#please pardon the hand. i cannot draw hands to save my life.

[pinkrose05]

Perfectly holdable size.

#please pardon the hand. i cannot draw hands to save my life. #this one's for the kitren connoiseurs btw (you know who you are) #honkai star rail #hsr #hsr blade #blade hsr #sesame cake #(my littlest beloved) #hsr kafka #pink's doodles #pink does a silly

[theprayerfulword]

April 9

2 Corinthians 9:15 Thanks be to God for His indescribable gift!

2 Peter 3:8-9 Nevertheless, do not let this one fact escape you, beloved, that with the Lord one day is as a thousand years and a thousand years as one day. 9 The Lord does not delay {and} is not tardy {or} slow about what He promises, according to some people's conception of slowness, but He is long-suffering (extraordinarily patient) toward you, not desiring that any should perish, but that all should turn to repentance.

Nehemiah 9:17 …You are God, ready to pardon, gracious and merciful, slow to anger, abundant in kindness, and did not forsake them.

Psalm 33:16-17 No king is saved by the size of his army; no warrior escapes by his great strength. 17 A horse is a vain hope for deliverance; despite all its great strength it cannot save.

Psalm 84:10 For a day in Thy courts is better than a thousand outside. I would rather stand at the threshold of the house of my God, than dwell in the tents of wickedness.

Psalm 16:11 Thou wilt make known to me the path of life; in Thy presence is fullness of joy…

May you bow at the feet of the Lord Who loves His people, along with all His holy ones whom He holds safely in His hand, and receive from Him instruction. Deuteronomy 33

May the Lord be your help against your foes as you stand your ground, resisting the enemy as you defend the Lord's cause. Deuteronomy 33

As you obey His Word and are faithful to His covenant, may the Lord bless all your skills and be pleased with the work of your hands, striking the strength of your foes until they rise no more. Deuteronomy 33

May you rest secure, sheltered in the Lord as His beloved, shielded by Him all day long as He carries you between His shoulders. Deuteronomy 33

May you be blessed by the Lord with the blessings of heaven and earth, with the choicest gifts of the high places and the best gifts of the fullness of the earth, given through the favor of the One Who dwelt in the burning bush as you pursue the battle against the powers that seek the glory of God for themselves, even to the ends of the earth. Deuteronomy 33

May you rejoice and be thankful for the blessings of the Lord upon your work and within your home, in your labor and your rest, as you call and invite others to draw near to the Lord, offering gifts to God in a manner and spirit that is pleasing to him. Deuteronomy 33

May you give glory to the Lord and honor to the King, worshiping Him with thanksgiving and praise, for through the Lord you have been victorious and by His Spirit you have regained control of yourself, being made stronger than the enemy who overpowered you and being given authority over the powers that once ruled you, as you serve your brethren in obedience to the Lord's will. Deuteronomy 33

May you go forth into spiritual battle against the enemy of God in the strength and ferocity of the Lion of Judah, more than equal to the swiftness and subtlety of a serpent. Deuteronomy 33

May you abound with the richness of the favor of God and be filled with the blessings of the Lord, satisfied with divine grace and approval, speaking eloquent words of delightful beauty. Deuteronomy 33

May you walk in favor and blessing among your brethren, anointed by the Spirit in what you think and where you go, securely defended by the Lord, so that your strength will be sufficient to meet the challenges and needs of each day throughout all of your time on earth. Deuteronomy 33

May the eternal God be your refuge, and His everlasting arms uphold you, for He will drive out His enemy before you as you exact God's judgment upon him, and so shall you live in safety and security. Deuteronomy 33

May you trample down the high places of your enemies, who will cower before you, since God is your shield and helper and your glorious sword, for who is blessed like you, who is saved by the Lord? Deuteronomy 33

Walk with Me in prayer, My child. Ask of Me and I will give you a spirit of prayer that you may abide in My presence. Converse with Me, My love, heart to heart, spirit to spirit, letting Me answer your questions, heal your injuries, strengthen your hands, guide your feet. Sit before Me, My precious one, and receive of Me wisdom and understanding to withstand the ways of the world, to resist the temptations and avoid the snares of the enemy, refusing the distractions that seek to muffle the voice of My Spirit and attempt to turn your eyes from My face. Meet Me in prayers of confession and humility; I will not reject you, for I am your Redeemer, and I will complete each work in your heart as you join with Me in agreement. Greet Me with prayers of submissive commitment and surrender – I will accept your gift, equipping and strengthening you for the assignments and tasks I have designed you for. Welcome Me with prayers of worship, expressing your appreciation and gratitude for My unexplainable grace, unbounded mercy, and unspeakable peace which I freely give you as you linger in prayer in My presence. Know that it is ever My pleasure and joy to receive your prayers, your conversation, your seeking questions, your thanks and praise and, as your Sacrifice, your Advocate, your Intercessor, make them acceptable to the Father Who grants your requests and meets your needs, in My Name, through My atonement, as He sovereignly sanctifies you in purity and holiness through His delightedly joyful and supernaturally abundant provision. Through prayer, My precious one, you will find that you are transferring your treasure from the material world you have known to the spiritual realm you are inheriting, for where your heart is, is where you will find your life.

May you not regard those upon whom suffering and tragedy comes as more deserving of it than others, but understand that only by the privilege of grace have you been spared, and therefore fulfill the duty to offer mercy as a fellow-debtor who has learned of the redeeming power of God's love, thus bearing the righteous fruit of the Spirit which satisfies spiritual hunger. Luke 13

May you be willing to reject any traditions or expectations which resist the mercy and power of God so that you can share in the delight of His wonderful works in the lives of His people. Luke 13

May your heart be open for the kingdom of God to develop, receptive and accepting, humble and obedient, ready to grow in the Word and move in the Spirit, allowing the truth to transform your character into the image of Christ, and demonstrating the love of God to all around you. Luke 13

May God place you in times and positions to care for His people with the skills and the experience He has given you in the world, just as He took David from the sheep pens to be a shepherd to His people, to serve and minister to them with integrity of heart and skillful hands. Psalm 78

May you be blessed by the Lord with kind words of cheer so that you may lift anxious hearts which weigh down others as you see them today. Proverbs 12:25

#daily #blessings #prayers #scripture

[jimlingss]

Hi hi. Just a random idea I thought I would share in the case it might interest you. But sort of like a parallel universe or time travel thing. There's a forest/meadow on earth that is suspended in another time or world. You happened upon it by chance and meet someone there not realising that your lives can only cross in this one place.

inch-resting.....

↳ Snow White and the Park Ranger

2.4k || 100% Light Fluff || Kim Seokjin

Once upon a time—

“Please, let me go!”

—you were birthed as Princess of a marvelous kingdom, as fair as your mother and beloved by all who breathes. But tragedy appeared when your mother passed. Your father remarried a woman and after he, too, passed, your step-mother became Queen.

She was consumed by her jealousy and banished you from the castle.

And now, you were fleeing.

“I beg of you!”

The leaves of the Enchanted Forest crunch beneath your quick steps. A twig snaps as a cry befalls your trembling lips. You continue running, grasping fistfuls of the yellow shirt of your dress as you weave between the grandiose trees cloaking the sky with their canopy. The darkness is thick, shadows that whisper with beasts lurking amongst the wooded thicket. 

But you are far more fearful of the Huntsman trailing after you.

He brandishes a sharp knife, gripping it at his shoulder. You turn at your shoulder to find him close and you shut your eyes as you brush past another tree. Someone save me! Please!

Bring me away from this!

As if the magic of the Enchanted Forest answers your desperate pleas — suddenly there is a man standing in front of you. 

You are unable to slow your steps and you run into his firm chest. Yet, luckily, his strong arms reach out and he grasps at your shoulders, so that the two of you don’t collide or fall. 

“Woah, woah, woah! Are you alright?”

You look up at your saviour. The person who has rescued you. 

And your breath is stolen away from your lips. You wonder if this is what your mother always described to you when she used to read those bedtime stories back when the castle was still your home. You wonder if this is it: love at first sight.

The man has plump, pink lips, sheepish eyes and a sharp nose. He is without a sword, white horse or silver armor. Rather, a flat hat the colour of sand on top of his dark hair. His clothing is strange as well, a shirt of the same shade with an emblem on the sleeve — perhaps his kingdom’s crest — and his long pants are much darker. 

But still, he is your prince. 

“Are you alright?”

“There is a Huntsman chasing after me!” You turn around, still within his embrace. But as your breath catches up, there is no Huntsman. Have you lost him in the forest?

“I don’t see anyone,” your prince says.

“He must’ve gone when he saw you here.”

You turn back to your prince as he steps away from you, gazing down at your dress. 

You feel shy. Your red cape is torn from being twisted by branches and your yellow skirt is dirtied from the mud. You never expected to encounter your prince in the Enchanted Forest. You always thought you’d meet him at a ball. But this dress, although dirtied and not as beautiful as the ballgowns the Evil Queen has, it was sewn by your mother. You cherish it deeply. 

“Are you cosplaying?” he asks. “Or filming something?”

“Pardon me?” Your brows lift, unable to understand him.

Your Prince frowns. “Are you here alone?”

“Why, of course, I am. I was trying to get away.”

“You said someone was chasing you? Who?”

“I already said, it was the Huntsman.” You sigh. “Oh, goodness, I do not know why he would do such a thing, but it was quite frightening. I had no choice but to flee as quickly as possible!”

“Al-….right then.” He takes a black rectangle from his pants and you watch inquisitively as he squeezes the side. You’re startled when a noise comes from it. Yet the prince speaks into the rectangle. “Hello? Can we get a medic? We have a lost and distressed...unstable female down just off of the granular trail by the Marshall Springs, west of the river. Hello?”

You’re startled once more when he suddenly hits the rectangle with his hand. “Hello? Can anyone hear? Goddammit, why is it not working?”

You wonder if this is a magical contacting device from his kingdom. Perhaps he’s calling his knights. “Is everything alright, my prince?”

He looks up at you. “Huh?” 

“I’m quite alright,” you reassure your handsome prince as a bashful smile comes across your features. “Now that you’re here.”

He’s silent for a few beats and then he sighs, placing the rectangle to hang off the top of his pants again. “Do you know what your name is?”

“It’s Y/N.” Your lashes flutter. “May I know yours?”

“I’m Seokjin, Park Ranger of Wood Buffalo National Park.” He points to the emblem on his sleeve. You’ve never heard of such a kingdom before, but it sounds absolutely splendid.

“Seokjin,” you murmur the name of your prince to seal it into memory.

“I’ll be able to help you. You don’t need to be scared,” he promises and you’re sure you must be dreaming. He is perfect. “Do you know how long you’ve been out here for?”

“Half a day, perhaps? I’ve been wandering the forest for quite some time.”

“What was your last memory?”

“Well, I was picking flowers and singing to the birds, but then I heard footsteps and I turned around and saw the Huntsman and started to flee. It was such a shame as I had to leave my daisies behind.”

You sigh softly, not noticing his incredulous expression and how he takes another step away from you. “Why won’t you take a seat, Miss Y/N. I’ll try my best to contact some help for you and get an assessment done.”

You’re not sure what he means but you nod, deciding to rest at a tree stump. Prince Seokjin tries to speak into his rectangle again, but there is little answer. It goes quiet as the beautiful forest sings, birds twiddling their song and the leaves rustle. 

Your prince breathes out and then he looks at you, mustering a smile.

“You must really like Snow White,” he comments passingly.

But you gasp. How does he know the nickname of what the Evil Queen calls you?

No one else knows. Could it be that he’s working for her?

You stand, careening back from him. Seokjin’s eyes widen. “Are you alright?”

“Stay back!” you shout. You can’t believe you were almost tricked!

“Miss—!”

You flee from him.

“Wait!”

You turn around, tears welling into your eyes as you look at him. You don’t notice the rippling effect in front of you, like an invisible wall only visible to the eye if close attention is paid. You don’t notice it until you step past the boundary line and Seokjin suddenly vanishes from sight.

You slow to a stop. What.

You step back and as if the world ripples, he appears again. Right on the spot you last saw him.

You step forward and he disappears. You step back and he reappears.

Seokjin’s mouth has drawn open. He’s as bewildered as you are. 

The magic of the Enchanted Forest is wondrous in ways you cannot and will not ever understand. Your mother once told you tales on how the trees are more ancient than mankind. That the fairies and elves, creatures and beasts, living inside have added to its mystic magic that have both answered pleas and punished wrongdoers when harm is done to the forest.

You are sure this is part of the Enchanted Forest’s magic too. 

When you cross a certain point of the area, Seokjin vanishes from your sight and you do from his and when he crosses, you vanish from his sight and you no longer see him as well. It’s as if it’s a doorway and this place crosses between both of your paths.

You quickly learn that Seokjin is no prince of any kingdom. He belongs to a different world entirely.

“...and they lived happily ever after. The end.” You close the storybook he’s given to you, stunned at how your entire life has been simplified in these measly drawings and short sentences. “I...have to live in a small cottage with seven small men?”

“They’re dwarves,” he says.

You look up at him. “And I’m given a poison apple by the Queen?”

“Well, you’re saved by a handsome prince who gives you true love’s kiss…?”

“This is awful!” You sob out and the book falls to the ground. “I don’t want to return!”

Seokjin is wide-eyed, not sure what to say.

“I don’t want to live in a house with, with, with—”

“Dwarves,” he finishes.

“—or be poisoned and brought to an endless sleep, waiting until a prince’s lips touches mine, so I can wake up and live in his kingdom as his!” Hopelessness makes tears well in your eyes.

You were waiting for someone to rescue you — your prince and one true love. But now that you know what will eventually happen, you’re heartbroken. You thought once you were banished from the castle, you could live a peaceful and happy life. But there was still so much waiting for you.

You never return home. Yes, you meet your true love and the Evil Queen dies. But all that misery for a happy ending? The end doesn’t justify the means. It was still frightening. You’ve been chased by the Huntsman already and that fear is enough to make you tremble now. You can’t imagine living with seven small strangers, being poisoned, and brought to a deep sleep while not knowing when you will wake up again.

“I won’t leave,” you decide, placing your foot down.

It seemed like no one could enter this place except for you and Seokjin. The Huntsman couldn’t come when he was right behind you, so you’ll be safe from the Evil Queen and her henchmen.

“What?” Seokjin looks at you, blinking.

“I’ll stay here.” 

He looks around the empty forest, appearing at a loss. His mouth opens, closes and then opens again. “I can’t in my good conscience leave a young woman to fend for herself.”

“Why not?” You tilt your head, unable to understand his concern. “I may not be able to defeat my evil step-mother and her magic, but I know the forest well enough and can still fend for myself.”

To prove it, your lips part and you start to sing. 

At once, the birds hop from their branches and fly over to your feet. The squirrels emerge from their homes, rabbits from their burrows and a doe peeks out from the thicket. Seokjin is startled, taking a step back at all the animals and forest creatures emerging. Perhaps if he did not truly believe you were Y/N, Princess of your kingdom, and also Snow White from his storybook, he does now.

The creatures scurry away in disappointment when you stop singing.

Seokjin appears surprised. “Your voice is lovely— but I know this place might be your….your…”

“Enchanted Forest.”

“It might be your Enchanted Forest, but it’s also the Wood Buffalo National Park. It could have bears, wolves and bison. It’s dangerous. Especially at night.” 

You look at Seokjin. Seokjin looks at you.

He ultimately sighs.

Throughout the next few days, Seokjin brings you supplies. He teaches you how to set something up called a tent and it’s absolutely wonderful to sleep in with the makeshift bed he calls a sleeping bag. He teaches you how to start a fire, brings you a chair that you can easily open up and a lantern for the night.

It starts to become a wonderful place, filled with knick-knacks such as the box that makes a fantastic drink called coffee to a bigger box that’s cold and holds in snacks he brings to you. He tells you these things can run on ‘solar power’ which is power from the sunshine. It’s magic.

Seokjin might not be a prince, but he is a kind man. 

You also learn his job is a noble one. He walks through the forest and protects the creatures and heroes that wander in it. And while you may be from vastly different worlds, if there’s one thing you both have in common, it’s how much you cherish and love nature.

“I would like it if you could possibly bring me a shield or perhaps tools of some sort. Any scrap materials that you have no need for.”

Seokjin frowns, seated next to you on the log as he roasts the sweet treat called a marshmallow. His face is warm and glowing by the light of the fire. The forest is quiet but it feels peaceful. You find it’s always peaceful when he’s by your side. “What are you going to do with it?”

“I think I’m going to train and defeat the queen.”

“What?”

You roast the white puff until it’s golden on all sides. “I’ve been thinking that while I want to stay here, I don’t know if it can hide forever. I am not truly free until the Evil Queen has been defeated and I do not want to wait until she poisons me.” Your gaze meets his. “I want to protect myself.”

For the weeks that follow, you fashion sheets of metal into shields and weapons. Seokjin brings you a bow and arrows, and shows you how to shoot. You practice without rest on apples that you collect from the tree by the boundary line. That fruit has become your one true nemesis.

The arrow spirals out and thunks straight into the middle of the apple. It smacks into the trunk of the tree.

“Nice shot!”

You set your bow down, smiling widely at Seokjin who’s been watching you fondly.

“What are you going to do after you defeat the queen?” he asks in a murmur later that evening whilst helping you prepare dinner. He’s been coming to visit you every day now, after his work he says. You’re thankful for it — his company is something you’ve grown to yearn for.

You hum pleasantly. “I don’t know. Perhaps I will return. Don’t you think a cottage would be pleasant here?”

Your face lifts to find his softened gaze. He looks away just as quickly, yet he still murmurs, “Maybe I could bring you supplies.”

The two of you shyly smile to yourselves.

Seokjin may not be a prince, but he might just be the one you love.

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #jin fanfic #jin scenario #jin fluff #seokjin fanfic #jin reader insert #seokjin scenario #randomness4u #Jimlings

[thiswasinevitableid]

93. I hire your matchmaking services but all the people you set me up with are horrible and I’m demanding a refund and you’re asking me for one more chance??? what are you going to do? be my date?

Indruck, nsfw, please!

Here you go! I was inspired by @kriskukko's incredible art for the orc designs in this, and I highly recommend checking them out!

“Indrid? Some from Kepler House is here to speak with you.” Ned pokes his head into Indrid’s rooms.

“Drat” Indrid hisses, dressing gown whipping about him as he scrambles to put the apartment in order while also dragging his notes on the man in question to the forefront, “I didn’t forsee anyone coming by today, goodness, he had his first engagement with Lady Austens daughter last night, what on earth could they need to see me for?” He tosses his spare pens aside, landing them in his second set of house slippers.

“Well, dear boy, given the luck you’ve had with them lately-”

“It’s not luck, it’s simply very unlikely futures. Please just, just stall whoever it is a moment, Leo is usually patient and-”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that my friend.”

“Why not? I watched you once talk an entire flock of constables away from your door. Praytell, why can Ned “Silver Tongue” Chicane not get rid of a single attendant?”

“Because the attendant ain’t here this time.”

Indrid slams the drawer of his desk, looking up as an orc in a deep brown suit steps into the room, tossing his hat onto the table. He’s shorter than Indrid and Ned (stout and strong, according to the notes Indrid received), wavy black hair streaked with grey at the front. One eye is blue, the other brown, and both regard the harried matchmaker with casual annoyance.

“Mr. Newton, I, ah, I was not expecting you to visit me.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect to be on a date where she found me so damn dull she hailed a cab as soon as dinner was done. I was already in town on some business for Minerva, so I decided to come tell you I ain’t in need of your services anymore.”

“I beg your pardon? Your benefactor employed me to find you a suitable match and I intend to do just that. I know there have been missteps, but such things are to be expected when searching for one’s lifelong partner.”

“Uh huh. And the fact I’m Lady Minerva’s chosen heir, which means there are a bunch of folks waitin to mimic my style and choices, has got nothin to do with it.”

“I, ah, I can’t say that I’m ignorant of the potential repercussions of being the one assigned to locate a spouse for you.”

“Which is the long way of sayin you know damn well that if I decide to stop askin you for help, no one with money is ever gonna come to you again.”

There’s a determined set to his rounded jaw, and a glimpse at the future suggests Indrid will have better luck with a different tactic

“....were they really so awful?”

“Yes. They were rude, or thought I was rude, or thought I was dull, or we just had fuck-all in common.”

“Have you considered you might just be a tad more demanding than average?”

“It ain’t demandin to want the person I spend the rest of my life with to actually like me.” He sighs, “I’m sorry, Mr. Cold, but unless you got a real winner up your sleeve, I’m done.”

All responses, all timelines show Duck ending his time as Indrid’s client and walking out the door.

“You could try me!”

“Really?” Duck looks deeply unconvinced.

“I will admit it’s unorthodox, but I, I foresee us having a perfectly nice time together. It will let me prove that I am capable of choosing companions for you.”

The shorter orc looks him up and down more deliberately and Indrid fights not to draw his dressing gown tighter. He will not be intimidated by some newcomer from across the sea.

“Okay, I’ll make you a deal. I got to go to this concert tomorrow; someone from Kepler house is expected to show and Minerva is busy. You’re comin with me.” He holds Indrid’s gaze, daring him to renege on his offer.

Indrid summons his best, professional grin, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

---------------------------------------

Indrid smooths his waistcoat and jacket as he steps from the cab, tucks a strand of his silver hair behind his ear. It’s his only concession to the nerves skittering up and down his spine.

Gatherings such as these are nothing new to him; he goes to them to gather new information and new clients, to remind the well-to-do families of London and beyond that he is the matchmaker extraordinaire. But there is always the moment between when they see him and when they recognize him, when every face in the room wonders why someone like him dares to enter their space.

Somewhere in Indrid’s ancestry is a love story between an orc and a goblin. His silver hair, very angular features, and complete lack of tusks or fangs is the proof. The red eyes don’t help--they unsettle everyone who sees them--but his mother insists they’re evidence of other orcs gifted with rare magic on her side of the family. He wears red spectacles over them just to be safe; he rather likes how the color stands out against his skin, and his glasses let him avoid prying questions.

Duck is waiting for him under the awning outside the music hall; he’s in a grey day suit this time, looking just as understatedly handsome as he did yesterday morning. Indrid must admit his desire to save his reputation is not the only reason he agreed to this; he cannot understand why Duck is having such trouble meeting his match. He’s good looking, moneyed, American--an exotic background in the eyes of the average, sheltered upper-class orc--but still has family history here in England. All Indrid’s matches showed a high probability of success. The point of failure must lie with the orc himself.

“Afternoon, Mr. Cold.” Duck smiles with everything but his eyes.

“Indrid is fine, given the reason for our meeting.”

Duck nods. Indrid wishes the ground would swallow one of them up. When the pavement fails to oblige, he offers his arm. The shorter orc takes it, both of them doffing their hats as they step inside.

“I, uh, like the earring.” Duck indicates the moth cuff on Indrid’s left ear, a stark contrast to the single gold hoop in his own.

“Thank you. A friend gave it to me. I, ah, I rather enjoy working moths into my wardrobe; I find them fascinating.”

“Y’know, back home we got moths that look like hummingbirds.”

“Really?” Indrid’s ear twitches, “how big?”

Duck holds up his hands to indicate the size. Indrid is about to demand details when they’re waylaid by their hostess and pulled into a cluster of families. Indrid breathes deep, feeling crowded in, and notices Duck routinely being cut off in conversation or given disapproving looks behind his back. Yes, Indrid supposes his manners are a bit rough, but there’s no harm in that. Too, everyone seems far more interested in the goings on at Kepler House and with Lady Minerva than with Duck himself. By the time they’re seated, their arms feel locked together from shared tension.

The violinists are quite good; Indrid enjoys strings, his recordings of them being his favorite music to listen to while drawing. But his mind is so consumed by futures and by thoughts about the orc beside him that he struggles to focus on the music. Duck is having a similar issue, though he hides it well; were they not side by side, Indrid would miss the way he fidgets with the knee of his trousers.

“Are you alright?” He whispers under the applause.

“N-ye-uh. Fuck. I, the musics real nice but I gotta say I’m gettin kinda bored. But I got no fuckin clue if leavin will piss everyone here off.”

“Intermission is soon. When it comes, keep quiet and follow my lead.”

When the guests rise to stretch their legs and fetch refreshments, Indrid guides Duck to their hostess.

“I’m so very sorry, but I’m afraid my stomach is rather angry with me and it’s best if I go home. Duck has agreed to accompany me so I do not pass out in the street. I’m sure you understand.”

She nods, and in a matter of moments they’re out on the street, each breathing deeply.

“Thanks for that.”

“My pleasure.”

“Guess I oughta just head back to the hotel.” Duck sighs.

“You could. But, ah, we’re not far from Kew Gardens and the weather isn’t miserably cold for once. If you’d like-”

“Hell yeah. Wait, fuck, sorry, tryin to swear less in public.”

“I don’t really mind.” Indrid starts them down the street.

