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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

Note

Ahhh I love all of your writing. Everything always gives the impression of a fleshed out world behind it and it makes me happy to read them (no matter how heartbreaking some of them are) . For the prompt (or maybe I'd like to hear your thoughts on how this would play out): Jiang Fengmian time travels back in time. What happens when you force someone who is determined to keep the status quo into a position with unlimited power to destroy the norm?

Jiang Fengmian closed his eyes forever, and then opened them up again.

This might suggest, to a reasonable person, that he had not closed them forever, and for a moment he let himself believe that he had been merely injured and that he was now in recovery, his home restored around him as he slept – but he knew at once that that wasn’t the case.

For one thing, his golden core had been melted in that final battle, and yet it thrummed beneath his belly, strong as ever.

For another, if he was in recovery, he wouldn’t be lying in his wife’s bed, watching the sun creep up through the window instead of staring at the gorgeous woman herself, naked and fast asleep on the pillow next to him.

This would normally be the time when he crept out of bed to gather his clothing and make his way back to his own chambers – while he was technically the master of the Lotus Pier, he’d never presumed himself welcome in his wife’s bed beyond the nights they spent together. He’d barely assumed he was welcome beyond the technical acts itself, but his pride did not allow him to slink back to his rooms after having put to stud. He’d made a point of going to sleep soon after so that she couldn’t ask him to leave.

It had never occurred to him that she might want him to stay.

It had never occurred to him that she might grant him equal control over Zidian, either. It was an ancestral weapon from her maternal family, passed to whichever child showed the most aptitude for it – Jiang Cheng seemed likely, if only because Jiang Yanli was so very much not the sort to enjoy wielding weaponry – and there was no reason at all for her to share mastery of it with him.

No reason, except –

Except if she thought of him as her partner in truth, rather than merely in name.

Jiang Fengmian did not rise from the bed and collect his clothing, even as the sun crept closer and closer to the edge of the bed. Instead, he turned and pressed his lips to his wife’s shoulder.

And then, because he could, he pressed another kiss there, and another a little further up, on her neck.

She groaned, shifting her weight a little – but not pulling away. “I don’t have to get up for another shichen, you know,” she grumbled, voice rough with sleep. There was no heat to her scolding.

Jiang Fengmian’s wife, he knew, was not hesitant in applying the force of her vicious, poisonous tongue to those that even mildly irritated her.

For her, merely scolding was virtually permission.

No – encouragement.

“So we have plenty of time,” he replied, and leaned over to kiss her.

Later, she will ask him what on earth had gotten into him – the last time they’d gone to bed together for two days in a row had probably been back when they were trying to conceive Jiang Cheng, and he’d never before made any attempt to play around in the morning hours – and he would explain, laying out for her the dreadful future that lay ahead of them both, the fate of the sect they shared between them…the unknown fate of their children, which death had robbed him of ever knowing.

He would tell her, when she demanded an answer, that did not know how he had returned, only that he had.

He would confirm to her that he was certain that it was not merely a dream, but reality.

He would agree with her that they could not remain passive in the face of this information.

He would concede that they needed to start making preparations at once – to shore up their defenses, to put in place protections, to need to reach out for help, for allies. They would need to convince the Lan sect, which in their love for peace would undoubtedly refuse to believe him – perhaps allowing it to burn would end up being a cruel necessity – although the Nie sect would take no convincing at all.

Jiang Fengmian might have died before a war had started, though he was sure it would start; he did not know how it ended, but he was certain that the Nie sect would be pivotal one way or another.

(Nie Mingjue had longed to avenge his father’s death at Wen Ruohan’s hands for years, dedicating his life to the cause. Jiang Fengmian wondered if Jiang Cheng would do the same for him, and felt guilty when he realized he did not know. Something he would need to try to fix in this life, if it wasn’t too late.)

Yu Ziyuan, never one to wait to see how the wind turned and even less patient when the matter pertained to her children, would demand that they act at once.

Jiang Fengmian would agree.

He would never willingly allow harm to come to his sect or to his family – but he was not a man born for decisive action, always too open to seeing things from multiple perspectives, empathizing too much with those who didn’t need it. He preferred that things remain calm and friendly, peaceful and nice, and he would rather adapt himself to the circumstances than invest the energy needed to change the minds of others.

