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nightswithkookmin · 3 years

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Goldy I never thought I would reach out to any Jikook blog but after your last post I have to. I am an east asian american and trans. I have never spoken on this issue, commented or posted about this. I am a Jikook supporter but sometimes Jikook supporting blogs don't feel like the friendliest place. I want to thank you for changing my opinion on that. It is an insult to BTS to say Jikook don't know they seem gay or that they don't know what gay looks like. It is an insult to fans like me to say it would be OK to do the things they do if they were cisgendered straight men. I personally saw a few people say or dance around this and they got intimidated by big blogs for it. I would never name names because I beleive in free speech and the right of people to express themselves, as long as it isn't hate speech. Supporting lgbt people and making sure they don't feel endangered is MORE IMPORTANT THAN STANNING A KPOP BAND and I say this as a 4 year long bts and Jikook stan. So many people don't want to touch this issue and I understand why.

But thank you for supporting ACTUAL lgbt people as well as bts and showing stubborn people that BTS mean gay rights when they say gay rights.

I don't know why but this Ask made me cry...

I've been reading it over and over for the past two days and each time I feel humbled by it. Thanks so much for sharing this with me.

I think the era of the obsessed 'kids' and '13 year old shippers' in this space is coming to an end. I think it's time for a more nuanced mature conversation on what it means to ship and stan our faves in today's sociopolitical climate.

Let's intellectualize shipping and use it as a vehicle for social change not just pleasure. Sabotaging political hashtags is a start. Trending and donating to BLM is equally important. Fighting for gay rights and recognition is the next step and a natural progression from here- and about damn time!

Gone are the days where celebrities and idols were immune to accountability and personal responsibility. We live in a world where everyone is required to be converstant in and sensitive to social issues. Awareness is woven into our collective consciousness and for some of us we cannot divorce that from our pleasure receptors.

Hate to quote my pastor but, 'As a kid, I spoke, thought and reasoned like a kid. As I grew up, chilee darling, I put my ghetto ways aside. You feel me?' Lol. Yea, my pastor hood like that. Lol.

The fact of the matter is, BTS has a higher mature demographics now. Majority of us grew with them, if not past them. They are not seventeen anymore, Jin is almost thirty, the youngest in the group is past twenty three and majority of their fanbase are breaching Young Adult well into Adulthood and beyond.

We simply cannot view them with the same lens anymore. If we did, we would be infantilizing them if not enabling them.

We ought to be able to have certain conversations that reflect our age, hearts, backgrounds, experience, values and beliefs.

We can't sit behind our television sets and smart phone screens in this day and age and assume BTS sat through a performance like this and did not for a second think about what it meant, why the crowd cheered at certain moments or even understand the impact, message and intent behind it- especially not when Halsey, an openly bisexual woman and advocate for LGBTG rights is an acquaintance of thiers.

I don't know how a fraction of this fandom can assume BTS would have a collaboration of this nature and not know anything about the gay rights discourse or what queer baiting is or not consider how their actions may or may not be contributing to the marginalization of persons as these- to not have agency and personal responsibility or empathy.

JK cannot stan a gay artist such as Troye Sivan and divorce his music from his sexuality because it flows from it. Not when Troye has openly spoken about the struggles he went through as a closeted gay man, coming out and how that affected his mental health.

JK knows what gay is, he is aware of the struggles queer people face on a daily. His decision to cover, license and recommend songs by this artist is a deliberate act coming from a place of being informed on the matter.

Jimin knows. RM knows. Suga knows.

BTS cannot prepare a speech like this while oblivious to the plight of the LGBTQ plus community. I refuse to believe that simply because it's not true. Anyone who says otherwise is a scammer. Lol.

And I think they are intelligent enough to have cognisance of the fact majority of the world view certain aspects of their home culture as problematic and non-progressive and that this same world is watching them and what they do in this space matters.

They are part of the conversation. And it's in their interest to present themselves as queer a queer friendly band and company by distinctifying themselves from these 'traditional' Kpop bands.

I believe they know that being woke gives them a competitive advantage as MCs and advocates for the youth in today's world.

I believe they are aware certain things in their 'fan service culture' doesn't fly in the space they compete in and want to compete in. They are competing and rubbing shoulders with top LGBTQ plus advocates, sharing seats with them at awards, standing next to them- they best to look sharp.

It's obtuse for anyone to fall on the 'culture' rhetoric to excuse certain behaviors of their idols when actual queer people from and within that same culture fight against it.

Most S. koreans I know and have come across complain about their 'culture' and some even harbor strong resentments against this whole fanservice culture.

Holland, an openly gay Idol from South Korea, has equally spoken out against the 'fan service' culture prevalent within Kpop on several occasions and laments how it depoliticizes queerness and affects actual queer people within S.K.

And isn't it funny that the same conservative Christian population who strongly oppose homosexuality in S.K often lead online campaigns against Jikook for 'promoting homosexuality' because of certain fanservice and skinship they do?

If skinship is normal and fanservice is culture, why does conservative S.K keep pushing back against it? It's their culture uno?! Lmho.