“Lots of them do” Duck tips his head back towards the concert hall, “I mean, at least that rule is easier to figure out. It’s not that there aren’t weird rules and class stuff back home, but I grew up learnin them. Here I always feel like I’m one move away from makin an ass of myself. No one’ll say anything because of Minerva, but I know if it weren’t for her, none of ‘em would give me the time of day. It makes every interaction so goddamn stressful.”

Indrid twinges with sympathy, “When I first started in these circles, I wrote myself notecards and had Ned test me on them.”

Duck giggles, so absurd and loud it draws stares from passersby, “why? You seem to know your stuff.”

“I didn’t come from money, and I don’t always read social situations the way others expect. It was learn or live as a penniless artist for all my days.” As the gardens come into view he adds, “I know the basics of your life in America but if you weren’t here, what would you be doing there?”

“Workin in the Yosemite valley. I was a ranger there for a few years before Minerva called me here.”

“What was that like?”

Duck tells him as they wander the first stretches of the gardens. He’s midway through a tangent about bears when he stops.

“Holy fuck, you’re really still listenin.”

“Of course I am, this is fascinating.”

His companion smiles, “Glad you think so. But it ain’t polite for me to dominate the conversation like this. Now you gotta tell me what you do when you’re not gettin fancy folks together.”

“...You promise you will finish the story about the bear and the tent later.”

“You know it.”

Indrid knows that time passes more quickly with good company, but he’s still startled when the sun sets. The Savoy, where Duck is staying, is closer than his home, so their cab stops there first.

Duck pauses halfway out the door, “Meet me here for dinner tomorrow?”

Indrid grins, “I’d like nothing more.”

--------------------------------

“I didn’t know the line even went this far.” Indrid watches the moors race by them out the window of the train.

“You and me both.” Duck rotates his map, glances at the letter he received a week ago, “okay, once we get off at Amnesty, we need someone to take us down Greenbank road. The house is at the end of it, somewhere around here.” He taps a patch of moor miles from anything else. Indrid studies his fingers and is glad that, of his more rugged habits, one he elected to keep was letting his nails stay claws rather than filing them down.

“My visions suggest that as long as we don’t ask anyone to drive us out after dark, we should have no trouble reaching it.”

Indrid tries not to be too giddy at the prospect of spending weeks and weeks more or less alone in the countryside with Duck. They’re going because an anonymous note informed him that he did indeed have a family estate and--once they determined that the house near Dartmoor did indeed legally belong to him--it was decided he would go to see how the old place was doing and perhaps take up residence.

He asked Indrid to come without even glancing up from the telegram from the solicitor. Indrid agreed without looking away from his drawing. If two months of semi-courtship in a crowded city got them close enough for that, Indrid dares to hope that being out here together will bring them closer still.

Amnesty is small, as they both expected, the air chilly and fog threatening to swallow whole buildings as they make their way to the Lodge where they’ve been told they can find a driver. When Duck asks the young woman working the counter for help getting to Greenbank Hall, she quirks her lips in a frown.

“I’m not sure there’s even a place called that around here….OH! Do you mean Beacon House?”

“Maybe?” Duck looks at Indrid, who quickly looks at the futures.

“Yes, it seems we do.”

“Okay. Since it's still light, I should be able to find someone to get you out there. If it comes down to it, I can, like, drive you out myself.”

They end up being driven by a friendly young man named Jake, who deposits them and their bags on the steps of the massive house with a friendly wave farewell.

“Agh” Indrid shivers as they step through the newly unlocked doors, “I think it’s actually warmer outside.”

“No kiddin. Damn fog means it’s already gettin too dark to see too. I’ll go get some kind of fire started, you see if you can find some lanterns or candles so we ain’t trippin all over ourselves.”

Indrid begins his search, comes to the kitchen and finds some matches and a candle. The solicitor arranged for food and other supplies to be brought in ahead of time, so in theory lanterns should be somewhere nearby. He’s just glad that the paltry light shows no signs of rodents getting into their food.

When he gets upstairs, he discovers two things; one, all the lamps are gas, so he’s able to light them easily. And two, a mother tortoiseshell cat is nesting with her kittens on a guest bed.

“Well, that explains the lack of mice.”

Footsteps behind him, “Got a fire goin in the sittin room, if you wanna pick a room for yourself I can light one th--awwwww” Duck moves past him towards the cat, who hisses at him, “now, there ain’t any need for that, missy. I ain’t gonna hurt you or your babies. But we oughta bring you somethin more’n mice to eat.”

“I saw some tinned food in the pantry.”

“Perfect, lemme go find a bowl.”

----------------------------------

Beacon House has seen better days, but Indrid discovers the houses loss is his gain. Duck decides they can do many of the repairs themselves, and sets about ordering supplies from London or bringing them in from Amnesty. The few times they need help, the cook and several others from the Lodge come to assist in the project. These gatherings are far more pleasant than any Indrid had to attend for work (well, except for the ones where he was with Duck). And they always end before dusk.

Indrid occupies himself with figuring out why. There was no mention of this house when he first researched Duck, and even using the local name turns up very little. It’s not until he finds a diary belonging to one H. Newton in the library that he understands.

October the 15th, 1805

I fear the worst is upon me. I cannot leave the house, dare not even peer out the windows for fear of what I shall see. Lucy says it is my health, that we should travel to warmer regions so it will improve. But I know it is not so simple. Were we to flee, it would merely wait for our return. It may even waylay us before we reached town. I am cursed. We are cursed. We always will be.

Beneath the words is a hastily sketched image; yellow eyes and sharp fangs peering from between the bars of the front gate.

There are no more entries.

Indrid is unsure whether to raise the matter with Duck. On the one hand, he wishes him to know of any possible dangers. On the other, his friend is so very content these days, coming in from some project or other with grime on his skin and a smile on his face. Indrid’s own desire to stay with him here, in a house he can pretend is theirs, threatens to drown out all other reasons.

Eventually, his conscience shouts it down while he and Duck are on their evening walk.

“Oh yeah, Barclay told me about that a few days ago. Some ghost apparently wanders around the moor at night; got somethin to do with a murderous ancestor.”

“That does not alarm you.”

“You know I don’t believe in curses and destiny or anythin like that. People make up all kinds of stories when they’re alone in wild places.”

Indrid’s foresight guides his arm, gripping Duck and keeping him from moving forward.

“Does that look like a story?”

Directly ahead of them, a tor rises like a spike. Atop it, revealed by the rising moon, is a gigantic, fur-covered shape.

“See” Duck whispers, “were we back home, I’d say that was a bear.”

“And now?”

“Given there ain’t been bears in this part of the world in decades, I say we get the hell outta here.”

They take off back down the slope, the hall a collection of yellow squares of light in the darkening distance. A howl splits the air behind them and Indrid quickens his pace, keeps his eyes on the future in hopes of protecting them both.

This means he doesn’t see the burrow in the path until his ankle goes sideways in it.

“‘Drid!”

“Under no circumstances are you to try and help meAH!” He yelps as Duck swings him over his shoulder and continues his flight towards the house. As he’s bounced about, Indrid watches a glowing shape bounding closer.

“Thank fuck.” Duck crosses the gate, slams them closed, and lowers Indrid to his feet. Nothing glares at them from the path. But a growl creeps from the shadows and follows them until they shut the door.

------------------------------------------

“How’s the ankle?” Duck drops his coat on the chair opposite Indrid before tending to the fire.

“Better than yesterday. I should be up and moving tomorrow, if the futures are to be believed.”

“You know you don’t gotta rush. I’m happy to take care of you.”

Indrid picks at the ends of the blanket in his lap, “but I miss being able to aid you with work.”

“There’ll be lots of time for that. We got plenty to do to get the house to where we can live in it full time.”

“We?”

Duck goes completely still, then fails to put the fire poker back in place three separate times. When he finally meets Indrid’s eyes, he looks worried.

“‘Drid? What’s your endgame? With, uh, with me?”

“I…” Indrid grabs his teacup, intending to drink it to buy time and finds it empty, ‘I...I don’t know. I, I wanted to prove to you that I could find you a companion who made you happy, hoping you would give me another chance to locate your perfect match. But lately I, ah, I struggle to see that plan working. As I do not wish you to have any match but me.”

Duck moves across the rug, shadows on his face making it hard to read.

“I know that shows great selfishness on my part. If that is not something you wish to have in your life I, I…” he shrinks back as Duck leans down, certain this is the timeline where he accuses him of being a conniving monster.

“Funny you should say you’re bein selfish” Duck braces his arms on either side of the chair, “because I’ve been beatin myself thinkin’ I was selfish for keepin you out here so long.”

“Keep me here forever.” Indrid whispers. Duck smiles, closes the remaining space between them. His lips are still a bit chilly from working outside; Indrid does everything he can to warm them with his own.

The shorter orc straddles him and he whines so needily that Duck snickers in reply.

“What’s wrong darlin? Kissin too much for you?’

“On the contrary; it is far too little, but my injury means my ability to drag you to my bed and beg for more is greatly impeded.”

“Good thing we live alone.” Duck pulls the blanket from Indrid’s lap, nibbles his ear as the seer catches on and begins frantically undoing the buttons of Duck’s workshirt and shoving his suspenders. When at last he pushes it open he loses himself a moment, tipping forward to tongue at the golden ring in Duck’s left nipple.

“AHheh, gettin right to it. Good” Duck unbuttons his pants, “because I’ve been wantin to fuck you since before we even came out here.”

“Oh I see” Indrid purrs, “you lured me into the countryside to sully my virtue.”

Duck laughs, full throated, as his tusks catch in the firelight, “You forgettin the time we got drunk instead of goin to the opera and you told me you convinced two sailors to take you home?”

“Only if you’ve forgotten telling me about the young ranch-hand you gave several rides to” Indrid nibbles along his neck, his twitching oddly in their quest to grind against him without jostling his ankle.

“Not a chance. But I don’t care about reminiscin right now; right now, I got the best lookin fella in the world beggin for my dick.”

“I’m not begging.” Indrid tilts his head back to help Duck get his shirt open some.

“Not yet.” Duck grins, then shoves his hand down his trousers.

“Ohhhhhyes” Indrid reaches for him.

“Keep your hands on the armrests until I say you can move ‘em.”

“But, but” it’s hard to argue when he’s trying to stare a hole through Duck’s remaining clothes. His partner notices and makes a show of moaning louder.

“Only good boys get to watch the show. You gonna be good for me?”

“The best.”

Duck kisses the tip of his nose, then wiggles and kicks his pants and underwear off. Indrid can only watch, growing more envious by the moment, as he fucks himself open and rubs a thumb along his cock. Indrid tries bucking his hips, only to discover Duck is keeping himself out of reach.

“Cruel creature.” Indrid groans.

“Cruel? I’m giving you a seat to the best show in town.”

“I’d rather you take the best seat in town.”

Duck laughs, is still doing so when he bends to kiss him. Indrid whimpers, nails digging into the upholstery to keep his promise of good behavior. Duck notices.

“Good boy.”

“AHHHnnnthankyou, thankyouthankyouthankyou” Indrid moans as Duck drops his weight into his lap, grinding on his clothed cock with abandon. He flings Indrids hands up to his shoulders. The seer glides them up to his hair, burying them there where he’s now certain they’ve always belonged. Duck mirrors him, lips only leaving his to bite the tip of his ear.

“Fuck, Indrid, that’s it darlin, lemme ride you like the sleek little beast you are.”

He whines, loses his thoughts as Ducks hips quicken.

“I know ‘Drid, you like bein mine, like that I’ll bounce on this fuckin perfect dick as often as you want as long as you’re my good, sweet, ohsweetfuck, fuck, darlin’” Duck drops his forehead to Indrid’s shoulder with a groan as he cums, soaking the fabric of his pants. Before Indrid can think about stopping, Duck picks up again with as much force as before, growling in his ear to be a good little social climber and cum for his lord.

Indrid cums at that with a chirping sound he thought he’d stopped making long ago, legs spasming from the force of his climax. Unfortunately, this means his pleasure is chased by a burst of pain. He whimpers, flinches, and Duck spots the problem.

“Oh, oh darlin I’m sorry” He drops to the floor, rubbing Indrid’s thighs, “thought the position would keep you from hurtin.”

“Apparently not. I, I want you to know I don’t regret it in the slightest.”

Duck smiles, relieved, and rests his head on Indrid’s stomach, “Guess you did find me a match, huh?”

Indrid bends slowly, nuzzling his hair with a hum, “Yes, I believe so.”

#indruck #meet ugy #indrid cold/ duck newton #orc au #victorian au #trans duck newton

[besanii]

shifting ground

WangXian ; 1127 words

[previous parts linked at the end]

He arrives at bottom of the stairs leading up to the throne room just as everyone is disbanding; they trickle out of the building in groups of twos and threes, heads bent close together and mouths too preoccupied with gossip to pay attention to his hurried ascent. Snatches of their conversations enter his ear—words like “trial” and “ascension” and “purify” has his heart skipping a beat and his feet flying over the stairs two at a time as he races past them.

The world comes to a shuddering halt when Wei Wuxian appears at the top of the stairs.

He’s not sure how to quantify the time since they last saw each other. Where does he begin counting? From the moment Wei Wuxian had been taken away in chains and locked into the Demon Tower, or on the execution platform as he faded into dust in Lan Wangji’s arms with Bichen buried in his chest? Or does he start from the moment Wei Ying had turned his back and surrendered his life into Lan Wangji’s hands for the second time?

If the whole purpose of my life is to die here today, then that is what I’ll do.

He can still feel the sigh of those words against his lips, the press of a thumb against his cheek, the hitch in his voice. Every last detail of those final moments in the mortal realm is burned into his mind with excruciating clarity, seared into his bones, branded on his soul. He has been in existence for over a hundred thousand years, long enough to see past the trappings of mortality, past attachment, past death—and yet.

There is little trace of the young vermilion bird spirit in the Wei Wuxian who stands before him now, dressed in robes of black and red that ripple and fall about him like feathers. His grey eyes, once soft like clouds during a gentle autumn drizzle, are as dark as smoke and as hard as steel. They falter as they catch sight of him, still only halfway up the stairs, before shuttering closed, wary and uncertain.

His newly-restored heart beats feebly against his ribcage at the sight.

“Wei Ying.” He catches the spiritual energy radiating from him and stops, his heart in his throat. “You’re—”

Wei Wuxian smiles without humour, sliding his gaze away from Lan Wangji.

“I guess the trial you designed for me was more effective than intended,” he says.

He should be relieved, overjoyed that their plan had worked, that the sliver of the Demon God’s seal had been successfully purged from Wei Wuxian—that Wei Wuxian had ascended three ranks to become a High God, on par with Lan Wangji himself. But he finds he cannot muster even a tiny shred of happiness now, not when Wei Wuxian does not smile, and refuses to meet his eyes.

“Wei Ying,” he says, making his way up the stairs. “Wei Ying, I—”

Wei Wuxian flinches almost imperceptibly at the sound of the name, his hands curling into fists, lips pressing into a thin line. It is enough to freeze Lan Wangji in mid-step, the rest of his sentence teetering at the tip of his tongue.

“Begging your pardon, Hanguang-jun,” Wei Wuxian says. “I have only just returned from my trial and find myself in need of rest. Please excuse me.”

He crosses his hands, left over right, and presses his palms to his chest with a low bow—a formal bow, too formal for him to offer a fellow High God, even one with as much seniority over him as Lan Wangji—and moves past him, down the stairs. Lan Wangji’s hand shoots out instinctively to catch hold of his elbow as their shoulders brush, preventing him from leaving.

“I’ll have someone fix up your old rooms,” he tells him quietly, thinking of the cosy little annex in Fuyun Pavilion, still in the same condition as before his departure.

Wei Wuxian pries his arm out of Lan Wangji’s grip.

“Hanguang-jun is too generous,” he says, staring straight ahead, not sparing him a glance. “But I will be returning to the peach forest.”

There is little Lan Wangji can do to argue against this decision. It is only logical for Wei Wuxian to return to the peach forest, his childhood home. What right does Lan Wangji have to keep him here in the Nine Heavens with him?

“Let me accompany you.” He does not care if he sounds close to pleading as he turns his body towards Wei Wuxian, not when Wei Wuxian’s breath hitches as this moves him into his space. “Please.”

“Hanguang-jun—”

“Lan Zhan,” he corrects him. Wei Wuxian shakes his head.

“Hanguang-jun,” he repeats firmly. “It would not be appropriate.”

Lan Wangji exhales.

“There was a time, not too long ago, when you would scoff at propriety,” he says. “And it would not be inappropriate for me to escort my intended back to his home.”

Wei Wuxian turns his head sharply to face Lan Wangji, grey eyes wide with shock; Lan Wangji looks back at him intently, his expression never once wavering.

“Words spoken in a previous life should stay in the past.” Wei Wuxian’s voice is small and brittle and hurt; he draws himself close, holds himself tighter within his body as he tears his eyes away again. “Hanguang-jun should not feel beholden to me.”

This time, when Lan Wangji takes another step towards him, he takes two steps back. Lan Wangji tries not to let his own hurt show.

“I am a man of my word,” he tells him. “It does not matter in which life the promise was made, only to whom. I made you a promise, Wei Ying, I vowed myself to you. So I am yours.”

He watches as Wei Wuxian’s eyes flutter closed as a shudder runs through his body. But when he raises his hand to brush a stray wisp of hair from his cheek, Wei Wuxian avoids his touch and steps back even further.

“Lan Zhan,” he whispers, pained. “Don’t.”

Lan Wangji breathes an inward sigh of relief at the sound of his name from Wei Wuxian’s lips at long last.

“Wei Ying,” he says. “Please. Can we talk?”

Wei Wuxian shakes his head and turns away.

“I need time,” he tells him. “Give me some time.”

Then, without waiting for Lan Wangji’s response, he raises his arms and shifts into his original form, leaping into the sky and vanishing in a burst of flame.

Lan Wangji watches him go without a word.

If it’s time he needs, then Lan Wangji will give it to him. He has waited over a hundred thousand years for Wei Wuxian, what is a few hundred more in comparison?

--

Notes:

Follows on from Love and Destiny AU ficlet below, where LWJ has to kill a mortal WWX to help him reascend as an immortal:

https://besanii.tumblr.com/post/620336237706969088/he-watches-as-wei-ying-backs-away-from-him-the [copy/paste link]

And set some time before the other Love and Destiny AU ficlet where WWX carves out his heart to save LWJ and loses his memories in the process:

https://besanii.tumblr.com/post/621699777307033600/you-dont-love-me-anymore-for-wangxian-from-the [copy/paste link]

So technically...part two?

The tag is now shifting ground fic

--

Title is from the idiom 翻云覆雨 (fanyunfuyu, to produce clouds with the turn of one hand, and rain with the other), meaning to shift one’s ground or to be contradictory

One day I will stop writing AUs of the Three Lives Three Worlds dramas, but today is not this day. Also, I’ve decided that Love and Destiny > Peach Blossoms  > Pillow Book in my heart.

--

master post and ko-fi link on my sidebar!

#mdzs #wangxian #my writing #love and destiny au #🔪🔪 #phoenix!wwx #dragon!lwj #shifting ground fic #lan wangji #wei wuxian #翻云覆雨

[mattzerella-sticks]

Desperation, Baby! (coda to 15x19 “Inherit the Earth”, Dean & Lucifer, Dean/Cas, 2.3k, T)

ao3 link

Death took her sweet time parsing through Chuck's book, meaning Lucifer spent longer than he'd like surrounded by his former vessel, his brother, his son, and a man whose obvious longing made him want to vomit. Instead of returning with his prize, Chuck welcoming him back, he must waste his valuable time playing 'nice; with those he can't stand.

Not that it matters. They don't trust him, each member of this ragtag group of survivors watching Lucifer in shifts. Never leaving him alone.

It's Dean's turn now, and he's driving Lucifer up a wall by doing nothing at all save for broadcasting a never-ending supply of feeling. Can he cut the signal without showing his hand, or put Dean's heart to good use?

           It’s pathetic, truly. Lucifer huffs, deflating, sinking further into his seat. Weighed down by obscene amounts of longing that poured freely off Dean like a broken hydrant. Funneled into his awareness because its usual drain was cordoned forever. It flooded these now silent angelic air waves, Lucifer growing more annoyed with each, excruciating second. Until, finally, “Holy hell, can you please quit it?”

           Dean startles from where he stood, jaw tensing. Mouth flattening in a thin line as he glares, “What?”

           “Quit. It. Quitit!” He hisses, leaning forward. Stretches his arms across the table, reaching for Dean. Fingers twitching, Lucifer imagines Dean’s neck between them. “Seriously, you’re giving me a migraine with all your feelings.”

           “Good.” Dean surprises Lucifer with his response. No attempted denial, nor misdirection. His gaze unflinchingly pierced through Lucifer’s vessel, pride bolstering its blow. Lucifer cannot detect any shame that usually clings to his soul, none of that smell lingering. He’s grown since they’ve last seen each other. Stunning character development. “Deserve it, after that dick move you pulled earlier.”

           “You still upset about that?” Scoffing, Lucifer rises. Meanders across the room towards Dean, gaze never straying. Easy since it’s only them. “I thought my gift would have more than made up for that.” He grins, rocking on his heels. A breadth of space separates them now. “How else was I supposed to get in, anyway?” he continues, “Not like if I called as myself you’d’ve rolled out the welcome mat.”

           “But… Cas?” Lucifer savors the taste of his brother’s name, drenched in sadness. Ripped from Dean’s heart in a barely controlled sob.

           “Nasty habit,” he giggles, “Though the results speak for themselves. I mean – you know how easy it was smooth-talking little Sammy when I looked like his ol’ flame, Jess?” Dean doesn’t laugh, snarled lip suffocating Lucifer’s airy mirth. “You’re no fun.”

           “Sorry,” Dean growls, “why don’t you try later when the world’s not ending.”

           “It’s always ending. In one way or another.” Lucifer waves his hand and a chair drags itself over. He straddles it, gazing up at Dean. “If we waited for peace to enjoy life, there’d be no time. Better to… say what’s in your heart, even if it kills you.” He frowns, mockingly, “Or in Castiel’s case… did kill him.”

           Dean slams his fist against the wall. “You have no right –“

           “Timeout there,” Lucifer smirks, eyes glowing red. Reflection of Dean’s entire face, blood rapidly swelling his cheeks. “Don’t want to do anything you’ll regret…” He holds Dean there, frozen, waits until the other man seems calm. Dips his head, tries catching Dean’s gaze. “If I let you go, will you behave?” Dean remains silent, yet Lucifer hears him. Tunes into his frequency, actively sifting through his frenzied emotions. “Seriously,” he lets Dean go, hunter falling on his ass, “how are we supposed to work as a team if you’re not willing to cooperate?”

           “This… isn’t a team,” Dean spits, “you’re working… with the Empty.”

           “And the Empty’s trying to take Chuck out!” he argues, “So, enemy of my enemy is my friend or all that nonsense –“

           “Go to hell.”

           “I wish I could, but I’m kinda on a short leash.” Bored with Dean’s resistance, Lucifer threads his next few words with seriousness. “Listen, once Betty’s done with the book I’ll flit on out of here and one, two, three – humanity is saved from dear, ol’ dad! We can make this all painless if you’d just trust me, or we can keep doing what we’re doing. I, personally, am tired of this bullshit. Rather be napping back in the Empty, but no…”

           “You should be.”

           “Beg pardon?”

           Dean bares his teeth, roiling hatred knocking Lucifer back a few inches. “You should still be sleeping, back there,” he says, “if anyone were supposed to come back, it’d be Cas. Not… you…”

           “Ah, Castiel, yes…” Lucifer sighs, “that would make sense, wouldn’t it? Of course, he lacks my raw power and charm, but… yes, you’d trust anything that he said.” Hand on his throat, he affects his vocal cords. Mimicking the other angel’s gravelly tone again, “Dean, please go along with Lucifer’s wishes and help him –“

           “Enough!” Dean kicks at a chair leg, interrupting Lucifer. Tears threaten to pour, dangling from his lashes like morning dew. “If you really wanna play nice, you’d stop doing that.”

           “This is nice, buddy.” Lucifer pokes at Dean’s leg with the toe of his boot. “Why don’t you grow some thick skin, huh? Where’s the real Dean Winchester? That tough guy with endless bravado instead of this sad, sorry piece of shit that’s pining after some dead guy?”

           Dean turns, Adam’s apple bobbing. “That isn’t me. I… he never was.” An intimate confession whispered into ancient brickwork. Meaningful for a different crowd. Except Lucifer shows little care, sarcastic clapping shattering Dean’s moment.

           “Wow, Dean… really fantastic. Amazing!” He climbs off the chair, crouching closer. Tongue dragged over his lips, smile wide. “Your verbose diction astounds me… did you whip that together after my brother got dragged into super hell? Are you still workshopping it – okay if I give you a few notes?” Lucifer pinches Dean’s cheek, poking this rabid grizzly. “At least you’ve got that face. Clearly Cas didn’t fall for your emotional maturity, your observational prowess or timing…”

           He weakly bats Lucifer off him, “You don’t know anything…”

           “I think I know quite a lot,” Lucifer challenges him, “Between the both of us, only I managed to slip inside my tight-ass little brother. Probably why I knew all his little… perversions, although it was clear as day how he felt about you to everyone – well… almost everyone.” His hand settles on Dean’s chest, atop his heart. “Do you know amazing it was, when I slipped my blade through him? You were a buffet that night… fear, relief, hope… despair. I could’ve ended him in that other dimension, but I waited until he crossed back. Knew how much more painful it’d be.”