He was not the sort of person who could change the history of the world, even if he knew what it was.

Luckily for him, he had a partner that would find it no difficulty at all.

#mdzs #jiang fengmian #yu ziyuan #my fic #my fics #chaoticroses-24

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typicalmidnightsoul · 4 years

Text

𝑻𝒓𝒖𝒆 𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒚 - Chapter 4

𝙻𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎

you have sadness living in places sadness shouldn't live. - Rupi Kaur

Sooo guys this is (maybe) the penultimate chapter or there might be 2 more you never know...

Chapter 1 2 3 <- here

Nesta’s head hurt like a bitch.

Why had she drank 6 bottles-

She was drunk and who’d-

No, no, no-

She had kissed the General of the Night Court armies. Knuckles rapped on her door followed by a low voice going,

“Knock, knock.”

Shit! How was he here?! Did she somehow summon him?! She considered just hiding under the covers-

“I know you’re there Nesta, I can smell you.”

She eyed the window, maybe if she could-

He knocked again, louder this time.

Drunk Nesta lands herself in shit and sober Nesta needs to handle it. Fuck you. She threw herself a vulgar gesture in the mirror and sat on the edge of her bed her back to the door,

“Come in.” She said.

He leaned against her door,

“Hey. Rough night?” Cassian smirked knowingly.

“Fuck off Cassian.” She started looking for her towel, picking up the clothes littering the floor. She tried to walk past him into the adjacent bathroom and got stopped. He blocked her way looking down at her with hard eyes.

She sighed; she didn’t have the time or energy for this.

“What do you want Cassian?”

He stepped closer to her, “We need to talk about last night.”

She shook her head flicking a lock out of her eyes, “There is nothing too talk about.”

She pushed past him into the personal living room, trying to find the hairbrush she chucked at Eris the evening before.

She heard him flop down on the couch,

“There is everything to talk about, sweetheart.”

“No there isn’t.”

“Scared Nesta?” He smirked at her back.

She whirled, “No, I am not scared. There is just nothing to talk about; I don’t know what I was doing from kissing you to letting you take me home.”

“But you didn’t really,” He raised his brows, “let me take you home, that is.”

She rolled her eyes, “It was a mistake Cassian, a drunken mistake, let it go.”

“Drunk words, sober thoughts.”

She wanted to pick up a shoe and hit him in the face.

“Cassian! There is nothing between us and never will be.”

He stood up in one swift movement.

“Don’t count on that, sweetheart.”

They stood like that, staring at each other for a long time. The window was open a morning breeze floating in and moving a rebellious strand of hair in front of her face. Cassian tucked it, his eyes locked with hers, his finger remaining there.

The door opened-

“Nesta, you will not believe-“

The grin on Eris’ face died when he saw Cassian. Cassian was about to demand why the hell he was here when he felt Nesta’s presence, her warmth leak away from him. He turned to see that Nesta had indeed stepped away from him.

“What are you doing here?” Eris seethed.

Before Cassian could answer with his own snarky comment, Nesta said, “Leaving. As I was just about to get in the shower.”

Cassian and Eris stared each other down,

“Eris. Eris could you also go and tell Cresseida that I’ll be a bit late.” Eris dragged his eyes to hers and nodded once, leaving.

“What was that?!” Cassian hissed.

“An invitation for you to leave.” Nesta replied heading into the bathroom.

Cassian stood there for a few minutes trying to process what had just happened before he left.

-------

Cresseida had found Cassian sulking by the pier.

“Morning General.”

He smiled at her, nodding his head.

“I assume you’re sulking because Nesta refuses to acknowledge the connection between you both last night.”

He raised a brow, she shrugged, “I saw you two last night, I even turned the other way in my attempt not to eavesdrop but honestly my ears betrayed me.”

He chuckled, “No it’s not that.”

She tilted her head, “then I’m guessing it’s something to do with Eris.” His smile dropped.

“Ah I see,” She looked toward the sea, “I wish I could tell you that Eris doesn’t have a hand in Nesta’s distance towards you but well… he does.”

Cassian swallowed, “Did he say something to her?”