Queer south Koreans and conservative Christians hate fanservice culture and yet here we are using their culture to defend it as if it's all black and white. Lmho.

Did they or did they not see South Korean's reactions to this performance by Jikook? The mixed feelings most had about it?

Men can nibble on men's ear but God forbid they toss them in the air and catch em💀

South Koreans are not a monolith. Their culture is nuanced like any culture. It's not static and not clear cut black and white either.

It's one thing to respect other's culture, it's another to perpetuate it in ignorance. Perpetuating their culture and being religious about it does not allow for the dynamism inherent in their culture.

Troye Sivan talked about how he'd stop in the middle of his concerts and performances upon seeing the hyper fangirls in the front row and then think to himself, 'I know they know I'm gay, so why are they still here...'

And this was before he came out.

Jikook know we know they are queer or that we think of them as queer. When Jimin talks about 'those that love me for me' he knows exactly what he is talking about or rather who he is talking to- it's not these hets I'm afraid.

Troye also talked about being privileged because he lived in a rather queer friendly neighborhood where everyone is gay and so he'd always felt safe coming out.

Isn't that what JK is doing?

Now this is a person who's without a doubt had a lot of influence on JK in his early formative years as an Idol right down to his decision to move into a much queer friendly neighborhood of Itaewon.

They know we know. Jikook is gay.

Thankfully, there are reports of a rising number of LGBTQ plus in South Korea, a lot of allies, a lot of queer folks coming out and a lot of companies opening up to working with gay idols and aspiring idols.

It's such a relief but a lot of work still needs to be done and I stand with them on behalf of Jikook and any queer folk in SK.

My sister is helping me reach out to an LGBTQ plus advocate from Seoul for an interview for my blog. If everything goes well, I'd love for her to share her thoughts on queer passing, queer baiting and fan service within Kpop and how that affects LGBTQ youth in South K.

It's a conversation I'm really passionate about and interested in.

I love me some ships, but I also love me some queer advocacy and human rights uno? Lol.

Thing is, I may quit BTS one day, but I can never quit being me. Being human. Always put the human first is my motto.

Oh and I hear people are plotting to cancel me? Chilee. Y'all do that but:

Let it echo.

Signed,

GOLDY

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fuchsiagrasshopper · 3 years

Text

Contending the Flame XII

Author’s note: I’m back after this chapter kicking my butt, I must have rewritten it three times until I was satisfied because it introduces many characters from the show and I wanted to get them just right. Not sure I’m happy with the result still, but yep, here it is. Enjoy lovelies!

Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word count: 5347

Warnings: The usual

King Harald's hall smelled like a fishmonger's home, and it was as inviting as a slave trader's ship. Sitting down to a meal with the man, Ivar tried to contain his displeasure at being there. It had been on Hvitserk's face since their ships had treaded through the carcasses of dead whales in the bay. Both the brothers managed to set aside their poor manners when they came face-to-face with Finehair, but it lingered in the backs of their minds, just like the bad smell.

Ivar was able to ignore the pleasantries and idle chatter that Harald was currently speaking. He was much more preoccupied with the dark-haired Queen on the throne adjacent to the King. Astrid, Lagertha's shieldmaiden and bed warmer, was sipping from her horn of mead while giving Harald loving looks. They were practiced and disingenuous, but they did not explain how she came to be here. Clearly not of her free will, but Harald was too besotted to notice her veiled contempt.

To Ivar's left sat Freydis, introduced as his personal thrall. He had gauged for any sort of inkling of familiarity to pass between her and Harald, but alas he only seemed to have eyes for his new Queen. Freydis was too cunning to give away anything on her part, and that left Ivar wondering if she was as great a deceiver as Loki, or that she hadn't been sent by Finehair to begin with.

That put his mind back on Lagertha and Kattegat. She must have been the one to send in a spy. She only cared for Bjorn, and she wanted all of the other sons of Ragnar to perish just like their mother. That was how he saw it anyhow, but he knew his brothers would disagree. They weren't as quick to take up arms against Ragnar's first wife as he was, and that made him feel bitterly alone.

Freydis continued to shower him with compliments and attention, and he lent into the treatment. He needed to keep her close until it was discovered who she was working with, but he was also missing you. She was a strange substitute for your place, holding none of the similarities that had endeared you to him. He was still frustrated by you revealing your name to Heahmund as well, and perhaps this was his way of acting out against you. It was a petty move considering you weren't even there to witness this ongoing dance with Freydis.

"If you were to help me conquer Kattegat," Harald said, catching Ivar's attention. "Would one of you want to be King?"

Hvitserk sent Ivar a look as if to say 'It's a trap'. Harald was looking for humble allies who wouldn't challenge his bid to be King of all Norway. He must not have understood the sons of Ragnar, or he was coming from a place that underestimated them.

"It is our home," Ivar replied vaguely.

"Of course, I understand your attachment. Your father was King before, and then your Queen mother. I respect your family, but Kattegat is also too important a location for trade. I would need it to fuel my war and feed my army. Whoever rules Kattegat must accept that his lead is to benefit me, a mutual working relationship."