           “Monster,” Dean says, “Fucking psychopath.”

           “The old me, maybe.” Lucifer teleports, sitting on a nearby table. Legs absentmindedly pedaling, stirring confusion within Dean. “But I’ve been reborn on the right side, Dean. Nobler. I’ve got purpose.”

           “You’ve got a load of shit,” he accuses, standing on shaky legs, “that you’re trying to sell me. Us.”

           “Come on!” Lucifer groans, hands flying skyward, “Isn’t this supposed to be your eleventh hour? How can you be so stubborn? Here I come, with a Hail Mary, and you’re turning your nose up at me like some snob. Like you have better options waiting. All because you won’t work with the Empty –“

           “It’s not just that,” Dean corrects him, “I also don’t want to work with you.”

           He crosses his arms, pouting. “You’re gonna have to suck that up. So the Empty wouldn’t send your boytoy, do you blame them? For a broken, little thing he sure is popular. Who’s to say Cas’d come back once this all wraps up? At least the Empty trusts me.”

           “I guess something has to.”

           “You can, too, if you want.” Lucifer casts his reel wide, waiting. Eyebrows waggling like baited worms. “It’d be a hell lot easier than what you’re doing now. Come on…” he needles, “why is it so hard to believe in miracles?”

           “Please…” Dean says, hiding his face behind his knees. Arms circled around his legs, curled into a ball. “Stop talking.”

           He relents for the time being. Proud of what cracks in Dean’s armor he made. When Chuck sent him, he asked Lucifer to ruffle a few feathers. Mess with their heads, ensure this ragtag group of losers would stay down. Accept their fate, end this miserable experiment called humanity in sadness. “Don’t provoke them too much, though,” Chuck warned, fists curled along his jacket’s lapels, “Betrayals only work when the other side doesn’t expect them. Plot’s stretched thin as it is, bringing you back doesn’t really make sense –“

           “I love you too, dad.”

           “That’s why you need to lay it on thick,” he said, “steer them away from why, keep the action moving.”

           Lucifer stared down at his father, frowning. “Anything else you need?”

           “No,” Chuck clapped Lucifer’s shoulder, nodding. “Just be yourself.”

           Except none of them wanted him. Especially Dean. He wanted… Castiel.

           It’s a little off-script, but Lucifer bets Chuck will enjoy what he plans. Even if it’ll involve his least favorite character. Lucifer hops off the table, grace burning across his body. Razing this vessel’s form, stealing its characteristics and distinguishability. A tall mound of clay left that he molds into a new body. Darker hair, sturdier frame, and bluer eyes. “Dean,” he says, swallowing his laughter. “Dean…” He tries again, sounding exactly like him.

           Like Castiel.

           Dean tenses, “Cas?” Barely audible, Lucifer strained to hear his prayer. That hope, sweetness quickly bittering as Dean digests the scene. “No…” he sighs, mumbling into his legs. “Lucifer, thought I told you to quit it.”

           “Lucifer is gone, Dean,” he lies, kneeling. “I’m here… please, Dean, look at me.” Lucifer grabs at Dean’s head, thankful the other man lets him. Green finds masked-blue, their ‘reunion’ drawing a pained breath.

           “What?” Dean asks, a single tear slipping free. Trails along his cheek until it falls off his chin. “How – how is this happening?”

           “Because of you, Dean.” Lucifer’s hands shift, a thumb smearing that tearstain while he runs fingers through Dean’s hair. “You refused Lucifer’s help, even though what he said was true. The Empty saw and decided, if we were to truly end Chuck, the risk of sending me will be worth it.” Expression darkening, Lucifer leans into dramatics. Lips quivering as he recites his next line, “Though not without conditions, Dean – I… you know I can’t stay, right?”

           “You will,” he says, “Cas – we will… if this book really can end Chuck, and we take him out, what can the Empty do –“

           “Take you,” Lucifer cuts him off. “Take you… Sam, and Jack. I step even an inch out of line and we all get sucked into their being, with no hope of actually defeating my father.” He nearly breaks character, watching how the light in Dean’s eyes flickered before being snuffed. Lucifer regains composure, growling his next words. “You understand this, then? What it means?”

           Dean nods, snaking his hands across Lucifer’s wrists. “Means we don’t have long,” he barks, squeezing tight. “I have to set it right, right now.”

           “Dean –“

           “No, Cas,” Dean talks over him, guiding Lucifer’s hands off where they rested. Silences the disguised archangel by chaining him, making Lucifer a helpless victim. Awe real as he waits for Dean, cowed by longing powerful than his earlier annoyance. “I… I need to get through this because – well, the last time you didn’t let me get a word in edgewise and I, there was a lot left unsaid that I don’t want to stay that way. If we can’t have a future, then at least… at least we have here.” He laughs, choking on it. More tears dance their way down.

           “When you told me you loved me, I couldn’t believe it,” Dean confesses, “and then, when you told me why I – I was… I believed that less. I mean, you… you’ve listened to your heart more than I have. Even if a few of those times it was wrong, everything you did was for love. Knowing you was – that was my happiness. Having you, in whatever way you’d let me. Because there you were, this shining beacon, and for some reason you kept on letting me bask in your glow. I felt I… I didn’t deserve it. That I didn’t deserve you.”

           Dean brings Lucifer’s knuckles to his lips, pressing a light kiss along a patch of skin. The gesture disgusts him. “And you were right about how – I thought of myself so… so poorly, it kept me from saying and – and doing things I wish I’d done sooner. All my life I thought there were things I couldn’t have, rules I had to live by, and I never questioned them until you saved me from hell. Literal and figurative. Because of you, I wanted to be a better person. I wanted to be good. But I never believed I could. Then you tell me you loved me… because I was good. I already was the kind of person I thought seemed impossible. I couldn’t believe it. What’s stranger… I didn’t have to believe it, to know it’s true.” Dean smiles at him, Lucifer mirroring his gesture though it pained him. “I’m the person I always wished I could be, and even when you’re gone I’ll still be that person. I’ll miss you, Cas. Always. I’ll miss you, and I’ll love you. I’ll love you always.”

           It happens before Lucifer realizes. Distracted, nauseated by Dean’s powerful emotions, he missed how a hand snuck its way towards his neck. Pinched there, startling him. In that second, Dean forces Lucifer into an embrace. Lips crashing together, Lucifer stays frozen while Dean attacks his mouth. Mewling, whimpering.

           Disgusting.

           He pulls the curtains back, reverting to his previous form. Delights in how Dean senses the change, peeking with one eye as Castiel’s face vanishes. The other man violently hurls himself to the side, gaping at him. “Why Dean,” Lucifer grins, awkwardness heavy in his tone, “if I had known that’s how you felt about me…”

           Dean sobs, wiping at his lips. “How… what the –“

           “You really thought I was Cas, didn’t you?” Laughing, Lucifer towers over him. “I figured you’d catch on but… I underestimated you. And for that I’m sorry.” He devours these new emotions radiating from Dean, eagerly lapping them up. “I’m also sorry that you’ve convinced you deserve a happy ending,” he twists the knife further. Dean flinches, turning. Fleeing. Lucifer shouts at his retreating figure. “That’s not your story, Dean! Don’t ask for more, be happy with what you have!”

           Then, as he waits for his next babysitter, Lucifer’s eyes glow red. “Because soon enough… you won’t even have that.”

#supernatural #spn #spn15 #15x19 #15x19 coda #15x19 inherit the earth #dean winchester #lucifer #castiel #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #supernatural fanfic #deancas fanfic #spn fanfic

[hitsuackerman]

Unpredictable (Overhaul x Reader) pt.18

a/n: all i can say is... BRING BACK CHRONOHAUL :) hope ya’ll like the chapter!

warnings: this cannot be read solo

Links: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 19

Masterlist to my other fics: here :)

Overhaul’s waiting list: @jjk-biased @infinite-universe-love @dirtypride @blackymomo03 @azzie @purple-rabanito​ @meximorrita @awesomeee19​​ @celestial-kanzakii​ @laure-lo​ @team-wang-puppy​ @aydience-world​ @choros-main-hoe​ @but-kairis-not-that-smart  @colorseeingchick (i cant seem to tag again :( hope this lands in your timelines!)

“Kurono.” Overhaul snapped. “We’re done for the day. Take Eri-chan to her room and give the new toy to keep her busy.”

Finishing the last part of the job, Kurono pinned Eri’s bandages and carried her. Watching as Overhaul left the room, he felt the little girl trembling in his hold. The past few days, his boss had been a little harsher on the girl and it showed when he opened her up without being warned. Patting her head, the flinch did not help in the tense aura surrounding the base.

Once he locked her doors, he walked down the dimly lit hall and passed by Overhaul’s office. The faint sound of him typing away in his laptop made him stop in his tracks. It was rare for him to even look at his laptop. Something must be bothering him more than ever, for sure.

Knocking on the door, he was told to come in and entered silently.

“You’re on the laptop.” He commented and lazily flopped on the sofa. Taking his mask off, he rubbed his face and leaned on the back rest.

“I can see that.” Overhaul’s eyes remained glued to the screen. “Is there something you need?”

“D’you talk to her yet?” He yawned and stretched his limbs. Legs ready to bounce should his boss show any sign of rage.

“That doesn’t concern you.”

“Just askin’.” He shrugged his shoulders and fiddled with his fingers. “Eri-chan’s in her room now and the toy still didn’t lighten her mood. Not that it ever works.”

He merely hummed and continued typing.

“Mind if I ask what exactly happened?” Kurono sat up with perfect posture. His legs angled to the door, ready to make a run for it. The tension was too much. Even for the precepts. He could care less about the budding lovelife his boss had but the limit was drawing near.  Hearing the laptop slam close, Kurono stood up and inched his way to the door.

“You have absolutely no business learning what happened behind those closed doors. But, if it pleases your curiosity, the woman mentioned her time with Ackerman.” Overhaul impatiently tapped his index finger on the desk. The other hand massaging his temple. “Satisfied?”

“What else did she say?”

“She said that her emotions aren’t there for the bastard and that she has her eyes set on someone else.”

For someone who played shogi skillfully, Kurono had to admit that his friend was as clueless as  the word could imply. Using all of his strength not to twitch his eye at the ignorance being displayed, he let out a sigh and went back to the sofa.

“So why be pissed about it? Clearly she’s interested in you.”

“I am not pissed. I am merely agitated at the turn of events.” He stopped tapping his finger and stood up. Exiting himself out, he decided a long bath might cool his head.

“You do realize she only did that to rile you up. You’re losing to her game, Kai. I bet a shit ton of cash that she wanted to see if a reaction would suffice and looking at you now, she got exactly what she wished.” Kurono talked the fastest he’s ever attempted in his life. “I’ll also bet my money that you ignoring her only adds to her growing problems.”

“And what makes you say that, Kurono?” He was now facing the arrow-haired man. Fists clenched tightly.

“One of the men saw her entering Nighteye’s agency.”

“THAT Nighteye?” He cocked a brow and took a step closer to the sofa.

“Yes. Her car remained parked for quite some time. By the time she left, I was told she was speeding towards the precinct.”

Gathering his thoughts, Chisaki found himself seated across Kurono. His bird mask resting on the table between them. The surgical mask now on full display showing the shadows his face offered. Without realizing it, his brows were furrowed and teeth gritting.

“If it’s bothering you, why not just call her or send a message.” Kurono shrugged.

“If she has been spotted entering the agency, chances are she’s been part of the heroes schemes all this time.” He was nodding to himself. “And she had the audacity to act like she was part of nothing. Smart move for her but not careful enough.”

Squinting at the train of thought he had just heard, Kurono rested his elbows on his thighs.

“So, you think she’s teaming up with the heroes?”

“She is.” He leaned on the back rest.

“She told you?”

“Not outright.”

“What gave her away then?”

“The night I left, she mentioned how the heroes don’t have a clear map of the base and only an outline. That was either a slip or intentional. From the turn of events, it may have been accidental.” The memory of that night, having his body so close to yours made him fiddle with the hem of his gloves. The scene of having your flushed face so near to his made him smirk under the black mask. Glancing at the calendar, though there was no need, it had been three days since the both of you contacted each other.

“Do you think we’ve been bugged?” Kurono asked. His eyes darting from one corner of the room to the other.

“No.” Crossing his arm against his chest, he let out a long sigh. “Not yet, at least. But knowing them, it’s bound to happen and they will use (y/n) for that.”

“What do you intend on doing?”

“Buy me a new sim tomorrow, Kurono. It’s best if communication is cut. The Quirk erasing bullets are nearing its completion. Any upcoming hindrances would disrupt the plan.” Taking his phone out, he checked for any messages. Seeing as there were none, he turned it off and threw the sim card across the table. The small plastic landing inches away from the edge.

“You’re not going to overhaul it?” This was something he was not expecting.

“No. Burn it.”

“You’re…” He took the sim into his hand. “You’re really serious about this.”

"Those rats are on the move. The chances of her bugging our base is high. Knowing she's not the type to refuse, it is best to cancel out any communication." Picking up his mask, he let out a silent sigh and wore the said item. "No need to fret, Kurono. I've already prepared the necessary actions."

"Knowing you, there's no need to fret." He too took his mask and wore it as well. Fixing his hood, he stared at his friend. "What about the Fukuo Kai case?"

"That is in two months. The hype would have died down." Standing up, he fixed his coat and motioned Kurono to follow him out. "Besides. If (y/n) really has an interest in me, she would know the perils of harboring emotions. Let's go. I'm famished."

"Pardon?" Kurono stopped walking and stared at the back of his boss.

"Even the strongest villains need nourishment."

"Oh, uh, sure." Not sure what to do next, he rubbed the hems of hood. "Shall I ready the car?"

Seeing the nod, he blinked himself back to reality and went separate ways. Walking towards the garage, the blue-haired man replayed the events. He wasn't too sure but he could feel how your mannerisms were slowly rubbing off of Kai. Not that he minded, it was just… weird.

Taking the sim from his pocket, Kurono weighed out the options of burning or keeping the small object. Kai or even Overhaul wasn't too fond of keeping mementos, but his sense of gratitude was always strong. His ways of repaying debts were always admirable, no matter how absurd his methods may be.

Once he was now seated in the car, he knew exactly what to do with it.

The following day, Tsukauchi took his seat beside you. A brown paper bag now resting on your desk. After the heart to heart talk inside your car, you are more than glad that nothing has changed. He still treated you as his partner, as well as his close friend.

"Here are some updates for the Fukuo Kai." Reaching out for a folder, Tsukauchi pulled it with his fingertips till he finally grasped it. "We have detected some movements in their western branch. Me and the 4th division will be checking them out 3 days from now. Care to join?"

Checking your schedule, it was vacant and you agreed.

"So what're your plans now?" He asks while grabbing a small chip from your meal. "Nighteye?"

"Yeah. They’ll be discussing who’s who within the eight precepts.” Despite trying your best, you couldn’t help the slight slumping of your shoulders. Slowly nodding at the words that left your mouth, you chuckled and shook your head.

“Are you debating whether or not to tell him you're a part of the scheme?”

“I can’t but I feel like he’s caught up. I tried to call him last night. Yes, I know it’s cheap of me. But, his number was unavailable so…”

“He probably was off doing villainous deeds.” Tsukauchi patted your head and dragged his seat back to his cubicle. “He’d be a real jerk if he won’t contact you within the next few days. Trust me. Not even bad guys can resist the temptation of women.”

“You’re making me sound like a prostitute, Nao~” You commented while checking your emails. For now, nothing caught your eye. The occasional spam emails were present and one from Hawks but you could save that for later. Any more birdmen was not in your priority.

A few minutes passed and you were now engrossed in typing reports. When the lights of your company telephone lit up, your eyes darted to Namase’s door. It had been a long time since the both of you conversed, or let alone saw each other. The fact that he was calling you only meant bad news. Recalling every case you left unsolved, you were quite confident that this was nothing worth worrying about.

Picking up the phone, you braced yourself.

“Namase?”

“Bet you’re wondering why I called you, right?” Right. You forgot. This man held no filter whatsoever. “Well no need to worry. I just had to inform you that we received an anon caller. Do you wanna put him on the line?”

“An Anon caller? For what case?” You grabbed a pen and paper.

“For the Arson case.”

“Can you put him on the line?”

“Sure~”

Namase put the Anon caller thru and you waited till you were sure he wasn’t eavesdropping.

“Hello?” Even if you weren’t sure whether or not you should receive this call.

“Is this (l/n)-san?” His voice was low but clear enough for you to hear. “I think I have some good information about the fires.”

“I’d love to hear it but I had to hand over the case to the HPSC not too long ago. I can give you their hotline number if you want.”

“They scare me. I would prefer it if it was you who passed the message to them. Are you free later at 4pm?”

“Let me just check my schedule.” You knew you were free but you felt the need to look up the person. “Can I have your name, if that’s alright?”

“Tetsu.”

“Okay, Tetsu-san. Where do you want to meet up? Is a cafe alright? Or do you want a private room in the precinct?”

“A cafe please.”

“Alright, We can meet by the Nooks and Books. ’ll be the one wearing black. I’ll see you later.”

With no greetings, the line ended and you put the phone down. Gathering your stuff, you began to skim through each article you recently read about fires. Granted it had been a while since you last heard any news about fires, the tip was or could be useful. Of course having to talk to the HPSC was something you were not looking forward to.

“Nao, I’ll be taking my leave now. Anything you want me to bring when I come back?” You peaked into his rather messy cubicle. “Geez. Calm down with your cases, buddy.”

“This is only for the meantime.” He scratched his neck and stared at the scattered papers and folders. “I’d like a creampuff, though. A creampuff sounds nice in these trying times.”

“Aight. I’ll bring you a box later.” You said as you exited the floor.

It only took a few minutes but you were now seated in another desk. One where you wished you were not a part of. Greeting the heroes who had just entered the meeting room, you smiled at the sight of Deku and Mirio.

“(l/n)-san! Long time no see!” Deku greeted you and took the vacant seat beside you. “How’s work?”

“Work is work. How’s school? Are you holding up? Must be difficult to juggle this raid and academics.”

“It is but we have supplementary classes so I can manage.”

“Your classmates with Uraraka, Asui, and Kirishima, right?”

“Yeah!”

Exchanging a few more small talk with the heroes, you locked eyes with the hero sitting beside you. The scruffy hair, eyes that looked like they haven’t slept a single second, and the trademark scarf resting on his shoulders. Giving a shy smile, Aizawa merely responded with a lazy nod before Nighteye finally entered the room.

“As you all know, today’s agenda will be task distribution. Let’s get on with the details now, shall we?”

The tasks were distributed rather well. Fatgum Agency would be accompanying the front of the team. Right alongside Nighteye and Aizawa. The other heroes were tasked to stay outside and guard the entrance for any possible nuances that might occur. The police staff were divided into two groups. Being given ample time to assign which officers would be in the outer and inner group, you merely nodded and took the list of names.

‘Great. More work.’ Flipping the pages, most officers were people you had worked with before. At least things wouldn’t be so difficult.

“(l/n)-san?” Nighteye snapped your thoughts away. Adjusting his glasses, he rested his elbows on the desk and leaned in. “How’s the task of bugging Overhaul?”

“I haven’t been in touch with any of them for a few days now. I will be trying this week if the situation allows.”

“Alright. If that succeeds then things will go much smoother and will surely pick up speed. Best of luck. Any questions?”

“Are there any updates about the League of Villains being tied with them?” Deku asked.

“As of the moment, there’s no movement from them. So, it’s safe to assume that they only have minor participation in said event.” Nighteye replied without batting an eyelash. He really was confident in this raid.

Feeling guilt rushing through your veins, you shifted in your seat and silently exhaled. Once Nighteye gave the adjournment, you scurried out of the room and made your way to the cafe. It was a bit traffic but you would still be able to arrive on time. With the cafe being near the station, parking would be no trouble.

When things were now settled, you were now walking towards the cafe and found yourself now standing in front of the cashier and saying your order. Taking your number, you looked for a private booth and sat there. It rested in the corner so Tetsu wouldn’t be too uncomfy.

When the clock struck 4, you were now staring at the lobby waiting for that Tetsu to arrive.

Sure enough, a man with a hood entered the cafe and made eye contact with you. Seeing as he walked towards your booth, it was safe to assume that this was Tetsu.

“Are you Tetsu?” You asked the man wearing the hood. With the sunglasses and mask, you could only make out such little skin his face had.

“I cannot stay long. But I came to hand this over.” He slid a small brown envelope. His head hanging low making sure you wouldn’t catch a glimpse at his covered face. “I hope this can assist your case.”

“To be fair, please stay while I go through the contents of this envelope.” Taking the envelope, you slid the content out only to have a sim card laying flat on your palm. “What kind of information does this hold, Tetsu-san?”

“That information is sensitive so you can check its contents before handing it over.”

“But, I’m not part of the Arson case anymore. Would you still want me to hand this in or redact a few messages.”

Overhaul did not mention you were no longer part of the case. Cursing at how blank his mind was, Kurono glanced at the environment before he exhaled deeply.

“I will only say this once, so listen carefully.” He uttered.

“This isn’t about the Arson case now, is it?” Sliding the sim card back, you carefully placed it inside your bag and focused on Tetsu. The words that came out of his mouth made your heart beat faster. Clenching your fists, you braced for whatever he would say next.

“Kai has been on edge and it’s been such a pain in the ass. I don’t know what the hell made you decide to mention Ackerwacker but you got what you wished for.” Kurono’s voice was low. Barely audible due to the cafe’s music. “But, it would be a lie if I said he hasn’t been more human ever since he met you.”

“Can you take your mask and shades off?”

“You’ll probably just arrest me right here.” Kurono took his shades off revealing familiar gray eyes.

“You were that guy from the restaurant?” Your eyes widened at the realization that Overhaul had interfered that early on. “Not that I’m complaining or anything, but ya’ll did me a great favor.”

A slight smirk appeared on his lips as he took the mask off. It felt different having his face exposed after a long time.

“I can see why he took interest in you.”

“Why meet me, though? Wouldn’t this only risk in you being overhauled and shit?”

“I have my ways. Kai instructed me to get rid of his sim card but I don’t know. Perhaps you can make use of it in your private life.”

“Well, to be honest, the heroes don’t fully trust me.” You shrugged. That was nothing new. “It sucks having to juggle work and personal feelings in this particular case. Guess both of us are in a pinch.”

“Perks of being with Kai.”

“You should probably get going… Chronostasis, right?” Putting his disguise back on, a switch flipped in your mind. “Hey you mind if I get your number? If you have one, ofcourse.”

“Why?”

“I like to make my connections.” You winked. When he took out his phone, you in turn took something out of your pocket. Placing it on the table, you pushed the small box towards the villain. “I’ll text you the instructions later, aight?”

“What’s this?”

“You’ll know when you open it.”

With that, Kurono pocketed the small box and left the cafe. When he was out of sight, you rubbed your face and groaned.

“Damn it.”

- - - - -

a/n: hohoho Kurono now enters the picture! hope ya’ll enjoyed this chapter! :) Mimick is still writing down Overhaul’s waiting list! if you guys have any questions or just wanna be tagged :) feel free to spam me! take care!

#overhaul x reader #overhaul #bnha overhaul #mha overhaul #chisaki kai x reader #bnha chisaki kai #mha chisaki kai #chisaki kai #bnha chisaki #chisaki x reader

[iwrestlenow]

Many More To Die - Chapter 4

TITLE: Many More To Die (Chapter 4)

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: Roman discovers that even the power of a king has its limits--but at least he has the power to help Logan in one critical fashion.

Logan is a needy wreck, and can't figure out which way is up, and as desperately as he needs someone--one man--to hold his hand through it all? It only makes things worse somehow.

Meanwhile, through all of this, another chess piece steps out of the shadows and onto the game board--and he's not going anywhere until he gets what, and who, he came for.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), future Moceit (Patton/Janus) and Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: Panic attack, but that’s it for this chapter. It’s mostly me having feelings, being TOTALLY UNABLE TO STOP WRITING WHAT THE HELL SOMEONE SAVE ME XD, and more self indulgent garbage that just felt good to write. So there. :P

Also, no betas, we die like men.

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more…hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

“Lord Janus? I want this man dead.”

“Certainly, Your Majesty.”

“Please—mercy, Your Majesty!”

“Now hang on there just a gosh darn, berry pickin', mother lovin' moment, buster! Janny, if you know what's good for you, you will just stop with this nonsense and put the flippin' sword down!”

Roman would have burst out laughing if he wasn't fighting so hard to keep his composure. It could hardly be helped—Patton came up to Logan's shoulder, but only just, and was standing in his cell with his hands on his hips, glaring at the captain of the royal guard like he was a child being scolded for a broken dish.