“Um, yes, he told her that-that well-” She winced.

Cassian turned, “What did he say Cresseida?”

“He told her about your, well history with her, Morrigan not being able to let you go, you getting used to your role as the buffer, he told her his side of the story as well. It’s not that Nesta’s embarrassed of you, she just knows how much hurt Eris has been through because of you and Morrigan that she does not want to hurt him. She cares about him and Eris; well she is literally the most important person in his life after his mother. I think Nesta sees it as a betrayal if she gets close to you.”

Cassian dragged a hand through his hair, “I hate Eris.”

“Don’t say that in front of Nesta.”

“She cares for him that much.”

“He gets her, his mother loves her, Beron, has very unusually taken a liking to her.” Cresseida chuckled, “even his brothers have but Nesta is revolted by them. His brothers not so much but his father-yes. She keeps on telling herself ‘he’s gonna die soon. Its fine, its fine’ it is absolutely hilarious.”

“Beron has taken a liking to Nesta, unbelievable.”

“Oh yes and you would not believe it, but Beron was teaching Nesta the use of ancestral weaponry of the Autumn court. Come to think of it, that’s probably the only reason why Nesta puts up with him.”

They both laughed.

“You know, Cassian with the right push Nesta will break. She’ll stop trying to deceive the inevitable.”

“The inevitable?” He raised a brow.

Cresseida smirked, “Oh yeah, you two are definitely having babies.”

She left him in shock at the blatant statement to figure out what the right push was.

Tags: @wannawriteyouabook @skychild29 @aesthetics-11 @sjm-things

if i have missed you or you want to be tagged let me know <3

#nessian #nessian fanfic #nesta archeron #cassian #feyre #rhysanf #rhysand #azriel #amren #mor #helion #cresseida #tarquin #varian #eris

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coeurdastronaute · 6 years

Text

Either/Or: Krypton 5

Previously on Krypton

The estate of the House of El sat on its ancestral plot to the west of Argo City. It was a glass and brick type that was unlike anything remotely normal to those from Earth. Sparse and large, it encompassed a kind of simple grandor, with its blue and gold symbols throughout, and the open doors so that the inside mingled with the outside almost interchangeably.

Throughout the land between the House of El and the city, hundreds of other properties existed in much the same way, though spread out and in a smaller fashion. The House of El had the luxury of time on its side, growing at a pace and era much longer than the rest of its distant neighbors. Often, Lena forgot that she was near the city at all. Her host family's house was its own ecosystem.

Lena’s wing was a microcosm of a microcosm, entirely self-sustaining and isolated from the bigger picture. It was a quiet refuge from the larger world. In the main room, Lena had stacks of books and papers, projects of her tinkering, ideas and words, scattered in somewhat neat, somewhat decipherable columns.

The bedroom was empty, nearly the opposite of the busy living room. All it contained was a bed, and that was all it needed. From time to time, a tablet or notebook would join her, but for the most part, Lena kept it as a refuge from thought. Dark greys and shades of white left the monochromatic room a relaxing paradise from all of the screens and colors of the new planet.

And then Kara existed, and brought in new sunshine and hues, all her own.

“Mmm, go back to sleep,” the Kryptonian whispered, furrowing, without even opening her eyes to confirm that Lena was actually awake.

The girl from earth just smiled and kissed bare shoulders. She shifted, turning over in Kara’s arms, and inhaling the smell. She couldn’t place it as anything she knew other than sunshine on an August day back home. The smell of heat and of spice that was distinctly incomparable. But it was purely Kara.

“You stayed.”

“Wasn’t I supposed to?”

This little feeling in Lena’s chest warmed itself. Like a kernel of popcorn, it burst with the surge and filled her body, radiating this thing she only just realized to be happiness. Cloaked in a certain beautiful woman and oddly sore and still very sticky from their activities just a few hours before, Lena closed her eyes and savored it.

Instead of answering, she kissed under Kara’s chin and earned a smile and tightening arms. Stuck so close together, they were almost atoms in the universe, in the microcosm. They sandwiched themselves together until they shared electrons.

“Last night you said you spent yesterday researching?” Lena whispered, resting her forehead against Kara’s neck.

“Love.”

