearing the truth y/n— you can’t handle it when I tell you what you did was wrong. That you could have gotten us fucking killed with your ignorance—”

Her veins flood with fire, her lips curling into a painful scowl. In that moment everything turns slow, her heartbeat a dull thump, thump, thump in her ears, drowning out the rest of his sentence. The only thing that gives away that he’s still speaking is his mouth moving, his teeth bared and ready to be knocked out.

Oh so she’s ignorant now is she? Yeah well fuck you Rogers!

This time the only thing that stops her fist from slamming into Steve’s jaw is Sam catching it mid air, her knuckles slapping off his palm and bringing the sounds in the room rushing back to her at full force. She stumbles back with the impact but the soldier catches her, steadying her on her feet with a worried look in his soft brown eyes. It feels like she’s been underwater for days, her ears popping painfully as she gasps for breath.

“—s enough Steve!” When y/n blinks Nat is shoving her palm against the super soldier’s chest. “You need to back the hell off!”

She doesn’t realize until her eyelashes stick to her cheeks that they’re wet. That she’s crying. The sobs catch up to her when it registers, wracking through her with a force strong enough to have her whole body shaking. Sam is the first to notice, reaching out for her but she backs away, shaking her head. The room falls silent, three pairs of eyes now trained on her but she’s only looking at one pair of wide blue ones. Steve’s chest is heaving up and down, a cross between a feral and a confused look slathered across his features.

The look ignites the last of the dying spark inside her, her hand landing against her chest, wrapping around the dog tags hanging off her neck and yanking until she hears a snap. She waits for the chain to pool in her hands before she whips the metal across the room, hitting him square in the chest with a roar that’s more animal than human tearing from her throat— you wanted flames and now you’re going to get them.

“I’m ignorant? Me? Did you ever stop to ask yourself why the fuck I fell asleep today?” She slips her hands into her hair, tugging so hard on the roots that her scalp feels like it’s burning. “How about because last night you came back from scouting three hours late and looking like you got mauled by a fucking bear? And I asked you what happened and you wouldn't tell me a goddamn thing! You— Mister fucking super serum whatever the fuck! You just went to bed and I spent the rest of the night listening to you gasp for air! Not knowing if the shit was even working or if I was going to wake up to you gone! I—”

Her voice cracks and she curses, scraping her wrist across her face to wipe away some of the hot tears pooling down her cheeks. They feel like trails of lava melting her skin as they rush over her jaw and drip onto the floor. Steve’s face has morphed completely during the span of her rant, his mouth falling open, lips no longer busted open like they had been last night but still horrifying to look at right now. She knows he wants to say something— maybe he even wants to apologize— but there’s no fucking way she’s letting him. She’s not finished yet.

“I spent all night wondering if I was going to lose you! That I would wake up and have nothing! You’re my everything and I thought you were going to die and you wouldn’t tell me anything. So yeah, I guess I’m ignorant! Fuck you too.”

Her throat is raw by the time she’s done spitting the words at him, her head fuzzy from a lack of oxygen and her waning rage. It’s giving way too quickly to sadness— to the agonizing kind of heartbreak that has all her organs seemingly shutting down. Her face is sticky and itchy and she needs to get away from him right now.

She turns to meet the stunned faces of Sam and Nat, swallowing hard and wincing at the way her esophagus stings. She’s not going to have a voice at all tomorrow— or for the next week at this rate. Sam’s eyes look like they’re going to pop out of his head from how wide they are, his mouth open but— like Steve— no words are coming out. She flicks her eyes to Nat who, thankfully, springs into action, nodding her head to the door, the question clear in her eyes— want to get the fuck out of here? Y/n doesn’t answer, she just starts walking.

It’s in that moment that Steve snaps out of his stupor, racing to catch her at the door, warm hand curling gently around her wrist. She doesn’t even give herself a second to enjoy it— to fall into his touch and forget the agony in her chest— before she’s ripping her arm away from him, cradling it against her chest and backing away from him.

“Baby I—” His face is tight, his light brows creasing the middle of his forehead.

She can see it— the regret. It carves across his face, tugging his lips into a frown and making his eyes glass over. Her chest squeezes at the sight, her own eyes coating with a fresh sheen of tears. She wants to wrap her arms around him— to tell him that she forgives him and that she loves him and that she’s scared— but he did this not her and before she knows it she’s taking another step back, shoulder bumping into Nat’s as she shakes her head.

“I’m sleeping with Nat tonight. I’ll talk to you in the morning. Night, Steve.”

Steve’s face falls, the first of his tears pooling down his now angelic face, and as she hesitates. Maybe she should— she feels a tug on her hand, glancing down to where Natasha’s slender fingers wrap around her forearm. She doesn’t have the strength to fight her comrade as she pulls her past the door frame.

As the super soldier falls from her line of sight all she can hear is Sam’s exhausted voice—

“Let her go, man.”

—and she breaks.

#Steve Rogers #Captain America #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #captain america x reader #captain america x y/n #nomad!steve #nomad!steve angst #steve rogers angst #captain america angst #nomad!steve x reader #nomad!steve x y/n #steve rogers fic #steve rogers imagine #captain america fic #captain america imagine #mcu fic #mcu #marvel cinematic universe

[a-purple-lizard]

Could you please do a Kabal x F!Reader

Where the reader hates the fact that he’s in the black dragons but she still loves him. So could you please write something of a love and hate relationship

With smut please 🥺

Swift dragon

Kabal x female reader

[This post is NSFW]

I’m am SO sorry this took so long, I had major writers block with this one. Personally, kabal isn’t my cup of tea, I’ve just never got the appeal to him, but I hope I did him justice.

But seriously, if anybody has any Kabal tips, please tell me! I would greatly appreciate it!

[FINAL WARNING, NSFW BELOW THE LINE]

Cold wind blew through the rugged streets, whistling as it passed through poorly made shacks and campfires. At least a hundred people, including small children and babies, were gathered around the small fires. Their clothes were little more than rags. Suddenly, a woman approached out of the darkness.

She held out her palm, allowing the homeless people of outworld to hastily take the food she has offered them. S/o smiled sadly at the children who attempted to give their food to their parents, only to be rejected. She wished she had enough to feed all of them.

After she ran out of the bread that she handed out, she swiftly climbed up only a nearby rooftop. The air stunk with smoke and human waste. “What’s up s/o? Come to visit me?”

Her heart jolted from her chest, turned around, tackling the man with a hug. He yelped at the sudden contact as s/o peppered his face with kisses. The two turned into a giggling mess as s/o sat up, straddling his thighs. Her smile suddenly melted into bitter resentment when she saw the black dragon uniform. “Babe? What’s wrong?”

“Tell me, kabal, how many children did you steal from today?” She asked coldly, getting off of him. Kabal quickly scrambled to his feet, following her to the edge of the building.

“H-hey! What’s up with that accusation?” He demanded, sitting beside her, his legs dangling off the edge.

“A month ago, half these people lived in small houses. When Kano and his goons started to charge a “protection fee” they were reduced to living out here in the cold.” Her tone held an edge to it. “So tell me kabal, when you were out collecting, how many kids did you see?”

The way kabal grimaced and turned away reminded s/o of a child who knew he was wrong was but too stubborn to admit it. “It's just business, babe. Nothin personal.”

“You’re right, it isn’t personal. Who the hell cares about starving civilians? Not the emperor, not Kano, and sure as hell not you.” Her cold voice growled. “Just business, they’re just numbers to you, specifically check numbers.”

Suddenly, s/o let out a grunt as she was pinned to the ground. Kabal stared down at her, anger in his eyes. “Don’t you put that on me.”

“Oh I’m sorry, is reality ruining your little bad boy with a cause complex?” She yelled, struggling against him, “wake the fuck up, look around, these are real people, like you and me, that you are hurting!”

“Why are you so worried about what I do!? Why can’t you just mind your own damn business!?” He yelled, his grip bruising her wrist.

“Because I love you goddammit!” S/o cried out, kabal froze at her words, grip loosening. The woman below him had tears running down her face, “I love you, more than you know. Watching you burn away your soul like this… it hurts. You’re a good guy, but Kano is corrupting you! And you’re letting him!”

Kabals eyes drifted from her for a second, clouding over with some unfamiliar emotion. The raging storm within his soul was put on pause by a soft hand on his cheek. S/o gave him a weak look. “Please, Kabal, listen. Leave the black dragon, leave Kano.”

“It isn’t that easy.” He mumbled, easing his lower body onto hers. The weight was comforting to s/o as she lifted her head to place a soft kiss into his lips. The man quickly returned it, passionately and desperate. His fingers locked around hers, pressing her down harder beneath him.

Kabals lips broke from hers and latched onto her throat. He hummed as he dragged his mouth across her skin, the rhythmic sound was intoxicating. “No, but I can make it easier.” She whispered.

A startled groan tumbled from his mouth as an knee pressed up between his thighs. S/o could feel the hardness of him through his pants. With agonizingly slow movements, she rubbed her leg up and down. His grip tightened with a growl.

“Is this your way of persuading me?” He grunted, grinding onto her leg. His mouth broke away from her flesh, he looked down atp her, eyes clouded with lust. “Cause it just might work.”

S/o leaned upwards, planting a soft kiss on his lips before pushing him back. The man fell on his back with an oof. Before kabal could even make sense of the action, s/o was atop him.

Placing a hand down onto him, she gently cupped his cheek. He sighed and leaned into it ever so slightly. “Promise me.”

Her thighs clenched around his wait as she steadily grinded into him. He grunted and tried to buck his hips up in pleasure. “I’ll only let you have me, if you promise to leave the black dragon.”

“B-babe- fuck. This is hardly fair, cmon- ah!” S/o slid her hand under her, massaging the hardness between his legs. Kabal seethed and writhed, nails digging into the ground. His eyes rolled back as she unzipped his pants, allowing her fingers to slip in.

Kabal tried to sit up, hand reaching for her breast, only to he pushed back down with her free hand. “Touch me, and I’ll stop.”

Helpless groans and pleas fell from his mouth, turning into moans of pleasure as her hands continued. She rubbed, squeezed and even licked the piece of flesh in her hand, watching each reaction as she did. “Fuck, s/o I’m close.”

Speeding up her movements, he was practically fucking her fist as he arched his back, mouth agape. He was so close only a little more-

Her touch quickly disappeared just as his high was at its brink. The man whined, trying to touch himself, but s/o didint allow him. “S/o, please, cmon.”

“Not until you promise me!” Her hands crashed on either side of his head, staring into his eyes. Her gaze held anger, sadness, regret, love? “You’re better then this, I know you are. Please.”

“I’ll- I’ll only take jobs that don’t hurt civilians, how about that?” He rasped out, at a lost for breath. “I won’t do anymore protection frees, I’ll just do regular old assassination jobs, only for people who deserve it. Bad people.”

S/o frowned, but the heat of her gaze had subsided, she sighed. “I suppose that’s the most I can get out of you at the moment.” Closing her eyes, she rolled on her back beside him. “You better get the most out of me. While I’m still around.”

Despite the threat, Kabal could hear true despair in her tone. She really did love him. Guilt clouded Kabal as he mounted her thighs. Normally there was no slow moments of intamcy, only a deep connection of mutual unspoken passion as they mercilessly merged their body’s. Tonight, that would be different.

S/o flinched in surprise when she felt a soft, pleading kiss flutter on her lips. Her wide eyes stared up as his desperate gaze. There was genuine fear and sadness. “Kabal?”

“Hey, look.” His voice was breathless as he spoke. “You are, the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You have treated me like a human being, which is more then I can say for others. I know, I’m a scum bag, I know I’m everything you’re not. But at the end of the day, you love me, no matter what I do.”

S/o smiled up at him, “I try to hate you, but everytime I try, I just end up loving you more.”

Kabal laughed, giving her a smug look, “guess I’m just that good lookin.” That earned a playful elbow in the back. He laughed once again, “ok, ok, I’ll shut up now. I’ll make you feel good.”

“Yeah?” S/o smiled as Kabal started to unbutton her shirt, exposing cleavage as she wrapped her arms around him.

“Yeah.” His lips connected with hers in a kiss. Hands crept down her body, fingertips tracing her skin, grabbing onto her thighs and separating them. Kabal placed himself between her legs, his pants were still unzipped, his problem was out in the cold air.

Kabal hovered atop her, kiss becoming much more heated as she bit his lip, demanding he give her entrance. He smugly chuckled, holding back a remark as her tongue assaulted his. After a short battle of dominance, s/o was declared the winner as she hastily explored his wet cavern.

Ripping her shirt open and unclipping her bra, sliding it off and throwing it to the side, kabals mouth ripped from her kiss and latched into her breast. S/o released a whiny moan, nails digging into his back as began to lick and suck all over. His tongue traced her skin, searching her the right spot.

Her mouth opened with a gasp as Kabal located a tender scrap of skin and began to abuse it. Biting down in it, only to suck it between his teeth. That was definitely going to leave a Mark.

S/o grinded upwards into his exposed groin. The man moaned slightly, hand reaching down to unzip her pants. His fingers slipped past her panties and into her soaked folds of sensitive flesh. He rubbed and slid his fingers around each crevice, leaving s/o a pleading mess. “Fuck... just fucking do it already.”

“As my girl commands.” He teased breathlessly, positioning himself at her entrance. His fingers took hold of her wrist, pinning them above her head as he entered her at an agonizingly slow pace, allowing himself to stretch out her inner walls. S/o writhed beneath him, clumsy moans dripping from her mouth.

He then proceeded to fuck her brains out. He was FAST like, ridiculously fast. Not superpower fast, but it was clear that he was going to make s/o pay for her teasing.

Hands tangled in hair and nails dug into skin as he drilled into her. She early met his thrust with her own, hips slamming hard enough to leave bruises. Neither of them cared.

Leaning over, his mouth assaulted hers, this time he took complete control of her mouth, invading it as he pleased. The two groaned into the kiss as his thrust became heavier, slower, sloppier.

S/o was left gasping for air as Kabal left her mouth, his saliva decorating her lips. He trailed down kisses from the corner of her mouth to the crook of her neck. His teeth met her flesh, biting and sucking.

They were both getting close already. S/o cried out each time he slammed into her, her face was pure ecstasy. “Kabal! Fuck... I’m-“

“Yeah, me too babe.” He rasped out, grip tightening as his thrust became desperate and rough until finally the knot in s/o’s stomach snapped. The two slammed their faces together, keeping eachother grounded as their release washed over them.

Kabal let go of her wrist, his hands tangling themselves in her hair. One hand drifted down to her side to rub comforting circles in her flesh. His chest steady rose up and down, the rhythmic movement against her made s/o relax her body unde him.

The high started to go down as they broke away. They simply remained still as they caught their breaths. Kabals raspy gulps of air turned into a cocky chuckle, “sombody enjoyed that.”

S/o was too exhausted to playfully slap him, instead she just gave him a look which earned a laugh. “Shut up and take me to wherever your staying. I’m tired.”

“Oh, so we can fuck on the rooftop with pigeons staring at us, but sleeping here? That’s fucking disgusting.” That one gave her the strength to slap him.

#mortal kombat #mortal kombat x reader #mk kabal #kabal x reader #kabal

[solacryptid]

Unexpected Fate

Inheritance Cycle (Eragon) & Lord of the Rings Crossover Summary: Vilansia and her dragon, Svellevarina, have spent many years training the young dragon riders alongside Eragon and Saphira. But their time of adventure has come. The people of Middle Earth have called for aid and Alagaesia will answer.

Chapter 5: The Pass of Caradhras.

To say that we were a complex group would be an understatement. During our travels thus far I had done my best to become more acquainted with everyone, though Svellevarina was content to let the others come to her. The exception to this was the four Hobbits, as she continued to grow a soft spot for them. I did not think we were the only ones to think so fondly of them, as their cheerful attitudes easily lifted everyone's spirits.

Gandalf was the most welcoming to Svell and me. He patiently answered my questions about Middle Earth and indulged Svell's inquiries as well. We had learned about the history of Smaug and the involvement that Frodo's uncle had in the matter. The tale explained the distance that Gimli kept between himself and Svellevarina and myself. I only hoped that he would come to learn that we were no threat to him or his people, let alone the rest of Middle Earth.

We decided to take up a spot on a rocky hillside for rest after Gandalf informed us that we would be traversing west of the Misty Mountains for forty days. It had only been a few weeks of travel at this point, though the Hobbit's bright attitudes never wavered.

"Tell me," Boromir said as he leaned forward on from his seat on a rock. He regarded me carefully. "where is it that you are from, Lady Elf?"

"We are from a country across the sea, Alagaesia, a week's worth of travel from Middle Earth," I replied. Svell paused in her cleaning of the scales on her shoulder.

"Are there more like you?"

I paused. "More dragon riders, you mean?"

"Aye,"

"There are many more, though most of them are still young yet, and have not completed their training,"

"My rider and I were chosen to act on behalf of the dragon riders to assist Middle Earth," Svellevarina added.

He ran a hand down his beard in thought. "I admit, I am curious to witness your power,"

"Let us hope it does not come to that for some time," I replied. He held my gaze for a moment before dropping his hand and standing. With a nod, he made his way over to the Hobbits. My eyes fell on the other elf in the company, who I had come to learn was named Legolas. He acknowledged me with his gaze before gracefully making his way from rock to rock and peering into the distance.

"I'd say we're taking the long way 'round," Gimli said then. "Gandalf, we could pass through the mines of Moria. My cousin Balin would give us a royal welcome,"

Gandalf furrowed his grey brows. "No, Gimli, I would not take the road to Moria unless I had no other choice,"

Sam took notice of Legolas peering into the distance. "What is that?"

I looked, as did the rest of the company. A dark cloud with flowing movement was drawing closer.

"Nothing, just a whisk of cloud," Gimli disregarded.