Janus hardly looked intimidated—but the fact that he stilled after drawing his sword, leaving a terrified guard trembling against the bars of the cell next to Logan's was telling. Seven years, Lord Janus had served as the head of the assassins' corps before retiring to become the captain of the royal guard. Roman had heard stories, but never met the man until today, which was hardly unusual given that Janus was a drake—the son of a human and a dragon. They were notoriously gifted shapeshifters, even with a handicap like his.

Lord Janus was powerful, deadly, and highly skilled at remaining an enimga...but a hobbled child necromancer in a cell had the power to stay his hand.

Janus raised an eyebrow at Patton, but finally glanced at Roman.

Roman nodded. Janus refocused on the guard, pushing the tip of his sword against the hollow of his throat, hard enough to draw blood.

“Majesty, I beg you! I don't want to die!” the guard begged.

Roman let out a bemused little laugh.

“How strange,” he replied as calmly as he could manage, “I was under the impression you did, given the fact that you refused, a second time, to obey a direct order from your king.”

“The Necromata must be bound! It's the law!”

“I am the law!”

Storming up to the guard, Roman let his emotions fuel him—exhaustion, grief, anger, confusion, and the tearing, unspeakable ache that throbbed through him every time his gaze ventured too close to the open door of the cell where Logan still leaned.

The wail he'd let out when Roman pulled free of his grip to order the cell door opened was going to haunt his sleep. The way he stood now, so carefully still, features so meticulously schooled into calm, unfeeling lines, was going to rob him of that breath of life Logan had only just returned to him.

“I am the king now, and I am the ultimate authority.” Roman spat. “Now, I fully understand the need to shackle a prisoner being removed from his cell, but as far as I am concerned, this man is no longer a prisoner here.”

“You can't--”

“I think you'll find that I can.”

“Your Majesty.”

Roman turned at the sound of Logan's voice, cool and even but too quiet, hoarse and thick with the tears he'd finally managed to stop from streaming down his face.

“The law is such that the king cannot overrule it.” Logan declared with deceptive calm. “The Necromata, once imprisoned by the royal family, can only be pardoned for the crimes of their birth with the blessing of the people. A vote, if you will...and no such vote has ever been successfully passed.”

“How do you know this?”

“I have been here for ten years with little more to do than read. I have the entire legal code of the Kingdoms and the criminal rules of order memorized, along with the family tree of the royal family and all available star maps of the area.”

Roman wanted to scream. He wanted to hit something—for a terrible moment, he wanted to order Janus to proceed with the guard's execution for real, rather than just trying to make a point.

Then inspiration struck—bright, blinding, and blessed as it filled him with light.

“My order will still be obeyed.” Roman announced. “These two necromancers—they may not be pardoned, but they will be imprisoned at my pleasure...and it is my pleasure to have them confined to guest quarters upstairs. Have extra guards posted at all available palace entrances. They are not to leave the grounds until the vote has been passed. Successfully.”

He shot a look at the offending guard.

“And the first person to shackle either one of them without violent provocation will be hung at dawn.”

Janus lowered his sword and slid it back into its sheath—the cane he'd been carrying with him—before moving to Roman's side.

“Bit extreme, don't you think, Majesty?” he murmured once he was close enough to ensure that only Roman would hear him.

“My father is dead, Lord Janus.” Roman shot back bleakly. “I have yet to shed a single tear for him--'extreme' feels like an appropriate response right about now.”

“Touche. Of course—and it has nothing to do with the traumatized necromancer you're apparently well acquainted with?”

Roman didn't answer as he moved towards the open door of the cell. Standing before Logan, he extended his hand...

...then suddenly realized that was a bad idea as he put his hand back down again.

********** More.

Logan could hardly string a single coherent thought together around the constant chant in his mind, his marrow, his soul for the prince to touch him again. He couldn't let him, not when it was so agonizing, fire and pressure and somehow affecting every nerve in his body when it was focused on such a small area...

More. More. More.

He didn't understand why restraining himself was so hard. It hurt, it was clearly doing him some kind of physical and psychological harm...and yet he wanted. Needed.

He couldn't remember ever experiencing the sensation.

It very nearly caused another panic attack when the prince dropped his offered hand—and that was another problem entirely, standing before a cell door standing wide open, and the use of the word pardon being thrown around like it wasn't capable of changing the world as Logan knew it—but the pause that seemed to last for an eternity must have only been a few seconds long.

Because a moment later, the Green Man—the prince—was reaching into his pocket and producing a pair of pristine white gloves. A missing piece of the military uniform, how had Logan not noticed? He usually noticed things like that...

When he finished tugging them on, he offered his hand to Logan again. He said nothing...just waited.

Logan shook with the force of effort it took to reach, slowly, to accept the offered hand. The gloves blocked some of that heat from skin to skin contact—and when he gently folded his fingers around Logan's, barely any pressure, it was still intense...but better.

“All good, Berry?”

Logan looked into his eyes sharply, the name ricocheting around in his skull in a manner he hadn't experienced in literal years—not since he'd first discovered his power was awakening again, all concussive force and electricity crawling against the underside of his skin.

All at once, the years fell away, and he was asleep in his cell that first terrible night, dreaming of every monstrous shadow transforming into a protector as green eyes lit the dark.

He opened his mouth to answer yes, he was fine—then realized...

“I do not know which of the princes you are.” he admitted with a bemused huff.

That got a smile from the other man—too brief, far too brief before it fractured to pieces, a crystal goblet slammed to the floor, raining shards of razor sharp light.

“Roman.” he replied. “Pr—King Thomas Roman II, but you may address me by my name.”

“Hardly acceptable, is it, Majesty?” Janus mused.

“Given that my life is currently in this man's hands—and the future of my father—I'd say he's earned a few niceties, Lord Janus.” Roman announced, raising his voice to ensure everyone within earshot was aware of it. Logan had a strange feeling that Lord Janus spoke up for precisely that purpose, to make his situation known.

Logan's, not Roman's—Logan knew that anyone with a shred of loyalty to the king would probably kill him if given the chance. There was no question that someone would likely accuse a necromancer with ties to the crown prince of the murder. Fear for Roman's safety would keep him protected.

Janus was that kind of man, shrewd and shameless—Logan knew precious little about Prince Roman, but to discover that he was equally blessed with the gift of strategy was...intriguing.

“Lord Janus, see to it that Logan's cell mate is made comfortable, and shown around the north wing of the palace. That is where I would prefer they spend the bulk of their time.” Roman declared. “I will take custody of this prisoner myself. When you are done, I want you, the dungeon master, the head prison mage, and a heart healer in the war room, immediately. Send for my brother as well.”

“Yes, Your Majesty—but I cannot send you alone.” Janus replied. Surveying the guards in their presence, and grimacing with impatience, he finally took a few steps down the corridor and flagged down another guard.

“You! Fetch the cadet from the graveyard patrol, now! I want him on the king's detail.”

Roman nodded his thanks, finally turning his attention back on Logan. Between those green eyes and the warm pressure enfolding his hand, ravaging his nerves and making his chest throb with pure emotion, he wasn't sure he could stand it much longer without losing his composure.

“Are you all right?” Roman asked quietly, stepping closer and into Logan's personal space. Strangely, Logan realized he could feel that as well, radiant heat and buzzing static crawling across his skin, too close and not enough and everything.

More. More. More.

“I am not.” he admitted. “Hardly unusual, given that touch starvation is a common condition among the Necromata, to say nothing of the Claim.”

“The Claim? What's that?”

Logan's mouth snapped shut, very real panic rising in his chest again.

“Whoah—Logan? Logan, breathe. Look at me, you need to breathe.”

The Claim. He knew, knew what Logan had done, was holding his hand and Logan could feel it, but now he'd spoken about the Claim, about his power, and he was going to die this time...

...two...three...four...hold for one...two...three...four...five...

“That's it, Logan. There you go, can you do it again?”

...good job, now again: in for one...two...three...four...

Pressure. Pressure, pressure, pressure, everywhere, pressure pressure unrelenting pressure...

“Hey!”

Logan blinked, attention snapping to the young man suddenly standing in front of him. He was nearly Logan's height, with straight black hair that hung in dark eyes, flinty as stone.

“Name five things you can see.”

“I...what?”

“Do it. Five things.”

Logan shook his head, and almost immediately his gaze was drawn back to Roman.

“Green Man.” he managed to reply. Roman smiled, and Logan felt that mantra start tattooing itself against the inside of his skull, blotting out the fear and panic.

“Okay, keep going. Let's keep going.”

Logan only realized they were moving because Roman still held his hand, was tugging him with the barest of pressure—and Logan's traitorous body followed. Between the cadet, demanding Logan name more things he could see, along with touch, smell, hear, and taste, and Roman's silent encouragement, he found himself moving out of his cell and towards the stairs of the dungeon.

Moving up each stair. Moving through the gate, and into the palace...moving, traveling, with only Roman's hand to restrain him.

Then he was in the palace, above the dungeons...and if he never saw the outside world again, Logan still felt like he could call himself a free man.

********** “Thank you.”

The cadet flinched a little, looking towards the king. “What?”

“Thank you.” King Roman repeated, still crouched motionless by the chair the prisoner had all but collapsed into. He'd basically passed out when they reached the war room, but didn't seem to be in any distress—just exhausted and overstimulated.

“That trick, focusing on his surroundings—it's greatly appreciated.” he went on, his gaze never leaving the sleeping man's face. He still held his hand, like he might vanish if he let him go. “How did you know it would work?”

The cadet had to grit his teeth for a second, finding himself watching the sleeping prisoner despite his best efforts not to. He looked...well, he looked like shit, and it was hard. It was so hard to watch, but he had to do it.

He was finally here, and he had to make sure that he didn't screw up again.

“I have anxiety.” he finally replied, keeping his tone even. “Nightmares, panic attacks, the works. My brother used to help me through them with tricks like that. He'd have me focus on my surroundings, or make me pick out colors—he even made me a special blanket to help me sleep. It, uh—it might be good for him? The guard who got me mentioned that this necromancer can feel your touch? If he's not used to contact, it could...”

“You'd be willing to do that?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Go and fetch it, then.”

“Sir, I was ordered to stay with you.”

“I'm the king. I overrule your orders.” King Roman replied.

The cadet lifted his gaze to the king's face, his stomach sinking when he realized he was being stared at. Hard.

Ohhhhh, shit.

“You don't call me 'Majesty.' Why?”

The cadet tried to be discreet about taking a steadying breath as he shrugged. “You have a pet necromancer now. All due respect, but I don't think you'll have the job long.”

“What do you know about necromancers?”

“I know they're not evil. Only reason I'm still here is that you seem to know it, too.”

King Roman nodded, gaze flicking down before it returned to the sleeping necromancer.

“Cadet...do you know what a Claim is?”

The cadet swallowed thickly. No...oh no.

“It's a binding ritual.” the cadet replied. “The Necromata are capable of manipulating death, but when they can't? They take it.”

“Away?”

“No—into themselves. They take the victim's dying breath, infuse it with their blood, and return it to the person it belongs to. That way, when the victim's time comes, they survive it.”

The cadet looked to the necromancer again.

Gods, Loganberry—what did you do?

“And the necromancer dies in their place.”

To his credit, the king paled, his free hand lifting to touch Logan's hair like the cadet itched to—so close for the first time in ten years, but he couldn't even comfort him.

He had to stay put. By the door, protecting the king and his charge.

After a decade, Virgil was finally, finally within reach of Logan in every way that mattered, and he would die before he jeopardized his one chance to save him.

Virgil was the one who got his big brother caught and imprisoned in the first place—he was damn well going to make sure that he was the one to set things right.

#sanders sides #fanfic #logan sanders #roman sanders #janus sanders #patton sanders #ts logic #ts creativity #ts deceit #ts morality #don't click to read more tags if you don't want spoilers #no seriously #going at the very end here #this is all the artist's fault i'm just a hapless writer that stumbled across it #my name is liz and i swear to god i will fic again #i don't even know what i'm saying anymore #virgil sanders #ts anxiety #logince #moceit

[carewyncromwell]

Cue the Pirates of the Caribbean theme, people! ☠️

This is the next installment of the POTC AU -- if you’d like to read the previous part, you can find that here, or you can consult my “POTC AU” tag for the full thing as well as some other wonderful contributions my HPHM friends have made to this AU! Juliette “Jules” Farrier, who’s mentioned here as our sort-of-Elizabeth Swann, belongs to my sweet @cursebreakerfarrier. 💚

x~x~x~x

Now, normally, finding out that Orion had appeared out of nowhere to rescue her friend from drowning would’ve been more than enough reason for Carewyn to run over to both of them, check them for injuries, thank the stars that they were both okay and that Orion had been there, and finally ask Orion what the hell he was even doing there at all. Of course, Carewyn was not the only person who recognized Orion -- every single soldier who’d followed her out of the fort, as well as both Percy and Governor Farrier, were with her and had also recognized the pirate captain from his wanted posters. And so Carewyn had no choice but to immediately draw her sword and point it at Orion’s chest.

“Captain Orion Amari,” she said lowly, her blue eyes boring into his face.

Orion looked from Carewyn’s blade to the other swords held by her subordinates. Jules had already been snatched up the ground and pulled away by her father, but the dark-haired lady looked back at Orion, her eyes very wide. Orion’s eyes then returned to Carewyn.

“Captain Weasley,” the pirate greeted airily in return, as he slowly rose to his feet. “Oh -- yes, pardon me...you would be Commodore Weasley now...isn’t that right?”

"You know full well he’s a Commodore!” one of the regulars who’d been at the dock piped up angrily. He whirled on Carewyn with an almost huffy expression. “He said he’d come to ‘pay the Commodore a little visit’ -- ”

“Told you he was telling the truth,” the other regular muttered resentfully at him, before very quickly and dutifully adding to Carewyn, “These are his, sir!”

The young man turned over Orion’s belt and belongings. Reluctantly Carewyn parsed through them, turning his pistol over in her hand. She opened up another pocket and found a round gold framed object small enough to fit in her hand.

It was a portrait miniature of her, like the kind currently being sold on the docks of Port Royal.

Carewyn’s wide eyes darted from the portrait to down at Orion. His face was very placid, but there was a flicker with something almost sheepish in the creases of his eyes and lips.

“I suppose that’s how he found out you’re now Commodore,” said Percy, his brown eyes narrowing coldly upon Orion.

He picked up the little black box-like object that had fallen out of his belt pocket onto the deck and opened it. His nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Why -- his compass doesn’t even point north!” he said incredulously.

The other soldiers sniggered. Tucking the portrait miniature swiftly back into Orion’s belt, Carewyn turned and gave her troops a faintly reproachful look, and they all quieted.

“Dignity, men,” she said primly. “We’re soldiers of the crown. Let us act accordingly.”

Percy placed the compass in her waiting hand, shooting another dirty look at Orion as he did so.

Although Carewyn’s face was calm, her mind was working at a mile a minute. With the Governor, Percy, and so many of her men there, she knew there was no way she could simply get away with letting Orion off the hook, even if he had just saved Jules’s life. There was nothing she could do -- she would have to take Orion into custody.

“As flattered as I am for the...visit, Captain Amari,” she said as sardonically as she could, “you clearly had not the time to make living arrangements, for your stay. Fortunately there’s more than enough room in the local jail, where you can make yourself quite at home.”

“Ca -- Commodore,” Jules said quickly, “you don’t really intend to throw my rescuer in prison?”

Carewyn turned to her. She could see the concern in her eyes as she glanced from Carewyn to Orion and back, even as she tried to feign gentility.

‘She knows I don’t want to do it,’ thought Carewyn. ‘But I can’t pardon him, even if it’s supposedly for her sake -- her father would never be willing to look the other way...’

“I intend to throw a pirate in prison, Miss Farrier,” she murmured as calmly as she could.

Jules opened her mouth as if to protest, but her father spoke first.

“And then send him to the gallows, as is proper,” said Governor Farrier icily. His eyes turned to Carewyn. “Commodore, if Amari is here, the Artemis cannot be far behind -- we should make ready the Interceptor and take them down.”

Carewyn immediately looked at Orion’s face. Despite the level of cool he tried to put off, his shoulders had tensed noticeably.

“...I wonder about that,” said Carewyn very softly.

The Governor looked at her with narrowed, confused eyes. “What?”

Thinking quickly, she folded her arms behind her back and took three slow, plodding steps toward Orion, her eyes boring into his shoulder rather than his face. Her black boots clapped against the deck as she strolled leisurely but purposefully around him.

“You came to pay me a ‘visit,’ Captain Amari,” she said slowly, “and yet you came alone. Even though you must have known there’d be a fort full of soldiers attending the ceremony...”

When she was facing away from the Governor and her men, Carewyn shot Orion the quickest of gentle warning looks to tell him not to say anything.

“...It’s odd, isn’t it?”

“Orion Amari is known for being odd, Commodore,” Governor Farrier pointed out.

“Yes, but it’s odd to the point of being irrational, which he’s not known for. Pirates are sea rats first and foremost, Governor -- they’re not creatures of the land, by nature. A pirate choosing to fight a battle on dry land as opposed to the open sea can only signal one of two things: one, they think they can get away with it -- highly unlikely, in this circumstance...or two, they’re desperate.”

Carewyn’s blue eyes bore hard into Orion’s dark eyes.

‘Please -- please, play along,’ she thought desperately.

“You don’t have a ship anymore...do you, Captain?” she whispered.

Orion’s eyes widened. Then, understanding light flooding through his narrowing eyes, he made a sharp, almost violent movement toward her -- Carewyn grabbed his arm and in an instant had looped it around his back to restrain him.

“I would still, were it not for you,” Orion breathed as coldly as he could manage.

Carewyn put on the best smirk she could. “Mutiny and betrayal is par the course for pirates. I suppose your First Mate or Quartermaster is in charge now?”

Orion made a show of struggling against her grip, and Carewyn tightened her grip.

“Fetch some irons,” she ordered one of her subordinates.

Her and Orion’s eyes met again as the soldier ran off for the irons. Carewyn tried very hard not to show the anxiety she felt, but her face was very white. Orion’s dark eyes remained unreadable, but Carewyn could feel his arm in her grip twisting just enough that he could trail the pointer and middle fingers of his left hand along the inside of her forearm, almost as if to comfort her.

‘Oh, Orion, why did you have to come?’ Carewyn moaned internally to herself. ‘Why did you have to be so noble that you got yourself caught?!’

Fortunately once the irons arrived, Orion managed to seize his chance of escape. When Jules once again tried to protest him being imprisoned and hung, Orion was able to loop the iron chain connecting his manacles together around her neck and threaten Carewyn to give him his “effects” and let him loose, so that Jules wouldn’t come to harm. Although Carewyn knew that he would’ve never really hurt Jules, she could sense everyone else thought he was just off-balance enough to do it -- and fortunately Jules, in a incredible display of brilliance, was perfectly willing to play the part of the frightened damsel so as to help with the ruse. And so Orion Amari escaped captivity and went running off into the streets of Port Royal.

Carewyn’s men were sent after him, of course. She made sure that the soldiers fired off a lot of guns and made a good amount of noise in their pursuit, so as to hopefully alert any of Orion’s crewmates who might’ve stuck around to the trouble and make them retreat. Orion managed to evade capture for a good couple of hours -- he even managed to break the iron chain attaching his manacles. Eventually he ended up in a church not far away from the northern dock. When he went to hide out in there, however, the pirate captain collided with a priest about his age, with hair as ginger red as Carewyn’s.

The priest gave Orion a very penetrating look, his hands folded together inside the long white sleeves of his robes.

“You’d be who they’re looking for,” he said lowly. “Orion Amari.”

Orion’s dark eyes ran over the priest’s face for a moment. Then a trace of something almost like a smile touched his eyes.

“...You must be Bill Weasley.”

“That I am,” said Bill. His voice had hardened even further. “I suppose you’ve come to claim sanctuary?”

Orion’s smile left his eyes and he suddenly looked much more serious.

“...That would be rather helpful, Father,” he said.

His dark eyes flickered from the priest to the closed church doors over his shoulder.

Bill’s brown eyes narrowed upon the pirate’s face.

“Normally I’d be willing to give it -- but I’m afraid there’s a problem. You don’t fulfill the rules of sanctuary, for you’ve entered our church carrying weapons.”

Orion glanced down at his pistol and cutlass.

“...I see,” he granted. “Very well...I shall find refuge elsewhere, then.”

Orion made as if to turn on his heel and leave. Before he could take more than a step, though, he felt the tip of a blade poking him in the back.

“I’m afraid that’s not the only problem,” the eldest Weasley said, his voice very quiet and low in the back of his throat. “You see...you’ve threatened the lives of two of the most important people in my life.”

Orion glanced over his shoulder, very startled despite himself at the sight of a priest pointing a sword at him. Once he’d recovered, his face grew much more solemn.

“It was unavoidable, I’m afraid,” he said lowly.

Bill’s brown eyes flashed. “All the more reason for me to insure you don’t do it to anyone else.”

The sentiment was very much like Carewyn’s, when she’d first arrived on the Artemis -- it was little wonder this man and she had bonded so closely that he’d given her his name...

‘Carewyn said he’s in love with the Governor’s daughter,’ Orion quickly reminded himself when his heart clenched at the thought. ‘He gave Carewyn his name to protect her -- no other reason.’

Therefore Bill Weasley was someone Orion could only look upon with patience and gratitude, however misguided he now was...

“I don’t wish to fight you,” the pirate captain murmured.

“Then surrender to the Navy,” said Bill sharply. “Give yourself up quietly.”

Orion’s dark eyes narrowed. “That I’m afraid I cannot do.”

Bill made as if to lunge forward, his sword raised -- Orion immediately unsheathed his cutlass to block him.

“I do not wish to fight you,” Orion repeated. “Do you truly mean to fight in your own church?”

“Romans 13:4,” retorted Bill. “‘For he is God's servant for your good. But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword in vain. For he is the servant of God, an avenger who carries out God's wrath on the wrongdoer!’”

CLANG! SHING! SWISH! Orion had to block twice more and duck, to avoid Bill’s blows.

Before long, Orion and Bill were hotly engaged in battle. At one point, they were even climbing over and balancing on the edges of the benches in the pews, Bill holding the advantage not just due to his superior swordmanship, but also his long legs giving him a wider reach. Throughout the fight, Orion consistently tried to talk Bill down, but the eldest Weasley was too righteously angry to heed Orion’s repeated attempts at pacifism.

At long last, Orion was forced to play things a bit underhandedly. With a hard kick, he knocked a pew bench on top of Bill’s chest, slamming him down into the floor, and propped a leg firmly on top of the bench so Bill couldn’t get up.

“You...you cheating -- !” swore Bill.

He struggled in vain to try to push the bench off, but the angle made it impossible to properly position his arms in a way that he could move it.

Keeping his foot firmly on the bench, Orion contorted awkwardly to snatch up Bill’s sword from the floor in his other hand.

“Forgive me,” he said, his voice both shakier than normal as he tried to catch his breath and harder as he fought to contain his temper, which had been thoroughly tested over the span of the last five minutes. “But you’re more bull-headed than a Minotaur, Bill Weasley. Perhaps from that angle you may be able to listen a bit better...”

“I don’t need to hear any fairy stories from the man who kidnapped Carey and used Miss Farrier’s life as a bargaining chip to save his own neck,” Bill spat.

“Neither of which I deny,” said Orion, and his voice betrayed an odd edge, “but I would never have harmed either lady -- neither yours nor mine.”

Bill stiffened sharply. His narrowed brown eyes bore into the pirate, before they widened little by little, filling with shock and horror. 

“Yes, I know she’s a girl,” said Orion very softly. “Her name is Carewyn. Carewyn Cromwell -- granddaughter of the pirate Captain Charles Cromwell. Her brother is Jacob Cromwell -- lost at sea years ago, disappearing under the name ‘Roberts.’ She’s worn a red ribbon in her hair since she was a child. She fought in the Navy, where you gave her the name ‘Weasley’ and adopted her into your family. She has a voice like a nightingale’s and a heart as large and deep as the ocean itself -- ”

“ENOUGH!” shouted Bill. His freckled face was flushed a deep scarlet and he tried to sound fierce, but his hands clutching the edges of the bench were shaking.

THUNK.

Orion abruptly stiffened. Then, his eyes rolling up into his head, he collapsed to the floor.

Charlie was standing overhead, holding the large, thick hilt of his own sword over where Orion’s head had been seconds previously. His face was just as flushed and upset as Bill’s as he rushed over to yank the bench off of his brother’s chest and help him to his feet.

“Bill -- are you okay?”

Bill gasped for air, clutching the front of his robes. “Ugh...yes...”

Charlie looked anxiously from Bill to the unconscious Orion. Before he could say anything else, the church doors were flung open. Red-uniformed soldiers poured into the room. At the front of the charge was Percy.

“Bill!” the youngest of the three Weasleys cried. “Charlie, thank goodness!” He shot over his shoulder at the other soldiers, “Swords -- out!”

He and the other red-uniformed soldiers surrounded the unconscious Orion, all pointing their swords at him. Carewyn entered the church at last as a rumble of thunder echoed in the distance. Her face was very pale as she surveyed the felled pirate. Her blue eyes darted to Bill and Charlie -- seeing that Charlie was supporting Bill, she immediately ran over to him.