Lena furrowed for a second and felt Kara’s nose migrate to her hair, she felt her inhale, and she felt her sigh.

“You were researching… love?”

“I wasn’t sure what it was. We have different definitions for these things.”

“You have definitions for love?” Lena wondered aloud, utterly confused despite Kara matter-of-fact answers.

“We don’t have it here, at least not the passionate kind,” she explained, adjusting and burrowing with a yawn, much disinterested in discussing her findings and instead eager to eek out a few more hours of peace and warmth.

“But your parents--”

“Why are you awake right now?” Kara complained. “Sleep.”

“What did you research?”

With a mighty sigh, Kara complained and grumbled, knowing full well that she was up for the day now. There was no way Lena Luthor was going to let her sleep, and there was no way she was going to escape being absolutely in love with it.

“We have a system here,” Kara finally began, knowing full well that she would do anything Lena asked. “The Matrix decides if matches are acceptable. It’s a complex system of accumulated knowledge and codes that forecasts and uses probability to--”

“You have a formula for love and affection?”

“I’m still very confused about all of it.”

“You did research.”

Lena murmured it with a little smile, though she was still confused about what exactly the research brought. Instead, she was just amazed that someone did research about a feeling she inspired within them.

So Lena kissed Kara’s neck and slid her hand up her spine, toying with the muscle there, running her nails along the skin. Lena wasn’t ready to get out of bed. It was still early, and they were just immovable objects who had nothing much but a feeling.

“One poet said that romance and love are why you stay alive, as humans,” Kara explained. “Another says he does not know how or when or where, but because he knows no other way. Love consists of two solitudes that meet, protect, and greet each other. Love is the answer to everything and the only reason to do anything. It is a serious mental disease.”

“You did a lot of research,” Lena nodded. “But none of it matters.”

“No?”

With a graceful push of her hips and slide of leg, Lena ended up straddling Kara. The sheets pooled at where they met, leaving them topless and messy from lack of sleep and an abundance of sex. Lena pushed her hair away from her face and let hands move to her hips where they held her in place. She ran her hand up Kara’s chest and appreciated the view with a mischievous smile and plenty of dawn left before they day had to begin.

“I don’t know a thing about love,” Lena nodded, finally dragging her eyes up Kara’s body to her neck, to her jaw, to her lips to her eyes. “You just feel it. It’s the simplest thing in the universe.”

Contemplative, brown eyes grew deep and heavy, pondering the words. The pause didn’t stop Lena from rubbing her palm over Kara’s breastbone. She hoped to rub a spot there that would learn to feel what she felt.

“You could have saved me a very long day in the Archives,” Kara grinned finally.

“We’re doing something. I don't know what. But it’s important. And it’s good. Please don’t overthink it.”

“No more thinking at all,” she decided, sitting up and looking at Lena’s lips. “I say I move to the application of all the research.”

“And what does that mean?”

“I want to know what it means to do to you what spring does to cherry trees.”

“Well, if it’s for great interplanetary understanding,” Lena shrugged, wrapping her arms around Kara’s shoulders and neck, tugging her closer as lips found her neck, under her jaw, bit her ear. “I’m all yours.”

In the large lab near the top of the Scientist Guild’s tower, a lot of white coats excitedly scurried about the large screens and computers. Outside, the heavy heat hung in the air, and sizzled the horizon to nothing, blurring everything together. No one took notice of the weather or the events outside of the screens. The entire world was irrelevant when all of that brainpower set its mind to a particular subject.

Kara said it was the warm season. That when it got to be hottest, it would be time for Lena to leave, and so, without knowing what that meant, without knowing what heat would be too much, Lena tried not to pay attention to the weather or the countdown to her departure, but rather contributed her brain to the melding of minds tasked with saving her planet.

Tucked amidst the crowd, Lena hid herself in a corner and smiled at the promising numbers coming through from the first couple of days of statistics. She had a lot of work to do, and time was running out.

“The generators are working well enough,” Lionel Luthor informed his daughter through the computer. “The tech is… it’s… magnificent.”

“How are the disposal teams doing with the nuclear sites? And the switch in agriculture? What about the--”

“Slow down, Lena. I can’t answer everything at once.”