"I have never seen a cloud move so quickly," I commented.

Svell sniffed the air. "Something is wrong,"

"Crebain from Dunland!" Legolas exclaimed before turning and running back to the rest of us.

"Hide! Take cover!" Aragorn ordered, gathering the Hobbits together and ushering them under a bush. The rest of us were quick to move, crouching behind rocks and under bushes.

Svellevarina and I, however, did not have such options. She curled around me, and I rested my palms on the side of her neck. With a deep breath, I focused in on myself, drawing up energy for a spell.

"What are you doing? You must hide!" Boromir shouted.

As I uttered my spell, I felt my energy drain, but I remained as still as possible. As long as my dragon and I did not move, we would remain invisible to the eye.

The shrill croaks of crows surrounded us as their wingbeats filled the air. They invaded the area for a moment before receding into the distance. I released the magic that held Svell and I before she shifted to stand on all fours.

"Spies of Sauroman. Our path at South is being watched," Gandalf said gravely, watching the dark mass of crows in the distance. "We must take the Pass of Caradhras,"

While Svellevarina and I had no knowledge of who this Sauroman was, I understood from Gandalf's tone and energy that his watching of us was no light matter.

As the company gathered their belongings and followed Gandalf as he led us across the rocky terrain, I approached Legolas. "What can we expect from this Sauroman in the future?"

He watched me for a moment as I walked beside him, glancing back at Svell as she glided in the air above us all. "It is too early to tell just yet, Lady Vilansia. Though I am certain that his role will be a major one,"

I pursed my lips in thought. Legolas' answer was not a reassuring one in the least. How did he know to send spies to this location? Was that demonstrative of his range in power?

As if sensing my thoughts, he continued. "We will be ready for him when he strikes, do not fill your head with worry now,"

"Elrun ono, thank you," I replied as I glanced at him. "There is a considerable amount of uncertainty, I only wish to be prepared,"

He fell behind me as we followed the group ahead of us up a steep incline in the path.

"We shall be ready for anything, shur'tugal," Svellevarina said to me. Then to both Legolas and I, she added: "If we hold together the fellowship will see success,"

"Your dragon is quite wise," Legolas said to me.

I glanced back at him with a small smile. "Don't let her hear you, the compliment will only add to her ego,"

I caught him smiling at the jest before I returned my gaze ahead of me.

"Very funny, Vi," Svellevarina said to me, her tone light. I looked up to her as her wings pushed a gust of air my way, ruffling my hair. I knew she would be sure to tease me in return at some point in the near future.

The snowy mountain side allowed a new form of enjoyment for Svell, as she dove into the snow until she blended in with the sparkling substance. The snow would explode around her as she jumped out again, spreading her wings with a playful growl. Her playing in the snow allowed entertainment for the rest of us, as well, despite the biting chill of the wind.

I heard someone stumble behind me, and turned to see Frodo roll back in the snow. Aragorn helped the Halfling up when he slid to a stop. Frodo clutched at his chest desperately, his eyes wide as the settled on a golden object resting in the snow. Boromir picked up the Ring by the chain, letting it dangle in front of him.

"It is a strange thing," he said. "which suffers so much fear and doubt, and so small a thing. Such a little thing,"

Before he was able to grasp the Ring in his hands, Aragorn called his name, his voice a warning. "Give the ring to Frodo," Boromir glanced between the two of them and the ring before walking towards them. Aragorn let his hand fall to the hilt of his weapon.

"As you wish," the man said. Frodo snatched the Ring out of Boromir's hand, quickly placing it around his neck. "I care not," he added as he ruffled the Hobbit's hair. Boromir stalked forward and the rest of us continued on our way.

"The hearts of men are easily swayed," Legolas said quietly to me. The snow swirled around us as Svellevarina flew above us. There was no doubt that the Ring had a hold on those that were near it, and Boromir's actions reflected that.

"How is someone so small able to stand against the dark magic of this ring?" Svellevarina commented.

"There is often much more to someone than meets the eye," I replied.

The snow grew increasingly deeper, and as we reached a pathway along the side of the steep mountain, Svell ceased her dives into the snow for fear of starting an avalanche. At this height, the wind blew snow against us at great speeds, slowing us down considerably. Not to mention the deep snow that the company was forced to wade through, reaching well past the height of the Hobbits. My light-footed nature allowed me to walk atop the snowbank, Legolas beside me. I held my arm in front of my face to better shield me from the sting of the oncoming snow.

I felt a shift, foreign energy surrounding us as if someone were observing us through magic. As I channeled my own energy I focused in on it until I heard a voice chanting. Whoever this individual was, they were most certainly casting a spell.

"There is a fell voice on the air," Legolas commented.

Gandalf, who was leading the company through the snow, stopped, looking up to the sky. "It's Sauroman!"

The cracking of rocks echoed above us, pieces of the mountain tumbling down. Our pathway shook as the rocks fell.

"Svell, stay away!" I yelled with both my voice and my mind. I heard her snarl over the sound of the sharp wind and tumbling rocks.

"He's trying to bring down the mountain!" Aragorn shouted. "Gandalf, we must turn back!"

I shut my eyes tight as I tried to force challenge this Sauroman with my own magic and protect the rest of us.

"No!" I heard Gandalf exclaim before he began to cast his own spell.

I drew further within myself to obtain better focus. My mind made contact with an unpleasant force that sent a shock through me. It was something more powerful than I thought. Determined, I pushed against it, attempting to cut off the energy that this individual was using to work its evil magic. There was a surge of anger before a loud crack resounded above us.

My eyes shot open as I felt someone grab hold of my arm, pulling me into them. Heavy snow was falling from above, smothering us completely.

"Vilansia!" my dragon exclaimed in my mind. "Vilansia, are you all right?"

I held on tightly to whoever it was that had grabbed me and felt them moving, attempting to dig upwards and out of the snow. I gulped in air as we breached the surface, blinking the snow out of my eyes.

Legolas' blue eyes met my gaze. "Are you all right?"

I tried to slow my breathing, without success, my heart racing from the fear of suffocation. "Yes...yes, I am all right," I shifted in the snow. "Thank you, Legolas, I am not sure I would be if you hadn't grabbed me in time,"

I heard the others pushing their way through the top of the snow.

"I am all right, Svell," I responded to my dragon. "Tell me, can you see the others?"

Her relief washed through me. "Yes, everyone is accounted for,"

Legolas stood atop the snow and offered his hand, lifting me out of the snowbank. I kept close to the stone wall of the mountain for fear that the snow might shift once more and send me tumbling over the edge.

"We must get off the mountain!" Boromir shouted. "Make for the Gap of Rohan, or take the West Road to my city!"

"We can't, the Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard!" Aragorn responded.

"If we cannot pass over the mountain, let us go under it," Gimli offered. "Let us go through the Mines of Moria,"

After a moment, Gandalf answered. "Let the Ring Bearer decide,"

Everyone looked to Frodo, who certainly appeared just as uncertain as the rest of us.

"We cannot stay here, this will be the death of the Hobbits!" Boromir urged.

"Frodo," Gandalf encouraged.

The Hobbit shivered, looking to his friends before making eye contact with Gandalf. "We will go through the Mines,"

"So be it,"

Svellevarina hovered beside the edge of the mountain. "Let the Hobbits take place upon my back. They will be safe with me in the air until we reach solid ground,"

Before Gandalf could speak, Pippin shuffled through the snow towards her. She flew as close as possible to the edge, the wind from her wings blowing the snow even stronger around us. Pippin clambered on, using the pointed scales on her shoulders as grips to get to the saddle. Merry followed him, and Sam urged Frodo forward as well. Svell did not hesitate to fly back down the mountain once they were secured, leaving the rest of us to climb down the mountainside. I let out a sigh of relief in knowing that the Hobbits would be safe with my dragon.

The day had well passed once we reached the foot of the mountain, the moon illuminating our way. A dark and withered tree grew next to the rocky path, no leaves or vines grew on its branches. Svellevarina had laid around the four Hobbits, watching them intently as they conversed amongst themselves. As we approached, she lifted her head, causing the Hobbits to look our way. They were sitting next to a lake, the dark waters eerily still.

Across from the lake was a flat stone wall. There was no sign of a doorway or any form of an entrance that we might have access to.

"Dwarf doors are invisible to guard what lays behind them," Gimli informed us as we peered at the blank wall curiously.

"Rightly, even masters cannot find them, if their secrets are forgotten," Gandalf remarked.

Legolas stepped past the dwarf. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

This led Gimli to grumble to himself under his breath as he turned to watch Gandalf approach the wall. The clouds that had covered the moon shifted, allowing the moonlight to reach us. A blue glow came from the wall now, revealing the form of a doorway. Blue trees made up the edges with glowing stars in between them. Words were etched at the top of it, the writing curved to follow the rounded top of the door. It was as if the very entrance itself was made of light.

"It reads," Gandalf began, pointing his staff to the letters. "the Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter,"

"What do you s'pose that means?" Merry asked.

"Oh, it's quite simple. If you are a friend, you speak the password and the doors will open," He lowered his staff so that the point of it rested on the most centre star. In a strong voice, he spoke in a foreign language, the sound of which felt ancient to my ears.

When nothing happened, Svellevarina snorted. "Surely, I could knock this door down,"

Gandalf huffed, seeming to ignore her comment. He tried again, stringing together a different series of words in the same language, though less determined this time. When the doors remained closed he grumbled to himself, then pressed his body weight against the blue doorway as if he could pry them open.

"What are you going to do, then?" Pippin asked.

"Knock your head against these doors, Peregrin Took, and if that does not work then I am allowed peace from foolish questions!" He sighed heavily. "I'm trying to find the correct words,"

Svell curled her tail around the Hobbit in a protective manner as his shoulders fell. Gandalf's frustration was understandable, though Svell disagreed with the manner in which he spoke to the Hobbit. Gandalf sat on a large boulder, muttering to himself as he stared at the glowing doorway. The rest of us began to take this opportunity to sit and rest as well under the assumption that we would be here for some time.

Smoke billowed from Svellevarina's nostrils as she rested, her closed eyes giving the appearance that she was asleep, though her active mind told me otherwise.

I sat on the ground beside her, my knees tucked up to my chest. The lake water gave me an uncertain feeling, and my intuition told me that there was likely something lurking within. I did not attempt to explore it, however, as the last thing I wanted was to disturb whatever it was further and draw it out to the rest of us.

Merry and Pippen stood from their place against Svell's tail, walking to the edge of the water. Merry scooped up a handful of rocks and began throwing them into the water, trying to throw each one farther than the last.

Aragorn grabbed hold of Merry's arm as he started to throw another. "Do not disturb the water,"

Merry stepped back, dropping the rest of the rocks back onto the ground. Pippin peered curiously at the water before shrugging and following his fellow Hobbit back to where they sat. The lake rippled, the largest ring fading into the smoothness of the water. While all seemed calm on the surface now that rocks were not splashing into it, I could feel something stirring within its depths. Whatever it was grew increasingly agitated, a strong emotion, as I did not even need to extend my mind to feel it. Our surroundings, however, were deceptively quite.

"It's a riddle," Frodo said, causing everyone to turn to him. "Speak friend and enter...what's the elvish word for friend?"

Gandalf answered curiously. A loud crack filled the air, bringing me to my feet. The doorway opened in half, the crack breaking it open down the centre. Gimli was the first to enter the Mines as he bore a wide smile. The rest of the Fellowship followed him in.

"Soon, Master and Lady Elf you will enjoy the hospitality of the dwarves," Gimli said excitedly. "Roaring fires, malt beer, red meat off the bone! For this is the home of my cousin Balin. And they call it a mine. A mine!"

Gandalf lit his staff, providing light, as the moonbeams could not reach us here.

"This is no mine," said Boromir gravely, "it's a tomb,"

I gasped at the sight before me. Decaying corpses littered the ground, arrows protruding from many of them. Weapons and armour were scattered, the metal now frail from the passage of time. Svellevarina snorted in distaste. Gimli cried out, falling to his knees at the sight of his deceased kin.

Legolas plucked an arrow from one of the bodies, examining the make of it. "Goblins!" he spat, tossing it to the ground.

"We make for the Gap of Rohan. We should never have come here," Boromir said as he frantically glanced around himself. "Now get out of here, get out!"

I spun around as I heard the Hobbits crying out and saw Frodo being dragged out of the Mine, a slithering appendage holding on tight to his ankle. Sam was the first to act, using his blade to hack at it until it released Frodo. Svellevarina crawled towards the Hobbits, the ceiling of the Mine inhibiting her from moving freely. The creature withdrew back into the water for a split second before it jumped out, extending it's slithering tentacles towards us. I withdrew my sword as I stood beside Aragorn, slicing at the beast as it reached towards me. Svellevarina snarled and snapped her jaws, biting off the arms that dared go near her. Frodo's screams filled the entrance of the Mine as the beast grabbed hold of the Hobbit, lifting him in the air above its spiked head. I followed the two men out of the Mine into the water in an attempt to reach Frodo. With a roar, Svellevarina burst out of the Mine, unfurling her wings as she jumped in the air. She dove at the tentacles that were wrapped around Frodo's leg, biting down hard. The creature screeched in anguish and dropped the Hobbit.

I shot out my hand, prepared to use my magic to stop him from falling into the mouth of the creature. But Svellevarina was there, catching the hobbit on her back. Frodo clutched at the spike closest to him as she turned in the air, bringing him back to shore. Frodo slid off her back when she landed, running towards the rest of the Hobbits inside the Mine. Arrows whizzed past me as Legolas did his part to keep the beast in the water. But it's anger was stronger. It used it's unharmed appendages to crawl out of the water, rapidly making its way towards us. We rushed back into the Mine, Svellevarina the last to enter. She slammed her body weight against the entrance, cracking the rocks. She threw herself against the stone once more, bringing the pieces down upon the water beast and sealing us inside.

We were thrown into darkness, the moonlight unable to reach us through the wall of fallen stone.

A soft light grew from Gandalf's staff. "We have but one choice. We must face the long dark of Moria," he led us forward, the Fellowship doing their best to pick their way around the fallen dwarves.

"Are you all right?" I asked my dragon.

Her talons clicked on the stone floor. "I am fine. How is the Hobbit?"

I looked ahead of me to the four of them. They were huddled close together. "Shaken up, no doubt, but it appears that he is all right,"

"Good,"

"Be on your guard," Gandalf warned. "There are darker and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the Mines. Quietly now. It is a four-day journey to the other side of the mountain. Let us hope that our presence go unnoticed,"

"Hm. There's certainly nothing unusual with a dragon stalking through the halls," Svell said to me. I glanced back at her with a grin. Only she would find humor in a situation such as this.

_____

Translations from the Ancient Language:

Elrun ono - Thank you

Shur'tugal - Dragon rider

_____

next chapter

#lotr #lotr fanfic #lotr fanfiction #lord of the rings #inheritence cycle #eragon #crossover #crossover fanfiction #lotr crossover #eragon crossover #lotr eragon crossover #dragons #original characters #oc x legolas #eventual relationship #eventual fluff #slow burn #mutual pining #mutual feelings #requited love

[starkeristheendgame]

peter and tony are on a motorcycle together. The constant movement and touching is getting them kind of excited.

I really hope you like this and that I did it justice! For those curious, this is the bike that Tony rides. I will forever spit curses at the Gods for making me the size of a Pomeranian. This is basically Early!College!Peter and Adult!Tony, and can be seen as a Biker/Gang AU if you wanna! 

TW: Public sex | Sex toy use | D/s dynamics | Consensual power dynamics | Potentially degrading monikers

Nobody had really believed Peter when he’d quietly admitted to having a boyfriend. It wasn’t that he was ugly, no. Peter was just basically married to his studying, and had seemed utterly and steadfast disinterested in any other offer of company. Though, if he did have a boyfriend, that would explain why. 

And nobody really believed him when they caught the face on his lockscreen. The devastatingly handsome thirty-something model of a man that eyed them with a tilted head and a killer smirk. This was the guy you saw in California, dating movie stars and fucking models, not living in Manhattan and dating a barely-legal college student. 

So when Leah Denvers overhears Peter talking about how his boyfriend will be picking him up from college, near enough the entire school gathers outside, hovering on the steps and all doing their best to fake disinterest, like they aren’t eyeing the boy stood on the edge of the curb like hawks. 

The noise comes first. Like thunder, but fiercer. Like with the rolling booms comes the trickling purr of a jungle cat, and the warning snarl of a dragon. Something angry and something powerful. Something that knew it had the rule of the streets. Nobody bothered to feign disinterest anymore. 

The beast that came charging around the corner was sleek and black, abstract edges and sharp points, a being that would blend into the darkness if not for its glowing red eyes. The rider that mounted it sat low, leaning over the tank, dressed head to foot in a sleek, black leather suit and helmet. 

Peter breathed a sigh of relief, acutely aware of every single set of eyes on his back. Tony being here meant they could make a rather speedy getaway. Ned had apologetically abandoned him on the curb, whisked away to a family meal with some long-lost Auntie. 

The rider steered the bike to an elegant halt and sat upright slowly, blacked out, glossy visor turning slowly to face him as the rider sat astride the bike, letting it growl between his thighs, hands resting calmly on the tank. Peter could see his own face in the visor, cheeks flushed, pupils blown. 

Peter stepped off the curb and up close, close enough he could smell the leather and the gasoline, could feel the heat of the bike and damned near her vibrations. He reached up a hand and delicately thumbed the safety lock of the helmet, lifting the visor up slowly until he could see dark, dark eyes, framed by long, thick lashes. 

People were talking. Whispering furiously. Peter knew what they were saying. Knew their doubts. He was just a semi-popular, not-so-great-with-fashion college student. How was a man like this with a boy like him? 