"I'm sure that could be arranged," said Hvitserk.

Ivar nodded. "We would be accommodating to your plight."

"And what of Lagertha there now? Perhaps she could make me a better offer?"

If Harald had any sense, he would have noticed his Queen's false looks of adoration had ceased at the mention of Kattegat's current ruler. Ivar gave a smirk that was meant for Astrid.

"If she had anything to offer, she would have already done so," He said, reaching for more mead. "Our army has the numbers. Lagertha will die. She is a usurper and coward."

Astrid had to hide her foul look when Harald took her hand in his, but even through her blank stare could Ivar feel her loathing. Harald continued to stroke her fingers as he spoke. "And how will she die? I do not doubt your heart or courage Ivar, but Lagertha is a shieldmaiden worthy of Valhalla. You cannot achieve a victory hand-to-hand."

Freydis grabbed his hand beneath the table, and he wanted to smack it away. The frustration he felt at himself for not being able to challenge his mother's killer in single combat would always be his greatest failure. He could outwit the legendary shieldmaiden, but at the time of her death, he feared he would not be satisfied.

"I have my own way of getting to Lagertha, but first we need your answer. Will you fight alongside the sons of Ragnar?"

"I count only two of you," Astrid piped up. "Are the sons of Ragnar not of one mind? Where are Bjorn and Ubbe?"

Harald planted an obnoxious kiss on Astrid's mouth before she could turn. "My beautiful wife raises a good question. Where are your brothers?"

"Bjorn is our half-brother," Hvitserk said with a shrug, "And his intentions will always align with his mother."

"And Ubbe is a traitor. He sailed with a handful of our warriors to Kattegat," Ivar said, glad for the lie. His mind slipped to you for a moment, but he shook it away. He had refused to bring you here in person, but even in thought, it was dangerous. You were a distraction that could cause him to make a mistake or have poor judgement, through no fault of your own.

"Then I'm certain Lagertha will be anticipating our assault," Harald said with a frown.

"But she won't have an idea as to when. She knows we will bring the fight to her, but we have the advantage of time," Ivar pointed out, and he could feel Hvitserk's questioning look.

Harald let out a laugh. "You remind me of why I fought alongside your father. I cannot refuse the offer to join with the sons of Ragnar and their army now. Let us share a horn and thank the Gods we have this opportunity to become Kings."

The men each took a drink from Harald's own horn, and Ivar could feel Astrid's eyes following it as it was passed around the table. She was more cunning than he would have ever accredited her to be, which made her a threat to their plans moving forward.

"Tonight you shall sleep in my hall, and tomorrow we can discuss plans for our army."

'Our army'. He certainly wasted no time in claiming their men for his own. Ivar smiled through his irritation. Harald was watching for his reaction. He wasn't so distracted by his new Queen to have lost all sense when it came to a possible enemy.

"We'll take you up on that offer," Hvitserk piped up after the stretch of silence had grown uncomfortable.

"I will have my thralls prepare a room."

Ivar turned to Freydis. "You will assist them."

"Of course, Ivar." She stroked her hand lovingly down his arm.

The sensation shot a shiver down his spine, a reaction he couldn't help. He hated to think he was as weak-willed as his brothers when it came to blonde thralls, but his wavering resolve was laughing at him.

The table began to disband with Harald dragging the unfortunate Astrid back to his room. Ivar and Hvitserk returned outside and began to walk through the streets of Vestfold to return to their men. Hvitserk's mind was buzzing, and Ivar knew his brother had a word or two he wanted to get in.

"We can't go to war against Kattegat with Harald," He started at the moment they were alone. "We'd be betraying our own people, and Ubbe is there with our warriors."

"I know that."

Hvitserk didn't like how short of an answer he gave. "And (Y/N)'s there too. Have you forgotten that?"

"Of course I haven't," Ivar barked back. "But Lagertha is still my enemy, even if you've forgotten that. I can't allow her to live."

"She's my enemy too, brother. I know you loved mother, more than I did. But you also have to know she loved you more than any of us. If you say she didn't then you're either not as smart as I thought, or you're in denial."

Ivar knew it to be true. He knew it all too well when growing up. Ubbe and Hvitserk were closer in age and always together, leaving him alone. All he had to do was let out one small cry and mother would forget about Sigurd, the brother he should have been close to. It was something he exploited at the expense of the relationships with all of his brothers. He had a lot to make up for.

"If we can find a way to unseat Lagertha from the throne, then there would be no cause to go to war."

Hvitserk halted in his tracks as they made it to the docks. The boards were stained red and slick with the blood and oil from whales. Many of Harald's fishermen couldn't be bothered to spare the sons a second glance. They were preoccupied with loading their ships, huffing and puffing through the stink in the air that was not so foul out in the open.

"Please tell me you have a plan to do that," Hvitserk said in a hushed voice that was almost lost to the wind.

Ivar smirked back. "I didn't bring the Bishop along just to annoy you. We just have to get him to Kattegat to kill Lagertha before our army can arrive."