Flushing with her father’s words, the tips of her ears burned as she took a deep breath and watched him read through a few papers. The chat box popped up a second later as he asked about gathering information for other things, namely the Kryptonite that he believed could power advanced weaponry.

Lena looked around and began typing that she wasn’t sure about it and hadn’t learned anything. But her father was keen, was observant, and he saw the flicker of hesitation and worry in his daughter's eyes. It was weakness and he did his best to pluck it out, but it seemed to grow like weeds in her. No one else would have seen it.

“I’m very proud of you, Lena,” her father said. “I’m eager for you to be home with us again.”

The reality sank in once again, and Lena tensed. Or she could stay. She wanted to say that, she wanted to never have to leave, and not just because of Kara. Here, Lena fit in. She belonged in a way that she hadn’t before, and that was something she never knew she missed or didn’t even have until she got it. Krypton made sense to her.

All she could do was smile and nod.

The home at the edge of town was always safe and never besmirched. The noble house of El existed wit a perfect pedigree and grooming known only to few others on the planet. Their line was ancestral, and some even said came from the very gods themselves, though few would acknowledge or even admit to believing such things.

Instead, the home existed as a symbol of stability and aspiration. All else wanted to uphold the same vigorous morals and genuine kindness that the House of El perfected and exuded into the world.

And Kara was convinced that she was the downfall of the great lineage.

With a heavy sigh, she stood at the entrance to her home as she had innumerable times before in her life, though this time, instead of heading right inside, she paused and remembered the weight of it all. Unwieldy as it was, she furrowed and tried to adjust her shoulders under the weight.

Much of her childhood had been spent perfecting the art of chivalry in the Kryptonian sense. Polite discourse and diligent study were stressed highly among other important traits that the noble house was meant to exemplify. Kara could recite the ancient rules of hosts better than any other. She could sing the sacred songs, she could recall in an instant, the oaths of the people and what they meant.

And so, when she disrupted the Rite of Guest in her own house, in the sacred walls of her home, well, Kara was damn near inconsolable. It didn’t stop her. But still, inconsolable she remained. The uncontrollable part was because of Lena Luthor. The rest was all her own.

With a heavy sigh again, Kara let herself inside once again, turning the entire situation over and over and over again, just as she’d done for the past two days. It was the night that kept her confused, because when she was near Lena, she was certain, and she was happy in a way she never knew existed. When they were apart, the crushing memory of who she was and what it all meant made her brain hurt.

“Kara, darling,” her mother greeted in their native tongue, joyed to see her daughter out of the Archives. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I was, um, I needed-- how are you?” she finally decided.

“I’m well, I’m tired, but well. Just reviewing these reports your father and Lena put together about the results. There are somethings that just….” she trailed off and distracted herself while looking at the papers before shaking it away and meeting her daughter’s eyes again. “Should I have some dinner brought up soon? I didn’t expect you home.”

“No, no, I’m not-- yes, wait. Yes, I’m starving.”

Confused by herself and the words, Kara shook her head and took a deep breath before joining her mother at the large table. All was quiet.

“Is there something--”

“I may have started Choosing. I maybe started it with Lena.”

Kara’s words rushed out as soon as her mother started talking. They weren’t rushed, they weren’t forceful or elevated, and more importantly, they weren’t said with guilt. Instead, Kara just sternly stated facts, and she held her breath in her chest after she finished.

“Choosing?” her mother repeated and furrowed before it clicked. “Choo-- With-- Kara? I thought-- Did she-- Choosing?”

Normally the most articulate person in the room, the lack of coherence was oddly startling to her daughter, but still, she waited and nodded.

“I haven’t spoken with her about our customs, and I’m not sure it’s the same, but there is something, and it is more than friends or colleagues.”

“She’s a guest in our home.”

“I’m aware. I looked at all of the old tomes I could find to see what the rules were, and I got similar wording, but a consistent theme.”

“She’s from Earth.”

“You stressed our relations with the--”

“Kara,” Her mother warned, interrupting wherever that thought or justification was heading. Her daughter knew enough to look guilty. When she looked away her mother studied her face.