Tony Stark leaned away from him just slightly, blinking slowly like a cat as he reached behind him, for the spare jacket and helmet strapped safely to the seat Peter would soon occupy. He shrugged on the thick, armoured jacket himself, but obliged when Tony took the helmet from his hands, tugging up the bandanna from around his neck to cover his lower face, gentle and careful when he helped Peter to put it on and to tighten the straps. 

Tony let his head dip, pressing their helmeted foreheads together, like a tender kiss. He did it, each time before a ride. Good luck, he called it. And then he was bracing his legs and the bike, holding her stable as Peter put a hand to his shoulder and bounced up onto the back, tucking his legs into the correct position and sighed in contentment as he draped himself over Tony’s back, arms tight around his toned waist. 

Nearly the entire school was still staring when the engine gave a great roar between his thighs and leapt forwards. He would never get used to the thrill, would never get used to the leap in his chest and the tingle of adrenaline through his veins. But the worst was the vibrations, unrelenting against his ass, and being pressed so close against his lover, entrusting him with his very life. 

Peter wobbled off the bike hard between his legs more often than not. 

Tony did, too. 

They came to a halt at a stop light, Tony leaning upright to keep steady as they waited, and Peter relaxed against him, squeezing him lovingly. Tony reacted by reaching back, a large, gloved hand squeezing his thigh before it went to the throttle and twisted, just enough to hitch the revs, enough to have Peter squirming on the pillion seat, biting his lip. 

On the freeway, Tony set her free, the engine a thrumming monster beneath them. The angle that Peter sat upon her meant that the steady purr licked at the insides of his thighs, his asscheeks, against his tender cock. He knew for a fact where Tony’s cock was squeezed against the tank that he was hard. It was in each careful, uncomfortable hitch of his hips. 

Very slowly, Peter let his hands slide down Tony’s stomach, inch by inch until he was thumbing at the stiff leather over his flanks, stifling his hot cock. Tony pulled one hand from the bars and lay it over his hand, pressing Peter’s palm down firmly against the hard rise of his length, before he returned it to the steering. 

Halfway to Tony’s penthouse, Peter was hard enough that it ached, uncomfortable in his jeans, hips nudging against the base of Tony’s spine on each opportunity. His boyfriend reacted in kind, squeezing his thighs and revving the engine when there was no need, just to tease Peter with the powerful vibrations. 

Where he ought to have turned left, Tony turned right, and Peter watched the city blur into mostly abandoned lanes and streets. In a nook between a tall, abandoned apartment complex and a parking zone, Tony nudged the bike to the side and to a halt, reaching back to tap Peter’s thigh twice. 

Dismount. 

No sooner than Peter had stepped out of kicking range, Tony was kicking the stand down and swinging a leg over, hands reaching for his helmet. His hair was tousled and messy when he pulled it off, tugging down the bandanna to around his neck, tearing at his gloves with a dark, hungry gaze. Peter couldn’t bite back his grin, legs still tingling from the ride as he tore at his own helmet and jacket. 

For all their impatience with taking the gear off, they were still careful when they set it down, out of the way and with care before large hands settled on Peter’s hips, spinning him. A hand between his shoulders and he went down, folding over the bike with a half-giggle of delight, Tony’s thick thigh forcing his legs apart, making him present. 

“Such a desperate little slut, hm? Couldn’t even wait to get home. You just had to beg to be filled up” Tony breathed, hot and husky against his ear, folding over him like a stallion mounting his mare, hard and firm and unforgiving against him from shoulders to thighs. Peter could do nothing but mewl, pawing at the bike helplessly and arching against his lover. 

“Hhngh, please. Tony, fuck. Please. You’re so - None of them believed me. You’re that fucking hot they all thought I was lying” Peter rasped, eyes rolling when Tony nuzzled at his neck, coaxed him to bare it so he could sink his teeth into the soft, vulnerable flesh. 

“Mm, and do you like that they believe you now, pet? Do you like that they know you bounce on my cock like my good little boy?” It was punctuated with a harsh jolt of his hips, and Peter hissed. 

“Yes”. 

“Do you feel pride, knowing they want me, but they know they can’t have me? That they can’t, because you are Daddy’s little whore?”. 

Peter nearly sobbed, rocking his hips against the bike for friction, for anything as Tony reached for his ass, squeezing a fat cheek harshly before he pushed his hand under the loose band of his jeans, firm fingers pressing down on the base of the plug that was nestled deep in his ass, flared wide within to stretch his slick little insides. 

“Daddy likes it, too” Tony purred in his ear, fucking the plug into him with short little presses, hand reinforced by the harsh thrusts of his hips. Tony licked at his neck, his jaw, bit the shell of his ear with a low rumble and drove a hand into his hair, twisting and gripping hold of the silky locks for purchase. 

“P-Please” Peter breathed shakily, spreading his legs wider, pressing his ass back against Tony’s hand and his cock, biting at his lip to try and stifle the sounds tearing from his throat. Abandoned didn’t necessarily mean nobody was lurking in the shadows. 

“Mm, since you were so good, and wore this all day” Tony pretended to muse, and Peter nearly cried when he felt Tony’s fingertip slide around the edge of the plug, against his sore and stretched rim, which bent around the gentle pressure and then sucked his fingertip in greedily, a brief burst of pain quickly smothered by the heat of pleasure. 

“O-Oh! Fuck. Fuck, please. Tony!” Peter whimpered, head dropping as he scrabbled for purchase against the bike, near drooling as his thighs began to shake. Tony pressed against the plug again and brushed a thumb over his raw hole, forcing a shaky breath from his younger boyfriend. 

“If you cum now, little slut, you’ll have to ride the rest of the way home wet” Tony warned. Peter knew how uncomfortable it would be, how raw and tacky it would feel when his cum began to dry, but he nodded wickedly none the less, rutting against the frame of the motorcycle and squirming his hips to encourage Tony’s finger deeper. 

From behind him, Tony gave a low hum, and used his own hips to shove his finger deeper, startling a yelp from Peter that morphed into a cry as Tony rubbed at his sweet spot, his tender hole stretched too wide too soon, but Peter loved every moment of it, squeezing his eyes shut and throwing his head back when the boiling heat in his stomach pooled and overflowed, legs buckling so he collapsed against the bike as he came on a cracked gasp of Tony’s name. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. Cum for me” Tony coaxed him, gentle and overcareful as he rubbed him through it, and eased his finger out. He crowded Peter tighter, squeezing him against the bike as one hand came up to grip his jaw, thumb forcing his mouth open like a reluctant horse for the bit, the other pushing his slick finger into Peter’s mouth, so he could taste himself, stroking the back of his tongue until the boy hiccuped on a gag. 

“If you’re not hard again by the time we get back, I’m going to tie you naked to the bike on the driveway, and leave you there” Tony whispered sweetly. 

#fanfic #starker #starker fanfiction #starker fanfic #starker fic #starker au #starker fic rec #starker prompt #starker prompt fill #starker request #ironspider #ironspider fanfiction #ironspider fanfic #ironspider fic #ironspider au #ironspider fic rec #ironspider smut #ironspider prompt #tony stark/peter parker #peter aprker/tony stark #tony stark x peter parker #peter parker x tony stark #sie fics

[livelivefastfree]

have you been working on any new fics?? (your stories are wonderful, ive drowned myself in polyburners thanks to you 😔 its a good place to be)

Not really anything new, although I’ve been picking away at some older ones that I never finished!  Namely the plot-heavy sequel to my telepathic soul-bond superhero AU, the intimidatingly complicated sequel to Save A Horse, Ride A Dragon, and my Burnerswap AU where the villains are all our new Burners and the Burners are villains.

Unfortunately since I’m a nurse work has been kind of stressful recently and also my brain only likes to focus on one thing at a time which is currently original novel things.  So process is pretty slow, haha.  But I’m glad I could bring more people into the polyburners fold!

I do feel bad that I haven’t had the energy to post much for a while; revamping my burnerswap doc is the most recent thing I’ve gotten work done on, so here’s a little bit of scene-setting!

Deluxe is a mass of spires and platforms, shimmering in the sunshine outside Red’s window.  Red stares up at the ceiling, at the pale golden glow of sunlight on the pale polymer.  He can hear the sound of someone loudly imitating an electric guitar, and faint thumps and thuds through the wall; Duke is taking his traditional lengthy shower and using up all their precious hot water.  From the smells drifting up from downstairs, Jacob is already up and in the kitchen experimenting.  Kaia is probably upstairs on the roof, tending to her plants, and Abraham had to go back down to the undercity last night.  His absence is a hole; no sound of him talking to Jacob in the kitchen, working out irritatingly on Red’s balcony, yelling at Duke for using up the water.  There’s always something slightly off, a little bit wrong, when part of their team is missing.

Red sits up, buckles his patch on over the remnant of his left eye, and pushes himself up out of bed to see what’s for breakfast.

Jacob is stirring something in a pan when he Red arrives.  There’s a heaping basket of miscellaneous vegetables on the counter next to him, so probably Red’s in for some kind of veggie abomination this morning—but it’s a veggie abomination Red doesn’t have to make and then burn, and he doesn’t really have a sense of taste anymore, anyway.  Red drops into a chair, and Jacob piles up a plate of fried vegetables and sets it wordlessly down in front of him.

It’s quiet for a while. Red eats as much as he can manage, and Jacob knows him well enough not to frown when Red has to push the plate away half-eaten.  

“Quiet night?” he says, eventually.

“All quiet in the pit,” Red says, and goes to the cooler to fish out a nutrient shake instead.  “No calls from Abraham.  No alerts, no bots, no Dragon.”

“Mm.”  Jacob shakes his head, making an unconvinced grumbling noise.  “They’ll come.  They always do.”

Red can’t argue that. He stayed on the edge of the platform until the small hours of the morning, looking down into the dark city far below, watching every gleam of light and flicker of movement, waiting for the first flash of red glass eyes or matte metal claws.

The others drift downstairs eventually, one at a time; Duke grimaces at the vegetable mess, but Kaia piles in with every sign of enjoyment.  Red sits back and listens to Jacob and Duke bicker, Kaia’s laughing jabs at both of them indiscriminately, and lets the sunlight soften some of the harsh, nauseated fatigue.

He doesn’t realize he’s beginning to drift off, but when his comms light up red with an urgent chime, it startles him badly enough he almost drops his drink.

“Come in,” Abraham’s voice says, flat and low.  “Red.”

“Copy,” says Red, and pushes himself up, already moving. The rest of his team reorders around him, Jacob heading for the garage, Duke and Kaia immediately running for their rooms, their weapons.  Red picks up his gloves, feeling the circuitry inside thrum hotly against his palms. “Incoming?”

“How did you guess,” says Abraham dryly.  “Three Climbers.  Two on North Side, one coming up from the East.  And she’s sending up the Dragon.”

Red falters in mid-step, then growls and heads down the staircase to the garage, taking the steps two at a time. “Can you make it up?”

“I can try,” Abraham says, but Red knows that tone to his voice, rough and grim.  “I think she’s targeting the medical complex on platform 18.  Don’t get distracted.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Red says, and Abraham gives a brief bark of a laugh and then cuts the call.

--

Deluxe looks beautiful in the sunlight, if beauty is something to pay attention to; Red has seen it a thousand times, growing up from the old undercity of Detroit like an indescribably huge tree made of silver and marble.  The platforms that make up the city itself look almost fragile from a distance, hovertech and superlight polymers, gleaming with solar panels and greenery.  The massive support structure that holds the city up grows dirtier and more patchwork as it descends into the bristling thicket of ancient, blocky concrete buildings.

Whole civilizations have made their homes on the platforms along that winding trunk.  Around its base, built onto the rooftops of old skyscrapers, Red can see the distant gleam of the Casino King’s sprawling compound, gaudy with red and gold floodlights.  There are urban legends about an entire lost city, one that made its living in among the building-sized struts and cables themselves, before some unspecified calamity cut all communication with them short.

Some of the midway settlements are against Kane, some of them are only indifferent, but Red can only assume that trying to bargain her way through was too much trouble.  Kane took matters into her own hands, and had her R&D invent the Climbers.

Red has eyes on one of them now; a long, low shape, slinking across the platform.  Six-legged, with four glowing eyes each, moving with an unnerving, artificial grace—the mechanical nightmare-offspring of a wolf and some kind of insect.  The tips of their claws hum faintly, lit up—plasma-cutter edges, sharp enough to sink into the polymer like hot knives through butter.  Red is a platform above them, out of their field of vision, but he’s seen the way the things scale vertical surfaces, faster than anything that size should be able to move.

As Red watches, one of them opens its mouth, showing hundreds of needle-sharp fangs lit hellish red from the inside, and lets out an awful, scraping snarl.

“I’ve got eyes on one,” Red says, keeping his voice low.  

“Yeah, yeah, we see ‘em over here too,” Duke says, tight and sharp with bravado.  “Easy.  Let’s get it done!”

“I’ve got your back,” Kaia says.  “Let’s show these things what—”

“Hey, Red,” says a voice, and something taps Red on the shoulder.  “Tag.”

The moment of shock is enough to freeze Red in place for a single fraction of a second, and that’s a hesitation he can’t afford.  A blunt edge slams into his ribs, knocks him over off his feet; he rolls, comes up on his feet again and sends out a blind shockwave of energy—throws himself to one side as a staff sweeps past where his ankles were, and this time when he lashes out he feels the impact strike true.

The Dragon of Detroit takes the hit and lets it bowl him backwards, turns the motion into a back-handspring and comes to a skidding halt, shaking overgrown brown bangs out of his dark eyes.  He’s laughing, smiling as wide and wild as he always does; the deep scar that stretches crookedly from his cheekbone to his chin twists his smile into something just slightly crooked and bitter, but his laugh sounds irritatingly, insultingly genuine.

“Chilton,” Red snarls, and the man spins his staff behind his back and sweeps a bow, grinning.  

“I’m guessing you’re not interested in doing this the easy way, kid,” he says, and Red clenches his fists, lightning crawling up his arms.  “Yeah, I didn’t figure.  Can’t say I didn’t try.”

“The fuck I can’t,” Red snaps, and Chilton huffs out a breath and shakes his head, ever-present smile never fading.  “If you really cared about not hurting anybody you wouldn’t be working for that—”

It’s the flicker of Chilton’s eyes that gives it away, and the faintest sound of scraping metal; Red dives to one side on instinct, just in time to avoid the snap of jagged metal jaws and six sets of wickedly-clawed feet.  He comes up swinging, lands a few solid hits; the Climber shrieks as one of its legs spasms and cracks, red lightning and dented metal grinding in one of its back legs.

“Backup!” Red snaps into his comm, and then there’s only the fight.

He’s being distracted, he knows it even while it’s happening, but he can’t break his focus away long enough to care.  Chilton is gone, he has to be raiding that medical compound, and Red is stuck here, fighting some stupid robot—

“Heads up!” yells a voice, and Red glances up and then back-pedals abruptly as a huge, blocky shape comes rocketing off the next platform up and drops like a comet onto the Climber’s head.  The back half of the bot gives a meaty crunch as Jacob’s construction rig lifts back off of it, leaking nasty, thick, black fluid as it tries to drag itself forward on its two remaining legs; Red steps forward, grimacing in distaste, tears a dented plate away and buries his hand in the things neck to deliver one final, merciless jolt.  The Climber whirrs, gives a gurgling growl, and finally goes still.

“Jumpin’ Josephat,” says Jacob, from inside the clunky, ugly cube he calls a hovercar.  “You still in one piece down there?”

“Where’s Chilton?!” Red says, and then jerks and looks up at the sound of a laugh, echoing off the white walls and walkways around them.  

The Dragon is standing at the very edge of the platform, silhouetted against the sky; he makes eye contact with Red, brief and grinning, one hand on the side of a stolen transport pod. Then he throws off a brief, mocking salute, and launches himself backwards off the edge of the platform into thin air, vanishing over the edge.

“Criminy,” says Jacob weakly, because Jacob is an 80-year-old man in a 20-year-old body.  

“Fuck,” Red hisses, and slams a fist down on the ground, leaving lightning-jagged scorch marks across the white polymer.  Takes a few breaths and repeats, “…fuck,” soft and hoarse, poisonous in his mouth.

“Yeah,” says Jacob, and his boots thump softly as he slides down, his hand settles carefully on Red’s shoulder.  “C’mon. Let’s get back to the others.”

#AltU: Burnerswap #the work on the SAHRAD sequel is mostly planning because the content itself needed a structure before I could actually start #I'm ngl there's enough work involved in finishing that one that I don't know how/if I'm going to be able to get it done #but I'd like to #the superhero one is actually like #WAY closer to being finished than either of them #but the remaining stuff is stuff that I'm having trouble cleaning up and closing so I'm stalled out SIGH #oh man tho when I finish it up...THE DRAMA...... #Anonymous

[chemicalmagecraft]

Taiyuu OCT Round 3

@taiyuu-oct

Character Nicknames: Keikei-sensei: Unbreakable Fuwa-chan: Zuruko Kayaki Boron: Nerva Rekka Akai-chan: Naishin-Sunomu Seisho Yuu-chan: Mochizuki Tofu

x x x

Yukino tapped her claws against her notebook as she sat in Keikei-sensei's "classroom." She scoffed. It wasn't so much a classroom as it was a field with a packed dirt stage. But hey, that was pretty much Taiyuu's brand at this point, wasn't it? Dirt-cheap, in both their construction and their ability to actually act like a real hero school, fang'si! Honestly the only reasons Yukino hadn't left yet was that Niichan assured her it'd be less complicated to just wait it out until break and Fuwa-chan finally figured out that her Quirk had an off button. Though... Yukino was still skeptical of how abrupt it was after about ten years of supposedly having no control over it at all and how close it was to Yukino complaining about the whole "hey, I'd like to not have my mind fucked with without my permission on a daily basis" thing, but apparently she HaD aN ePipHaNy so it was all good and should not be looked into further.