"You're willing to place all our hopes on that Christian?"

"He would do it for his freedom. What's one more dead heathen to him other than another purified soul gone from this earth?" Ivar said confidently. "Yes, brother, I am as certain he will do this as I am that Lagertha is the one to have sent Freydis to me."

Hvitserk was about to comment but was interrupted by an approaching presence that commanded the attention of the crowd. The previously busy workers stopped to part for her, but she was not flattered by the gesture. She marched with purpose, straight towards them, and Ivar gave a half bow in mocking as she arrived.

"Your majesty," He teased. "Not come to plead for mercy on Lagertha's behalf I hope. I have none."

Astrid's look was as dark as her hair, but she set aside her grievances to settle whatever she had come for. "No, Ivar. I have come in the hopes to make a deal with you."

"Really," He said, airing out his skepticism. "What do you want?"

She stepped closer, almost in a threatening display that had Hvitserk reaching for his knife. His concern wasn't unwarranted, as she was a shieldmaiden to Lagertha. Astrid eased her intensity while placing her hands up to signify no harm. "I want you to smuggle me back to Kattegat."

Both Ivar and Hvitserk shared a laugh, but she did not falter. She must be more miserable with Harald than Ivar had gleaned, but that wasn't his concern. "Why would we do that? There's great risk involved for us. Harald is obviously quite taken with you, and we'd be making an enemy of him because you have reservations about sharing his bed."

"I have information for you, regarding that woman by your side, the thrall."

Ivar's back straightened and he looked to Hvitserk with curiosity. This was the answer they had been searching for. "What do you know of Freydis?"

Astrid smirked. "She's a spy, but I'm sure you've already gathered that. I won't say anything more out here. Harald still doesn't trust me enough to not have me followed, and I won't give up what I know without a guarantee that you'll give me what I want."

"When then?" Hvitserk asked and he sounded as impatient as Ivar felt.

"Tonight, after Harald passes out from too much meat and drink. Make sure that thrall of yours is kept occupied as well. I shouldn't have to tell you not to trust a spy, but you're men, and I've seen the way you look at her," Astrid remarked while giving Ivar a pointed look. "Don't let me down sons of Ragnar. Your father lost many things towards his end, but never his integrity. I suspect the gods instilled the same in you."

Astrid departed and a group of guards followed after at a distance. It appeared she was correct about her limited freedom, and after saying much, Ivar wondered what else she was right about. She had given them much to think on at any rate, and he tried not to feel slighted at the comment about his apparent weakness for Freydis' beauty.

"Can we trust her?" Hvitserk asked at his side. They both took a seat on the ledge of the longship that had carried them in earlier that same day.

"She's desperate to return to Lagertha, and she knew Freydis was a spy without us feeding her that information. We'll have to hear her out first, but I suspect she's being honest about this."

"But not about her intentions once she's back in Kattegat," said Hvitserk. "Harald is being played by us and his Queen. Guess he isn't about to be King of all Norway any time soon."

"Thank the gods for that. I want to be in faraway lands when that happens," Ivar said with a smirk as his brother broke into a laugh.

"Then I'm coming with you. You'd be lost without me."

"I would," Ivar admitted, and it had a sobering effect on Hvitserk, who grew quiet beside him.

Truly, he didn't know where his fate would take him, but he knew it would be better if his brother was at his side. And you as well. Ivar closed his eyes and recalled your face, your laugh, and your kiss. You would be a free woman by now, and he hoped you wouldn't be too cross with him about that little stunt next time you met. He wanted to see you this very moment, but the distance made that impossible. For now, he would have to rely on his memories and hope that Niorun would bless him with dreams of you.

ooOOoo

You were alone again. This was nothing new since arriving in Kattegat. You wish you could say you knew more about the city, but all you had seen was the four walls of Audhild's cabin. She had left to take another trip into the market, and you had come close to begging her to take you with her. It seemed she and Ubbe were of the same mindset when it came to keeping you out of trouble, and you had no doubt it was Ivar's doing. Even an ocean away he was still in charge of your life and it was as endearing as it was infuriating.

The first thing Audhild had done for you was provide you with new clothes. The loose-fitted secondhand frocks no longer befitted your station as a free woman. You were given wool leggings and tunics, along with a belt that cinched around your waist. Ladies didn't wear trousers back in England, and it was taking getting used to. You often found yourself tugging and adjusting at the fabric, all while Audhild would shoot you queer looks.

As thanks for her setting you up with new garments, you would cook the meals for you both. It was a favor to both of you really, because, after the first night of eating her dry bread and burnt fish, you didn't think your stomach could handle the pain. You had even managed to learn how to properly butcher a rabbit, something you had never eaten back home.

Ubbe would pop around from time to time to see you, as well as keeping you both informed about the ongoing situation with Lagertha. For now the ruling Queen was content to let Ubbe stay among the people, though according to him she never passed up a chance to bring up questions about Ivar. That let him know her guard was still up, and she did not yet trust the elder son of Ragnar.