Alura knew she’d have to be blind not to see this connection between the two of them. It was a great source of pride for her, that her daughter was capable of forging such strong friendships with people so different from themselves. But to Choose, to think of… with someone not of their planet. It wasn’t possible, she assumed.

“I feel very attached to her. There’s this… this… this pull,” she explained, her hand pressing against her chest as she did. “I think she’s important.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure.”

The two sat at the table as food was brought up and placed in front of them. They lost their appetite though. Kara sighed and shook her head.

“I’m sorry I broke the rules,” she muttered. “But she invited me to her room. I have been researching the process of Choosing and how it all works. There’s no reason it can’t be her.”

“She’s not Kryptonian,” her mother reminded her. “Are you going to have her go to the Matrix?”

“I haven’t spoken to her about our way.”

“This is a mess.”

“Yes.”

“The delegation from Earth leaves soon,” Alura sighed as she began to eat. “If this is what you Choose, you should figure it out soon.”

“I’ll let you know.”

Kara didn’t feel any better. Instead, the worry in her chest still lingered, though her shoulders were a little lighter. The responsibility just shifted though. She earned a small smile from her mother, and took it as a victory.

“You should talk to Lena about the Matrix, and our customs,” her mother finally said before sipping her wine.

“I will.”

There was a second of quiet.

“Are you sure?”

Kara didn’t hesitate at all.

“I am.”

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qqueenofhades · 7 years

Note

Sick anon here to say that should you feel so inclined to write more, I would be the absolute last person to object, but no pressure

well because you are so sweet and you are sick and your message made me happy, i mean

parts one, two, and three

The winter of 1838 in the state of Illinois is the coldest that anyone remembers. The rivers and ponds are frozen over a foot thick, and it snows every two or three days. The whiteness would be almost pure, if it wasn’t pocked and pitted with bloodstains from the starving, straggling, nearly-barefoot Cherokee Indians being forced to march by armed U.S. militiamen, evicted from their ancestral homelands east of the Mississippi River, to accommodate a gold rush and expanding settlement in the states of Georgia, Kentucky, and Tennessee. President Andrew Jackson signed the order; President Martin Van Buren is seeing it carried out. It will become known as nu na hi du na tlo hi lu i. Or rather and more simply, the Trail of Tears.

Lucy, Wyatt, and Rufus, dressed in layers of fur and wool and greased leather and blankets, are still freezing solid. They are face to face with one of the ugliest and most unforgivable episodes in all of American history, and none of them are entirely certain what to do. Flynn went here straightaway after saving the Titanic, and he hasn’t turned up just yet. Wyatt and Rufus are staring at the huddled, shivering, sick Indians, herded by armed men on horseback, with looks of total horror, and Lucy can’t blame them in the least. She is the one who’s along to make sure history happens as it is supposed to. That is her job.

This, though.

This is absolutely terrible.

“I – ” She clears her throat, chokes on the cold air, and coughs. “I’ll go looking. Flynn might want to prevent the Indian removals from happening, provoke an outright war between them and the settlers. That way, the country is even more divided running up to the Civil War, and the Union won’t be able to – ”

“Probably,” Wyatt says, clearly not listening, as he keeps staring at the Indians. “Lucy, we… are we really supposed to just – what? Leave them like this?”

Lucy flinches. She is very close to grabbing a musket and shooting down one of the soldiers herself, like that’s going to do anything. This is the same paradox as with the Titanic – do they still have to stop Flynn if he does something objectively decent, saves lives, even if it’s in the interest of further destabilizing American history? What cost – her soul? – is it going to take if she stands and turns a blind eye and lets this happen, because America might be destroyed altogether by the Civil War if she doesn’t?

Doesn’t this deserve to be destabilized?

“I’ll go look for Flynn,” she repeats, barely above a whisper. “You guys sneak in there and at least see if you can – “

Rufus gives her a strange look. “Go look for Flynn,” he says. “Again. By yourself.”

“It’s working, isn’t it?”

“Is that all it is?”

Lucy opens her mouth, doesn’t know what to say, what she can possibly. She can’t tell them, but she hates keeping secrets from them. Surely they must suspect something. They spend enough time together, they know she’s turned oddly evasive and noncommittal on the whole subject. Still, though. This –

She’s still trying to say something, anything. She’s interrupted by a gunshot.