All the same, Yukino was still keeping her notes on the sheep girl. And Taiyuu was on thin ice with Yukino. If she felt like they weren't properly ensuring the safety of all of their students again, she would not be happy. And she'd probably involve her family in her discomfort with Taiyuu more than she already had. And if that happened- Yukino sighed and took a few deep breaths. At some point the cover of her notebook had frosted over a little under her claws. Ugh. She was better than just letting her Quirk slip out like that. It didn't look like the frost had bled through to the other side, thankfully. Yukino wiped off a bit of frost, then opened up her notebook. She was actually really looking forward to today's assignment... or maybe activity would be a better description? Today they were going to be showing off their hero names and costumes! Yukino had been looking forward to this for years, and even the recent events hadn't been enough to put a damper on that.

Though... Yukino thought that maybe the timing wasn't the best. They were tasked with getting their costume sketches together about when midterms were announced, with the due date being after midterms were over. Supposedly it was to take everyone's mind off the midterms, but really it was just piling up more work on top of the midterms. Of course, Yukino did pretty well on her midterms, she'd made sure to keep on top of her studies. And she'd finalized her costume design like a year ago, after getting feedback from her pro hero relatives on it too. But she could see her classmates having some trouble balancing the workload. Yukino didn't think it was malicious, of course, but just like everything about Taiyuu it was haphazard and a little mismanaged.

Yukino shook her head and slapped her cheeks. If she kept thinking like that she'd probably get herself worked up again... She took another deep breath, then looked at her design notes again, giving herself a bit of a reminder. She'd practiced what she wanted to do to show off her costume since she had the idea for it, but it was a little complex so she still wanted to refresh her memory. She quickly made a little ice statue, just as practice. Then she ground it down to diamond dust before anyone could get a sneak peek. After she was done with that she turned her attention back to the presentations. Okay, maybe she should've been paying more attention to her classmates, but in her defense she was kinda in the back of the "classroom" and almost everyone only had drawings or rough sketches of their costumes that they were describing for the class. Yukino's eyes were good, but not that good.

Ooh, Boron was going up next. They announced that their hero name was The Flaming Hero: Supernova, pretty nice. Their costume seemed to be some kinda light robe, with a mask and leg wrappings instead of shoes. Plenty of bare skin, to help vent heat. It sounded pretty cool, so Yukino couldn't wait to see them wearing it. Next up was Akai-chan, and wow she already had her outfit somehow. How did Yukino miss that? Akai-chan was wearing a red han'fu and a mask, with her hair done all fancy. Yukino certainly liked it. She took the stage and explained her costume choice. Apparently there was armor under that han'fu, which Yukino thought was... kinda neat, actually. "I have chosen Blood Lightning as my hero name," Akai-chan finished with, accentuating it by brandishing a hand covered in red lightning.

Hot.

Next up was Yuu-chan! Yukino was kinda excited to see her roommate's hero costume, to be honest. "I want to make my hero name... Tofu," he said when he got to the stage. "I've been using Yuu as a name more now, and I want my hero name to be something nice and friendly." Yukino nodded. That was probably a good reason for a hero name, and Tofu was nice and simple. It kinda reminded her of Deku, to be honest. He described his costume, which he said he hoped would make him look friendly and comforting. There was a light robe with a ginkgo leaf pattern, a little tail thingy, and a black turtleneck with black leggings underneath it. And finally, he had his usual box mask, except the hero costume one had a cute smile drawn on. Yukino smiled at the mental image of it.

After Yuu-chan sat back down, Yukino decided to get up. "Can I go next?" she asked.

"Of course!" Keikei-sensei declared.

Yukino nodded and walked over to the stage. She took a deep breath as she did, calming her emotions and collecting her thoughts. She grinned as she jumped onto the stage. The nice thing about constantly having to keep an iron grip on her emotions at all times was that somewhere along the line Yukino had become pretty decent at putting on a cheerful face. "Alrighty!" she turned to face the class with a grin. She raised her hand to the sky, white vapor rolling off of it. "For my hero name, I've decided on The Diamond Dust Hero: Kuraokami!" As she said that, she made tiny shards of ice from her raised hand, causing them to swirl around her hand in a vaguely dragon-shaped cloud that glittered in the Summer sun. "A dragon god of snow is pretty fitting for me, right?"

The dragon coiled down her arm, then she stretched her other arm out to the side as the dragon flew around it. Yukino grinned. "As for my costume..." She activated her Quirk again with her outstretched hand. She formed the sculpture she wanted in her mind, ice crystalizing from moisture in the air under her palm. The dragon made of diamond dust swirled around the sculpture as it formed, slowly melting into water droplets that fell as her telekinesis failed. She didn't even plan it, but the last of the diamond dust melted away as the ice sculpture, a double-scale statue herself in her hero costume making a cute pose, was finished forming. Her grin widened a little. The class oohed and ahhed from the display.

Keikei-sensei clapped. "That was amazing! You certainly know how to show off your Quirk. Though I should warn you, due to how not everyone can make giant ice statues of themselves, your grade is going to be based more on utility and how you sell your costume than what the visual presentation is."

Yukino nodded and gave a thumbs-up. "That's reasonable. Don't worry, I didn't expect to just win with that alone. So, the costume!" Yukino pointed to the statue's frilly dress. "If you can't tell, those ridges are supposed to look like dragon scales, for the dragon theme. I figure it should have a kinda arctic color scheme, whites and light blues and stuff." Yukino cleared her throat, feeling her cheeks heat up slightly. "I... took inspiration from magical girl anime for the general design of the dress. Figured that'd be pretty cool-looking, plus it fits with my Quirk name, Cryomancy, and how it can look like spellcasting. And again, gave it a bit of an arctic feel." She patted her giant, icy skirt. "Plus, those frills will also add insulation to help keep my body heat in. I pretty much can't overheat and my Quirk makes me colder, so no sense not keeping warm. On top of that, I'd like to have a heating element similar to what of a lot of other heroes with cold-based Quirk drawbacks have. And the material the costume is made of should be flame-retardant. I can basically absorb fire, yes, but it's best to err on the side of caution, y'know? Also there are modesty shorts in case I have to kick something and heated pockets hidden in the skirt so I can warm my hands up."

Yukino switched to pointing at the staff her statue was holding in one hand. "Onto the equipment. I'm trained in fighting with a staff and can channel my Quirk through it, so that's a no-brainer. I'd prefer to have it made of metal, maybe aluminum or something, because I can channel my Quirk through conductive materials a little easier, but I can see why a metal staff might not be something you'd be comfortable giving a hero student in the first year." She pointed to the bow slung across her statue's back. "Again, I can use a bow with my Quirk." She held out her hand with a toothy grin and formed a few ice arrows, which she floated around her arm. "I can make my heatseeker arrows pretty quickly, then shoot them faster than normal arrows. And as the name suggests, I can alter the flight path in midair with my telekinesis." She disintegrated the arrows into diamond dust. "Next, it's a little hard to see with the frills in the way, which is kinda the point, but there are wrist-mounted grappling hooks hidden in the sleeves. Made specially so I can conduct my Quirk through 'em. Can use them to trip someone, take their weapons, restrain them, or hopefully a mobility boost. Plus I think they look pretty cool."

Yukino snapped her fingers, causing the statue to turn around. She'd made the statue with a bit of a raised base that was separated to form a moving part so she could turn it with minimal effort. The statue turned all the way around, revealing two raised bits in the bottom of the boot that it was kicking back as part of the pose it was doing. "It might be a little hard to see without any color, but there are bits on the bottom of the boots. On the real deal these would be made of metal and extend to bits touching my feet. My Quirk is basically touch-ranged, so if I wanna use my Quirk through my boots it'll make my boots colder either way. Having small, conductive bits at the bottom should make it efficient enough that if the boots are also heated it won't freeze my toes. And I imagine being able to use my Quirk from my feet as well as my hands is gonna be useful."

And now for the big finisher. Yukino turned the statue back around and hopped onto the base. She took a deep breath, then slowly raised the statue a little. The other purpose of the base was that the raised bit that kept the two halves from misaligning when she turned it around also let her raise the statue up slightly without making the statue wobble, which would probably make Yukino slip up and fall. This was already stressful enough without that. But Yukino had already decided she'd raise the platform with her on it for the end of the presentation, so there was no turning back. She just barely managed to keep from shaking as she felt the platform she was standing on be supported only by her telekinesis. Now the worst part. Yukino jumped, kicking her leg back to copy the pose her statue was making. She lost her balance a little when she landed on one leg, but managed to rebalance with only a bit of wobbling. Yukino sighed in relief, then copied the cute pose and expression of her statue. "And that's The Diamond Dust Hero: Kuraokami!"

Yukino slowly put the statue down, then stepped off. She snapped her fingers, then started to disintegrate her statue. She lifted it upwards, making the powdered ice swirl around it as the statue was quickly chipped away. Soon it was a cloud of diamond dust swirling in the air above the stage, then Yukino made the cloud explode. The tiny bits of ice scattered through the air, most of it melting into raindrops before they could hit her classmates. Yukino grinned as Keikei-sensei and some of her classmates clapped. "Thank you, thank you." She strutted back to where she was sitting. That was fun, but the end was a little tiring... Still, she'd paced herself enough that she wasn't that tired. "Right," she said, "who's next?"

#taiyuu oct #taiyuu ocs #bnha ocs #takeda yukino #unbreakable #zuruko kayaki #nerva rekka #naishin-sunomu seishin #mochizuki tofu

[ligiawrites]

Year 8:42

Hewo, players of LtGBtK! :3 I was feeling awful and wanted to change it around by writing something. SOO, here's a little scene to introduce you to Princess Melike Jal Yvanson, Mathias and Mandra's sister. I’m planning something special for her, that’s why I used the 2nd person here hehe. ;)

You'll see a little more of her in the new Extra Story I'm preparing for you. <3 I hope you have fun!

You can also see this post in my Ko-fi page, here!

YEAR 42: 8TH C. - 4 years before the beginning of the main story

You're in Safira again, and you can swear this place smells even worse than the first time you visited, back when Father was still alive. 

Before you stepped through Master Curio's portal in Opala, Curio warned you to be ready for the big changes in the city in the past decade. He told you about Lady Isobel, Prime Campesinata Eudiko, Commander Carlos, and all that had happened during the Mage Insurgence. He also made sure to repeat, again and again, that "the Triumvirate is now controlled by the Mages"--and thus, that you'd need to be "very careful since your mother sided with the Nobles, you see."

He could as well have used laymen's terms and called you "Liwike," as he used to do when you were five. But Master Curio often simplifies his speech when talking to you, so you're not so unused to it. He, your older siblings, and even your servants seem to think you are too young to understand the kingdom's political complexity. To them, you are too innocent and even a little doltish.

Most of all, they think you're harmless. Everyone does—everyone but them. Mother, or course, and that one Guard that found their way into your family.

Harmless. Right. You scoff when the word shows in your mind's eyes, thorny and laced with contempt.

Not that it isn't a welcome disguise, of course. Like the jewels you wear, the dresses you buy, and the mask you choose, they serve a purpose. A purpose that, despite your own tastes and passions, has nothing to do with the smell of burnt mana in this damned city filled with sordid dreams.

A purpose only Mathias's Guard suspects and only Mother knows about. 

Sharp, cunning, glorious Mother.

"My lady Ambassador," a man says, entering the room. He keeps his head low--one knee bent under his weight, his arms opened in a very traditional, Safiran greeting. "Lady Isobel is ready to see you."

"Why, thank you." You give him a sweet smile and bend your knees in a curtsey, lowering your body half as low as his. 

The man's eyes go wide.

"My Lady, please! It's uncouth of a princess to bow to a servant!"

You chuckle and shrug. Your words are echoed by Mother's voice in your memory. As she said you should, you clasp your hands behind your back and give him an even wider smile.

"Oops. You know how Opala is. Mother always says I was raised too close to my siblings and to our sweet, sweet Guard." Your fingers move slowly out of sight, weaving a web with the words you're saying. "It's appalling! There's no social etiquette in this Castle, my nanny used to say. Poor Nanny Oedka." You chuckle and see the web curling around the man's head; the ethereal, purple fabric covers his eyes and ears, leaving only his mouth free. “The only person in the Castle I like better than her was my brother’s Guard. Almost a sibling to me, I should think.”

The man smiles back as if remembering something. "Oh, of course! The Hatchling Knight! We've heard stories about them."

Success.

"Good stories, I hope?"

The man lowers his eyes. There's hesitance in his voice--Hesitance! even with your web!--when he says, "Not... not always, my Lady. Some in Safira are afraid. Some wonder what they'll grow to be. I heard the Prime Campesinata say maybe they'll be a sky dragon. Commander Carlos believes in a plane-eating horror. 

"And I don't think I can reveal what Lady Isobel said about The Guard and Crown Prince Mathias, My Lady Ambassador. It's too dark and too awful to be repeated, and it involves the old practices of the heinous druids of the South."

Your façade cracks. 

Your mouth dries, your nostrils flare, your heart races. Your fury is such, bile threatens to climb up your throat, boiling and churning your inwards in a way you’ve only felt few times before--all of them during Father’s reign. 

"Oh?" You swallow hard. Your vision clears, and you struggle to smile again. "Is that what they say about our sweet Guard? I can assure you they're nothing like that."

The web hardens and shatters like glass. The man's eyes widen; he pales while his legs give into his weight. He supports himself in the stone pillar at his side and slides down. Shaking.

"M-my... my Lady, I--" He clasps his hands on his lips. His eyes water.

You school your sneer and paint your expression with renewed sweetness. Once you crouch to level your eyes, you pat his head.

"You don't have to worry. We're friends now, and a friend would never tell on someone she appreciates, would she?" You prop your chin on your palm and chuckle. "Oh... no! Don't cry, please. My heart breaks when I see a man crying. Your secret is safe with me, I promise."

You see something glimmer in his eyes as he wipes his face on his sleeve. An immediate connection. The trace of affection you've come to recognize and take advantage of back home. 

You also see fear in there, but that only makes you like him better. He seems like a smart one.

You smile, and the man mirrors the gesture, if only a bit uncertain, after a few heartbeats. When you pat his head a second time, he leans into your touch like a thankful, very-good pet. 

There's so much relief in his expression, you almost feel sorry for him.

You sigh and help him up, holding his sweaty hands in your cold ones.

"I'm Lady Melike, and it's a pleasure to meet you, friend. What's your name?"

#writer #visual novel #love the guard be the king #not sneak peek... maybe a... teaser? Or something? #Lady Melike

[dirthavarens]

The Shrine;; Solavellan

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Characters: Mirani Lavellan, Solas Relationship: Solavellan Rating: General Audience Warnings: None Word Count: 1420 Notes: First time posting real fic in a while. I hope you enjoy!

The Exalted Plains were beautiful save the name and history of violence and bloodshed. Dirthavaren is what the Dalish called them, a much warmer title that resonated within the confines of Mirani Lavellan’s heart. Deep within was the lair of wyverns and a high dragon that laid slain, bones carried away for armor, and what remained was picked clean by ravenous wildlife. 

Mirani found a peculiar piece within Ghilan’nain’s Grove that lie just beyond the great beast’s nest and wondered how she had not seen it sooner. A sizeable and detailed shrine dedicated to a god of treachery and madness stood in carved stone. Most Dalish elves were content to carry only a small fetish and only for superstitious purposes. 

“I’ve never seen something so monumental dedicated to Fen’Harel,” she mused as she placed her palm upon the stone. It was warm from the sunlight and smooth beneath her touch with the exception of the intricate pattern carved into the body. “Surely it’s tucked away for some reason. Maybe due to the possible implications?”

Wolves were not uncommon in her people’s history, as tales of the creatures never leaving the side of the one with which they were bonded. Faithful to the last, were the wolves to the elves. But those statues were large and tame, content to gaze and guard. The wolves locked in stone before her howled soundlessly upward, forever crying out to the heavens. 

“And what implications do you infer?” It was Solas who spoke, but her eyes did not break from the design upon the wolves’ bodies. Their shared interest in the Fade and all things related to the true elves of Arlathan had bonded them from the very beginning of the Inquisition. She took comfort in his voice being the one to urge her further. Though, she swore she heard a note of apprehension lining his tone.

“I would say worship, but it’s hard to think of the Dread Wolf being the subject of such things if the tales ring true, though I’ve never placed much faith in the stories of my people. Maybe it’s a warning to those who venture so deeply into the Grove or maybe it’s a memorial. The Veil feels thinner and there’s room here for something. An eluvian?” 

The spellbound mirrors were a well-kept secret of the old elves that served as doorways between areas. Traces of them laid derelict in the Fade and she saw them only in dreams during her early travels in the Free Marches. The one that would fit in the space between the wolves would have had to have been massive. She took a step back and looked quizzically at the architecture. The stairs that led to the shrine would only serve as more evidence to her initial conjecture.

“An eluvian?” Solas repeated. “You have knowledge of such things?”

“A little,” Mirani began with a smile, still astonished by the shrine. “What remains of the true Elvhen is little and the Dalish only seek to covet it, hide it away from the world. With more eyes and minds turned toward the history, we could learn more than ever. Leliana believes that Briala knows of at least two working eluvians and uses them to move her spies undetected from place to place.” 

A hum of approval sounded from beside her as Solas stepped closer, his gaze now turned to the shrine as well. “It is refreshing to hear a Dalish voice so openly willing to admit such a thing. They claim to be true elves, but hoard and squander what they find. Knowledge should be shared to all ears, not guarded with abject hostility.”