“Bill -- ”

“I’m fine,” said Bill. His brown eyes rippled anxiously over her face, before they flickered down to Orion. “...I’m fine...”

His voice sounded oddly uncertain and shaky. Charlie glanced from him to Carewyn, his eyes narrowing with concern.

“Carey...before you arrived, Amari said -- ”

But Carewyn shot Charlie a subtle, but sharp shake of the head.

“Never mind what he said. He’s a pirate -- pirates lie.”

“But -- ” started Charlie, but Carewyn gave him a quelling look. She glanced over at the soldiers surrounding Orion over her shoulder, her blue eyes rippling with something almost like shame and remorse. Then she looked from Charlie to Bill with a pleading, almost desperate kind of look.

‘I’ll explain later.’

Then she turned on her heel and walked over to stand over Orion.

“It seems this is the day we’ll always remember as the day Captain Orion Amari almost escaped,” she said very coolly. “Take him to the brig. We’ll set his execution date once the weather improves.”

As the soldiers locked Orion up in chains and Carewyn followed along after them, however, both Bill and Charlie couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t happy about how things had gone down...

As night fell, there was a terrible chill in the air over the island of Port Royal, with clouds passing over the skull-white moon. No one could’ve known what that bizarrely cold wind from the East really meant...and who it was carrying closer to port.

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #orion amari #carewyn cromwell #bill weasley #charlie weasley #jules farrier #percy weasley #my art #my writing #my fanfiction #potc au #au #pirates of the caribbean #GDAMNIT BILL #I love you and how noble you are but why oh why did you have to NOT know orion and carey are ttly cool? #guess we can blame percy for being in the room and so vocally anti-pirate that carewyn couldn't tell all three of you the truth #and yeah with your limited knowledge base you'd have every reason not to trust orion #I mean he did kidnap your BFF come to Port Royal presumably to hurt her again and then threatened your OTL's life to escape custody #oh orion how are you going to get out of this...? #and also why *were* you going to visit carey huh? >> #you can bet mcnully wasn't involved in this plan to head out into port royal completely alone #I'm sure he's probably screaming about the high percentage of failure orion was facing down as we speak #'ORION! THE CHANCES OF NAVIGATING PORT ROYAL AND GETTING TO THE NEW COMMODORE WITHOUT BEING SPOTTED' #'ARE BELOW TWO PERCENT!' #'AND THAT'S GENEROUS' #oh yes also! bill was hiding his sword scabbard under his robes #he slipped his hand out of his sleeve to pull it out under the robes and then bring it back up through his sleeve #but yeah force of habit from his navy days -- bill is ALWAYS armed #thanks for the cool sword charlie!! :DD

[booklover41802]

Could you do another one where Cardan forces Jude back to Elfhame? But this time it’s 5 years after her banishment and she‘a happily married with a child. And Cardan confronts her about this and it again leads to greater angst?

Angst is your request, angst is what I deliver :)

Thank you for the ask, love!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jude

At seven in the morning, all Jude wanted to do was snuggle into the sheets with her husband for an extra minute before the children woke up. However, her husband, Sam, was currently fast asleep, drool pooling out onto his pillow. She studied him, looking at his sleep mussed russet hair, and dark brown skin. He was perfect, save the drool dripping out of his mouth. With one finger Jude gently reached out to wipe it away, accidentally sticking her finger in his mouth as he shifted in his sleep. Sam’s chocolate brown eyes opened sleepily, amused at the predicament. “This wasn’t how I thought I’d start my morning, but I’m not complaining,” he murmured, proceeding to flick his tongue against her skin. Bastard. She hissed, quickly pulling her finger out before he got any more ideas. “There was drool seeping out of your mouth! I only intended to wipe it away as a courtesy gesture!” Huffing to herself, she promptly flipped over to the other side of the bed. Behind her she heard Sam chuckle, and then the sound of the mattress squeaking as he moved closer to her. His arms wrapped around her middle, pulling her close to him. Though they were both clothed, the embrace felt very intimate as he rested his chin on her head. “Mi corazón, have I told you lately how much I love you?” A grin slowly began to spread across Jude’s face. “And how much you need to shower?” And just like that, she scowled. As if knowing how her facial expression changed, his hands came up to run down her shoulders, lightly, sending pinpricks of ecstasy flowing through her. The gentle contact was her favorite part of the morning, when it was just Sam and Jude, and no children. “I jest, I jest! You smell heavenly.” Emphasizing his point, he inhaled near her hairline. “Just like wildflowers and sunshine.” His hands stopped near her elbows, drawing small circles round and round. Closing her eyes, she focused solely on Sam, wanting to enjoy every moment. “The sun doesn’t have a smell.” “Untrue, you are what I imagine the sun smells like. You are the center of my world. And I suppose it doesn’t hurt that you’re hot enough to be the sun.” Jude groaned and shoved herself out of his arms, glaring down at him. “That was the worst pick-up line I have ever heard.” “I don’t need to pick you up, you’re already mine.” He blew her a kiss. Rolling her eyes, Jude opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the sound of running footsteps outside of the bedroom. The door slowly opened up, revealing Jude’s three children, still in their night clothes, with wide eyes. Her eldest, Ronan, determined himself the leader to speak up. The twins, Sofia and Ava, huddled behind their elder brother, seemingly terrified of something. Before Ronan responded, Jude got a terrible feeling in her chest. A feeling that her past was coming back to haunt her. And that history was about to repeat itself. “Darlings, why do you look like deer caught in the headlights?” Her husband asked, now sitting up, throwing his legs over the side to go to their children. He was, thankfully, wearing pants. Jude was frozen in place, her mind racing as to how he had found them. How had he discovered where she lived? Vivi didn’t even know. “A strange man is at the door,” Ronan said in a hushed tone. It was Cardan. She knew it. It was too early for this shit. She uttered a string of curse words not meant for young ears.

Cardan

For the first time in five years, Cardan was about to see his wife. He nervously checked his reflection in the window, making sure his hair was perfect. This day would be perfect. Jude would return to Elfhame with him, and then they could rule together, as High King and Queen. Without his Jude, he was unbelievably lost. He couldn’t handle the pressures of court if she was not by his side. He had even brought a crown for her, as an apology. Cardan hoped she still loved him, otherwise this was about to be very awkward. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the little boy who had answered the door. The boy resembled him, and around five years old. Was the boy… no that was impossible. It was only one time. It didn’t happen that fast. At least, that’s what he’d been told Cardan was spared from his thoughts as the front door opened, and Jude’s stormy face greeted him. She looked beautiful with her rumpled blouse, hastily thrown on bottoms and sleep mussed hair, exactly like the sun. Terrible and enthralling all at once, and if you got too close, you’d get burned. “What are you doing here, Cardan.” Behind her, three children gathered around her legs, and farther back in the room, he saw a man with a worried expression on his bland human face. “To see you, what other reason would I have for visiting the mortal lands.” There was a tug on the hem of his tunic. He looked down to see the boy looking up at him with wide, black eyes. His eyes. “Mister, are you a prince? I’ve read all about them in books and you have a crown.” Cardan smiled indulgently at the child. “Better than a Prince. I’m a King. Would you like to try my crown on?” “Yes!” “No, you will do no such thing, Ronan,” Jude snapped, pushing the kid behind her. As soon as the child’s name slipped out of Jude’s mouth, horror entered her expression. As if she didn’t want him to know. As if it was meant to be a secret. Taking a step closer, so they were mere inches apart, Cardan cocked his head, peering into Jude’s brown eyes, noticing how much older and wiser they seemed. And happier. “May I come in?” “Can he, mommy? Please?” Ronan begged behind them. Jude stared him straight in the face, unwilling to back down. It was just one of the many things he loved about her. “If I say I’m sorry, will you let me cross the threshold?” All emotion was wiped clean from her face at his words. “You destroyed my life, and you think saying sorry will fix it?” She breathed under her breath, so quiet he had to strain his ears, “No. You may not.” Her expression turned fierce, a mother bear protecting what she loved from an intruder. Him. The man he had seen in the shadows earlier now stepped forwards, placing a hand on Jude’s shoulder. “Leave my wife alone, haven’t you done enough damage to her?” Wife. His wife. This was about to get interesting. Cardan flicked his gaze to Jude, noticing how she shut her eyes at her husband’s words. “Your wife? My, my, Jude, you’ve certainly been busy. And here I thought you already exchanged vows.” “Cardan, please-” “I thought you loved me.” There was silence now, from both of them. Jude merely opened the door wider, a defeated slump to her shoulders. The boy, Ronan, cheered when Cardan stepped over the threshold. “Jude, I don’t like this,” her husband said, in an annoyingly worried tone. Cardan smirked at the man, the man who dared called Jude his wife. “You don’t have to. You’ll be out of the picture soon enough.” Cardan looked around the home, noting the family portraits, the wedding photos, the warmth radiating out of the walls. It felt like a place where family didn’t stab each other in the back at the first opportunity. Literally. The man stepped in front of Jude, pushing her behind him, as though she needed protection. If anything, he was the one who needed protection. He was willing to bet the man didn’t know the half of Jude’s past. The bloodthirsty Queen who manipulated every situation to her advantage to gain more power, her ambitions flying higher with each passing day. “If you harm Jude, or my children, you will regret ever coming here.” His children, so there was no way that the boy was his. Cardan was oddly disappointed. “I’m leaving with Jude or I’m not leaving at all.” He turned his head towards his Jude. “Darling, won’t you come home with me?” He stretched out a hand to the woman who held the shambles of his heart. Jude crossed her arms. “I cannot. I’m banished, or have you forgotten that as you conveniently failed to remember how deeply you betrayed me at the first opportunity?” Here came the fun part, where he revealed everything in front of Jude’s husband. His lips stretched wide, teeth gleaming in the low lighting. “You seem to have forgotten the vows we exchanged, and how we consummated it that night.” Her husband looked on stonily. Cardan examined his nails. “Marriage to a King is no small thing, in fact, there’s a little thing that allows you to be elevated. You, my dearest Jude, are the Queen. Your bag of tricks finally ran out and I picked up the remnants. I learned from you, you see. You only need to be pardoned by the crown. With your marriage to me, you are Queen.” “If you’re a Queen, mommy, does that mean I’m a prince?” Ronan excitedly asked from his place beside Jude. Jude looked at Cardan with no emotion, stroking the top of her son’s head. “Yes, I suppose it does. Having a King and Queen for parents often does that.” “Yes! I can’t wait to tell the kids at school!” Cardan felt the blood drain from his face as his suspicions were confirmed. “Are-are you saying what I think you’re saying?” The tension in the air was so thick you could cut it with a knife. The kids seemed oblivious to all. “Ronan is your son. Ava and Sofia are not.” “Jude, is it wise to tell him that? Who knows what he’ll do with that information.” “Sam-” Jude started. “What is one child to me? I care nothing for him, only my Jude.” Sam snarled, getting right up in Cardan’s face. “Jude isn’t yours. She never was, and never will be. The sooner you understand that, the sooner you can leave my family alone.” The fool had no idea to whom he was speaking. He wondered just how much she had revealed to him. Surely she hadn’t told him everything. Jude didn’t let people in like that. Once she had let him in, and he had used the opportunity to show her they were evenly matched, mind-mind. Jude’s hand snaked around Sam’s arm, drawing him away from Cardan. “Sam, can you give us a moment alone, please.” Her husband looked into Jude’s face and found her pleading eyes looking back at him. He loosed a breath and ran his fingers through his hair. “This wasn’t what I thought marriage would be like. Sofia, Ava, Ronan, come with me for a moment.” He left the room with the kids in tow and shut the door to a bedroom. Now it was just him and Jude. Endless words rose up between them, as though they were two figures on a broken bridge with Cardan trying to fix it, while Jude laughed at him. “Do you love him?” Silence greeted him. Only the children’s giggles from behind the door alerted Cardan that he was, not, in fact, in a graveyard. The silence was as haunting as a ghost’s final resting place. The way she stared at him, as if she didn’t know him, hurt Cardan more than he thought it would. Jealousy was a festering wound, the more you picked at it, the more it bled. “Yes, very much. While I’ve been away from Faerie, I never realized how different it was here. It was a shock to find that I quite liked the Mortal Lands and found no sorrow that I was to stay here. At first it seemed like a punishment, but now it has been a blessing.” Jude took on a love-struck expression that made Cardan sick to his stomach. “Did you ever love me?” He asked softly under his breath, daring to lightly run his fingers down her face. Her eyelids fluttered in response to his touch. Angling his head to study her, he wondered at how easily she could turn her emotions on and off like a lightswitch. “Love is a dangerous word.” Jude reached up and clutched his hand. At first, endearing, but as her grip began to tighten, Cardan knew he was about to see the wrath of Jude Durate. She opened her eyes, where he met only a razor sharp focus. “If I told you I only used you for power, what would you say? If I told you I loved you so much that I feared my heart would burst, what would you say?” His fingers strained to escape her iron-clad grip. Any harder and she would break his bones. “Does it matter what I felt? You certainly didn’t seem to take that into consideration when you humiliated me in front of the Court. What difference did it make to you, when you are the High King, and no one matters but you. Let me tell you this, I did love you. Once.” His fingers snapped. A broken cry escaped his lips, though she didn’t seem to hear it, not as she was lost in her passionate speech. As she raised up on her toes to whisper in his ear, Cardan wondered how he ever thought he could match her. “It was a mistake. You were my biggest mistake.” She released his hand and stepped back, arms crossed. Cardan staggered back, clutching his broken hand to his chest. “I still love you. All the stars have winked out in your absence, I beg you to return so that the shadows may disperse. You are the only source of light in my life. Please, return with me.” There was no emotion on her face, wiped clean like a blank canvas. “You have no one to blame but yourself.” The door cracked open and the twins bolted out, laughing as they proudly carried an object in their hands, staggering with the weight. It looked like… a sword. And not just any sword, Nightfell. Jude’s choice of weapon. Sam hurriedly dashed out behind them with a panicked expression on his face. “Ava! Sofia! What have I told you about playing with weapons? They’re too dangerous for young hands.” He plucked it from their hands, sighing as he went. As if realizing he had an audience, he looked up at the two of them, in close proximity, and he just looked… tired. Placing the sword out of reach from the twins, he slowly bent his head and swallowed. “Sam,” Jude whispered. Sam raised his head up and looked at Jude with a sad smile. “If you go with him, I understand why you would want to. He’s a Faerie in a magical land from fairytales, the place where you grew up. If you wish to go, I won’t stop you. After all, what can I offer you other than my heart? Do you not wish to be waited on hand and foot at a castle, versus working yourself to the bone in our small home?” Jude’s eyes began to water, and forgetting as though Cardan was even there, she rushed into Sam’s arms, burying herself against his chest. His arms wrapped tightly around her, his head resting on the top of her hair. “All I ever wanted was you. I love you. I’m not ever leaving, not for the memory of the childhood that scarred me in more ways than one.” She pulled back to look into his eyes. Cardan’s jealous heart rose up into his throat, red entering his vision. He was about to do something very stupid. “You are my home, no matter where we go. It is not Faerie, not anymore.” Cardan’s uninjured hand began to creep towards his jacket, where he stored a hidden dagger. A dagger that was sharp enough to pierce a heart. He’d been training with the Court of Shadows these past few years, and his aim was impeccable. So as the two lovers held each other in their arms, Cardan flung the knife as fast and as hard as he could for Sam’s chest. If he was gone, Jude would have no choice but to return with him. But Jude saw the knife coming. She flung herself in the path of the dagger, where it landed true, into her heart. Cardan’s world narrowed to the blood pouring out of her chest, staining the white blouse she had donned. Distantly he walked over to her in a trance, not seeing how her husband’s face went white with anger, nor the children screaming, drenched in their mother’s blood as they rushed around her. Sam gripped Cardan’s lapels with his hand, yelling in his face. Cardan didn’t hear him, his focus was on his darling Jude, bleeding out onto the floor. Cardan did the thing that was natural for him. He pulled another knife out and stabbed the man in the small of his back. If he was going to destroy himself, the other man was going with him. Sam slumped to the floor at Jude’s feet, his eyes glassy, unseeing. Already his hair was soaking up the blood pooling out from Jude. The children were crying, begging their father to wake up. Cardan had broken this family. He knelt next to Jude and held her icy-cold palm in his. Miraculously, she was still alive. “I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t mean- this wasn’t supposed to happen. We were going to be happy together. You and me, just like it’s always been. That’s all I wanted,” Cardan’s voice broke, tears now pouring out in great rivulets down his skin. With great difficulty, Jude opened her mouth. “You were never the villain in my story, Cardan. You have always held goodness in your heart. You must go on, as it seems that my tale has come to an end.” She stretched up her blood-stricken hand to his hair. “When we were younger, I fell in love with the boy who showed kindness in the smallest of ways. Though you say your heart is but embers, don’t let the light go out.” Her children were still crowded around their father, tears pouring down their little faces. “ All I ask is that you don’t bury me in Faerie. I want to be laid to rest next to my parents. And please, take care of my children. Don’t give them the childhood I had. Ronan is my legacy, as he is yours, and the heir to the Greenbriar throne.” Jude coughed, specks of red flying out. “Make sure they don’t forget me.” With trembling hands, Cardan moved his fingers to her face and cupped her cheek. “You’re not going to die. I-I can save you! Hold on!” He shoved every healing spell he knew into her chest, light wildly flaring out of his touch, not noticing how she had gone still, or the garden that had erupted under his touch, flowers of every kind sprouting up from the wood flooring. Before long, the house was overtaken by greenery and Jude’s final resting place was a garden of Cardan’s own creation. “Just… one… more. Stay with me!” Finally he looked at her, and saw the unnatural stillness of death. She was gone. His light died, as the darkness crept in once more. Jude Durate, High Queen of Elfhame, Queen of his heart, was dead. His darling Jude was gone, and it was his fault. He glanced over at her children who were looking at him with heartbroken expressions, like lost little lambs in a den of wolves. “Sorry doesn’t really help here, does it.” Cardan didn’t expect them to answer him, and they didn’t. “Come with me, and I will show you a place full of magic, where fairytales come to life. You can wear the finest clothing available, and sit on a throne. You will be elevated to royalty.” He offered them a hand, a hand still caked in their mother’s blood. Cautiously, but unsure of any other lifeline, and drawn in by his words, they took his hand. Biting back the terror and fear of what his life now meant, he brought Jude’s lifeless body with. Despite her words, Jude was to be buried at the Greenbriar mausoleum, where all the Queens before her dwelled. Against her final wishes perhaps, but he did not wish for her to be so far away. One final, selfish desire. Cardan brought the children to Jude’s old rooms at the palace, where he called for Tatterfell, who dressed and bathed the children. She promised to look after them while he went to give Jude a proper burial. Someone had cleaned her up, so that blood did not cake her skin, her clothing no longer torn. She was a Queen he could not reach, as she was lost to the void of the Afterlife, a star in the sky winking down at him. He placed her sword in her hands and as she was entombed, Cardan vowed to himself he would make Faerie a better place in Jude’s memory. From that day forward, it was decreed a crime against the crown to abuse mortals and glamour them against their will. Any found guilty immediately faced Cardan, where they met no mercy. The offenders were quickly put to death. No mortal would ever suffer the fate of Jude again. Every Sunday of the month, Cardan visited Jude, and told her everything she had missed. Every detail, no matter how small, echoed in the walls of the mausoleum. And as the years passed by, Cardan made sure Ronan, Sofia, and Ava were given the best treatment and education the crown could offer. He raised them as his own children, but never kept their past a secret. They knew Cardan had killed their parents. Sofia and Ava were willing to forgive Cardan as they got older, as they were much too young to fully remember. But Ronan was always distant. Some days he was warm and friendly towards him, others, an impassive stone. Cardan didn’t blame him. Cardan hated himself more than ever, and slowly let the grief devour him. He even refused to let his hand fully heal, as a reminder of the cost of jealousy. Though he was a just ruler to his subjects, he never let himself forget what he had done. He made sure Jude was never forgotten. Statues were erected in her honor, her would-be crown seated on the throne next to his, as a reminder that the Mortal Queen still lived. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ronan

Fifteen years after Jude’s death, his father sat in his room, looking into the flames of the fireplace with a blank expression. Ronan crouched in front of him, searching for the father who had raised him and given him a childhood away from the corruption of Court. But no matter how many times Ronan said his name, or pleaded with him, he would not rise. Under his breath he kept repeating, “Forgive me, my Darling Jude. Forgive me. I cannot forgive myself.” Again and again and again until his voice grew hoarse, but even then, he continued the mantra without pause, not even for food or water. Day by day he wasted away until he was a shell of who he used to be. He ignored all signs of life, until the last day, when four days had passed, and his father moved his gaze to Ronan. “You have her smile, and her kindness. I’m thankful I got to see them again.” Then promptly slumped in the chair, eyes looking forever towards the fire, begging for forgiveness. Suddenly Ronan was five years old again, and screaming for Sam and his mother to wake up. He saw the blood coating the walls of their small home, and the garden that had sprouted as Cardan attempted to save his mother. But here he was, aged twenty, and an orphan once again. Grief and guilt had killed as surely as a blade. Ronan was immediately declared the High King and took up his father’s mantle and legacy. He would never forget the man who read him stories long past his bedtime, nor the woman who taught him to never give up. His parents, the High King and Queen, left him a clear road to follow, and he took it, in their honor. Neither would ever be forgotten to the rot of time, he would make sure of it.

Tags: @illyrian-bookworm, @highladyofstoriesandmusic, @webcraft4eveh, @captainthefangirlofhp

#ask #thank you for the ask! #booklover41802 answer #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #tcp #twk #qon #the cruel prince #the wicked king #queen of nothing #holly black #my writing

[elfyourmother]

Prompt 22: Argy-bargy

“They’ve taken her.”

“When?”

“Late last night. The craven bastards assuredly waited until the Lord Commander retired to his manor for the eve, to escape his certain ire.”

Gisele sank deep into the couch, her heart pounding a thundering staccato of dread in her pointed ears, as she grew dizzy. She clung to the fine chestnut arm of the divan, willing herself to breathe.

Before her stood Ser Lucia, who had come to Fortemps Manor when the first steely light of dawn had rather anemically broken through the fog-choked skies of Ishgard. She begged her apologies for disturbing House Fortemps at such an early hour, but she’d brought dire news from the Congregation at Ser Aymeric’s behest: that the Vault had sent Inquisitors upon it the past eve, and at last taken the notorious Lady Iceheart into custody for the crime of Heresy Most High.

Ysayle was going to die. After all they had been through together, after Dravania and the revelations of Hraesvelgr, after cheating death at Azys Lla by Gisele’s power, after the Steps of Faith...Gisele was going to lose her, if naught was done. And she knew from experience, even were it a false one she’d thwarted in the case of Lord Francel de Haillenarte, that Halonic Inquisitors were more dogged than the most stubborn mabari on the hunt.

Gisele swallowed hard, breathing deeply; she felt Haurchefant’s hand grip her shoulder firmly, squeezing it in reassurance of his steadfast presence at her side.

“Where is Aymeric?” she asked quietly, trying in vain to stifle the tremor in her voice.

“At the Tribunal now. He bade me bring you the news, whilst he attempted an intervention,” Lucia explained.

“Well, what are we waiting for? We cannot sit idle while Ysayle’s very life hangs in the balance,” Haurchefant cried.

“Haurchefant, no.”

It was Artoirel, now ruling Count of the house, who spoke his brother’s name with a sharpness and all the gravity of his newfound authority.

Haurchefant’s head whipped about and he narrowed his eyes at him; Gisele’s pounding heart sank, at the old animosity between them seemingly rearing its ugly head once more.

“I beg your pardon, my lord?” Haurchefant said hotly, and could not have dripped more venom from the epithet if he tried.

“That woman has the blood of thousands on her hands, our men included,” Artoirel said, his eyes narrowed and hard as agates as he leveled a withering gaze upon his brother.

“And she has saved countless more!” Haurchefant retorted. “Including that of the Azure Dragoon, if your memory should be so short.”

“Gentlemen, please!” Gisele interjected. Startled, they both stared at her.

“Gisele, you do not underst—”

But Gisele raised her hand, drawing up to full height, tilting the point of her chin to the air even as her heart raced. “I understand all too well, dear brother; mayhap it is you who do not.”

With that, she gathered up her skirts, and spun on her heels.

“Take me to them, Lucia,” she said rather imperiously, clinging to the dignity draped upon her slender shoulders; her only defense against the palsy in her limbs, and the leaden weight within her belly.

And Lucia’s eyes were uncommonly soft, when they fell upon Gisele once more. “Of course, my lady,” she said, with an incline of her head.

“You won’t go alone,” Haurchefant said; he offered Gisele his arm, rather gallantly, with a tender smile. “I know what she means to you. And I shan’t waver, not for a moment.”

The three of them stared long and hard at Artoirel, who at last rubbed his temples with weary fingers.

“Very well. Let us make for the Tribunal with all haste,” the young Count said, nodding gravely.