All at once, the camp turns into chaos as half a dozen men on horseback, dressed in black with bandanas over their faces and cowboy hats pulled low, gallop in, opening fire with the distinctive rat-a-tat-tat of modern machine guns. Lucy’s heart vaults into her mouth as she, Wyatt, and Rufus duck and run, preparing to try to shield the Indians, only for them to realize that the newcomers – they must be Flynn and his cohorts, who else would have AK-47s in the nineteenth century? – aren’t shooting at the Indians. They’re shooting only, and intently, at the soldiers, who are yelling and scrambling and bracing to fight back, but whose balky single-bore muskets are barely a match for the weaponry they’re faced with. And at that, somehow, something in Lucy snaps.

She breaks from cover, runs, grabs one of the muskets from where it’s leaning against a log, and doesn’t even know how to fire it, apart from the rudimentary. Points it, manages to cock it, and feels the incredible, jerking kick through her entire body as it goes off, almost deafening her. One of the soldiers yells and somersaults off his horse. She did that. Shot him. Like she did Jesse James, but this – James was going to die anyway. Who knows if this man was supposed to. It doesn’t matter. She’s crossed the Rubicon, she’s acted to consciously interfere and change history because she wasn’t going to let the injustice stand.

It’s happening.

She’s turning into him.

Just like he said.

Lucy’s frigid hands are numb on the polished-wood barrel. She has no idea how to reload, even as someone yells, points at her, and appears to take exception to the death of his friend. But then the next instant, one of the men on horseback gallops up, almost casually shoots him through the back of the head, and holds a hand down to Lucy. Familiar dark eyes gleam at her beneath the snowy brim of the cowboy hat. “Morning, ma’am.”

Lucy wants to say something, wants to yell at him – but the camp is still in total uproar, and instinct drives her to grab his hand, as he hauls her up on the horse in front of him and puts his arms around her. “Take the reins!”

“What, so you can shoot more people?” Lucy has to raise her voice over the crack and strafe of more machine-gun fire, even as the Indians, realizing this is some sort of rescue, are grabbing up their things and trying to run. “Are you –”

Flynn gives her one of those looks he does so well, shrugs, and swings the butt of the rifle to his shoulder, even as Lucy has no choice but to grab the reins or be pitched off in the tumult. She catches half a glimpse of Wyatt and Rufus trying to get the Indians to go, for however far they’ll get before news of the attack spreads. She feels numb and stunned (or maybe that’s just the searing cold) as Flynn takes aim, shoots down the guard in the rough-hewn watchtower built at the perimeter of the camp, and regards his handiwork with satisfaction. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he says in her ear. “Destroying the bastards who deserve to be destroyed?��

Lucy doesn’t answer, in part because she can’t deny that this is exactly what she feels. It might not alter the entire outcome of the Indian removals, of the injustice of it – but try as she might, she can’t bring herself to wish that she did differently, even knowing that she’s on the verge of becoming the same sort of historical wrecking ball as him. Oh God. Oh, God. It is happening.

Flynn slings the rifle back over his shoulder, then canters off through the snow, her still clutching to the saddle, to the small log cabin on the far side of the clearing. He reins in, swings down, and pulls her off after him, shoving through the door and into the one tiny, dank, woodsmoke-smelling room beyond. Lucy stands shivering and dripping snow as he bends down, stacks some of the damp sticks of wood in the earthen hearth, takes out a modern lighter, and gets a fire going. “There,” he says, with considerable self-satisfaction. “Unless you wanted to get warm some other way?”

She chokes slightly at his presumption, even as she can’t resist moving closer; she is absolutely frozen through, and the warmth is heavenly. She stretches out her hands, feeling sensation slowly return, as he watches her with hooded eyes, leaning with studied casualness against the wall. Wyatt and Rufus will come back any minute, unless they haven’t realized just yet that they lost her in the uproar. Or they could be making sure the Indians get to safety. Anything.

“You shot the man, Lucy,” her companion says, after a moment. “You’ve gone past the point of no return, now. I told you.”

“I’m not interested in having this conversation.”

Flynn raises an eyebrow. “Fine. We don’t have to talk.”