“Though I come from a Dalish clan, Solas, you know I don’t consider myself Dalish. My clan tolerated my magic because the first to the Keeper was old enough to train me and when I was old enough, I was content enough to keep myself far from camp. I spent most of my time in search of ruins that might hold more knowledge,” she explained, ensuring that she kept the bitter taste in her mouth from soiling her words. “Occasionally, they would listen to what I learned but if anything challenged the old stories of the Creators it was immediately shut down.”

Despite her low opinion on her clan, Mirani was thankful that she had been permitted to stay among them. Most Dalish kept no more than two mages in their clan to prevent possible abominations from spawning and those two mages were always at the head of the clan. Elves were intrinsically tied to the Fade, the magic in their blood as old as time. To be punished for having that gift hardly made sense to her.

“My apologies, vhenan. My own interactions with the Dalish have been largely negative to say the least. Perhaps if I had met you earlier, I could have shared my knowledge with you.” 

She turned her attention to Solas and saw the shadow of forlorn familiarity as he gazed upon Fen’Harel’s shrine. Such pain dwelt behind his eyes and Mirani could only think to amount it to the stories he possessed of the ancient elves. The glittering city of Arlathan, towering in the sky like a brilliant jewel. Despite being tied closely to the Fade, she could only imagine what he had seen in his journeys. 

“You’re here now,” she returned softly. “That’s what matters.”

He blinked slowly, the amaranthine sorrow returning to its secret place within him, and turned his head in her direction. “As are you and so long as you’re willing to listen, I will share all that I know.”

“Have you ever found any traces of Fen’Harel in your travels into the Fade?” 

Solas turned to her, the pelt upon his armor shifting slightly as his staff brushed it. There was a muted hesitation in him that would have been imperceptible to most members of the inner circle, but Mirani caught it in a fleeting glimpse.

“Some say his pride was too great, that he locked away the Gods to hold power of them and be the only immortal to roam free,” he started. “As you know from the tales of the Dalish, he was perceived as a monster more than a man--an enemy bearing the face of a friend, at the ready with a knife behind his back. The truth, I fear, is much more complicated. It would be easier had he simply been the malefactor all claimed him to be. He stood defiant against the pantheon, saw their misdeeds against the Elvhenan, and presumably sought a way to free them from their masters.”

Mirani returned her gaze to the wolf statues as she listened to him speak and tried to imagine the hellish fiend as something more complex, something softer, something solitary and wise and helpful. Solas continued. 

“The echoes of long forgotten memories cry out his name in terror as Arlathan crumbled and the world was torn asunder. Magic left the earth as he locked away both the Forgotten Ones and the so-called Creators, the Veil holding back all that the elves were.”

“But why erect the Veil?” The question left her lips before she had time to consider the possibility of him not knowing. 

“What I have found in the Fade suggests that he was attempting to keep the pantheon from destroying the world in their ceaseless lust for power and control. The people suffered a great deal from the actions of their leaders, as they often do when power is placed in the wrong hands. And in his desperate foolishness creating the Veil, the Dread Wolf caused the very world he fought against.”

They stood silent for a time. Mirani swallowed the sorrow that welled in her throat as she drowned in the imagery of the tale. She looked to the howling head of the wolf and wondered how terrible of a burden that must be. It was her every fear, to fail those who needed her protection, to fail the elves, to fail the mages, to fail herself. 

She reflected a moment on his words and closed her eyes. The face she needed to place upon the Dread Wolf was not one in need of creation, but one she knew so intimately that it made her stomach drop. So visceral were his details that she could no longer keep herself blinded by self-imposed ignorance. 

“It must be a heavy burden to bear,” she said after another few minutes of silence. 

“It is indeed, vhenan.”

#my writing #solavellan #dragon age #dai #solas #lavellan #mirani lavellan

[evabellasworld]

Storm of the Republic

Chapter 13

AO3 Link | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13

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Summary:  When Tup murdered General Tiplar during a battle, Anakin Skywalker and Captain Rex dispatched Ahsoka, Fives, and Yara to solve the mystery that was plaguing the Clone Army. Meanwhile, Senator Padme Amidala contacted Commander Fox, Commander Tori, Riyo Chuchi, and Dipper to help her continue investigating the death of Palpatine, suspecting that Dooku was behind the evil plot. But when Dooku send an ISB agent to stop them, the team had to race against time to search for the truth, which could alter the course of the galaxy.

————————————————————————————

Exiting from hyperspace, Commander Fox, Commander Tori, ARC Trooper Dipper, and Riyo Chuchi saw a blockade of Imperial Star Destroyers on Coruscant, along with the lack of electricity visible from space. “That’s a lot of ships out there,” Riyo exclaimed, looking out the window. “I don’t remember Coruscant being like this.”

“Me neither,” Fox shook his head, gazing at the planet’s surface. “The last time Coruscant had no lights was when the Separatists destroyed our generator.”

“I was in the Senate meeting when it happened,” she recounted the incident. “Everyone panicked, and they were shouting at the Chancellor whether the electricity would come back. I was worried too, but I wondered whether the people of Coruscant were alright, especially the ones living in the lower levels. It was already dark for them down there. I can’t imagine how they were when it happened to them.”

Tori nodded, empathising with the former senator. Living without water is one thing, but living without electricity is another. Without heat generators or a light bulb, it’s impossible for people to go on with their life. They could use candles and firewoods, but when living in a city, those things are impossible to find.

She wondered whether Lira and Eva were alright, considering the latter was afraid of the dark. Eva would always sleep next to her twin sister every night, as she claimed she could hear voices surrounding her. Tori was no expert in mental health, but she knew that the war may have taken a toll on her mind.

“Mama, why are there so many ships?” Frieda wondered, pointing at the Star Destroyers. “Are they protecting them from harm?”

Tori pressed her lips and stroked the back of the child’s head, before answering her truthfully. “No, sweetie, they’re only pretending they’re protecting the people down there.”

“Why are they pretending, Mama?”

“The Empire wants to control how people think and act, hence, they lie to everyone by saying that they’re doing this for their own good instead so that people won’t retaliate against them.”

“That’s so evil,” Frieda pouted as she crossed her arms. “I want to fight them, Mama, just like you.”

Fox chuckled at her bravery. “You’ll get your chance, little one. For now, your mom will protect you, okay?”

“Yes, Uncle Foxy.”

His smile disappeared as Dipper burst into laughter, making the former state at Tori with menacing eyes. “You had to teach her, didn’t you?”

“I thought it was cute,” Tori shrugged. “Besides, Uncle Foxy sounds better than Uncle Fox.”

“I agree,” Riyo sided with her. “It’s a fitting nickname for my knight in shining armour, you know.”

The commander blushed, his lips curled upwards. “Well, thank you Riyo. I guess I’m Foxy enough for you then.”

Riyo giggled at his attempt at comedy, much to Tori’s bewilderment. If I said it, then it’s annoying, but if Riyo said it, then it’s sweet and funny. What a sly, cunning fox.

“Anyway,” Dipper cleared his throat. “How are we getting Senator Amidala off the planet?”

“We’ll figure it out once we get there,” Fox reassured him. “For now, we’ll have to stand by inspection and our chain code.”

“Oh, that’s an acceptable way of saying that you don’t have any plans at all,” Tori mocked, blowing a raspberry at him. “I hope we don’t get ourselves killed once we’re done with the mission.”

He held his tongue, resisting the temptation to smack her at the back of her head. Why does she have to be such a prick sometimes?

Before he could say something, the comms on the ship were beeping, signalling him to get into position. “Alright, the Empire is contacting us, so keep yourself quiet and it will be over soon, especially you, Tor. You’re very talkative.”

She gave a nod, holding Frieda closer. “I will not say a single word, Foxy.”

Before he could reply to her snarky comments, he received a transmission from one of the Star Destroyers, prompting him to take a deep breath and press the button on the panel.

“Good day, Admiral,” Fox greeted him with a fake smile. “What can I do for you?”

“This is Admiral Wentin of Armageddon. You are now entering Coruscant. Please identify yourselves and state your business.”

“This is Opi Wihone of the Chaser. I am here with two adult women, an adult man, and a small child for a family reunion on Coruscant.”

“Understood, Chaser. Prepare for scanning.”

As they waited for five minutes, Frieda cooed as she watched the ships entering and exiting Coruscant with silence, pressing her palms on the window. Uncle Fox and Tori told her to keep quiet for a while, which isn’t difficult for the little girl since she’s used to it.

Her biological parents are constantly at each other’s throats, so Frieda learned to not make a single sound, fearing that she would get a slap on the face. She barely remembered what happened whenever she’s alone with her father, but Tori felt it was for her own good. At least Uncle Foxy and Tori made her happy all the time.

All the waiting made Riyo sweat profusely. But at least she’s not alone. Not only Fox was with her, but Tori, Dipper, and Frieda were there as well. She always liked Frieda very much. The little girl reminded her of her younger cousin on Pantora, who shared the same curiosity as well.

Cousin Althea would always visit Riyo during the holidays. She was still in middle school, which made her the youngest in the family. Riyo would always tag along in her little adventures, where they would search for a dragon to slay with a wooden sword. She loved her like a little sister, and she missed Althea very much. If only I could see her again.

Then, the admiral of Armageddon gave them a status update of their ship. “Attention, Chaser. Your scans are now clear. You may now proceed with your business.”

Tori wiped her forehead as Fox gleamed. “Thank you, Admiral. I hope you have a wonderful day.”

“Well, that was easy,” Tori leaned against her seat, with her child on her lap.

“That’s only the straightforward part. We’ll have to standby with our chain codes once we land at level 1312.”

“Well, I hope the droids down there are dumb,” Dipper crossed his fingers. “The last thing I want is to sleep in prison.”

“Speak of the devil, and he will come to you,” Riyo warned him, much to his wincing.

“Of course, Riyo. That’s what General Young used to say whenever something bad was about to happen.”

Tori beamed when she heard Dipper mentioning Lira and Eva to Riyo. He was quite close with the twins as well. They were the ones who encouraged Dipper to read detective novels, which made him love mysteries. He was the only one who watched the girls when she’s not around.

Glancing at Frieda’s adorable face, Tori cradled her like how she did with the twins underneath the summer heat. It was a beautiful day, and the clone commander was sitting underneath an oak tree, with Lira and Eva falling asleep on her lap.

They were playing around the fields for the entire day, and the exhaustion caught them up, eventually. Tori had to carry them all the way to the Jedi Temple after that, and tucked them into bed with their stuffed toys. Looking back, she wished she could spend another day like that with the girls, but that day will never come.

As she snapped herself back to the present, she heard Riyo let out a huge gasp as she saw the entire planet was pitch-black, except for the Senate building and the military complexes. “What happened here? I can’t see anything.”

“I’m not sure,” Fox replied, horrified by his view. “And I’m guessing Dooku had something to do with this.”

“How the hell are we getting to Senator Amidala’s place like this?” Tori expressed her exasperation. “The street lights aren’t even switched on.”

“We’ll have to use our torchlights.”

“On the bright side, though, at least we won’t be noticed by the Imperials,” Dipper cheered them up, which the rest agreed with his statement.

“Dipper’s right,” Riyo said, getting up from her seat. “We should get going. We don’t want to get Padmé waiting for us.”

“Right behind you,” Tori winked, carrying Frieda in her arms. “Come on, kiddo. An adventure awaits us.”

#star wars #star wars ocs #star wars original characters #star wars fics #star wars fanfics #star wars fanfictions #anakin skywalker #ahsoka tano #obi wan kenobi #arc trooper fives #arc trooper yara #clone troopers #clone trooper ocs #clone ocs #commander fox #riyo chuchi #commander tori #lenora doherty #clone trooper tup #palps is dead #star wars au #star wars alternate universe #count dooku #galactic empire

[scoundrels-in-love]

If I go (if you ask me to), I'm goin' crazy (Let my darlin' take me there)

On the cusp between spring and summer, Jaime and Brienne say goodbye to a house that was never home.

In Winterfell, there is a fresh start ahead of them. (That's what they say.) At least for her. (That's what he doesn't say.)

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Angst | Emotional Hurt/Comfort | Pining & Yearning | Hopeful Ending Runaways  | Implied abuse in the past | Implied J/C in the past

Also on AO3.

There are two long knocks, a pause and two knocks again on the door.

Jaime bolts upright from where he's been lying on the lumpy mattress, the Knights of Westeros book falling to the side. (He had been flipping through it, half mindlessly, trying to not think of Tyrion as much as he tried to recall his brother's smile. It's faded, like the picture of Goldenhand the Just that peers up at him. Like the value in the Lannister name.)

There are three knocks now, a brief pause that drags out and boils down to one heartbeat all at once, and four more rapid knocks. That's when the mad scramble begins.

It shouldn't be as haphazard as it is - the little he owns (and even less he is going to take with him) is all carefully stowed away and arranged just for this, but as his knees hit the floor with an impact that sends pain through the limbs, it feels frantic.

Jaime removes the floorboard beneath the bed with too much fervor and it creaks, breaking the silence like whiny thunder and he freezes, wondering if lightning won't strike after, this time. Listens and hopes he won't hear any footsteps, fears Brienne's scream spearing through him if she's been caught.

It never comes and he pulls out the bundle wrapped in rags, peels them away to peer into the contents of the plastic bag beneath, just to double check. Spare, clean clothes to shove in his backpack, some non-perishable foods he has squirreled away from the store he works at part time. (Brienne would disapprove, if he told her. But silence let's her look away from that and also from things Jaime wishes she'd at least steal a glance at. Then he could hope.)

Finally, he dives as deep as he can beneath the bed and fishes for the tin can in the hole. Cuts his shaking hand a little on the sharp edge when he pulls plastic-wrapped money out of it, but instead of that pain, there's a sting in his heart.

To think he has to keep few paper dragons and stags like this, when Lannisters used to...

He stops midthought, reels his attention to more important things. There have been many things that had been true once. There have been even more things that he had thought to be the truth. He thinks it's what you make it, these days. And he has to make his now.

Jaime puts the rags and board back in place, stuffs everything in his bag and moves to take a step, before he backpedals toward the bed and the nightstand beside it, the one that is always leaning away, as if the state of the bed disgusts it and it is any less dingy itself.

He picks up the book (also stolen, from the local library, but no one has even noticed it missing, he's sure) and forces it in the backpack that now won't zip up and hesitates, again. There is a matchbox in the back of the bottom drawer and Jaime knows it'll fizzle in the back of his mind if he leaves it. And it will smolder in his bag if he takes it.

He does it anyway, squishes it in one of the side pockets so it won't get ash and remnants of the photograph all over his stuff, just in case. His twin - them - have left enough marks on him as it is. (And he never did, for her.)

Just a year ago, he would've climbed out through the window, but now there is only searing pain in his right hand that cannot hold his weight and the inevitable loud crash in that direction, so Jaime takes the long road, through the corridor and down the stairs where every floorboard creaks, even when he steps close to the wall where they are less worn, for so many foster kids have used the exact same trick for years now.

But Roose Bolton has not been home for two days, and his wretched son seems to be gone as well. Jaime tries not to think of what Ramsay might be up to or what the Brave lot might attempt to out-trump him in cruelty. He isn't afraid, because he knows the slick warmth of wretched blood already and even the hand they tried to take from him is still strong enough to protect himself or Brienne, but he fears a delay might unravel their plans. (The look she gave him when he asked her to go ahead if he doesn't come to the oak within forty minutes of the signal had branded itself on his heart. Hers, hers not to abandon.)

In the end, he exits the house unnoticed. Still, the tension leaves sharper indents in his shoulders than the straps of his backpack as Jaime slips into the garden that has not known maintenance other than some furious and undiscriminate weeding of anything that grows as punishment for the foster kids.

He sees her peer around the oak tree and suddenly, there's no weight to him at all as he runs toward Brienne and then they are sinking to the ground, half to hide behind the bushes and half in relief that vibrates sharply around the edges. (It's just one step, one step that feels like a mile and hums of all the miles taken before it.)

Brienne's face is lit with bright determination, but even it casts shadows and he almosts asks, but later, later. Instead, he nods to her unspoken question and stands up.

There is just one good bye to say.

Jaime looks at the evenstar carved into the bark and smiles. This house doesn't get to keep anything more of them, only an indent left by hope they made themselves and then made real. His hand had hurt for days afterward, but each line had been a mark of his angry determination, a reminder that they can want more than they've picked up from carelessly thrown, often rotten scraps.

He had tried to add a lion instead of hearts or their initials next to it, but it had been far too complex and so Jaime had scratched the attempt out, furiously. (He tries not to look at it and think how symbolic it really is. Fails.)

Jaime places his palm over the star, asks for guidance one last time, though he's lucky enough to take his guiding star out of here and follow it into the unknown. (Fear of the unknown has nothing on walking the same patterns within your cage until your feet bleed, until the bone scrapes the dirt.)

Brienne's hand comes cover his own, large and warm, and callused, and he has never felt more grounded than in this moment. He tries to memorize this feeling as he meets her eyes, sees it reflected in the blue that has become the criteria to match up all other shades to in the last year.

And then they're off, weaving their way through the edge of the garden and onto the dirt road leading away. He doesn't look back. Everything he wants is walking right next to him, or ahead of her.

---

As they travel toward Winterfell, the cusp between spring and summer trickles through their fingers, leaving hot days and balmy afternoons in its wake.

It's not easy, getting by with less money than all the suspicious stares they earn along the way, though they become less frequent once the school year is over.

He half expects Brienne to eventually explain why that evening, why then and not a month later when high school diplomas, as unalike in their grades as the two of them are, would've been crumpled up at bottoms of their bags. But she never does. After all, there is a fresh start ahead of them. (That's what they say.) At least for her. (That's what he doesn't say.)

In unspoken agreement, they don't call Catelyn Stark the first week or the next, or any afterward. As if having the Starks coming to pick them up from anywhere else than their front door could make them change their minds.