#ffxivwrite #bisho writes #ffxivwrite2020 #no point in submitting it but #sigh

[roonil-wazlib-at-221b]

A Handmaiden’s Lies: Part 3

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Tom’s honestly shocked when you show up at the camp the next day. It’s quite impressive you were able to find your way back through the thick trees and brush. The girl with the white hair scowls as she trails after you, but you’re back to being a statue as you stride past bigger, bulkier men without batting an eye. They all watch you go with barely concealed resentment bubbling in their eyes. Tom made it clear that you were not to be touched, and nobody’s going to go against Tom, no matter how much a few of them might want to.

Tom won his position as leader fair and square, no matter how bloody. Nobody wants to be the next stain of red on his hands.

The sun is high in the sky and shade hard to find. Scarce a wind blows to challenge the heat. Tom pauses in sharpening his sword and lifts his sweaty curls off his forehead, relishing the feel of fresh air on the overheated skin.

Midday patrol was just sent out, though Tom doubts they’ll find anything. Only other rogues and bandits ever occupy the forests, and most parties know not to mess with Holland’s gang. The rest of his crew mills around the camp. He knows they’re murmuring, resentful he’d called off their crusade of destruction. He tries to keep the majority happy, but they also need to remember that he is leader and that what he says goes.

If they want to challenge him on it, they can.

You don’t gloat or anything when he catches your eye. Without a change of expression, you step over a pile of horse droppings smoothly. Tom appreciates the good grace of that while simultaneously cursing the poop boys for not staying on top of their work. Behind you, the blonde has less grace; her nose wrinkles at the sight of the mess.

You stride right up to Tom. At his side, Paddy tenses. Last night Tom’s inner circle was informed of the situation, and Paddy took it as well as could be expected.

“What do you do for fun?” you ask without preamble. Behind you, the girl rolls her eyes.

Tom blinks. “Pardon?”

“Fun,” you repeat slowly like he’s not right in the head. “What do you enjoy, apart from robbing civilians and destroying property?”

As if he can’t help himself, Paddy has to open his mouth: “Better question is what you do for fun. Watch paint dry?”

Your lip curls as you look at the younger boy. “I’m sure you meant for that to be a much more cutting insult.”

Paddy flushes.

“What I don’t do for fun is insult my friends and family,” Tom says pointedly. Your eyes slide to the ground before snapping up. “And to answer your question, I enjoy riding and dueling.”

Your eyes light up at the mention of dueling and it dawns on Tom that this is your olive branch. He’d nearly rejected it by telling you off but thankfully he’d saved himself.

“Duelling looks like a useful skill,” you say.

Tom nods.

“I was never allowed to learn. It’s considered improper.”

“Everyone should be taught how to defend themselves,” Tom says. “What if you have to protect the queen?”

The girl with the white-blonde hair clears her throat and you kick her. It’s such a moment of warm familiarity that Tom has to smile. “Sorry about Henrietta,” you smile. “She considers it improper as well.”

The girl, who must be Henrietta, casts her eyes to the sky. Tom can recognize the look of someone praying for patience; he’s seen Haz wear that expression often enough to have it memorized.

“Well, you should learn,” Tom informs you.

Henrietta laughs after a brief moment of awkward silence. Your eyes widen a little as you stare at Tom, obviously waiting for him to say something, but his mind is blank. What’s neutral territory here? If he changes the subject it’ll be obvious but not as awkward as the silence. Do you want to continue talking about duelling? Is there a coded message in your abrupt question and trailing sentences? Why are you making Tom’s head spin? He’s never been this nervous around girls before.

Paddy mumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “Dear Gods.” Then, louder, he says, “Y/N, would you like Tom to teach you how to duel?”

Tom’s eyes widen as you smile and nod—almost shyly? He hadn’t considered you would ever be bashful about anything. “Yes!” he exclaims. “Uh, Pads, take Henrietta to, uh… Zendaya. I’m sure they’ll get along great. And, Y/N, we can go… duel. Together. With swords,” he finishes stupidly, internally cringing but unable to stop himself.

“Mmm-hmm.” You clasp your hands in front of your body and follow Tom to the makeshift armory. Most camp members just carry their own weapons, so the armory doesn’t have a wide selection to choose from. They’re all spare weapons.

Tom picks up a thick sword about the length of his arm and tests it. It’s heavy—probably too heavy for someone that’s never wielded such a weapon in her life. Life in the castle tends to have such perks.

Tom stashes that sword and pulls out a slightly shorter and thinner sword. You should be able to wield it.

Tom unsheathes his own sword from his belt and demonstrates how to hold the weapon. You take his instructions easily and sometimes anticipate them. Your eyes may be untrained in duelling stances, but they’re still sharp, keen to focus on every little difference between Tom’s stance and yours.

You’re not good at duelling. Not at first. Tom can tell you don’t want to admit you’re struggling but the sword trembles when you hold it up. Your muscles obviously aren’t used to such exertion, which makes you slow. Tom suggests a break after a while and you seize the opportunity for a rest. You’re obviously not the type of person to admit to weakness.

After the break you return to practice with renewed vigor. You practice a basic parry in slow motion until you’ve got it and only then do you instruct Tom to speed up.

It takes hours (and a few more breaks) by the time you’re able to parry at a speed remotely close to the speed of duelling, but you look so pleased with yourself Tom can only applaud you.

He can see you applying that unholy determination to any skill in your life. Tom can’t imagine you’re incapable of doing whatever you set your mind on.

“Can all of your men duel like you?” you ask just as the sun begins to set. The trees are already casting long shadows on the ground.

Tom shakes his head. “The skill variety is wide. What swordsmen do reside in the camp are impressive as well, though none have trained as long as I have.”

“Do you not tire of not having a home?” you ask again, reminding Tom of those leading questions about duelling before. He narrows his eyes slightly, wondering where you’re going with this, but replies easily enough.

“I do have a home.” He looks to his tent.

“But a permanent one,” you press. “Your skills—all your men’s skills—are impressive. Surely there are positions for men such as you in the kingdom?”

“What, so eager for me to stay now, is that it?” Tom teases. There was no home for Tom when he was a child here. Why should now be any different?

“Become a soldier for the queen,” you urge.

Tom just stares at you.

“A war is coming,” you add. “The only thing more dangerous than being a group of rogues scant forty men with no allegiances travelling between kingdoms is being the leader of said group whose soulmate is influential in a castle. Your group cannot fight off Thanatoia alone. You’ll be slaughtered. Or worse—you’ll be tortured with the hope that I’ll give up valuable state secrets for you.”

“Yes, because you wouldn’t, would you?” Tom asks bitterly, sheathing his sword.

“I’m trying to protect you,” you snap back, eyes slits of anger. All traces of comradery brought on by sparring are gone.

Tom ponders the treeline until you sigh and dash the sword to the ground, perhaps petulantly. Without even a good-bye, you take your leave.

Tom doesn’t watch as you do.

~~~

He doesn’t sleep.

Is Tom really prepared to serve a kingdom that threw him away as a child? Is he prepared to take a final side in the budding conflict?

Is he prepared to be away from you for a whole year again—maybe longer, if war is declared; barricades can be constructed, hostages taken, innocents murdered.

Is he prepared to leave his men behind?

No, Tom decides in the morning, he’s not. He won’t leave his men. He also won’t leave you without the guarantee that he’ll see you again. If his men truly decide that they would rather wander than enlist, he’ll go with them, but not without you. He’ll kidnap you if he has to. Sure, you’re stubborn and loyal to the queen and you’ll probably hate him at first. But you’ll get over it, and even if you don’t, at least Tom will know that you’re safe.

~~~

“We’ve lived for years like this!” Anthony argues. “Thantoian troops won’t dare to find us in the woods in our own territory.”

“Deesee is neutral in this budding war!” a short, squat boy with a hundred pounds on Tom chimes in. Beady little eyes peer at his leader with resentment from underneath thick eyebrows and a protruding forehead. “Worst comes to worst and we could stay there. They’re not about to drive us out.”

“And hide from the fight like cowards?” Sam argues back.

“It’s not our fight to begin with!”

Tomas swears and spits on the ground, drawing his sword. The familiar shink of metal on metal has everyone backing away. Everyone except Tom. He clenches his jaw, hand resting on his own sword.

“What are you doing, Tomas?” Harrison asks cautiously, one hand held out as if it’ll help diffuse the situation.

“I’ve had enough of Holland’s pansy ass leading,” Tomas declares, leveling the point of his sword at Tom’s chest despite being a good ten feet away. “Fight me like a man, unless you’re too much of a bitch.”

Someone in the crowd laughs nervously.

“Are you sure about this, Tomas?” Tom asks slowly, drawing his own sword.

“‘Course I’m ready,” the other boy scoffs. “Ready to skewer you.”

“I really don’t want to hurt you.”

“Trust me,” Tomas laughs, “I won’t be the one getting hurt. And after this, I’ll take the bitch that suggested this stupid idea to my tent.” He leers.

Iron meets iron in a clang that makes a few people flinch. Tom’s eyes narrow at the other boy’s strength as he pushes against Tom’s sword. Tom takes a step back, testing the waters. As expected, Tomas follows him.

“You know what I’m going to do to your bitch, Tommy?” he taunts.

Criminals. Tom keeps the best of them in line, but a few dishonourable rogues find their way into every camp. He grits his teeth and smashes the hilt of his sword to Tomas’ hand, relishing the other boy’s grunt of pain. “I don’t imagine you’re going to do anything to anyone after this, Tomas.”

Tomas lunges, his sword missing Tom’s chest by a hair. Tom barely jumps to the side in time. Before Tomas can rebalance, his arm is gone from his shoulder.

The crowd sucks in a gasp. Tomas screams.

Tom doesn’t like to leave loose ends, so he runs him through with his sword.

“Would anyone else like to complain?” he asks, eyes blazing. Tomas is dead now, but his words—what he’d said about you—they run around his brain, echoing and echoing and he wishes he could kill Tomas all over again for even thinking them.