While you were glad for the updates, you couldn't shake the wavering disappointment about your newfound freedom. All of your knowledge about the people of Kattegat came from the words of Ubbe or your host, and you hadn't even met Ubbe's wife yet. So far being a free woman didn't feel any different than enslavement, and the growing loneliness was what pressed you to venture out on your own from the cabin.

You waited enough time to be sure Audhild hadn't turned back on her way into town before throwing on a pair of fur-lined boots and overcoat. You had no plan on where you were going, only that you wanted to see something of this new land that wasn't the inside of Audhild's cabin. England was all flat plains and rolling green hills, but Norway was jagged mountains and dark forests with cold rushing rivers. It had never crossed your mind that you would be interested in seeing new lands, probably because as a nun your only travels would have been to other cities and villages across England tending to the sick and spreading the word of God.

You headed out with Ivar's knife tucked into your belt and began to take the path eastward. You knew west would take you the way towards Kattegat, that was where Audhild had gone. As tempted as you were to see the market, you knew it could land you into trouble to meet more of the Northmen while alone for the first time. Your only mission today was to better acquaint yourself with the land.

The breeze felt wonderful on your face, and you had forgotten the taste of breathing fresh air. It was earthy and damp here, not like the iron and smoke of York. The bit of frost that was on the ground crunched beneath your boots. Winter came earlier this far north. You could see it in the grey of the sky that spelled snow. You hoped Ivar and Hvitserk would return before the waters froze over and that they would be bringing peace with them. Absurd! Letting out a breathy laugh, you remembered fondly that Ivar wasn't a peaceful being.

You missed him. At night after Audhild was snoring across the cabin, you would lie awake and stare at the ceiling, thinking of him. You didn’t understand what it meant, but your heart raced and your body grew restless at the mere thought of him. There was so much more that needed to be shared, and you were trying to compile everything in your mind so you would be ready for his return. You wouldn't call it love, not yet, but you knew you held affection for him and that put you at odds with your vows and God. In the eyes of the church, you were still a nun, though you hadn't thought of yourself as such for a while now. You still loved God, but you no longer wanted to be his bride.

"Oh!" You gasped in surprise when you realized you were somewhere new.

Your trekking had broken you out from the forest and out to a bank of the river. You could constantly hear it flowing back from the cabin, and you were excited about finding it. The water was crystal blue, and the surface current was slow and free over the rocks. A small house with a thatched roof sat by the shore, and there was a fire burning low in a pit outside. Someone was still nearby.

You started down the path towards the house while pondering who could want to live this far out from the town. You had thought Audhild was the furthest away. Hermits were common among the Saxons, so it wasn't unreasonable to assume the Northmen had their fair share. Not that you were judging them, in fact, it was for that reason that gave you the confidence to approach.

"Hello?' You called out as you rounded the fire. It was still warm, and you did the stranger a kindness by throwing a nearby log onto the pit. The flames immediately fed on the new fuel, spreading high into the air and sending a warmth through you that was welcome after your walk. You took another look around before kneeling down in the gravel to huddle closer to the fire. It seemed that no one was around for the moment, and that granted you the luxury of peace. Everything was so unfamiliar, every branch and rock different than what you had seen in England. You thought you would have missed home, or at least held a longing for it, but no. You couldn’t even summon a fondness for it now. What you missed wasn’t a place, but a person.

You became lost in the beauty of your surroundings that you didn't notice the stranger appearing from behind the home. He moved with impossibly quiet steps, and you weren't alerted to his presence until he was looming over you, blocking the light of the fire. You let out a yelp as you fell onto your backside in the gravel. The large man narrowed his eyes at you as you scrambled to your feet. If Ivar could see you now. He would be furious you had let your guard down enough to be snuck upon. Stay alive he'd said.

"Who are you?" The man asked, and his voice was softer than you expected.

"I'm Ólaug," You said, fighting the tremble in your voice. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were here."

His head tilted to the side, watching you with a keen stare that you had only felt from Ivar. "What do you want? Did Lagertha send you?"

"No, I don't know Lagertha."

"You don't know the Queen of Kattegat, shieldmaiden and first wife of Ragnar Lothbrok." You didn't answer and he let out an insouciant giggle. "You're a Christian."

The way he said it made it sound awful, and you hated the way it made you feel. "Is it that obvious?"

"Yes. It's your hair and the way you speak." The stranger started to sit down by the fire, a string of fish hanging over his shoulder. He dropped his catch at his side and pulled a knife from his belt, getting to work on cutting filets. "Sit down, betrothed woman," He pressed while pointing with his blade to the spot across from him.

"Excuse me?"

"What, are you deaf?"

You took a seat once more, but not because he had asked it of you. “Why did you call me that just now? Betrothed woman…”

“Your name, that’s what it means.” He continued to fling fish heads and bones into a pile, never giving you the courtesy of his attention.

Ivar had given you the name, and it suddenly clued in that it was made in jest. Bride of Christ was what he had first called you, and now 'betrothed woman'. You smiled to yourself, not entirely at odds with the moniker.

“How did you come here, Christian? You don’t look like a thrall.”