He had thought it to be anger, red hot and tight around his ribcage, when she had told him Catelyn had recognized her as Selwyn's daughter and offered to help. That she had thanked and accepted the number, without jumping on the chance immediately. For coming back to this house for more than her bag.

And it had been that, in a way. Anger and desperation, and ache. To know she is safe and happy, even if on the other side of the country. Especially then, maybe. Because it had scared him, the campfires growing wild on the barren, littered beach inside of him, though even distraught, the oceans of her eyes could put them out.

It was that night that he had realized. Love meant the difference between anger contained and welts on someone's skin. And he had never been loved.

There is more to discover about love, still, and he has done almost every day since then. But never more than on this trip.

Some days, they both go more hungry than full. (He gives up on convincing her to take his share after the third time, but offers nonetheless.) Some nights, he whistles her lullaby under the open sky and curls up next to her, unable to steal minutes dipped in this peaceful warmth away from himself with sleep.

And yet, Brienne is often bright with cautious happiness these days and sometimes, it blows to this pure joy that he would never grow tired of watching, even if it would render him blind like the sun.

He does almost sneak away to call the number he has memorized as well as she has, in Moat Caitlin, ready to preserve that light even if it means their parting will be colored red with her angry blush. They're hungry and tired, and no one seems to want to give them a chance to haul some boxes around for a few stags. Their post-graduation adventure story isn't holding up much anymore, just like his shoes.

(He craves a smoke more than he’s craved it since the first month of quitting, but one implied promise broken is bad enough, so he grits his teeth and bears it.)

But when he enters a small family shop, in hopes to borrow a telephone, a different opportunity presents itself in the shape of Pia. His shaggy appearance doesn't deter her from flirting repeatedly, not even when Brienne follows him in and freezes in the doorway before approaching, and in half an hour, they've got an invite to stay for a while at her place, while her parents are visiting her grandmother.

The implication where he's sleeping are quite clear and he hopes his smile doesn't look as acidic as it burns across his lips. There are worse ways his body has been used in the name of love.

And yet, he cannot look at Brienne through the nice (he thinks, he can hardly taste it) dinner, there is sluggishness in him that spreads breath by breath.

Afterward, the hot water of shower feels too much, too much (like it had been over a year ago, when he had been just out of hospital and almost drowning in the bathtub before Brienne hauled him into her arms and back into life) and when doors of Pia's bedroom close behind him, he is numb and logy like his limbs aren't entirely his own. There may be a smile on his lips, Cersei liked when he smiled through everything she gave him, even when there was blood on his teeth.

She gives him one look and frowns. "No, Jaime, no. This... isn't whatever you think it is. I just thought we could have a bit of fun." Pia pushes him out of the room and into the living room, before hurrying off to bring him a blanket and an extra pillow and he just lets it happen, no witty quip in reach where he's hiding away.

"Does she even know?" Pia asks, lingering in the doorway after she's turned out the lights, and his silence in the darkness is an answer. "Well, she should."

"It's better if she doesn't, she won't get as hurt," He won't be as hurt if he doesn't know. The yes or the no and the very sweet, crushing uncertainty in between, or the softness of her lips and the glimpse of the ocean's taste in the sweatdrops on her neck.

"I doubt it protected her tonight," she says before walking upstairs and Jaime stays, sitting in the middle of the couch, buried neck deep in a blanket cozier than any he has known in years. That's where Brienne finds him the next morning.

"Jaime," she calls him as she kneels in front of him and he guesses, by her drawn expression and hand on his shoulder, not for the first time and he tries pull up a smile from the well reserved just for her, but the bucket falls off the hook, and he cannot do anything but lean forward and rest forehead against her shoulder.

"What happened, Jaime? Are you hurt? Did Pia..." she trails off, but he's already shaking his head. "No, nothing happened," he croaks and it grates on his tongue like the lie it is. But there's nothing that he can define or explain. Yet, she understands somehow and takes him to the kitchen, makes sure he drinks the tea and eats the food that he cannot remember later. And then she brings him to her bed and he thinks it to be so warm from her, though it must've been an hour since she got up, and that's where the rest of the day melts away.

When he wakes the next morning, he is crowded in the wall. She's facing him, her hand holding his in the small space between their bodies on the pillow. Jaime lays there watching her and the sun rises in him as it does beyond the windowpane.

He doesn't think he will ever be completely free of the void placed in him, emptiness that Cersei nurtured for it was endless space that sung in echo of all her desires, but in this moment, he knows he wants to build a fence around it, plant trees and little flowers that look brighter for the darkness that lays beyond them.

And that desire, he thinks, is the start to something that may shrink the void some day.

Maybe then, he can tell Brienne that she threw a falling star in the dark and when it wasn't extinguished, he realized there was an edge to it. Maybe then, he can build a home for her laughter, instead of fearing it'll finally break through the sky and escape him. Maybe then...

A million wishes hum softly when Brienne blinks sleepily at him, smiles faintly. He shifts his hand, to free hers, but her fingers tighten just so and he gives up immediately. (It's not like how he used to know it; she doesn't demand him to and the surrender is only for his own indulgence.)

"Looks like sleep did you some good," she says softly and brushes a few curls away from his face and he has to swallow thickly, not from desire for anything more, but the way the warmth and tenderness of her brings a flood of tears pressing against the dams he's determined to uphold.

"Oh Jaime," she murmurs and scoots closer and there are no more dams, just the ocean of her eyes that blur and overflow, in him and through him.

He buries his face in her neck, shakes apart until he's coughing and heaving and is only held together by her arms wrapped around him. Grieves all that could've been, all that has been broken, all that he will never touch with untainted hands, worships regret and guilt and then casts them out.

In their place, he anchors the weight of her hands on his back, the tickle of her hair against his forehead, the soft tremble of her inhale when he pulls back, breathing still uneven.

There's a tear streak on her cheek that he reaches to wipe away, because of course, she's hurting too and he-- But no, he cannot, will not take a new guilt on immediately. (He does, anyway.)

Brienne releases him then, gets up and brings some paper towels from the bathroom for him, because they're saving the tissues in their bags, and he blows his nose again and again. The silence between them should be uncomfortable, somehow, but instead of being embarrassed, he just feels dull and tired, but better for it.

"Fuck, my head hurts," he finally says.

"I'll bring some painkillers and water," she says, already halfway to the doorway and part of Jaime wants her to stay, wants to sink in sleep with her hand in his again, but instead he goes to the bathroom to wash his face.

"What are you going to do?" he asks the reflection that is familiar and unknown all at once, fingers tight around the sink. "What are you going to do?"

And finds the answer.

They leave Moat Caitlin almost a week later, truly rested and with almost-honestly earned food and necessities in their bags, thankful enough to actually plan to keep the promise to let Pia know how everything pans out in Winterfell when they get there. He knows Brienne will want to repay the money Pia has invested in them, if nothing else. Before they depart, their kind host tucks another "tell her" behind his ear, "because otherwise it's really not fair to the rest of us".

This, he cannot promise still, so he only smiles.

When they reach White Harbor, there is a stone in Jaime's chest, all the more heavy and jagged for the knowledge he will try to toss it out soon. He finds them a cheap trashcan of a motel and leaves Brienne to settle in, moves through the streets like the hounded, as if hesitating could mean he never goes through with it, or he just can't wait to get it done. (It's somewhere in the middle)

He stops only on a bridge over White Knife river, the nearest that he could find. The matchbox trembles briefly in his hand, like a flame about to be blown out, but then he presses close to the railing, and the quiver is gone.

Jaime opens it and dumps the content into the river below. He knows that the frail ash will probably never even reach water, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that he's given them burial in the water and the wind. That maybe with time the photograph in his mind will fade, too. That maybe he'll stop asking if it is his fault there's not a shadow of those two smiling children left.

He stays on the bridge for a while longer, thinking about their childhood (because he still can't think of that part of life in singular), about her smile and Tyrion's laughter, about games - the ones that didn't hurt anyone. The good things you're supposed to speak of at funerals. There hadn't been much good said at Tywin's, but he's seen the proper sort on TV.

When the sun sets and he comes back to the hotel, Brienne greets him almost wary, looking him over as if looking for injury. "Are you okay?" she asks, offering him a sandwich as Jaime plops down on the bed next to her. (They'll be sharing again and he doesn't mind in the slightest. Brienne had not complained either, not that she was one to do so.)

"Yeah, I am," he tells her, honestly, and realizes that there had been no splash when that stone had fallen into the river along with the ash, but it's gone nonetheless. There is empty space now, saved for a smile, and he does so, luring one from Brienne in response.

(When they're falling asleep, he presses the kiss to her forehead that has been aching on his lips.)

---

Winterfell is not as cold and miserable in late summer as he imagined, but it's no dream destination. Still, Jaime tells himself he's glad he won't have to make a home here, because even colorful ads don't bring much life to Wintertown. (What kind of name is that, even?)

It's not a lie that holds up when they're standing in front of a phone booth. They stare at the chipping paint on the door like it holds all answers to questions they don't even know, before Brienne turns to look at him, grabs his hand and pulls him inside.

The booth would barely hold her and the backpack, but with him, quite literally folded into it as well, it becomes absolutely cramped. Still, she finds a way to grab his hand somehow, after she's paid the fee.

"Hello Mrs. Stark? This is Brienne Tarth, daughter of Selwyn Tarth. Last year, you extended an offer - I was wondering if it was still open?" She listens and it's her grip that betrays her emotions, not her steady voice. They had discussed what to say, beforehand, but it had not been revibrating around them in a tiny phone booth then, so real and with the possibility to change their lives.

She looks at him, eyes wide and stormy and nods to not keep him in suspense, before continuing: "Thank you, Mrs. Stark. I am currently on the corner between Builderstreet and Ravenroad in Wintertown. And I have brought a friend with me. This is non-negotiable, though I understand if it changes your mind."

Brienne squeezes his hand, jaw set in challenge that rings clear in her voice and he is felled by it, frozen though he should grab the receiver and shout "no, no, I don't matter, forget about me, just please take her in". But he wouldn't even be able to locate it, he can only see her face and think that it almost glows somehow. He is no match for her in this moment, no one is.

"We will stay there, yes. Thank you again." And just like that, the time resumes, but he is still swept up in the river of her determination, not its flow.

"Breathe, Jaime," she tells him, smiling so brightly that he is suckerpunched by the reality of the sun's gravity and the almost tangible heat of her power, and he thaws, inhales deeply and shakily.

It would be so easy to tangle himself further into her and press a kiss to her mouth, a thank you and worship in one, to brand his lips with hers just so he could always remember I was hers, briefly, brilliantly. Here, in this space still bobbing along independent of everything beyond it.

And it would be the most unfair thing of all. To ask even more of her, to hurt her if Stark kindness runs thin when they learn just who is her companion, to give her only something so brief and not him whole as she deserves. (But will there ever be more of him?)

So, he pulls them back into the sunlight.

They are holding hands still as they wait for the Starks, strings of tension humming the same tune in both of them, but there is fierceness in Brienne's smile. It runs hot enough to light a kindling in him, not the destructive sort he's grown accustomed to, but a more dangerous one. Because like this, she looks like a knight that will champion for him, no matter the odds. And win.

He still wants to kiss her, like a favor given and taken before the battle, and the way she's looking at him right now, defiance melting into reassurance and warmth, something sparkling he can't define within, when their eyes meet, he can almost believe she wouldn't mind. But there is a world between not minding and melting into his touch like it's home. And no time to find out.

So he presses kiss to her forehead instead, breathes her in and swears it's not the last time, knows more than ever he can't let her go, and then they are ready to face the future.

Together.

#Braime #Jaime x Brienne #Braime ff #got #my fic #rainy writes stuff #smoking mentions

[witchfall]

old souls

summary: When the act of want feels like a risk, what happens when you get everything you asked for?

A Crystal Exarch x Warrior of Light fic Word count: 6431 Rating: M (implied sexual content)

Also on AO3. Technically a sequel to ‘hard is the heart that feels no fear’, though it can be enjoyed standalone.

Thank you to @vaniccio for betaing!!!

Copious Shadowbringers: 5.3 Reflections in Crystal spoilers within. You have been warned!

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For a blistering moment, Izzie sees meteors flicker in his crystal body.

He’s not there anymore. She knows that. She grips the crystalline vial of blood memories so hard she fears it will crack. The sadness Alisaie spoke of when she saw the star showers -- loss that leaves yawning gaps, writhing and vile -- creeps up her throat. She remembers when she had her first vision from Hydaelyn on that trip to Ul'dah long ago; she feels more grounded in it, now. The pain is lived in. Understood.

The rains have ceased, but you are not here to see it.

The Scions join her at the seat of sacrifice. They stare at her, alarmed, as she strides past and says nothing. She will risk nothing sullying her hope; she will hold it like candle flame, close to her chest, until she is certain it will not go out.

---

Y’shtola lifts a single, elegant brow. “You still have to take the Exarch to Nabaath Arang?” 

“Yes.” Izzie tries not to snap. Y’shtola, of all of them, is most likely to examine Izzie down to the quick and question what she finds there.

“Showing him the realm, are you?”

Izzie crosses her arms. Rain in the Greatwood has unsettled the ancient greenery. Her nose twitches at the heavy scent of damp moss. “What of it?” 

Something changes in the air, then. Y’shtola pauses, recalculating, and Izzie’s tail stands on end from the tension. “It simply has...been awhile, since you have taken a flight of fancy like this.”

Izzie digs her toe into the mud. She huffs. For a bard, she’s extraordinarily bad when it comes to talking about herself. “It’s nice. To pretend.”

You are death.

“Pretend?”

“That I’m just a traveler, anymore.” 

Y’shtola gives her a small smile, but there’s something deeper there that spooks Izzie, like she’s looking at something private. “Is that not among your brightest qualities? Your penchant for adventure, vast and mundane?” She places a gentle hand on Izzie’s shoulder. “You are not so unknown.”

Izzie says nothing, even as Y’shtola shakes her lightly.

“I am not one to make prognostications I don’t fully believe in. You know this. I do, in fact, think this has more than a passing chance of working.”

Izzie nods. She refuses to cry.

“You could do worse." Y'shtola brushes an invisible piece of dirt off Izzie’s tunic, as if oblivious to the effect she had on her younger counterpart. "Though...were the two of you anyone else, I would call you both unspeakably obsessed..." 

Izzie's breath stutters as Y’shtola’s cloudy eyes sharpen upon her. She lets up for nothing. But before Izzie can struggle to defend herself, the woman gives a dazzling smile. 

“Do keep heart. My life and happiness depends on this working, too, you know."

Izzie glances pointedly to Runar, who is speaking with a woman by one of the Slitherbough gardens, and Y’shtola, perhaps sensing her intent through the aether, finally graces Izzie with silence.

---

The Scions’ crystals shimmer and everything clicks into its right place; Izzie feels settled for a bare moment, as if she had stepped onto a ferry in just the nick of time. Her beloved family rises one by one, greeting the new day, groaning as they stretch out waxy muscles. But as they each turn to appraise her, Izzie fidgets and fidgets.

They each gaze upon her expectantly. We will leave the rest to you, Y’shtola says, smiling with rare maternal kindness. It sends cold water down Izzie’s back. Urianger’s softness has never been a mystery to her, even in his most shadowed; his words are complex but their meaning is simple. It will work, he reminds her. The doors will unseal because G’raha’s blood is in her satchel. 

(How many years has she dreamed of saving his blood under her fingernails, of forcing those golden doors open with a furious pouring of her own essence?)

The realization scares her: they all know what she wants. And not a single person in the room dissuades her.  

Her stomach roils. Her blood feels electric. The hope of fulfillment alone may devour her. She runs and does not look back, not even when Tataru shouts. Not even when she feels Alisaie look after her strangely, like a confirmation that something is changed forever.

---

The ground shakes as those massive doors, the Dossal Gates, open. The stale air tastes split by lightning. She had just been standing before these same gates a few moments ago, but the difference between the worlds hollows her out. Unlike in the First, where the doors herald the hope of a city, these doors are dusty and hidden. Sealed purposefully against the various evils of mankind.

She grips the crystal tighter; perhaps it is his present soul that makes her own memories feel suddenly, painfully vibrant. His broad shoulders square as he seeks to leave her behind forever -- but then he turns just slightly, as if considering looking back, and his mouth moves as the doors close, the words lost forever to the sound of doors roaring shut. 

I love you. That’s what he said. She knows that now. The crystal is warm under her fingers, confirming it. It gives her the will to keep walking, up vaunted staircases that once stunned her with their beauty. Now they are just another obstacle. She barely registers the imperial stature of the architecture or the distant, yawning sounds of monsters that could still be lurking in its eternal spire. She follows a well-tread path to the Umbilicus and she knows it is right; the crystal near thrums with an affectionate, overbearing knowing.

So like him.

And then, after she throws one last door open with a breathless, heavy creak, her journey ends. She takes in a sharp breath. Dust stings her nose.

There he is.

He sleeps upon little more than a tiny dais with some red blankets thrown over it for bare comfort. His head lays upon what must be an old shirt of his balled up to serve as a pillow; his hands rest, open palmed, upon his chest. This cannot be what he thought an Allagan princeling would look like. She nearly laughs, lightheaded. 

Still...

Despite everything, his face is the picture of a lazy Mor Dhona afternoon. Even under the cold blue-gold light, his handsomeness is gutting. 

He is exactly as preserved in her memory, save his hair spreading loose like red vines across his makeshift bed. His youth, unburdened by a century of waiting, springs tears into her eyes. How many years does she bear on her back, despite the star merely going round twice? Will she look too different in his younger eyes? (This body is still older than her, she notes. But barely anymore. What a strange pair they make.)

She feels stupid, standing there staring with the crystal in her hands. She wonders if perhaps she should have brought Krile along. But, in theory, this should work the same as with the Scions, so before she can overthink it she places the crystal carefully, lovingly, beneath his palms. She jolts when she touches his skin— cold as the air in the tower — and for a moment she actually fears waking him, like she doesn’t want to upset his sleep. Even though that is exactly what she is doing.