No one says a word.

~~~

You arrive at the camp a little past high noon. You march in with a scowl on your face, obviously ready to fight even if you don’t know how, but what you see stops you in your tracks. For a brief moment, pure shock flits over your face as you stumble and your fists unclench.

The whole camp is silent. Those who had quarreled during the discussion don’t dare to do more than glare after Tom had officially shut down the debate. Little more than ten tents remain erect. All the boys and girls with rolled-up tents sit on their packs, eyes glued to your form.

The winter had been harsh and they’d lost a few men to the cold, not to mention the worry about the upcoming war that had plagued the camp, but Tom hadn’t expected quite this many people to agree to work in the castle. Not a single camp girl refused the invitation. Only the bitter men, content to suffer only to spite the kingdom that threw them out, refused. Anthony, one of them, spit on the ground by Tom’s feet and called him a traitor. It stings.

In the middle of it all is a boy lying face down on the ground. It doesn’t take a genius to tell that he’s dead. You don’t balk at the sight or even doubletake. Your eyes seek out Tom’s and he almost wants to drop the gaze, expecting shame or disappointment, but you’re inscrutable as always.

He almost feels dirty when he remembers what Tomas had said about you. Those words will always be etched into his memory, much as he doesn’t want them to be. What would you say if you knew what one of his followers said about you? What would you do if you knew that some of the men you’re taking in might have been Tomas’ friend?

If you had been expecting more or fewer men, you don’t let it show. You don’t even hesitate before calling out, “In exchange for the queen’s protection, land, food, medicine, and all other services, will you agree to be a worker in her castle? Will you clean, cook, and fight without complaint?”

“Yes,” Tom says after that anticlimactic ending. He’d expected a few more words and you’d even hesitated at the end like you’d been searching for more to say.

Harrison takes his lead: “Yes.” Soon enough, everyone that has packed has agreed and you nod, satisfied.

“The queen will go hungry before you will,” you add. “All she requires is your loyalty.” And with that, you turn to go. Tom scrambles to catch up.

“The queen won’t really…” He trails off awkwardly. That’s simply not how royalty works.

You shoot him a glare out of the corner of your eye. “The queen is connected to her kingdom, Holland. You’ve just become a part of it. She protects her own.”

“But she wouldn’t starve to death to let a soldier eat,” Tom presses. “Not without leaving behind an heir. And she’s younger than me. There’ll be no heir for a long time.”

“She has a younger brother. He’s prepared to take the throne as well,” you point out.

Tom shakes his head. He thinks you’re exaggerating your queen’s greatness a little bit, but he has to trust you. Right?

“You forget the queen’s curse.”

Tom scoffs. “That magic myth? She’s connected to her kingdom or something?”

“Not a myth,” you say softly. “You also forget that nobles are representatives of the areas they govern. Whatever the majority of that area decides on, they must support or be replaced. Marvel is not as Deesee or Thanatoia.”

Tom has to admit he doesn’t know much about how Marvel is governed. He didn’t live in the kingdom long enough to learn. He’d just always assumed it was similar to its neighboring kingdoms. Of course, resentment had kept him from studying Marvel whenever he came to ransack and destroy.

Properly chastised, he closes his mouth.

You sigh dramatically at his side and reach into the pocket of your skirt. Out comes a delicate handkerchief.

Tom’s stunned when you take his face in your hands and wipe it gently. The handkerchief dips down to his neck before you retract, showing off the red smears on the once-white surface before shoving the ruined object back into your skirt.

You say nothing about the blood or the body, but Tom knows that you know what he did. He just doesn’t know how you feel about inviting a killer into your palace. He doesn’t know how you feel about your soulmate being a murderer.

You are frustratingly unreadable.

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[fox-moblin]

Lay Waste

Ch 1.  Ch 2.  Ch 3.  Ch 4.

Sky II

***

Malon is, in every incarnation apparently, beautiful and kind; she thanks them profusely when they help her wrangle Epona in and takes Sky by the hand the moment she hears they have no place to stay. 

“Come home with me, then,” she says and looks to Wind as well, who is equally as stunned by the proposition as Sky.  Malon doesn’t seem to notice.  “Papa won’t mind,” she assures them.  “Not after he hears how you helped me with Epona and - oh, pardon me,” she blushes and brings hand to her cheek.  “I haven’t even asked your names!” 

“Sky…”  Sky mumbles, still a bit shocked, and Wind does the same.  Malon smiles brightly, turning to take Epona’s reins.  

“My name is Malon,” she says and Sky resists the urge to say he already knows.  “You boys better come right on home with me then - like I said, Papa won’t mind one bit!”  

She begins to lead them away before they argue; Wind follows, casting a sideways glance at Sky as he passes, a look of mild panic clear as day on his face.  

Hylia, Sky thinks as he trails behind, staring at the back of the young woman in front of them; this Malon must be a few years his younger, all bouncy red hair and freckles.  She keeps glancing back, as if to make sure they really are coming with her and hums as she goes, a familiar tune from when Sky and the others had visited Time’s ranch and his… Malon.  Sky grits his teeth; this is way to confusing and concerning and now he’s thinking about everyone else who’s probably been reincarnated like the rest of them and Hylia, what were you thinking?

He feels, for half a moment, guilty, before lights appear ahead and Malon announces that they’re home.  

Lon Lon Ranch is different here; smaller and quaint like the buildings from town; there’s a light in the window and the door flies open as they near, a short, sturdy man running to meet them.  Sky never had a chance to meet Talon when Time had brought them to his home, but he’d heard stories of Malon’s father; a kind, if somewhat carefree, man, devoted to his daughter and farm.  

“Malon,” he cries, out of breath by the time he reaches them.  He bends over, taking a gulp of air, before straightening up and drawing his daughter close.  “You’re late,” he admonishes and pulls back to look at her.  “I had feared-”  

Malon waves him away, an easy smile on her face.  

“I’m fine,” she says and gestures to where Sky and Wind are standing quietly at attention behind her.  “Epona was being a bit difficult, but these lads helped me rein her in.”  She introduces them both and Sky lifts his hand in awkward greeting.

Talon looks to them and Sky sees the suspicion in his eyes; he pulls Malon aside, whispering to her quietly.  Sky can’t catch much more than a few words about ‘storms’ and ‘mountains’ and ‘monsters,’ but Malon doesn’t see to pay her father’s concerns much mind.  Instead she places her hands on her hips and purses her lips.  

“Well, I already offered them shelter and food for the night, and it’d be rude to turn them away now,” she states aloud, and turns before Talon can rebuke her.  “Come inside,” she says brightly to Sky and Wind. 

Sky shuffles his feet.  

“Um, we really… don’t want to intrude,” he trails off and glances to where Talon is watching them nervously, but Malon just takes him by arm and grabs Wind as well, dragging them towards the door.  Behind them Talon sighs and shakes his head, smiling gently as he takes Epona away to the stables.

Malon forces them each into a chair almost immediately, insisting that they sit and rest as she heads to a small kitchen where Sky can hear her beginning to work.  There’s a fire going, with a cauldron hanging over it, and Malon appears with a plate of meat, which she plunks unceremoniously into the already boiling water.  

“Uh,” Wind says with uncertainty.  “Do you need any help?” 

Malon looks up and Sky can see that she’s wants to refuse, but Wind is pulling that look that he pulls with Time; bigs eyes, ear downturned, his hands wrung in front of him.  Malon opens her mouth to object, but then relents, a soft smile gracing her features.  

Talon returns to find all three of them working together, Malon and Sky chopping away in the kitchen while Wind sets the tables and stirs the soup.  Sky catches Malon’s father standing in the doorway, watching him, but he’s distracted by Malon who takes the vegetable he’s half way through chopping and chops the rest of it herself.  She shrugs and turns to bring them to Wind.  

When the soup is finally ready and the four of them are sat at the table, Malon recounts her day at the market and Talon remarks upon their lack of customers.  Sky and Wind remain quiet, throwing glances at each other as they eat.  Wind keeps trying to mouth something to Sky, but Sky only shakes his head, unable to comprehend what his friend is saying.  He can see Wind growing more and more frustrated, but then Talon clears his throat and both heroes sit up straight to look at him.  

“So,” he says.  “Sky, was it?” 

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did you say you came from again?”

“The mountains,”  Sky says and thinks back on the soldier from before.  “We were, uh, displaced by the storm.  My brother and I.”  

Wind is nodding along with the story, shoving another piece of bread into his mouth.  Talon nods as if deep in thought; he eyes Sky for a moment, bringing his hand to his chin.  Sky takes a sip of his drink, the silence growing a bit awkward.  

“Are you married?” 

Sky splutters into his drink as Wind lets out a bark of laughter.  Talon is sitting there, expectantly, while, beside him, Malon is looking at him in horror.  Sky shakes his head, wiping his mouth on his sleeve as he tries to catch his breath.

“N-no,” he chokes out.  Talon squints his eyes and gives him a once over.  

“Well, if you’re looking to court my Malon here-”

“Father!”  Malon cries and Sky feels his face grow hot.  Wind is cackling into his bread and Sky shakes his head again, vehemently, and swallows. 

“No, no, I’m not - I already have - you see, we’re not really-”  

Talon cuts him over with a wave of his hand, hearty laughter bubbling from his mouth.  He stands, placing a hand on Malon’s head; his daughter has her face in her hands, her face almost as red as her hair, and she refuses to look up even when Sky begins to help Talon clear the table.  Talon asks him again, in the private of the kitchen, but Sky only shakes his head, adamant.  Thankfully, this time Talon seems to believe him.  

When he returns to the table, Malon still has her face covered.  

“Ignore him,” comes her muffled response when Wind asks if she’s alright.  “Please.  He’s just trying to embarrass me.”  

Sky grants her the mercy of not bringing it up for the rest of the evening and, to his relief, neither does Talon, simply bidding them goodnight as he retires to his room.  Malon takes some spare blankets from a nearby chest.  

“I hope you don’t mind the barn,” she says softly, leading them outside.  “It’s all we’ve got - but I promise it’s dry and warm.”  

“It’ll be fine,”  Sky replies watching as Wind scales the barn loft and begins to create a nest with the blankets that Malon has supplied.  He’s about to follow, when Malon shifts on his feet looking at the ground. 

“Are they beautiful?”  She asks quietly and Sky raises an eyebrow.  Malon glances at him and smiles at his confusion.  “You mentioned someone, before, at dinner.”  

Sky huffs and looks down.

“Yeah,” he replies softly.  “She is.”  

Malon nods and looks up to where Wind is already passed out, snoring blissfully.

“I’m still waiting,” she says and laughs.  “I’m quite too young anyways but… there… there used to be this boy… we were friends when we were younger.  He helped me find the key to the ranch once when Father and I were locked out.”  She pauses and shrugs.  “He always visited after that, or bought milk from me in the market, and then…”  She trails off.  Sky tilts his head, looking at her. 

“And then?” 

“And then he went away,”  Malon replies with a sigh.  “He… saved us,” she says and Sky gets a sinking feeling in his stomach as she continues.  “He saved us and the princess and then he left, off on more adventures I guess.”  She shrugs.  “I haven’t seen him since.”  

Sky watches her silently before looking down.  

“What was his name?”  Sky asks, but he already knows the answer.  Malon sighs again.  

“Link.”  

Sky nods, once.  He wonders, idly, which one of them she speaks of, before bidding her goodnight as well and climbing the ladder up to the loft.  Malon lingers in the doorway, before she leaves, taking her candlelight with her.  Sky watches her go, quiet, before he turns to get ready for bed.  He chuckles when he sees how Wind has splayed himself out over the blankets, taking up most of the room.

He wants to wake him; ask him about whatever he’d tried to tell Sky at dinner, but decides against it.   

Instead he just nudges Wind aside.  The younger grumbles and turns over, his face scrunched in sleep as Sky settles down beside him.  In the dark, he thinks about Malon’s words.  

He wonders if, like how they’re destined to save the world again and again, she’s destined, in every life, to love a tragic hero.  He plays with his sail cloth, rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers and letting his mind wander to lighter thoughts and memories.  Beside him, Wind turns, nuzzling his face into Sky’s shoulder, and sighs in his sleep.  Sky smiles.  Malon was right; the barn is warm and dry.  He settles deeper into the blankets, his eyes slipping closed, and allows himself to relax, the stillness of the barn a comforting presence in the face of their earlier troubles.

***

He opens his eyes to darkness.  And then blinding light; lightning, arching across a turbulent sky.

Rising winds almost send Link tumbling over the edge of the ravine that he finds himself on, perched on the precipice of a dark abyss that he cannot see the bottom of.  He stumbles back, the storm buffeting his sail cloth.  It’s almost unbearably hot here, despite the onslaught of rain, and Link staggers about, blind in the storm.  His hands grip something hard and jagged and he them rips away with a cry, steam rolling off his palms and the rock before him.  

Another cry answers back, muffled and far away, but Link almost recognises it.  

“Hey,” he yells, casting about with his hands.  “Is anybody there?!” 

Another cry, coming from a different direction, answers.  Link whips around.  

“Where are you?!”  

He steps and his foot slips on slick rock, the ground crumbling beneath him and sending him tumbling down a slope.  He slams against a slab of stone and the world spins and spins and spins until it stops and he’s able to push himself up, using the stone as support.  

Light illuminates the sky over head and Link catches sight of a serpentine shadow amidst the clouds, twisting and contorting before its image seems to flicker and disappear.  Link blinks the rain from his eyes, clutching the rock as he stares skyward.  

He can see the outline of a peak above him, outlined against rolling clouds, and he sees the ravine in all its glory, splitting the mountain almost entirely in half.  As he looks on, a light begins to glow from deep within the ravine and Link shrinks low against the slab of stone, horrified as the mountain shudders and liquid red begins to bubble up and seep from the fissure.  The heat intensifies, the rain turning to steam before it even reaches the ground, and Link can feel his feet begin to burn.  He scrambles, yelping as the ground beneath him glows hot red.  

Above him, the sky seems to split as the serpent reappears, its screech echoing above the howling winds, if only for a moment, and Link screams as the ground beneath him erupts in fire and lava and agony.

And then it is dark.

***

Sky wakes with a jolt, chest heaving, to find Wind nearly on top of him, snoring into his ear.  He catches his breath, gasping once or twice, before bringing a shaking hand up to nudge Wind’s shoulder.  His palms tingle and he can almost see smoke curling up from his skin.  

“...Wind,” he whispers, his voice shaking.  

“…”

“Wind!”

“Mm’what…?”  Wind shifts, pushing himself even further on top of Sky.  He’s warm and heavy and Sky thinks of a raging storm and agonizing heat; he shudders and tries to school his breathing as he tries to force Wind off of him.

“Get off me!”

“No… you’re comfy…” 

Sky grits his teeth, finally shoving Wind aside and sitting up with a huff.  Wind grumbles and complains as Sky stands and then practically drags Wind to his feet as well.  

“What, what, what?!”  Wind yelps, stumbling.  He glares at Sky and then looks out the nearby window, moaning as he catches sight of the dawn sky.  “The sun’s barely risen,” he cries, attempting to collapse back onto their makeshift bed.  Sky catches him, forcing him back up.  

“We’re leaving,” he forces out and turns to start cleaning up the bed.  Wind watches him annoyed.  

“Why?”  He scowls and stretches, sighing when a loud pop comes from somewhere near his shoulder.  “It’s surprising to see you up so early.”

Sky shakes his head, his thoughts flitting to his dream again, and grabs Wind’s discarded tunic, throwing it to him.  

“We need to go, now.”  Outside there’s footsteps and Sky glances out the window to see Malon, already up and dressed, making her way over to a nearby cucco coop.  Sky bites his lip.  “There’s something wrong here… whatever it is, it’s connected to what was going on in Wild’s Hyrule.”  

Wind watches him, his gaze serious, and then turns, grabbing his bag and packing away his night clothes.  He doesn’t question Sky’s actions after that, only nodding when Sky recounts his dream, as if he’d already guessed it was something like that.

“That doesn’t sound like Mount Lanayru,” he mutters, thinking over Sky’s words.  Sky nods, already making his way down the ladder.  Wind throws him their bags and then follows, leaping down the last few feet and slinging his pack over his shoulder.  “We should eat before we go,” he says, combing his hair with his fingers until it looks somewhat presentable.  Sky nods and his about to search through he his bag for some provisions when Malon appears in the doorway, carrying a bucket.  She spies their bags and her face turns troubled. 

“Your leaving.”  It’s not a question.  Sky bites his lip, and it’s Wind who speaks for them.  

“We have to get going,” he says, walking over to Malon and inclining his head.  “Thank you for your hospitality.”  

Malon shakes her head, looking between the two of them. 

“But… you said you had no home… I’m sure Papa wouldn’t mind if you stayed a bit longer!”  She places her bucket down.  “You can help out around the farm, or find work in town!”  

She smiles hopefully, but Sky shakes his head, stepping forward to place a hand on her shoulder.  

“No,” he says.  “We have to go.”  He thinks of his dream and the mountain and the storm. “We’re going back to the mountains to, er, recover what we can.”  He smiles, hoping it looks convincing enough.  “Thank you though.  We really do appreciate all you’ve done for us.” 

Malon nods absently, and looks down.  She bites her lip and then bends to pick up her bucket.  

“Then,” she says quietly and makes her way over to a nearby stable.  She unlocks the latch and leads out a large dappled grey.  She smiles and hands its lead to Sky.  “Take him.  Sounds like you have quite a journey ahead of you.”  

Sky stares at her in quiet surprise and then shakes his head viciously, trying to hand her back the horse.  

“No, no,” he insists, but Malon steps away.  “We can’t take him - he’s your horse!”  

Malon shrugs, an easy smile on her face.   

“I have other horses.  And Papa was plannin’ on giving him away anyways to some… less than desirable people.”  She makes a face.  “I’d rather you take him.”  

Sky grips the lead with uncertainty and turns to Wind, only to find him already nuzzling his face against the horse’s snout, cooing as he does.  Sky swallows.  

“What will your Father say?”  He asks Malon, but she’s already shaking her head and bringing over a spare saddle and bridal.  She fixes up the horse, who whinnies softly when Sky reaches a hand up to lay on his cheek.  

“His name is Lug,” Malon says fondly, patting Lug’s flank.  “Take good care of him, will you?”

“Of course.” 

Malon nods.  She helps them pack their bags onto Lug, who stands patient and sturdy as they do so, and then Malon leads them out of the stables, checking first to make sure that Talon has not left the house yet.  

“Go,” she says quietly, helping Wind climb up onto Lug behind Sky.  “I’ll explain things to my father.”  

Sky watches her for a moment, then turns and digs through his pack.  He counts out of sight and then, satisfied, tosses Malon a small pouch.

“Here.”

Malon catches it easily, peeking inside and then whipping her head up to look at him, her eyes wide. 

“I can’t-”

Sky holds up a hand.  

“You can.”  He pats Lug’s neck.  “We can’t just take him for nothing.”  Behind him, Wind shifts and then another pouch is tossed in Malon’s direction, which she barely catches this time, still rather shocked.  Sky smiles and then urges Lug forward before Malon can argue.  He twists in the saddle, waving goodbye.  Wind does the same.  

“Thank you,” Wind calls, his smile wide.  Sky can see Malon finally lift a hesitant hand to wave as well and then she’s gone, disappearing from sight as their path slopes downward.

They ride in silence for the better part of an hour, eating some deer jerky that Wind produces from his pack and watching the countryside pass by.  In the distance, a mountain blooms into view, a storm blanketing its peak.  

“What do we do when we get there,” Wind asks after a while, leaning forward to rest his chin on Sky’s shoulder.  Lug huffs, tossing his head a bit and Sky pulls on the reins a bit, grumbling.  He’s not as good a rider as some of the others.  Wild or Warriors.  Certainly not Twilight.  

“We get to the mountain,” he says gaining control again.  Wind waits for him to continue and Sky realizes that he doesn’t actually have a plan.  He looks back at Wind and grimaces.  Wind watches him for a moment and then rolls his eyes.  

“Right,” he says.  “So we get there, without a plan, and what?  Suddenly a portal opens up, we jump through, and we’re reunited with everyone?”  He pauses.  “Or maybe the mountain opens up and swallows us whole.”

Sky winces and Wind lets out an exasperated sigh.  

“Hey, give me a break,” Sky huffs, a bit indignant.  “You have a better idea?”

Wind doesn’t respond, just yawns into Sky’s shoulder.  Sky hums. 

“I figure… I mean, there’s obviously something going on with the mountain.  Just like with Mount Lanayru is Wild’s Hyrule.”  He shrugs, displacing Wind’s head and causing the other to grumble.  “It’s our best chance of getting back to the others… or at least finding out what could be going on.”  

Wind leans back and Sky turns to see him staring ahead at the mountain, still quite far away.  

“It’ll be a few days journey,” he says idly.

“Yes.”

“It’ll probably be dangerous.”

“Yes.”

“The people around here seem to be scared of whatever’s going on there.”  

“Yes.” 

Wind nods and sighs.  

“Well then,” he says, sounding rather resigned.  “Sounds like the job for us.”  

Sky raises his eyebrows. 

“Are you okay?”  He asks, glancing at the other hero.  Wind doesn’t respond right away, still staring at the mountain ahead, his expression blank.  Sky reaches back, but pauses halfway as Wind lowers his head downward, blinking.  He sighs finally, his head still bowed low.  

“Yeah,” he says quietly, his hands playing with the seams of his new tunic.  He lifts his head, a small forced smile gracing his features.  “I’m okay.”

***

First//Previous//Next

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #legend of zelda #loz #mobwrites

[raendown]

Pairing: None Word count: 4702 Chapter: 4/4 Rated: T+ Summary: Months after the village is built Izuna is near his breaking point. Peace is nice, don’t get him wrong, but he could do without the pale shadow that follows behind him everywhere he goes. All he wants is to understand. What the hell is Tobirama’s obsession with watching him?

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

Chapter 4

Stumping in to his friend’s home the next day, the first thing Madara does is sweep the building with his senses, breathing a sigh of relief to find no other signatures smoldering away in some hidden corner. Hashirama has already promised that both Mito and Tobirama will be busy with other engagements tonight but Madara knows as much as the next person how quickly plans can change.

Following the voice that calls to him from down the hall brings him in to the kitchen where he finds Hashirama with his hair pulled back and a frilly green apron tied around his front. It’s an incredibly domestic sight that drives an unexpected sliver through Madara heart. Not that he yearns for this man in any way; he won’t deny that Hashirama is attractive, any blind idiot can see that, but the giant stump is his best friend and Madara has never desired anything more from him. Rather the pang in his heart is a quiet wanting for something like this of his own. Now that he’s achieved the peace he always dreamed of he realizes more and more with every passing day that there still remains one glaring emptiness in his life. He’s lonely.

That’s not what he’s come here for, though. Nor are the questions in his mind the entire reason he’s come either but they are the foremost issue pressing at him and much more important than his desire to find a life partner.

“Just in time!” Hashirama chirps. “Could you set the table please? I forgot to before I started cooking and I don’t want the sauce to burn if I step away from it.”

“Hmph. What a great host, making me work for my dinner.” Even as he grumbles Madara moves to pull bowls and cups out of the cupboard. His eyes fall on the kettle steaming away and he quickly swaps the juice cups for teacups. Green tea with dinner sounds amazing after working himself in to several headaches with paperwork all afternoon, trying to coordinate several different projects while people swan in and out of his office indiscriminately.

“I’m just a little turned around tonight. When Mito told me that she was going to dinner with her friend in the Akimichi clan I thought ‘that’s alright, I’ll have dinner with Tobi’. But then Tobi said he was doing some sort of inspection? I think? He’s staying late at the office anyway and I didn’t want to be lonely so I thought this would be the perfect time to have a nice dinner with you!” As he chatters away he continues chopping vegetables and stirring in his pan, barely even seeming to draw breath. “Then this morning Mito said that her dinner was cancelled since her friend I think picked up a cold or something and that made me worry; you and her don’t really get along that well. So here I am trying to run around and figure out something else to cook that would be fast so we could all eat then you and I could go off on our own somewhere but then she got called over to have dinner with a different friend and I’m just–”

Madara cuts him off before the flood of words can drown them both. “Flustered, yeah, I can see that.” His companion sends him a painfully grateful look.

“You’re always so understanding, my friend.”

“Ugh.”

Doing his best to ignore the fond smile the other man directs at him, Madara sets the dishes out and retrieves the kettle only moments after it boils, transferring the water in to a teapot to properly brew them a batch of green tea. Then he sits himself at the table with a sigh and decides that subtlety is for people worried about offending others.

“Can I ask you about your brother?”

Hashirama's smile turns to curiosity. “Tobirama?”

“No, the other brother that you’ve hidden for years. I’ve uncovered your secret.” When his friend only continues to stare at him with a blank face Madara rolls his eyes. Sarcasm is wasted on this idiot. “Yes Tobirama. What is his deal?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What is his deal? What’s his problem? Did you know that he’s been stalking Izuna around the village since we all moved in here?”

Judging by the look on Hashirama's face he hadn’t known that. Something pops in the pan behind him but the tension between his shoulders is painfully visible as he turns around, voice drifting back across the kitchen with an undertone of caution.

“Can you give me a little more detail?”

“More than you want, probably. I can’t believe you haven’t noticed this! Every time my brother’s in the tower yours is right there up his ass, staring at him from across the room, standing so close they’re practically breathing the same air. And when he’s not in the tower it’s even worse! Tobirama follows him all around the village like he thinks he’s being sneaky – except he doesn’t even bother to conceal his presence! That’s probably the biggest insult of the whole affair!”

As he listens Hashirama removes their dinner from the stove with slow movements. In a strangely quiet voice he asks, “How long did you say that this had been going on?”  

“From the day we all got here, as I understand it. I don’t remember if he was doing anything funny the few times we saw him before the migration, neither of us thought to pay any particular attention to him, but I know for sure he’s been stalking Izuna for months now.” Madara scowls. “For the most part Izu’s just confused. Irritated. He’s gotten pretty riled up a few times and said something about beating some sense in to his little shadow but an incident like that could be detrimental to clan relations right now.”

“Has Tobi seemed angry at all?” Hashirama's expression says that he already knows the answer but needs to ask the question anyway.

“No. Well, not at Izuna. He looks really pissed at whoever gets close to my brother and that’s probably the weirdest part. It’s started a few different rumors but Izuna’s convinced that it means Tobirama wants to kill him still and that he wants to do it himself.” As much as Madara can follow the sketchy logic behind that idea he still can’t make himself believe it.

Which is why he feels a very brief flash of vindication when Hashirama shakes his head to deny the half-assed theory. It’s always nice to be right, especially as an older sibling. The flash is very short-lived, however, in the face of how deeply troubled his best friend looks with every word he takes in.

“You’ve noticed some things that I haven’t it seems. I-…I should have been paying more attention. Especially with-” The words cut themselves off for the man to let out a morose sigh.

“Go on?”

“If he doesn’t seem angry then how would you say he does look?”  

“Uh?” Madara scratches the back of his head, trying to picture a face in his mind that he’s honestly never concentrated very hard on. “If I had to put a name to it? Sad. He doesn’t look violent or yearning or angry, he just looks, I don’t know, resigned I suppose.”

As though a great weight has just fallen upon his shoulders Hashirama closes his eyes and trembles. “Oh Tobi…”

“There’s something we’ve been missing about this, isn’t there?”

For a long time there is no answer. In silence Hashirama plates their dinner, his eyes far away from the food he carries over to the table. Only the fact that such a mood is incredibly unusual for him holds Madara's tongue until finally he watches the man fade back in to reality looking somehow even sadder than before. Wetness gathers and clings to his eyelashes, so different from the way he is normally given to massive crocodile tears streaming freely down his cheeks.

When he speaks again it is soft and solemn. His words are heavy with a pain that Madara both can and can’t understand, the pain of almost in a way he’s never quite experienced, a pain borne in the name of another you cannot help.

“During the final battle between the Uchiha and the Senju, I’m sure you remember what stopped the fighting.”

“The apparition,” Madara breathes. He can hardly believe that he’s forgotten.

“It was no apparition.” Hashirama drops his gaze to the chopsticks before him, fiddling at the ends without picking them up. “That really was my Tobi. Older but the same. He- it was- it’s hard to explain. You know how smart he is and how he likes to research seals. Apparently years from now he will – did? – invent a seal allowing him to travel back in time and he used it to…to…”

Once more the words stop coming but this time Madara understands as he listens to Hashirama's voice crack and break on a muffled sob.

“Take your time,” he murmurs. He jolts when Hashirama finally meets his eyes, stomach clenching as he takes in the pain and helpless despair staring back at him. He has seen that look before.  

“He travelled back in time to kill himself.”

“What!?” Madara sways in his seat with disbelief.

Hashirama brings his hands in close to wring them together. “It’s the truth! And he said the most awful things! Madara, he saved Izuna’s life that day. He – the one from the future – he said something about killing Izuna and that it ‘broke the world’. Said that he would rather kill himself so that I could keep my dream!”

So many different emotions and thoughts and reactions all clash together in Madara's chest he has to clamp one hand over his stomach for fear that it all might come spilling out over the table with shock. It’s too much to take in at once. He remembers that they’d had their speculations, of course, over what had really been going on that day. Yet he also remembers that it had seemed so unimportant in the face of peace, of lifelong dreams coming true, securing the future for his clan and the only brother left at his side.

“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” he mumbles. “There were two Tobirama because one was him from the future. He was trying to kill himself in the past.”

“Yes! That’s why he disappeared! Or that’s what Tobi says, anyway.”

“Right. And he was trying to kill himself because…he didn’t want…to kill Izuna? But he didn’t kill Izuna.” Madara scrunches his face with confusion, not entirely following. He distinctly remembers seeing his brother this morning and the man was most certainly not dead.

“No I know that. That’s the point. I told you it’s complicated!”

When all he does is cock his head to one side and frown Hashirama sighs and wrings his hands tighter.

“In the life that the older Tobirama lived he did kill Izuna in that battle. But because of that Izuna’s death somehow kicked off a different set of events that led to this village failing, I think. The destruction of my dream. So he came back in time to stop himself from killing Izuna…by killing himself instead. For me.” Another sob cracks his voice and Hashirama closes his eyes.

Madara can understand why. The reality of what he hasn’t known comes crashing down over his head like a mountain crumbling to bury him underneath the hurts he’s had no idea his friend is carrying around. It’s hard to decide what to freak out about first. Should he give in to the shadow of panic that Izuna dies in another world, would have in this one if not for the future’s intervention? Or should he close his eyes in solemn solidarity with the idea of having another love you so much they will damn themselves to lift you in to the light? Either way he has a very strong urge to go home and hug his brother tightly.

Although he isn’t sure he could bear to explain why at the moment.

“So he’s...what? Following Izu around and trying to find a way to apologize? Atone?” Guilt touches him for the way Hashirama flinches at his words but he needs to know as much as he can and this is a conversation he doesn’t wish to put his friend through a second time.

“No, I don’t think so.” Hashirama frowns. “I should have been paying more attention. He seemed to be doing so much better since we came here.”

“Well then what do you think he’s up to? There has to be some kind of reason he’s stalking my brother and I get that it’s probably connected to what happened but I can’t see exactly how.”

“If I know my brother then…then I think he’s trying to protect Izuna. He was so worried that something might still happen, convinced that if Izuna died in any way it would bring everything we’ve built crashing down. It would be so like him to take it upon himself to make sure that doesn’t happen. Oh, my Tobi…”

As Hashirama crumples in his seat Madara fights through the ever-increasing levels of shock keeping him rigid where he sits, dragging himself up out of the fog through sheer force of will to walk around the table and awkwardly pat his friend on the back. Comfort has never been a great skill of his. Trying to do it while he is still reeling himself leaves him feeling more awkward than ever but at least Hashirama seems to appreciate his graceless efforts. After taking a few deep breaths to collect himself the man turns to look up at him with shining grateful eyes that immediately send Madara scurrying back to his side of the table and practically throwing himself in to the chair as though it might shield him from any possibility of an unwarranted hug.

“Protecting him, that’s unexpected,” Madara admits once he is settled. “I think I might have jokingly suggested that but I would never have believed he was really playing guard dog.”

“My brother is not a guard dog!”

“He’s appointed himself as one,” he corrects, perhaps a bit harshly.

“Ah. Yeah. I suppose you’re right. He seemed to be doing so much better since we came to the village. And he was talking to me so well before, confiding. I never would have thought he’d slid back this far.” Hashirama shakes his head.

Loathe as Madara is to be the one pointing it out, he has to ask. “Are you sure he was confiding in you? Or was he just putting you off because he didn’t want you to carry his burdens?”

The widening of Hashirama's eyes tears at his heart and he is more than happy to let the conversation taper off for a short while, both of them eating in silence. He regrets starting their night off with such a terrible subject, mentally kicking himself for his lack of patience, making it even more of a relief when his friend eventually begins to haltingly murmur about something that happened at the tower that afternoon.

He does his best to be a better friend for the rest of their visit. By the time he goes home a couple of hours after dinner Hashirama has stopped looking as though he might burst in to tears at a moment’s notice, so there is that. Tobirama is probably in for a nasty surprise of a conversation when his brother catches up with him and yet Madara can’t bring himself to feel guilty for that. If the man truly is so caught up in his obsession it will probably do him some good to have the one he trusts most knock some sense in to that spiky head of his.