“I’m not,” You replied quickly, and you found that he had stopped his task of cleaning his fish to observe you. You did the same in return. He was older and battle-worn judging by his stiff movements when he had sat down. His light hair was wispy and tied back in one long braid, and his rangy frame was draped in a brown fur pelt. You thought his eyes were sad. “What’s your name?”

“Floki.”

You were sure Ivar had mentioned him in passing, but you couldn’t recall when. “Alright, Floki. I was a thrall, but I was freed recently. I came from York with Ubbe Ragnarsson.”

"Ubbe has returned? Then he has abandoned Ivar."

You didn't know what Floki's connection was to Lagertha, so you didn't correct him on his assumption about the brothers being apart. "You are close with the sons of Ragnar?"

"Of course. They are the offspring of the greatest man I've ever known and my brother. They are kin," He said and his face was alive with passion. "And you must be connected to them. Was it Ivar who also freed you after giving you that knife?"

You looked down at the weapon on your belt, feeling flustered. "How do you know about the knife?"

"I taught that crippled brat everything he knows. I recognize his skill and craft in that blade," said Floki shaking his head. "That boy, so much like his father."

"Don't call him a cripple."

Floki's eyes shot to you and there was that giggle again. "Oh, and you're defensive of him as well. Are you his betrothed woman?"

The fire you sat beside could never warm you as much of those words just then. You knew you were red up to your ears, but you tried to deny whatever he was implying regardless "I'm not his anything."

"Then why did he set you free?"

You hadn't even admitted to him that Ivar had done so, but he had already decided that was the truth. He was still as a tree, the fish forgotten in the long line of your conversation. You felt unnerved by him as if everything about you was exposed to him like a gaping wound, and you had never been so relieved to be interrupted when a voice called out from above the path.

"Floki!"

It was Ubbe, looking out of breath and panic-stricken as he dashed down towards you. A blonde woman was trailing behind him, appearing displeased to be dragged this far out into the bush. She must be the wife.

You and Floki both stood as Ubbe came to the fire. He turned to you first, and you anticipated a lecture. "Why did you leave Audhild's cabin? I'm supposed to keep you safe. You can't wander off when you don't know the land or its people well enough."

"I would if you let me," You retorted while feeling humiliation for being scolded in front of Floki.

"Don't fret Ólaug," Floki interjected while planting a firm hand on Ubbe's shoulder. "He's only concerned to find you here because he thinks I'll kill you like I did Athelstan."

Ragnar's monk. Your eyes widened with surprise and fear, all while the two men shared a grin and embraced.

"Thought you'd gone on to lands unknown," Ubbe said to Floki as they parted.

"The Gods brought me home. They have something for me to do here yet," He said while looking back at you. "She is Ivar's woman?"

Ubbe turned to you with a grin and you looked down, not liking the attention. "You'll have to ask him. He's in Vestfold with Harald."

"Planning on Lagertha's demise then."

"Is that a problem for you?" Ubbe asked, becoming serious.

"Lagertha has been my friend for a long time, but your mother was also. She had such a connection to the gods." Floki's head pulled up to the sky as if a string was attached tugging forth to some greater presence. "Neither of them should have ever suffered over Ragnar. A great King and a true Viking, but a poor husband. Something I hear Bjorn has inherited."

You noticed Ubbe's face flush, and he brushed his hand down his neck. "Well, I know Ivar is set on revenge, and I don't know if there's anything that can change his mind."

By then Ubbe's wife had caught up to their circle, and you got the impression she wasn't pleased to be left behind. She was dressed in a thick red robe with fur trim, and her long hair was twisted onto her head like a crown. You wondered if all the women of Kattegat were blonde and beautiful, and you ran your fingers through your short hair. Ivar had said it was ugly when you first met. Vanity had suddenly become a trouble for you and you didn't like it.

Ubbe must have noticed you staring at his woman, and he quickly brought an arm around her to introduce her into the group. "Ólaug, this is my wife, Margrethe."

"Hello," You greeted, and as you waited for her reply, she took one long surveying look at you that ended with her nose wrinkled and her mouth puckered.

"Hello," She said shortly.

You wouldn't be making a friend out of her anytime soon, and you weren't bothered by that. She was as unpleasant as she was gorgeous, and Ubbe sent you an apologetic shrug for her frosty demeanor.

"I need to get you back to Audhild's before she wonders where you are," Ubbe explained and you nodded.

You were ready to conclude your first adventure, but you decided that you would want to speak to Floki again. He seemed to know a great deal about the sons of Ragnar and everything else that went on in Kattegat, and you wanted to poke his brain for more information that could help you grow as a free woman. You turned to the older Viking and squared your shoulders.

"Can I come back to see you?"

Floki laughed at a dazed Ubbe. "See, she's curious. I expected that from any woman of Ivar's."

At the mention of him, Margrethe recoiled further into Ubbe's side and sent you a scathing glare. You stared back at her with vacant eyes until she became uncomfortable and craned her neck towards the woods. Her escape.