What the fuck even is her life, a tiny part of her whispers.

The seconds drag on. Her tail twitches behind her in restless energy. Should she practice a speech or something? Should she talk to him to encourage his soul to accept itself? What words would even suffice? She spent two years wondering after him, yet it all feels short compared to this moment.

“I’m here,” she announces quietly and her hand lingers on his for just a moment. When he doesn’t respond, she sinks to the floor beside him, her back against his strangely warm dais-bed, her head between her knees. Words are no good. Whatever she says could easily be for naught.

She sings instead.

It’s a silly song the dragons taught her that does not translate well, but she liked the challenge of it in her mouth. It was once a courtship song, she was told. The meaning behind the deeply intricate symbols had been lost to time and the traversal of new stars. Now they just liked the ditty.

Care to forget the deep warm wells of another life?

The slow love of water beneath the sand?

Stupid questions I can't answer.

She hears the crackling sparkle of aether and pointedly does not look. She digs her eyes into her knees, seized with fear, and keeps singing, even though it’s muffled by her legs. Her torso is bent just enough that her voice feels weak, but she doesn’t adjust.

She will need to give him space. He will need time to come to terms with this world. She will not press him. She will not.

you're bold and bright, the sun star's last breath.

me?

at least the dark magic is mine

and I will keep it to myself this time.

Her song smothers the groaning sounds of his waking. She doesn’t notice him take a few silent moments to watch her, all curled up and heartbreakingly girlish again in her waiting. Her feet tap the floor. Her hands grip her ankles. Her ears twitch, and then…

She sees feet hit the floor in the corner of her eye and…

She shoots up to standing so fast that her vision tunnels for a moment. She doesn’t breathe. She could pass out standing there. She might well have, watching him as he watches her, his mouth popped slightly open…those red eyes...

She stumbles back a tiny step at the weight of seeing him. His breath catches. 

“I remember,” he says. His throat works to swallow. Her eyes hone in on it. “I remember everything.”

"Oh.” Breathe. Her heart is in her mouth. “That’s…”

Well, not entirely good, is it? Don’t think about it.

She scans him as clinically as she can manage. The Allagan technology did well by him, at least. His skin is clear and pale. His tattoos stand out like void bites. His lithe frame had retained its old musculature, though she imagines it must be disorienting regardless. His aether situation -- she would leave the specifics to Krile -- must be very confusing.

But then his eyes fill with tears.

She panics, and against her earlier desire for restraint, she closes the distance between them in a step. Her hands fly to his face (no crystal coming to claim him, simply the edge of an archon's tattoo...). She cups his jaw, resting her thumbs on his cheeks. The tears she can't catch fall into the webbing of her fingers.

"It's okay," she says softly. She squashes her own tears down, down, down. His face still feels too cool beneath her hands and she thinks for a moment about what it would be like to wrap him up in a scarf and keep him like a trophy. "The worst is over now."

He leans his mouth into her palm. When he speaks, his lips brush her heart lines and she fears she may combust. "You're real, aren't you?" he croaks out. Voice unused for years. "You aren't some strange ghost created out of the hope of two souls?" 

Her throat tightens. She forgets how to speak like someone kind. “Of course I’m real, you idiot. Of course I'm--”

He seizes her, then, in a crushing embrace, his arms as strong as the day they said goodbye. They snake around her waist. She is crushed between her leather armor and his stupid ugly tunic and the haleness of his body, and all she wants is to wink out of time and live in this moment. Still, a part of her resists. He has much to remember. Hundreds of years to consider.

He whispers into her ear. “My star. Izzie. My love.” Naming her, as if to anchor her to him. He pulls back only so their foreheads meet. She struggles to focus on the radiance of his gaze. “Are you alright?”

“Am I--” She nearly growls at him in her flummoxed state. Tears slip down her cheeks, too, and it makes her angry and proud and happy and destroyed. “I should be asking you that!”

Perhaps he didn’t hear her; but then, it is more likely he did and saw through her. He tucks her head under his chin and rocks her back and forth. He holds her tightly until her shoulders finally lose their tension and she gives a keening sob against his chest. His breath catches again. And then they collapse to the gold filigree floor, grappling with the sudden collision -- and end -- of too many painful years apart.

---

She feels a bit like a child bringing home a stray, even though that doesn’t make sense. Her Scions know him and he’d lived in Mor Dhona for a not insignificant amount of time. But nothing explains the bizarre embarrassment and desolation she feels when they arrive at the Rising Stones and everyone stares for a second. Don’t look, she wants to scream. Everything is fine and normal and not at all a miracle that shouldn’t have happened.

But then Krile marches forward and points a terrifying finger at G’raha. “Raha. Just because this all worked out well does not mean you are forgiven for being an idealistic fool. To bed. Now.”

Izzie grins so brightly her eyes water as G’raha’s ears flatten against his head. Her mother would like Krile very much; the resemblance strikes her fiercely in that moment. 

“Don’t let him leave your sight, Izzie,” she grumbles as they enter Dawn’s Respite. G’raha leans into Izzie as she half carries him, and she wonders if he’s dramatizing a little to stay close to her and hide from Krile. “I can’t believe how angry I still am with you after all these years. You ridiculous fool. You’re lucky your decision quite literally prevented a calamity…”

G’raha, to his credit, bows to her scolding. “You’re right, of course.”

Krile harrumphs. But Izzie doesn’t miss the soft, sidelong glance she gives the younger scholar before she near pushes him to bed.

--- 

Izzie brings G’raha everything Krile says he needs and more. She fetches food and blankets and washcloths. She holds weird aether scanning tools at just right angles. She cleans medical tools and sweeps floors and folds sheets when Krile runs out of things for her to do. At one point, she notices G’raha keeps brushing his bangs out of his eyes. She silently marches up to his bedside, fishes out a few pins from her pocket, and waves them in front of his face.

He reaches forward to take them. "Thank you--"

"Let me do it," she whispers, and before he can protest, her fingers brush against his crown, pinning his soft hair out of his beautiful eyes. He takes the faintest breath before he wraps a hand around her wrist, gentle and pleading.

"You haven't sat down."

She feels like she has hornets under her skin. "Lots to do."

He quirks a smile. “No there isn’t.”

She glances to where his fingers grip her. She glances around the spotless Respite. Her ears flatten. “...well. There was.”

So she sits in the chair Krile pointedly left beside him and collapses her body forward until her forehead lays on the mattress. She is tired. Not for the first time, she wishes she wasn’t like this. Wishes she didn’t feel driven to do until she can’t think anymore.

But then G’raha gently rubs her head between her ears and she decides she can just opt out of thinking, if she wants. She allows herself the affection; from the way his hands don’t leave her, he seems desperate to give it. She snaps out her own hand, letting it wander the mattress and muss away the sheets until she finds his thigh and she feels better, touching him back. He softly hums some old tune and she relaxes there in relative quiet for who knows how long.

In her warm drifting, she eventually realizes she dreads nightfall. She should let him sleep the recuperative sleep of a mortal man. She should not hover or oppress him into what she wants. But just as before, as in the old days and the new, he speaks as if he can read her like a book.

"If it isn't any trouble, my dear one," he starts, "would you be willing to stay with me tonight?"

She nods at once, relieved, and settles harder into her chair. He smiles, lopsided.

"You can have a bed, if you'd like."

"I want to be closer," she admits, and already her face burns, even though she has not lifted her hand from his thigh for hours, maybe. "So here is fine, I've slept in a chair before, a lot actually--"

He reaches up and tugs on one of the frazzled locks of hair framing her face, just like Before. Her lip quivers. "You can have a bed," he says, cutely commandeering in a way he never let himself be as Exarch, and he pats his mattress.

She blinks at him. In the next moment, she is peeling off her boots, avoiding his resplendent gaze as she does so. She pulls back his covers and slips in beside him, her legs sliding against his warm, bare skin as he tucks her in against his chest. She entwines their limbs and throws an arm over his waist. She digs her nose into his chest, smelling his clean skin; even now his scent reminds her of their old campfires. He rubs small circles into the back of her neck with his thumb.

Why had she been so afraid to ask for this?

"Finally," he sighs into her hair. "My dark and dastardly plans may commence."

He brushes his fingers on her exposed waist. She squeaks at his touch -- he was tickling her, the fiend -- and whaps him with her palm. He laughs. She feels at home.

---

G'raha awakens first. He blinks heavily at the weight lying against him and looks down, and only then does he accept he is not dreaming. 

Izzie snores against him, her mouth open. Her chin shines with drool. Her hair is a tangle of red knots under her sweaty neck, but her face is so relaxed that he thinks to keep her there, forever. His reverie only ends because Krile enters -- and she stops suddenly, seeing the pair.

He can only describe her expression as wistful. But she schools her face into more familiar, sly watchfulness when she notices his gaze upon her.

"You would ensnare the Warrior of Light," Krile says, as if exhausted of him already.

"I assure you," he says, quiet as a whisper, "that it was entirely the other way around."

Krile smirks. She oozes sarcasm as she sweeps over to them, but when her gaze shifts to Izzie’s still miraculously sleeping form, he remembers how badly he missed Krile’s softness, too. 

“Oh, Raha.” She lays the back of her hand on Izzie’s forehead, testing for fever (it was apparently that unusual for her to sleep like this), but her twinkling eyes land on him. “You haven’t changed at all.”

---

And then the strangest thing of all happens: The Scions of the Seventh Dawn have nothing to do. Nothing so pressing the world won’t wait a few days for them to catch up to it.

G’raha learns the limits of his new old body. He falls asleep on their picnic blanket and during a card game and even, to Izzie's sickening panic, once on the edge of a balcony wall where he had perched with a book. He devours whole meals so quickly she watches him in careful awe. He weaves spells and gets tired enough to faint; she has so far been able to catch him before he hits the ground, but she ponders letting him do so, once, if it teaches him a lesson.

Izzie enjoys playing witness. It’s like watching her favorite dreams depicted on stage for her amusement.

"I like your hair like that," she says in passing one day. His hand flutters up to the pins he had kept and his ears flick -- more expressive than she had ever seen, even in the old days. He smiles brightly.

"I'm glad," he says. "I like it too."

Tataru gifts him new clothes, and that is when it truly feels like the beginning of an era. He steps out of a side room to model them for the Scion family, smiling sheepishly, and Izzie stares for a moment too long. She feels Feo Ul's hand in this. The Fae King reached through time and space to design this outfit specifically to slap her in the face. My dear sapling will have to thank me in person later! She can nearly hear the words -- and indeed, Izzie would.

The design is a perfect blend of old and new. His sharp red half-robe is ridiculously him, honoring the Exarch and young scholar both. The gold accents shimmer under the light. He is adorned with so many necklaces she is struck with the desire to bring him another, as if in tribute. 

She steps close and adjusts his black scarf, letting her fingers drift down to the tassles and linger on the sumptuous fabric just over his collarbones, before she realizes what she is doing. 

G'raha's grin is blinding in the corner of her eye. 

"It wasn't even," she grumbles at him.

"And the rest of it?"

"It's a good look," Thancred says. His tone indicates more than just the clothes. Alphinaud poorly stifles a giggle.

Izzie turns back to glare at them, but they are all looking at her, like she is the twist in the tale they've been waiting for. Urianger smiles gently. Y'shtola raises a brow. I knew it to be so. Even Alisaie looks strangely triumphant, like she'd won a bet.

She blushes furiously and lets it slide.

Despite this -- despite the offer for him to join the Scions and the work he does to re-seal the tower and the fact he is never far from arm's reach, much less out of sight -- she still feels out of sorts. And then one day, as they sit together in the Rising Stones cafe picking over finger sandwiches, her mouth does the thing where it asks a stupid question before she realizes it's happening. 

She stares at him as he places a fifth sandwich in his mouth and she asks: "Are we together?"

He glances to her, alarmed, but his tone remains steady and teasing. "Did you teleport somewhere on accident? You look corporeal enough."

"No. I mean. Are we...are…" Well, no, now it feels really stupid. She turns away. She stuffs a whole sandwich in her mouth in one go, and he waits patiently the whole time. She says, once she swallows the food down: "Is this happening? For real this time?"

She isn't sure what she means. Physically? A proposal of marriage? All of it makes her feel like she just stuck her head in an oven.

His brows turn downward. "Why wouldn't it be, my love?"

Yes, this is very stupid indeed. His love is near impossible to avoid. But since he received his own room at the Stones, they function otherwise like they intend to live completely separate lives. Like colleagues.

Which they are. Which is fine.

It’s not.

"Can we...go on a trip? An adventure maybe? Or something? Alone. Just us two. Without...any of the other Scions…?”

She bites her lip and lays her head on the table and covers her scalp with her hands. She wants to die for some reason. 

He laughs, warm and true, and he leans in until his forehead rests on her temple. She still hides in shame, even as he whispers just for her to hear. "How many times do I have to tell you you're my guiding star? Before you believe me?"

Her face is so flushed she feels sweat break on her brow. "Maybe another time would help," she mutters into the table.

He laughs again and gently kisses her on the corner of her mouth. "I will wait for you to come to me, alright?" When she looks at him with wide eyes, stricken by a terror she struggles to name, he smiles at her. Love freely given. "You could never disappoint me. As ever, I follow in your light."

---

She takes him up on it that night.

She was never confident in these affairs. Their first time in the tower on the First she was seized by reckless abandon. He was already seeing everything. Why hide? Their time, she sensed, had been limited once again. The tower loomed over everything. A judge in cold absentia.

Now, if she knocks on this door in the Rising Stones, she will be stepping into forever. Her body shakes. She feels 19 again, afraid of how powerfully certain she is -- afraid of the pain she may invite into her life, if she loses him. But this time, she has already lost him twice. No god, if they exist, would be cruel or stupid enough to make an enemy of her this time.

She knocks. He opens the door. He stares, bewildered. 

"Hi," she says flatly.

A blinding smile lights his face. She has to look away a moment. Her heart thuds so strongly she is certain he can hear it. He stands there, staring.

"Move, would you?" Her voice feels harsh and unsteady. "Before the gossipmongers see."

He steps back. She steps in. And then, in one fluid movement, he pulls her against him and pushes the door closed behind her. Suddenly her back is pressed against the harsh wood and she is kissing him, melting into his muscled chest and his moan of satisfaction as her tongue darts into his mouth. She isn't sure who moved first. It doesn't matter now. They're together, against the literal forces of time and space. 

She pulls back just enough that their lips are only a hair apart. Heat thrums between them.

"I hope you know," she breathes, "that this time I mean to keep you."

He grins. The boy she had dreamed of. "This time I intend to be kept."

She laughs before he quiets her with his mouth against hers. 

For all its drama, the reconnection is quiet. He carries her to the bed. They undress each other slowly, limbs entangled, smiling into each other's skin, until they lay together naked beneath the blankets. He won't stop kissing her, pressing his lips against old injuries, her ears, her collarbones, her stomach. 

“So much to catch up on,” he says. “And I will know all of it, again.”

She takes a deep breath and shreds her last bit of armor. Do what you like with me. Mark me. Make it real. 

He holds her fast when she says this. He trembles, looming over her, within her. She wants to be disappeared by his shadow. She wants to be consumed.

His mouth and tongue slide down her neck. "You are everything.” His teeth graze the top of her shoulder. “I will answer your every prayer.” His hand slides over the bony curve of her hip. “For what I want...is to see you beloved.”

---

And yet.

She wakes curled into his side, his arm circled around her shoulders. She moves until she can hear his heart, beating and alive. 

The shadow of night sparks cruel questions: Will he be kept? Will he be fighting fate's designs upon his life? Can she survive another loss? Can she afford to try? They circle in her head until she takes a sharp breath. She utters his true name. "Raha…"

Perhaps he had already been awake. Immediately, he circles his arms around her in a protective vice. “What’s wrong?”

Her voice catches in her throat and G’raha pulls her up. He sits against the headboard and cradles her against him, bringing the blankets up to keep her warm. “I don’t know,” she says. She smothers her ear against his chest. Lets the sound of his lifeblood calm her. “I don’t know what happens next.”

He strokes her back. Her fingertips slip against his chest as she balls her hands into fists. And then he sucks in a breath. She tilts her head up at him.

"...I just want you to know where I stand," he says, and she gets the feeling he has practiced this speech. "I...I had seen the reports of your death in the future that now will never be. I saw...memorials to you in every camp. Every small group carried something of you. A picture. A carving. A song they thought you wrote…"

He sighs. She hears a century of pain in it.

"Your death in the abstract was untenable. You were everywhere. And...I knew, I knew when I woke that I would be confronted with your death, even in an ideal world. But it was...I felt so immeasurably stupid. To think that I would be able to survive it. I could barely tolerate giving up adventuring with you, much less..."

She stops him with a finger to his lips. No need to relive these hurts for her sake. "What's the short version, Raha?"

The use of his true name sends another contented shudder through his lungs. He takes her raised hand and pulls until he can press his lips against the inside of her wrist.

"I had a century to come to terms with what I want. And now I have her, despite my every expectation.” His tail curls around her hip. "You haven't had that time. I didn't want to press it. But I also know...sometimes you experience more pain doing nothing out of fear of what the something will bring."

She hears the silent mercy he is granting her. It’s okay to want. It’s okay to struggle with it. 

“And,” he adds, “you lose a shocking amount of time, thinking not of the present.”

He presses a kiss to the pulsing vein in her wrist. She taps his chest with her thumb.

"What did the pictures even look like?"

His other hand slides lazily down her back. "Not even the slightest bit like you."

"Not even a little?"

"It was you if you were at least a fulm taller and had much meaner brows. Maybe."