“What – what happened in New York, it was completely a – “

“An accident?” He laughs, low and rough and derisive. “An accident, Lucy? Do you really think that? After everything that’s happened between us, do you think anything about this is accidental? You and I – we’re destined, somehow. I don’t know how, I don’t know why. But you knew all the places I picked out in history. I care about it as much as you do. I know why it matters. And now you’ve had a taste, you’ve seen you don’t have to just sit back and let stupid and terrible and pointless things happen in the name of some evil, idiotic larger purpose. This is power. This is what you’re meant for.”

“That’s what my father said to me.” Lucy doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t dare. “About Rittenhouse. About how I’d come to it, one way or another.”

Flynn considers, then shrugs. Takes a step. She is horribly aware of his proximity, and the way her heart is racing madly beneath the shawl. “I think you’re choosing a side right now, aren’t you?”

Lucy turns to look at him, which is a mistake. He is very close to her now, and the expression on his face is – soft, almost. Utterly intent. She can feel the heat of his breath on her cheek, the warmth of the flames still on her back. He reaches out both hands, puts them flat against the wall on either side of her head, leaning down. And she’s lifting up her face, rising on her tiptoes despite herself, meeting him halfway, as they – for the first time, slowly, conscientiously, carefully – bring their mouths to touch.

Flynn is almost gentle as he kisses her this time, as his hands start venturing beneath the still-dripping wraps, getting just enough of the clothes out of the way to find his way in, and she gasps as his warm, rough hand cups the cold curve of her breast. His fingers trail down, seeking an invitation, not opposed to creating their own if necessary, and her leg comes up, foot braced on the woodpile, to lift her skirt. She is so very, very cold, and she wants so much to be warm, in any way that might present itself. Her fingers clutch at the wet wool of his jacket, sliding beneath, running along his chest, urging him closer.

He drops to his knees in front of her, pushing aside her skirts and drawers, hands bracing her thighs, as he leans forward and licks a rough stripe between her legs, in her wetness, that makes her moan. She can feel the buzz of his dark chuckle against her exquisitely sensitive folds, as he sets to his work with his customary cool, deliberate thoroughness. He does seem to enjoy this, giving her pleasure without thinking to ask any particular reciprocation, the relentless heat and pressure and insistence of his mouth like nothing and no one she’s been with before. Her breath stutters. She grips at his hair, pushing him deeper, as his tongue enters her and plays about. Kisses her inside, then moves up in slow, light motions to her clit. He has plenty to do to that too.

Lucy gulps, feeling nothing but searing heat dazzling through her, any idea or memory of cold completely obliterated. Once Flynn is finished with his very thorough exploration of her, he kisses the cut of her leg, running his hands down the backs of her thighs. Seems almost at peace, as if he might not quite care so much about what he does wherever he goes, but rather in that the knowledge that she will follow him, and this, however much she is still trying to deny it, is very likely to happen again. That he has ever so slightly altered his tactics, until she’s started to support him. Act of her own volition to help him.

This is surreal. She could still stop it. She could.

She doesn’t.

She tugs him to his feet, tastes herself on his lips as he leans in to kiss her, and starts to fumble at the complicated buttons of his trousers. Wants him in her, roused and slippery and quivering and wet as she is, wants whatever this is, wants it. He shifts, tugging them down over his hips, and she reaches for him, caresses him with her thumb, hears him actually gasp as she circles the tip. Then he claims her with a quick, deep, matter-of-fact thrust, and she cries out.

Flynn lets out an even more self-satisfied sigh as he slides fully into her – the third time now, this is hardly a novel experience, and yet its attraction does not appear to be waning in the least. Both of them take a moment, as he closes his eyes and allows himself to absorb the sensation of completion, of possession. He is preparing to start to move, as Lucy rolls her hips on him, urging him to it – when, just then, the door of the cabin flies open.

Flynn jerks out of her lightning-fast, yanks his trousers back up, and spins around. Not quite fast enough.

“You,” Wyatt Logan says, grim and furious, pointing the gun. “Get away from her right now.”

#lucy x flynn #garcy #... i suspect there may be some yelling at me after this #oops?#anonymous #ask #the trash saga of flynn and lucy #garcy ff

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