"Betrothed woman," Floki interrupted, taking your hands in his massive ones. "You are a Christian, and I hold no love for your God or people. I've killed hundreds of your kind, and one who held the love of my King. But you have sailed on our ships and left your lands, and came out free on the other side. Our gods favor you as much as my dear Ivar, and I will speak to you again."

"Thank you," You whispered.

He smiled back for a moment, and you thought the perpetual melancholy that surrounded him had lifted in a brief respite. It returned as he dropped your hands, and he started to flick his wrist back and forth in a waving motion. "Now leave me alone. All of you."

Ubbe tugged on your coat sleeve to get you moving, and when you turned to join him, you spotted Margrethe up ahead.

"Sorry, she's not always like that," He insisted as he noticed your look.

No Ubbe, you thought, she most certainly was always that way, but he was too besotted with her looks to realize. Whatever was going on in his marriage wasn't your business, and you kept quiet by his side as he led you back to Audhild's cabin. You were impressed that you could have remembered the way if Ubbe hadn't been at your side. Something about the nonlinear path had felt familiar, and you were already looking forward to walking it again.

Your last thoughts before you slept were of Ivar, an ocean between you and with so much more to say. You wanted to tell him about Floki and talk with him about his mother. You wanted to be back at his side. He was such a large part of where your life had turned, and now that he had left you alone in this strange place you felt brittle and forgotten.

You refused to be overlooked as another Christian brought into their midst or condemned for being Ivar's woman when you weren't even sure if that was your place. Whatever your feelings for him were, they meant nothing if you couldn't secure your own station among the Northmen. That night you vowed to God, their gods, and yourself that you would become strong of heart and embrace your new life alongside the heathens. All life came with sacrifice and war, and whatever nightmares you would be forced to face, you would conquer them.

Taglist

@pomegranates-and-blood @siren-queen03 @peachyboneless @didiintheblog @soleil-dor @zuxiezendler @pieces-by-me @xbellaxcarolinax @heavenly1927 @everyartistwas-firstanamateur @youbloodymadgenius @xceafh @strangunddurm @shannygoatgruff @1950schick @tgrrose @castielsangelsx @rose1729 @ladynightshade30 @mlchael-guerin @dangerouspsychicgardenflower @ritual-unions-gotme @readsalot73 @lonewolf471 @poisonous00 @alytavzla @snatcherheart

#ivar x reader #ivar x you #ivar the boneless x reader #vikings #history vikings #ivar the boneless #ivar ragnarsson #vikings ivar #ivar x y/n #ivar lothbrok

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jaskiersvalley · 4 years

Note

You are the one who got me hooked on Eskel/Lambert and now I can't stop writing them together how did you do this to me, shipping by osmosis

Yes! Welcome to this small ship (a whole 46 stories on AO3). But our numbers are slowly growing. And I will also point you in the direction of @ohnomybreadsticks for some quality content, especially when slipping Cahir into the mix too (canon? What’s that?). To celebrate your joining of this ship, I have a really still idea to bestow upon you.

Arriving in a town with the promise of a contract, only to find another witcher had already been by was always annoying. Even worse when the locals had chased said witcher from their midst without payment and rushed into hurriedly packing his things. At least the locals let Geralt and Jaskier pay for a room as long as they moved on from the village the next day. They even gave them the same room that had been sullied by the previous witcher. For some reason, Geralt had stiffened upon entering the room, as if met by a familiar scent but he refused to elaborate so Jaskier shrugged. If it was important, he would find out. The next moment, his attention was taken up by a leaf of parchment poking out from under the bed. Curiosity piqued, he grabbed it in a rush even though he knew Geralt wouldn’t have gone near it anyway.

“-makes things bearable. I do hope he’s okay. While I keep an ear out for whispers of him and know I cannot walk my Path and his at the same time, I worry. Winter cannot come soon enough. Even if I can’t hold him like I’d want to, I can at least make sure he can take it easy and actually enjoy being alive for a change. I’d do so much more-”

It was too intimate, probably an entry from a journal that was falling apart. Jaskier’s hear squeezed at the idea of a witcher who was so obviously in love with someone that sounded like another witcher. Maybe he needed a bit of help in romancing the love of his life. Jaskier knew what it was like, to love a witcher and not be loved in return. Maybe he could help spare someone this miserable fate.

Finding a charmed bird was quite difficult and cost a good chunk of coin but Jaskier deemed it a worthy sacrifice. The pigeon would track the intended recipient of a letter and could be used as a way to communicate over long distances.

Dear Witcher,

I am but a humble bard who happened upon a page of your journal. Your plight sings to my heart as we both seem to love someone who walks the Path and we can but quiver in our boots and hope they return to our side after each separation. While return they do, our beloveds don’t seem to realise that we would bestow upon them more than our care as friends. May I offer you solace and friendship through these letters, as one fool in love with a witcher to another.

Jaskier tied that, along with the page he had found, along with a feather from one of his hats to the pigeon. It went its way and Jaskier could only hope his offer was taken for what it was, a genuine, heartfelt companion for the broken hearted.

It took two weeks for the pigeon to return, a fresh piece of parchment tied to its leg.