"Hmm…"

He squeezes the base of her tail and she jumps. His chuckling breath tickles her ear. "I much prefer this version."

---

G’raha taps the charcoal against the blank drawing parchment as he watches Izzie experience the consequences of her actions. 

On the path into Rowena’s Splendors below, the Warrior of Light and Darkness hummed, fully distracted by the contents of her bag while she walked -- leaving her utterly unprepared for Thancred to hold out his arm and nearly clothesline her. She stumbles with incredible drama. Her arms flap. Her feet dance to keep her aloft, and just barely do they succeed.

“Hey!” she shouts.

“Your bag,” Thancred insists.

“You-”

“Your bag.”

Izzie growls in frustration before shoving it at him with a leathery thunk.

Thancred makes a show of rifling through it. Some knives wrapped in burlap. The remnants of a cheesecloth. A few glamour prisms. G’raha knows Thancred wouldn’t find anything in there. He knows, also, that Thancred wouldn’t even be down there if it wasn’t for him. He tipped the man off because he knew Izzie would find it funny.

He rather enjoys Izzie’s little cons -- when they aren’t directed at him. 

Thancred hands back the satchel. “If I find any more of that Mord grub in our coldbox, I will confine you to quarters, warrior of two worlds or no.” Despite his words, his tone is largely...endeared. Relieved, and not just because her bag was empty.

Izzie grins at him. “Gaia didn’t send any with me this time.”

Thancred ignores her. “And you!” he shouts up at G’raha. “Stop enabling her!”

G’raha raises his hands to proclaim innocence, laughing, and he wipes off the charcoal lingering on his fingers. He turns his eyes toward the door to the balcony upon which he sits. His heart floats, knowing it’ll be mere moments before Izzie will be ambushing him.

The scions -- his fellow scions -- hadn’t missed the changes within her. She smiles more. She even plays music in the tavern sometimes, which always brings a full house. I’ll deal with the frustrating practical jokes if it means she’s doing alright, Thancred admitted to him over beer not so long ago.

He hears her before he sees her, but only because he seeks out her quiet footfalls. She jumps from the threshold of the door and makes it half-way; she twirl-steps the last half to dramatically throw her arm over his shoulders. She lands hard enough to thump the air out of him. The whole of her leans playfully into his side, her chest nearly against his own. “Ready to see Ma?”

He grins before her happy radiance, never one to resist her call to adventure -- not even when he fears what it will bring. Meeting her adoptive mother, for instance. He settles his arm around her lower back. “As ready as one can be.”

---

The Thanalan heat stifles him. Dust seeps into his clothes and sand flies into his eyes no matter which way he turns when the winds blow across the desert. Izzie's ma, Sheshena Shena, takes one look at G’raha’s pale, wind-chapped skin and insists he take tea with her on the covered porch.

"Izzie can set up the carriage herself," she declares. Izzie glances to him and nods encouragement, but she acquiesces at once to her Ma's will. Lady Shena, G'raha thinks, has a power all of Garlemald wishes it could wield.

But he knows that this gesture is not solely for his benefit. She allows him a few moments of polite, worthless conversation over an aromatic chai before her glassy eyes pin him in place.

"Not too many moons ago," Sheshena says, "I was going to ask her to quit."

G'raha lets that register for a moment. "Her work with the Scions?"

Sheshena inclines her head. "She wouldn't have. She can no less quit being the warrior of light than I can quit being her mother. But I thought...perhaps it would help her notice just how bad the misery weighed on her shoulders."

She purses her lips and turns away, toward Izzie. She lingers there a moment. 

"She would have just been angry with me." Her gaze slides back to him. "But I have watched my daughter carefully, G'raha Tia. And much of this started not long after you disappeared from her life."

He understands now. She is warning him. She is telling him the stories that wouldn't be in any tomes.

"...it wasn't all your fault," she allows. "Her time in Ishgard would have crushed her were it not for dear Edmont." He forgets she is on first name terms with Izzie's Ishgardian family -- that she is part of it, too. "And then her father died."

G'raha closes his eyes, punched in the gut. 

Her voice hollows. "It never quite stopped after that."

He realizes this is not just a tribunal for his crimes against her daughter, but a confessional. An unmooring of pain, old and new. 

"She stopped allowing herself things. Her silly songs ended. Her visits slowed. I knew she needed the space. But she was drifting into the middle of a lake with no paddle. She was letting it happen." Her silver eyes sharpen into knives. "And I sought to blame someone. And I decided it was you. You, who had broken her heart first. You, who had left her behind. You were...it was easier."

She sets down her tea cup with a shaky clink and turns away from him.

"She told me what happened on this...other world. How she found you again."

He stares down into his half-sipped tea. His fingers slip upon the stone table. He would take this punishment. It was small, in the scheme of things, and necessary.

"She told me, had it not happened...had you made a different choice, that she would be dead."

So would the whole world, he thinks to say, but on this he and Sheshena agreed: without her, none of it matters, anyway.

"That you survived years and years to set things right and make sure she didn't die."

He nods, though his neck feels stiff.

"So I wanted to apologize. And thank you."

His heart stutters. He looks up at her in shock.

"Come off it," she says, sly and perhaps embarrassed. "Look at her. Look at her." Her lip trembles. "She's humming again."

They both look out to her, softly brushing her chocobo. The 'bo chirps conversationally at her. She laughs and coos at her stalwart friend. And there, in her laughter…

Where the desert sun left him weak and wan, she is painted in one thousand colors of light. Her sea green eyes shine. Her skin reddens like a canyon at noon. The sun adores her as its own, and perhaps she is. 

This is the crystal of Azem. I think that it was meant for me. Can you believe it? Emet-selch, making this for me, once upon a time...

The Sun. The Shepherd of the Stars. When he touched the crystal, he felt a strange sort of awe.

He tastes cloves and the fruit of oasis when he thinks about her aether whipping around him. He thinks of life where there should be misery -- of how desire can twist but also carefully caress.

"Ma! Where'd you put Bonbon's sun hat?"

Sheshena answers, her voice no longer weighed down, and he realizes again why Izzie was so afraid at first. He would learn the realness of her again. He would see her pain and be there at her Da’s grave with her. He would make it impossible for her to forget that she is loved. 

Sheshena turns back to him and the light in her eyes shifts. 

"So." Sheshena regards him regally. "You're Allagan royalty, are you?" She raises a single brow to his flummoxed expression and sighs as she lifts her tea cup to her lips. "I suppose she could do worse."

The sun scalds bright pictures behind his eyelids as he laughs.

#g'raha tia #g'raha tia x wol #5.3 spoilers #crystal exarch x wol #crystal exarch #ffxiv #ffxiv fic #otp: upon an eternal wind #kathryn writes

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Dream A Little Dream - 3

Our next @bingokisses prompt is Tucking Hair Behind the Ear/Palm Kisses! This fic went in...a rather different direction than expected, but I wanted to make full use of the dream concept at least once.

The earlier sections are available on AO3.

Chapter 3: AD 1017 - The Impossible Dream

The knight rode his white stallion easily through the mist, mirror-bright armor resting lightly on his back and limbs. Ahead, a brilliant white stone tower rose, tall enough to pierce the sky, its peak obscured by black storm clouds. Rose bushes thick with thorns surrounded the base, barring all entry except through a single window, nearly a hundred feet high.

He swung himself down from the saddle and strode across the green sward. “Fair maiden!” The warrior lifted the visor of his helm, throwing his voice to echo off the stone. “Tales of your sorrows have spread throughout the kingdom. But fear not, for I, Sir Aziraphale, have come to rescue you from your sordid fate and see you safely hence!”

Far above, a figure leaned from the window. Narrow face pale above a deep black dress, clinging tightly to every curve and angle. Long limbs lost in sweeping crimson sleeves perfectly matched to the figure's main feature: endless waves of dark red hair. A single lock slipped free and tumbled down the side of the tower, nearly long enough to brush the ground below. Long-fingered hands cradled a pert chin as shining eyes took in the knight.

“Really? That’s what you’re going to open with?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s gauntlet struck his hip with an annoyed clank. “I was trying to set a mood here.”

“You certainly set something.” Crowley chuckled, sending another ripple through the ocean of red hair. “I mean, it started well enough, I guess, but sordid fate? See you safely hence? Kind of falls flat if you ask me. Didn’t even mention slaying any wicked beasts.”

“Well. Not really the slaying sort.”

“Don’t let the princesses hear you say that.” Crowley’s fingers drummed on the windowsill. “They all love to see a good slaying. As for what comes next, is safety all you can promise? Might hold out for a better offer.”

“I hardly think you’re in a – a bargaining position up there.”

“Oi, you know how many knights have come by before you? I usually stop counting after twelve, and that was a while back. This tower is prime real estate.” A flash of white teeth behind blood red lips. “Most of them were much better at the speeches, you know. I can give you pointers if you like.”

Aziraphale shifted his cape back over his shoulders, covering his armor. “This isn’t a game, Crowley. Can’t you be serious for once in your life?”

“Everything is a game, Angel.” A flick of Crowley's head sent another river of hair wriggling down the side of the tower. Thick, loose curls, with a strong braid running through the middle. The tips of the hair came to rest twenty feet above the rose bushes. “Oh, will you look at that? Guess I shouldn’t have trimmed it last week, but you know. Split ends. Did you bring a ladder? None of the other knights brought ladders. You’d think, maiden in a tower, that’s the first thing they’d grab.”

“How many knights managed to scale the tower?”

“Jealous?” Crowley braced against the window frame and leaned forward, spilling out the rest of the hair, as well as an ample expanse of bosom. “Don’t worry, the dragon got all of them. They may have talked nice, but they were just shiny armor and fancy words. No substance. Not like you, of course.”

“Flattery won’t win me over.”

“Flattery can do anything, properly applied.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and adjusted his helmet again. Really, none of this was going remotely to plan. He ought to just drop it and walk away, but not until he was absolutely sure of one thing. “Crowley. Are you alright? The rumors all say that the maiden in the tower is being held against her will. Do…do you need help?”

Crowley’s head tipped this way and that, thinking it over. “Well…yes, I suppose. See, I can’t leave this tower until someone tames the dragon. Why, did you want to try?”

“That was the plan, yes.” He glanced about. The tower was atop a hill, so despite the mist he could see a fair distance. No sign of any monster. “But, if we can get you down before it returns…”

“Nh. Well. About that.” Crowley’s grin grew wider, face grew longer, splitting into a black-scaled, arrow-shaped head with a mouth full of fangs and smoke. “I’m the maiden and the dragon. Ssseemed more efficient that way.”

Delicate, thin hands turned to claws, carving deep cracks into the stone of the wall, and the spill of hair twisted into a long red tail that slashed and darted through the air.

Aziraphale’s horse fled with a terrified scream, but the angel stood his ground, braced and unflinching as the tail wrapped around him, lifted him, pulled him through the air like a fish on a line.

All at once, he was inside the creature’s lair, a deep stone cave filled with stalactites and stalagmites, a pile of shining treasure somewhere just out of sight. One scaled fist clutched the angel from breastplate to greave, while a claw dragged around the edge of his helm, scratching curiously.

“Well? Aren’t you going to sssscream?”

Aziraphale found one golden eye, towering somewhere above him, and held its gaze. “And why should I do that?”

“I’m a monsssster, you idiot.” The fist tightened slightly, enough to make the armor creak and groan. “I could dessstroy you in an insssstant.”

“But you won’t.” Aziraphale wriggled his shoulders, pulling his arms free one at a time. “You won’t hurt me. Ever.”

“How can you be ssssure?” Twin gouts of steam shot from enormous nostrils, volcanically hot. “You should kill me before I tear you apart.”

“You really do need to listen better. I already told you, I’m not the slaying type. I’m here to save you from your fate, no more, no less.”

“You can’t – Angel, there’sss nothing to ressscue me from! You can’t take me away from myself.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t say anything about taking you away.” Aziraphale swept the helmet off his head, dropping it to clatter across the cavern floor. A mass of curly white hair shook free, not as long as Crowley’s had been, but wild and loose, spilling across his shoulders and face. “If you can be both prisoner and dragon…I am both knight and maiden.” His hands rested on the claw that hovered before his face, drawing it close, pressing his cheek to it. “I’m here to rescue you. I’m here to join you.”

“Angel…” The tip of the claw traced across his skin, sharp but gentle, and tucked a lock of hair behind Aziraphale’s ear. “You can’t…you can’t want that.”

“My dear Crowley. What more could I want? You are my friend, my trusted companion. The one being who…who makes me feel…myself. Who makes me feel that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Please, Crowley, let me do the same for you.”

The clawed hand opened, and suddenly Aziraphale stood on Crowley’s palm, every opalescent scale as big as his own hand. Nothing held him back now. He could jump. He could flee.

Instead, Aziraphale knelt down, armor melting into a shining silver gown, and curled up in the cup of Crowley’s hand as if it were the softest down bed in the world. Pressed his lips to the draconian palm. “Whatever form you take, you are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.”

“Do you mean that?”

Aziraphale glanced up in time to see the dragon’s snout melting again, softening, re-shaping into a narrow face with high cheekbones; neither male nor female, human nor dragon; black scales traced back from a jaw too wide, golden eyes stared unblinking below a sharply sloped brow. The hands that clutched Aziraphale’s elbows were still tipped with sharp claws, and a bright red tongue – splitting into a charcoal-black fork – shot out to taste the air.

He smiled, taking Crowley’s face in his hands. “There you are! My darling…” Aziraphale kissed those thin lips, tasting their desert-dry heat, and felt trembling hands clutch at his hair.

“Angel…”

Aziraphale pressed close, hands tracing down Crowley’s sinuous, bare back, feeling the form shift under his touch – scales, soft skin, silky hair, hot, cold, always changing. Crowley’s tongue flicked down his neck, just to the neckline of his gown, questioning.

“Yes,” he whispered into Crowley’s ear. “Oh, yes, Crowley—”

The wagon bounced over a hole in the road, jostling all its contents, including an angel who had been more than a little lost in his thoughts. The rap of his skull against a barrel helped to clear his mind.

Aziraphale quickly tugged his tunic straight and ran his hands through his hair – cut short, as always, regardless of the current fashion – glancing furtively at the other travelers. Two men and an older woman had also hitched a lift to the nearest city. He felt certain they must somehow know what he had imagined, that somehow the intensity of the fantasy had projected itself into the air around them—

But, no, all three sat, arms folded, concerned only with their own thoughts and their own troubles.

Clearing his throat, Aziraphale settled back into the corner of the wagon, tugging up the hood of his undyed wool cloak to hide the flush of his cheeks.

He daydreamed far more often than he used to, particularly while traveling – and more and more often, his fantasies featured one particular being. Though they were rarely so complex. Not to mention so physical. His imagination had simply run away with him, as sometimes happened.

If he concentrated hard enough, he could still feel the grip on his shoulders, drawing him deeper into the embrace—

Oh, no. No, that was dangerous. Crowley would never agree to…oh, whatever that little fantasy had symbolized. A partnership of some kind.

Well, no that wasn’t true. Crowley had suggested a partnership…an Arrangement…once before. Dropped hints every time they met lately. Aziraphale had refused to even consider it, but perhaps…perhaps…the time had come to think again.

Not just yet. Better to consider such things in complete privacy. He took the fantasy and carefully wrapped it in soft cotton, tucking it into the hidden drawer of his mind where he kept his very favorite daydreams, to revisit at a more opportune moment. He would need something simpler to entertain him on the ride.

Aziraphale carefully selected another dream, well-worn from use, and his mind slowly filled with a little stone cottage in a forest glade, the sound of waves echoing from just out of sight, and a dark-robed figure with red hair dancing in the wind, picking blackberries from the bushes…

--

“There you are!” Aziraphale’s hands cupped Crowley’s face, hideous and twisted though it was, but he only smiled, so warmly, so guilelessly, that it broke Crowley’s heart all over again. “My darling…” The angel rose up on his toes to press full, plump lips to Crowley’s mouth, arms pulling the demon into an embrace so close, so tight, that clawed hands scrambled to reciprocate.

“Angel…” Crowley meant to kiss Aziraphale’s jaw, but the serpent tongue had a mind of its own, exploring his neck down to the opening of his gown, the swells and curves hidden underneath. Surely that would be the last straw; surely now Aziraphale would see Crowley was nothing more than a beast, a monster whose very presence defiled everything pure. Crowley waited for the rejection, for Aziraphale to struggle to get away—

“Yes,” the soft voice curled into Crowley’s ear, even as soft hands clutched at narrow hips. “Oh, yes, Crowley—”

He snapped awake, scrambling to keep his balance on the branch as the wind chilled his flushed skin.

That had…not been the dream he expected. Usually, after an attempted exorcism, he had bad dreams for a week.

Crowley had fallen asleep in a tree, after being driven out of the nearby village by an overzealous priest. It happened more often these days; the humans were becoming more aware, somehow, more able to see him for what he really was. He’d need to improve his disguise, work harder to fit in.

Work harder to be anything other than himself.

The one being who…who makes me feel…myself. Who makes me feel that’s nothing to be ashamed of.

“Easy for you,” he grumbled into the darkness. “You’re a blessed angel. You’re as bloody perfect as the day you were made. Why would you ever feel ashamed? And I’m – I’m just…”

Whatever form you take, you are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.

He closed his eyes again, trying to catch that warmth, that feeling of acceptance, one more time. Not that Aziraphale actually felt that way, he’d rejected Crowley's idea for an Arrangement, cut him off any time he tried to even bring it up. But still…

Crowley drifted off to sleep, hoping he’d dream of Aziraphale again.

--

Thank you for reading! This one got WILDLY out of hand as I wrote, but in a good way, I suppose. More will be coming shortly, but if you liked it, please drop a comment here or on AO3!

Let me know if you want me to tag you on future chapters.

@angel-and-serpent

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