Walking home in the dark, Madara closes his eyes to let his feet continue on the path they know by heart while he stretches his senses out, picking through the confusing mass of signatures as best he can until he finds the one that burns the brightest in his eyes. It comes as no surprise to find Izuna waiting for him at home. Since he knows that his brother is probably waiting impatiently for the answers they’ve been wanting so badly he picks up his pace and hurries along, nodding to the voices that murmur greetings without stopping to chat as Hashirama has been encouraging him to do lately.

Building a rapport with their citizens can wait. This is a more immediate issue.

Izuna springs off the couch as soon as the front door opens, immediately freezing and sliding back down on to the cushions in an effort to seem as though he is only changing positions. Madara hopes he remembers to tease the idiot for that later.

“So how was dinner?” his brother murmurs with affected nonchalance.

“He knew the reason, to answer the question you really wanted to ask.”

Watching his younger sibling literally trip over his own feet trying to lunge off the couch a second time is just the sort of thing that Madara needs to lift his own mood after spending all evening trying to repair someone else’s. Izuna scowls and grumbles in to the tatami mats, crawling across to roll himself under the kotatsu blanket instead and glare until Madara joins him, wheezing with his efforts to contain the barks of laughter trying to spill out.

Amusement can only last so long in the face of such serious news, however. Only a minute or so after he sits down and tucks himself in Madara is talking a deep breath to sober himself again as he tries to sort through everything he’s learned and figure out how to pass it on.

Izuna listens with the sort of serious expression he normally reserves for war meetings and battlefields, brows drawn towards each other in a deep frown that wrinkles the sides of his mouth as well. Though it isn’t exactly surprising that he is able to keep himself from interrupting his silence is almost creepy considering how vocal he’s been about this entire affair since it started. All the frantic energy that he’s clearly been holding inside as he waits at home draining away slowly, bit by bit, gradually replaced by a different sort of tension with everything that Madara has to say. When the tale is over he crawls around the table to lean against his brother’s side.

“Well,” he murmurs, “at least he’s not secretly in love with me.”

“That’s all you have to say!?” Madara squawks.

“Honestly I don’t know what to say to any of that. Somehow the fate of this village rests of my survival? That’s a little strange to think about even if I can sort of imagine why.”

Brought up short, Madara looks down at the head nuzzling in to his shoulder. “You can?”

“Yeah, easily. If you lost me can you really say that you wouldn’t go a little ape shit?” Izuna looks up at him and waits until he concedes with a wry nod then adds, “Now imagine if you were somehow talked in to making peace with the man who killed me.”

The very thought makes him shudder. It’s impossible to imagine a world where he could allow himself to be somehow tricked in an action so terrible – and yet he realizes with a jolt that this is exactly what they have asked of both their clans, of every clan who agrees to move here and call themselves a shinobi of Konohagakure. All that differentiates himself from so many others is the penance he would pay for the powers gifted to him by the Sharingan. Izuna is right; the death of his most precious person would drive him over the brink of madness. Perhaps not right away but the descent would be inevitable from that moment and the process made faster if he were forced to interact with the one who took so much from him.

“So how do you want to handle this?” Madara asks, shaking away the what-ifs he hopes he never has to deal with.

“First thing I think I need to do is go scream in his stupid face. What the hell is he thinking? I mean this whole thing is crazy but if what he did to – what did you call it? – break the world was to kill me in that battle then when his older self came back through time to attempt sui-murder-cide then wouldn’t that have, like, changed the course of events right then? Things should be fine now. I think.” Scrunching up his brow, Izuna’s eyes fall to one side as he tries to think his way through what he’s just said.

Having had a few more hours to wrap his head around all these strange concepts gives Madara the confidence to nod that his sibling has spoken correctly. “That’s how I understand it.”

“Right, so then everything should be fine now. No need to panic. Definitely no need to be following me around like some overenthusiastic babysitter.”

“Be gentle. We both know that I’m the one who’ll have to listen to Hashirama if you aren’t.”

“No promises.” Izuna sits up straight with a sharp look in his eyes.

Madara rolls his own. “At least wait until tomorrow then. He’s probably going to have his hands full with his own brother tonight and I doubt either of us want to be around for that flood of tears.”

Pausing for both of them to shudder, Izuna leans over to rest against his shoulder again.

“Good point,” he admits. “I suppose it can wait until tomorrow. He’s always right there when I get in to the tower so kami knows he probably comes looking for me in the mornings even before I think to check whether he’s around. The second I find him, though, he’s getting the third degree.”

“If you think you can pin him down long enough to listen then more power to you,” Madara scoffs.

As it turns out, the task is both easier and harder than either of them expect. For once in his life Tobirama comes when he’s called, stepping in to the office when Izuna hails him the next morning and looking entirely unperturbed to be shut in to a room with two determined looking Uchiha. Now that he knows to look for the signs Madara notices the man even relaxing a small bit. If not for what he’s learned recently he might never guess that relief is from seeing Izuna locked away safe from the rest of the world.

When the focus of his obsession demands to be left alone Tobirama refuses him flat out with no hesitation, not even a hint of surprise. Clearly there had indeed been another conversation the night before.

“I can handle myself,” Izuna groans after the two of them have gone in circles of demand and refusal several times.

“Your skill indeed is a close match to my own but this is not something I am willing to chance.”

“For fuck’s sake, why?”

Tobirama’s answer brings silence like the cutting edge of a blade.

“Your survival is essential to the survival of my brother’s dream and I will do whatever I have to in order to protect that. If that means I must give my life in place of yours then so be it.” For such profound words he speaks with the lightness of a man who has spent hours considering them. The ease of total belief in a chosen path.

In the wake of his declaration neither of the Uchiha siblings are able to find words for quite some time. Tobirama, strangely, waits contentedly as they try to find their bearings. Whether because he feels better here where he can keep an eye on the one he so desperately needs to protect or simply because he wants to get this over with now so no one will track him down again later, all he does is fold his arms and wait with the air of a man not particularly in a hurry to be anywhere else. Which is ridiculous. He probably has more to do than either of them put together. How he manages to complete his duties around all the stalking is just yet another mystery.

After several minutes have passed Izuna is the first to recover, visibly bracing himself to speak.

“For your brother, huh? I guess I can understand that motivation. I don’t like it, still think you’re insane and need some help, but I can understand. Look, if you’re going to follow me around like a creep anyway at least just come sit in the room with me or whatever.”

“What!?” Madara is jolted back in to motion with indignation. “You’re just going to let him keep stalking you!?”

“He’s going to do it anyway! At least if he stops pretending to be sneaky about it, I don’t know, it would just lower the creepy factor for me.” Izuna shrugs.

Tobirama’s head falls to one side as he contemplates the offer, a little dubious, but in the end all he does is nod and turn to leave without another word. He has an obsession but he also has things to do and when they’re all piled on top of each other here in the tower it’s only too easy for him to monitor Izuna’s chakra for any signs of distress or danger. Considering his sensitivity it would not be outside the bounds of his ability to keep track of every chakra signature that enters and leaves the tower to watch for possible threats.

“Are you insane?” Madara snaps the moment the door is closed, uncaring whether or not Tobirama can still hear them through the wood. His sibling rubs at the space between his brows with a long suffering expression.

“Maybe, who knows? I meant it when I said I could sort of understand his motivation but…think about it. Rather than following behind all the time or hiding in the shadows, if he’s there in the room then it would all feel a lot more normal.” The hand falls for his eyes to linger on the doorway. “And if he’s there in the room then maybe we can show him that I really can handle myself. There’s nothing for him to worry about. Or maybe convince him to get help or some shit.”

The two of them share a look. Madara holds the other’s eyes for as long as he can but in the end he is forced to concede to this as well. It isn’t like he has any better plans himself.

Eventually Izuna wanders off back to his own office as well, leaving Madara alone to stand by the window and look out over the buildings around them without truly seeing anything. All he sees is the sky, blue and never-ending, a freedom he might never have been able to admire again if not for the last piece of his family left in this world. Izuna isn’t the only one who can see merit in Tobirama’s motivations, hard as that is to admit.

Something dark and heavy lies faint on the edge of the horizon, a storm that looks to be coming their way. As he examines the shape of it Madara can’t help his inner Hashirama from comparing it to the climate hanging over the near future. Life promises to be very strange for a while, stranger even than it has been for the last few months, and it chafes that none of them can predict what the outcome will be. He knows as well as any farmer that a storm does not have to be a bad thing. Crops need the rain, summer heat needs to be broken, assassination targets need to be driven off the road in to vulnerable places like roadside inns. Many things might follow a storm.

He can only hope that when the rains pass the sun will come again for all of them. Strangely, against everything he has been raised to believe, he finds himself hoping the same for Tobirama.

#rae writes #madara #izuna #hashirama #tobirama #fanfiction #that's it for this installment of the ATTD series #already started on the next one lol

[paradise-of-guilty-pleasures]

Shattered Reflections {13}

[Helsa RP- Fanfic]

Fandom: Frozen

Genre: Post-Frozen/ Canon Divergence

- Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Romance

Pairing(s): Hans/Elsa, Kristoff/Anna

Previous Chapter: 12. Homemade with Love

13. An Odd Request

Knock Knock Knock

Knocking at this hour was quite odd, it was too formal, Elsa and especially Olaf tended to head in unannounced. The only person who came by and actually knocked was the Doctor, but they'd already checked in not too long ago, so whoever was behind the door didn't customarily come visit. "May I come in? I wish to have a word with you." called a familiar voice.

Hans shifted a bit on the bed, still in mass amounts of pain, but doing his damnedest to get past that. "Please do, distract me from the stab wound." He remarked airily. And god did he need a distraction from that. Still, in his usual stubborn fashion, as his guest entered, he made an effort to push himself up into at the very least a sitting position, in spite of the pain. It felt weird to lay down and let people address him from the ceiling. It was awkward for everyone involved and he wanted none of it.

The door opened and in came a familiar well built man. It was the Captain of the guard. Bandaged and scratched up himself, but in far better shape than Hans. "'Evening, Prince Hans," he greeted with a nod, choosing to omit the 'good', knowing he was probably not having a good evening being bedridden and in pain.

"So it is, you can omit the 'prince' part too, Captain, if you must pick a title at least use the one I earned." Hans joked, holding his wound but offering a wry smile through the pain. "I'd say I owe you my life for fetching Elsa and the doctor last time, are we even now?" He joked gently. "Come on then, sit and have a chat. It'll be refreshing to talk to a working man again, like my crew. I'd suggest we get drinks, but the doctors disagree with that suggestion. Or they did for me, maybe you got lucky and missed that directive." Hans spoke with the Captain like they had been crew mates for years, and on equal terms. None of this prince or prisoner business, just working men in his book.

" You jest, and yet I truly think we are even," stated the Captain as he brought a chair to the bedside, the back of the chair facing Hans. "One of the reasons I've come to speak to you is indeed to thank you, for undertaking my responsibility of protecting the Queen, when I failed to do so in battle. I guess I made the right call saving you, after all." He half-jokingly quipped back, taking a seat in the chair backwards.

"I'm glad to hear it, if nothing else, a traitor makes for a good sword-stopper, may as well use that fact while I have it." He suggested dryly, gesturing to his wound. "I'm sure my reasons for what I did at the coronation never got back to you, I'd try to reassure you, but after the original traitorous events I'm afraid it wouldn't matter much to explain myself, I've rather a liar's reputation. I'm afraid that one I can't make even no matter how many scars I earn in the process, but I've nothing better to do but try, anyway. Here, if we're to gossip, I ought to know more than just your title?" He checked his hand for blood before offering it to shake. Holding his wound as much as he had it, it was worthwhile to check.

" I guess, a proper introduction is at hand," he agreed, accepting Hans' offer to shake. "Name's Kristofferson, Johannes Kristofferson. Friends call me Johan."He gave Hans a firm handshake. The Captain was a man many years Hans' senior (by a decade, at least), approaching middle age, but not quite old enough to be his father. He had a rather large bulbous nose, dark hair and sported a thick mustache.

"'Johannes'? Johan it is, I'm deeply sorry for the alternative nickname." Hans remarked, mingled amusement and apology on his face, as he knew that meant they could have shared a nickname. No doubt friends wouldn't call anyone in their country 'Hans' for a while without starting a fistfight. "Good to meet you properly, Captain. Her Majesty is planning to get some retraining for the guards, I'm expecting to be assisting in that-- mostly teaching your men to be careful with tricky bastards like me. I know enough thieves, fought enough pirates, and lied enough times I think we could get a few solid exercises going." He tried to keep a conversation running.

"Likewise," said the Captain, releasing the grip from their shake. " Even if it hurts my pride to say so, as Captain of the guard, it's become painfully obvious," he briefly lifted up his bandaged arm. "Pardon the pun-- that we are in dire need of retraining."

"Jokes aside, I do wish to speak of you about your involvement in the retraining process," He explained. "I heard you took charge during the attack, directing men in how better to do their job. I guess it's to be expected, from an Admiral after all. A man from the Isles, such as yourself, is better equipped for battle than anyone in Arendelle. It saddens me to say that Arendelle has been far too sheltered for years and we haven't exactly adapted with the times either. You on the other hand are quite experienced in tactic and technique." He momentarily paused. "I've spoken with the Queen and that's why Her Majesty as well as I myself believe you might be best fit, in overseeing the retraining yourself...Heck, you might even manage to teach an old dog like myself a new trick or two." He slightly chuckled, but turned serious again. "...Though that's not all I wish to discuss with you, I have a more... personal request, I wish for you to undertake as well."

"It comes with experience, as an admiral and a littlest brother, I've learned to hold my own in fights." He chuckled a little, though perhaps wryly. "A request of me? Gladly, Captain. Anything I could be useful for. What troubles you sir?" He wondered what the Captain could possibly want of him, but he would be more than glad to help, given the opportunity to.

"This might sound like an odd request coming from me, but I think it might be in Arendelle's best interests," He began with a deep breath. "I don't know if you already took note of what I'm about to tell you, but you do seem to be a perceptive lad, so I'm sure it didn't cross your keen eye undetected. Anyway, before I was overtaken by the enemy fighting alongside the Queen, I noticed something about Her Majesty's magic or at least how she was using it. She was mostly using her ice powers to shield rather than attack. I know she's cautious about using her magic aggressively, especially against and around people, yet considering what happened with Her Highness, it's completely understandable. What I'm getting at is that she doesn't have a way to defend herself if she refrains from using her magic. So what I ask of you, I say out both concern for Her Majesty's safety, as well as, the confidence I see she holds in you." He took a long glance over at the ice blade laying on top of the bureau. "I know it's our job to protect her, and I may be speaking out of line, but I never want to leave her alone and defenseless ever again. So I request you try to convince her to learn how to wield a weapon, teach her how to use a sword, as a preventive measure, so she'll have a way to protect herself without relying solely on her ice magic."

Hans blinked a bit, surprised by the rounds that conversation took. He paused to consider it. "You know she'd never draw blood if she could help it." He pointed out, but he was still clearly pondering the suggestion. "I'll see what I can convince her of. Perhaps if she can at least be convinced of a snow army or some other defender she can create, she might be protected. But I will try to convince her to take up a weapon. God knows, a man of the Isles is a good one to teach it, us with our refusal to give up anachronistic ways. We might need a guard presence during any training. I don't think you or I or anyone else wants to see me holding a sword at Her Majesty even with wooden blades for sparring. The Princess might decide to strangle me with her bare hands." That was only mostly a joke. "Well, I hope I can heal quickly. It seems I have a lot of work to do, yet. ...What blade do you think she should learn, then? It's a loaded question, but I want to know what you think." He nodded a little toward the blade on the bureau. His own sword was a bastard sword; not usually the weapon of a lady-- but certainly one that would kill well enough if need be. "I've seen her fight, she can be dangerous, but she'd never kill, I suspect if she gave a man so much as a paper cut she'd hold the scar as her own. As much as I agree that she should be protected, I can lead a horse to water, but even I cannot command it to drink."

"Yes, of course there’ll be a guard," The Captain nodded, before adding: "Though, I'd assume that you'd be using ice instead wood, should she accept, knowing she can disintegrate it at will." "Hm." He looked back at the sword."Rapier or Smallsword, perhaps." "I know," he sighed. "Her Majesty has a kind heart." The Captain looked back at Hans. "Thank you for at least hearing me out."

He nodded. "Of course. I'd say I'm a rather captive audience, even if I may or may not be a prisoner anymore." He laughed and shrugged a little, then cringed. "I'm not going much of anywhere with a stab wound." He shifted to lean back on the bed, visibly blinking back pain. "I'm not convinced she'd always remember that she can do that. Remember that time she couldn't unfreeze an entire kingdom? I doubt I'll ever forget it." He pointed out, a dry amused tone, but an expression that definitely didn't hold amusement on it. He still only felt shame about that. "Almost a shame, I'm better with bastard sword technique. 'Bastard for a bastard', as we joked in the isles, though none of us are. It's a better killing tool than a rapier, but it wouldn't suit her style." He seemed pensive, almost wistful a moment. "Perhaps a Sabre. I'm skilled with those and they're light and quick enough for a lady, if pressed. A good middle ground, enough metal behind it to disarm. Or, indeed, to dis-arm." He chuckled wryly. Lopping off an arm was one way to diminish a threat. "No promises, but I'll see what I can do. If nothing else, we'll work on some better defenses. If I must be Her Majesty's bodyguard as well as her fool, I'll do that, too." He didn't mind. He was simply whatever they told him to be. "Out of curiosity, what do you think of me? I imagine from an outsider's perspective, this must all be very strange to you. I won't take offense, use all the rude words you like." He laughed dryly.

The Captain nodded along as he listened. "What do I think of you? That's a bit of a conundrum. It really depends on when exactly you're asking, because right now my opinion of you is that you're a brave but foolish boy, that I believe is truly trying to make amends. If that weren't the case I definitely wouldn't have asked for your assistance. The Queen has a kind heart, but I don't think she'd give you a second chance, unless she saw something in you worth saving.

"If you are looking for rude words that would probably be my opinion of you after the eternal winter and when you first set foot back in Arendelle. Thought you were a real bastard to show your face again, after what you did. I was actually surprised you didn't choose to take a similar route like the Duke and enact your revenge.

" With that said, as 'an outsider', as you put it, I have a hard time wrapping my head around the whole debacle. Mostly because things didn't seem to add up, you seemed like a genuinely kind, caring, character throughout the eternal winter, helping Arendelle however you could, it was truly a shock to all of us to hear you turned traitor. Especially considering you went through all the trouble to climb the North Mountain to retrieve the Queen unharmed, and brought her down just to--" The Captain shook his head. "Anyway, I think that pretty much abridged what I think of you."

Hans smiled a little at being called a 'boy', amused and understanding. "A bastard with a bastard sword. One of several reasons I picked it." Hans joked wryly. "None of us are actually bastards, of course, by lineage, but it doesn't stop us joking." He rubbed his wound gently, trying to soothe the pain. "I didn't want to, if you want to know the story. I did it to give the ladies a villain for their story. True love's kiss wouldn't have worked, I'm no fool. So what, I'd have kissed Anna, nothing would have happened-- what then? Anna would have found a way to blame herself, died miserable, and where would the Queen be? Out on the fjord, ready to die? It wasn't a good choice, but easier for me to be the villain than the Queen." He shrugged, a bit of a sigh. "Bastard is a good descriptor for it, yes. But bastards can do good deeds too. Remember that-- and a good man can be a bastard just as easy if they've a mind to be. Good men are driven to it, lesser men simply walk."

" I remember you telling the Queen something like that in the Throne Room when you first arrived. I definitely doubted you then, but now it seems to make sense and I'm more inclined to believe that was really your reasoning." replied the Captain. " It's a lot easier for a good man to go bad than a bad man to turn good."

"On the contrary, I think." Hans mused. "It depends how good one is, I suppose. I know of many thieves. One married Her Majesty's cousin, small world as it is, two of my brothers worked with him. All three were bad, one turned out to be good because he met a girl. My brothers remain right bastards, but they'd still be there if my father wasn’t dying, and call my brother Eduard 'little fox' with affection. As they say, even evil men love their families. Or bits of them, at least. One of my brothers prefers the company of men, and the church calls him evil-- yet he's sweet through and through, helpful to those in a rough place, and would never bother somebody who doesn't want his company. Now, who is better, he or the brother in the clergy who says that brother and I are both damned for our sins?" Hans shrugged, unwilling to offer his own opinion. "Bad men have soft spots, no matter how bad. Good men who harden, though? I'd fight a thousand men alone rather than get in the way of a good man who steels for war. If her Majesty ever draws a sword to do battle willingly, by god's hand, run." That was not a joke. Hans knew the Queen wasn't violent, but if she ever decided to be? It would not be Arendelle changed, but the world.

"I guess you're right, there's a fine line between good and bad men. It's the way they lead their lives that makes all the difference." He responded. "May God have mercy on us all, if her Majesty ever lost her kind soul."

"Cheers to that, and God save us if we should make the wrong choice of who to side with in the chaos. I'm spoken for, I'm afraid." He nodded to his blade of ice. "Come heaven or hell, that's an Arendelle sword meant to hang at my hip. Either I use that, or I pray I never need a sword again. The Isles are curious about sword traditions, I think I'm beginning to truly understand them, now."

"Cheers!" The Captain played along. There was a brief moment of silence between the men. Just as the Captain was going to open his mouth to state he might not be the best company to entertain the Prince with words, the door suddenly swung open. Catching both men by surprise. The door swinging open was accompanied by the loud proud voice of a determined Feisty Princess: "Hans of the Southern Isles, I've got a bone to pick with you!"

#Helsa #Frozen #Frozen Fanfiction #Fanfiction #Shattered Reflections

[babylionmarvel]

Soulmates

 Authors Note: hello reader! I finally decided on publishing my stories somewhere. For the longest time I was insecure about my work and I still am actually, but at the same time I want people to notice my work and give me some tips on how to improve it. So please enjoy the following story, but beware it’s probably extremely cheesy, also my native language isn’t English, but I do try my best to avoid mistakes

Summary: When Loki finds a save haven on a planet where no one cares about his past, he doesn’t expect things to turn out even better. Or as good as the situation allows it.

Pairing: Loki x ValkyrieReader

Warnings: angst, fluff

Words: ~2120

MASTERLIST

At first, he had felt ridiculed. When he woke up, he was surrounded by garbage, garbage and even more garbage as far as he could see. Then he was attacked by savages. Luckily, he quickly managed the situation and got rid of the bad smelling creatures that tried to make him their next meal. He made his way over to the faraway buildings that promised at least a tiny chance of meeting a somewhat intelligent species. Once he reached the city, tired and dirty, he got chained up, even though he had made it clear, that he was the rightful king of Asgard. It did not took him long to realise that neither his title nor his name meant anything on this peculiar planet.

Soon, he felt happy. Thanks to his endless talents of speaking and persuading, it did not take him long to be in favour of the so-called Grandmaster. Sometimes he still thought about his brother, his home. But who was there to miss him? His beloved mother was gone and so was his father. His brother got other things on his mind and the Asgardian folk would not mourn him either. So why would he care? His future should be here on Sakaar, the place where all the lost things end up to find a new home. He felt more and more comfortable, he could be himself while no one cared about his past. No one even knew about the tragedy of Loki Odinson. It was a new beginning, his new beginning. And he would never let the chance to leave everything behind pass by.  

On his third day on Sakaar, he was talking to another resident about the Grandmaster's collection of rare documents, when the Grandmaster himself walked up to him, with two fierce looking women by his side. “Ladies, this is our newest guest Loki, Master of Mischief. These are my most loyal warriors, they usually bring new guests to me as soon as they find them, but I guess you are good at sneaking around,” the Grandmaster chuckles, as the two women share a confused look behind his back. Loki looks at them, one even more beautiful than the other. He could see their strength and determination, but he knew that they once were lost and found just like him. Everyone on Sakaar shares the same trait. They all have a heart-breaking backstory.  

As soon as the three of them walked away, Loki excused himself from the conversation, before it could start again. He hurried to his room, keeping his left arm pressed closely to his chest. He had always been good at hiding his true feelings. No one had noticed how much pain he had felt when he looked into the eyes of one of the women. In his room, he immediately gets rid of his clothing. Standing in front of a mirror, Loki eyes the black mark carved into the skin of his upper arm. The flesh surrounding the letters is bright red and sore, he does not dare touching it. Something had happened when their eyes met and he already had a suspicion on what it was. Yet, he did not want to believe it.

At the same time, the woman stumbles against a wall and falls to the floor, moaning in agony. The Grandmaster had just left her and her companion. “What is wrong?” Her friend is promptly kneeling by her side. “My skin feels like it's burning,” she answers through gritted teeth as she clutches to her leg. The warrior does not hesitate and pulls of her friend’s boot, revealing a black mark framed by sensitive red skin. One stares at her friend in horror, while the other cannot take her eyes of the fragile looking letters. “How? You...we can't receive this mark!” She loosens the grip around her ankle and gets off the floor. “Bryn, I-” “I told you not to call me this. We're better off when no one expects us to be alive,” her friend interrupts her furiously. The suddenly vulnerable looking woman slips her boot back on and rises off the floor as well. “It just appeared one day, I don’t even remember how many years ago,” she admits with a pained expression on her face.  

From that moment on, she wanted to avoid Loki. But he still was the God of Mischief and if he wanted to meet her, he would. She was walking through the long corridors of the building when their paths crossed later that day. “I beg your pardon, but I don't think I picked up your name earlier,” he says with a charming smile and curious eyes. “You are right, I’m sorry,” she smiles at him, “my name is none of your business,” she coldly answers and turns around to leave, but he gets a hold of her arm. “Please,” he murmurs desperately and pulls her back slightly, forcing her to defend herself. She quickly turns around and slips out of his grip, exposing a tattoo on her forearm to him.  

“This is not...this can’t be,” he mumbles staring at her skin. “You’re right, it can’t be,” she says bitterly and finally leaves him behind. The following days, she successfully avoids him. Even if this might only occurs because he is busy with his brother, who had suddenly arrived at Sarkaar. She thought everything was fine now, no matter if her mark still hurt when he was close or not. She thought she was safe, until a certain someone bursts into her room.

“The Grandmaster demands- oh please excuse me, I shouldn’t have barged in like this,” Loki turns away and hands her a towel as she still lays in the bathtub motionless and shocked. “What does the Grandmaster demand?” She asks surprisingly calm while she gets out of the water and wraps herself into the towel. “His champion was apparently kidnapped and now he wants us to search for him,” the raven-haired man explains, still trying not to look at her exposed body. She sighs and walks around him to the door. The pain on her ankle increases once Loki's gaze wanders across her mark. “Please, show it to me,” their eyes meet once again in an intensive stare. “You already know whose name is carved into my skin. Please leave now. Tell the Grandmaster I will meet him in a few minutes,” she opens the door and gestures Loki to leave.  

The God of Mischief soon finds himself pacing the corridors next to the Grandmaster's favourite warrior. “Tell me what her name is. I need to know,” he begins a conversation. The woman shakes her head no. “It doesn't matter. The Codex of Valkyrie prohibits any romantically involvements. She knew this when she signed up for it hundreds of years ago,” she explains to him, annoyance clearly swinging by in her voice. “So, you’re a Valkyrie too,” he expresses rather bland, “I thought you all died gruesome deaths.” He shrugs, unprepared for the Valkyrie's sudden movements, knocking him out coldly.  

She had a certain suspicion the whole time but she did not expect her friend to act up with them. Why would anyone want to flee from their peaceful life on Sakaar just to find death on Asgard? The female warrior still took care of the rebels. In a good way, not the way the Grandmaster had ordered her too. They were on their way to take one of the ships, when she saw someone laying on the ground motionless. “Loki!” She realized and freed him from the pain of being electrified. “My name sounds good on your lips,” was the first thing he expressed afterwards. “We need to take care of your bitch of a sister, come on,” she had helped him of the floor and entered the Grandmaster's biggest ship.

Once the ship had left Sakaar and was flying through space stable and safe, she left the control room and searched for Loki. He peaked over his shoulder when the door to his chamber was opened and calmly placed his focus back onto the weapons in front of him. “Show it to me,” she asks quietly and steps closer to him. His clothes vanish as he places the dagger in his hands on the table in front of him. Goosebumps cover his exposed body, when her fingertips touch the letters on the back of his arm. The burning pain on his skin immediately stops and is switched by a tingling sensation throughout his whole body.  

(Y/N) the northern letters read. “I haven't heard that name in hundreds of years,” she confesses as she places her other hand on the soft skin of his back. His slim body looks flawless in the dimmed light of his room. He shivers at her touch but still does not turn around. Instead he enjoys her fingertips drawing patterns on his fair skin, his back muscles relaxing one by one. “Loki,” she mutters more to herself than to him, knowing that their destination grows closer with each passing second. “(Y/N),” her name is a well-known melody leaving his lips and tongue. When he was a child, he would repeat it countless times, wanting to be prepared when he would finally meet her.  

“We will die fighting her,” (Y/N) expresses dully and removes her fingers from his soft skin, taking a step away from him. Loki immediately feels the warmth of her touch leaving, as the cold creeps up his back again. He turns around to finally face her, the woman whose name appeared on his skin right after birth. His soulmate. “We can still turn around and go back to Sakaar,” he suggests, even though the words leave a bitter taste in his mouth. She shakes her head and looks to the ground. “I was destined to die in the first fight, I knew that she would come back one day,” she exclaims bitterly. Loki places his hands on her cheeks and raises her chin to meet her gaze. “This is not true. All of this was my father's fault in the first place. He sacrifices you to deal with his mistake,” he declares, anger crossing his face.

“Uh, not to interrupt you or anything, just continue staring at each other, but I’m afraid we arrive at this Ass-Court soon,” Korg explains as he boldly stands in the doorframe. “For the last time, it's called Asgard!” Loki rolls his eyes, not taking his hands of her cheeks. “Thank you, Korg. Please get the others ready for the fight,” (Y/N) smiles at the man made of stone over her shoulder. The door closes behind her and she looks back up into the Asgardians green eyes. Loki lets out a deep breath and smiles at her with an utterly heartbroken expression in his eyes. “I never have...I mean I haven’t...” Elia stumbles upon her words, when Loki leans in to meet her lips with his. He shows her a genuine smile, before he presses his lips to her forehead instead.

With a flip of his hand, Loki is fully dressed in his armour and ready to fight, while he clothes her in the typical grey and gold armour of the Valkyries. They share a meaningful look before vanishing in the fight. (Y/N) fights and slays Hela's knights until all movement stops as the Goddess of Death herself appears in front of them. The warrior nearly cannot contain her anger and hate towards the monstrous woman but she tries to stay hidden, increasing her chances of staying alive. At least for now. The speech is over and the fight rekindles once again.  

Before entering the rescue ship, (Y/N) spots Loki flying into the palace. Soon after, Asgard disappears into the internal flame and Suturs rage. She quietly withdraws into Loki's former chamber to mourn, while his brother Thor gets crowned as Asgards new king. Silent tears run down her face as she strips off her bloodied armour of her hurting body piece by piece. She doesn't even notice the figure appearing behind her in the barely lit room. “You fought bravely, Valkyrie,” the voice startles her. When she spins around and sees his smile, she can not help but wrap her arms around him tightly. “You are alive,” she gasps breathlessly. “I did not wait for you for more than 1500 years just to die right after finding you, did I?” He grins cheekily and places another kiss on her forehead. “Come on, get your clothes, we're going to leave,” he says and gives her more space to gather her belongings. And so, they fly through the realms in the Grandmaster's party ship and look for a private place to settle down.

#marvel #loki #thor #valkyrie #one shot #soulmates #avengers #ragnarok #fanfic #iron man #tony stark #spiderman #steve rogers #bucky barnes #angst #fluff #love #smut #hulk #bruce banner #hela #odin #hawkeye #black widow #natasha romanoff