Bard,

This is a most unexpected letter, I didn’t even realise I lost a page from my journal. It’s almost full now and seen more than its fair share of battles. Thank you for returning it. As for the matter of its content, I would love to say it’s none of your business and never speak of it again. Yet, despite my best caution, I am intrigued to find another who claims to love a witcher. If you’re struggling for his affections, may I suggest you feed him? While my wolf is fiercely independent, he does always look so touched and bashful when presented with little delicacies he wouldn’t have treated himself to otherwise.

Best of luck on your quest to win a fortified heart, Witcher

It was a most exciting development, not once did the mysterious witcher tell Jaskier to stop contacting him, or even dishearten him. Instead, Jaskier had been given a hint on how to woo Geralt. New tactic in mind, Jaskier set about buying sweet cakes and pastries whenever he could and presenting them to Geralt. At first, it was met with offended bafflement but, slowly, over time, Jaskier could see the hopeful glances. Even better was when, out of the blue, Jaskier was presented with a blueberry tart - his absolute favourite.

Dear Witcher,

Thank you for your help. My own wolf has mellowed and seems appreciative, if confused, by the sudden treats. He even returned the gesture. Something I’ve found he likes is his hair being played with. Mustn’t call it brushing or styling! But a quiet night by a fire, fingers carding through his hair definitely help him relax. It’s such a beautiful sight, so much power and raw strength tamed by nothing more than gentle touch. Maybe, when you next see your wolf, he might enjoy an evening with his head in your lap too.

Tell me more about your wolf though, what’s he like? I know I suffer when I cannot sing about the heroic deeds and virtues of my wolf. As a bard, thankfully i have an outlet so my heart doesn’t burst with love. But I wonder who you have that will listen to your adorations.

May your Path lead you to your wolf’s heart. Bard

Letters went back and forth between this witcher and Jaskier. Any questions about the witcher himself were ignored or not quite answered and Jaskier could appreciate that. He did learn a lot though, this witcher was kind, he was much like Geralt in that he wouldn’t take payment if there was true suffering without the means to fund the services of a witcher. There were also a few self-deprecating comments which led Jaskier to believe that the man he was exchanging letters with was shy, probably quite a gentle soul that was hardened by decades of life as a witcher.

There was one time Jaskier fretted over his pen pal. A letter had arrived, it had splatters of blood and was written with by a shaking hand. Short and to the point, so much so that Jaskier could have wept.

Bard - treasure your wolf and hold him close at night. They’re getting colder and longer. When he’s hurt, sing him a lullaby of old and even when it looks hopeless, you can be his guiding light. Remind him he’s never alone while he’s got you. Don’t let him waste your beset years together just because he’s a fool who cannot see all you have to offer.

That night, Jaskier pulled his bedroll closer and was surprised when Geralt easily allowed him to press close. Jaskier held his wolf not just for himself but for the mystery witcher who was likely injured and alone somewhere out there in the big wide world.

The exchange of letters continued. Jaskier learned about the witcher’s wolf, that he was dedicated to the Path even though he cursed it and the life he had before that too. It really sounded like whoever this sad wolf was, he had led a life of anger and disappointment. No wonder he couldn’t let in this other witcher and accept the love shown, he probably had no frame of reference for what love looked like or how to deal with it.

My dearest Witcher,

Winter draws closer and I have been invited to accompany my wolf to his home. There, I will get to meet his family which is rather nerve-wracking. I’ve heard a few stories of his brothers and while I hope they will find me to their liking, I still worry. Maybe I will use your suggestions in moderation and bring them treats as well as be a quiet but steady presence, should they need a confidant.

I do hope your winter goes well and you are able to hold your wolf in your strong arms at long last. Be honest with him. If he is as cautious with his heart as you say, and as kind under all his snark and bluster, I should hope that he will either accept all the love you have to offer with a bit of huffing. Or he will be gentle but clear in his boundaries of what his heart can and cannot offer.

Keep in touch over this winter, I have grown fond of you and your thoughtful words. Bard

Trekking up to Kaer Morhen, Jaskier didn’t think he’d get a pigeon until stashed away in the keep. Winter was cold and harsh, it made him worry for his pigeon. Or rather, their pigeon because Jaskier had noted at the bird always came back so cared for, once or twice it even had the remnants of a flower collar around its throat. Sometimes it had been given a nice bath, the soft perfume still gently wafting from its wings.

Jaskier had no idea what to expect of Kaer Morhen. It was large, ominous and cold. Drafts whipped through it and made fires flicker. Introductions were made, Jaskier nodded at Vesemir, Eskel and Lambert. He didn’t miss the way Geralt looked between the two younger witchers. Obviously there was something going on there that was unusual but Jaskier didn’t know them well enough to probe.

Bard,

I’m safely back at the my winter home, surrounded by family and more. I say more because one of my brothers has brought a bard back with him. They reek of each other and it’s almost disgusting how in love they seem. The bard himself is so young. A bright ray of sunshine in this dreary old place. I don’t think these halls had ever echoed with song before. It’s annoying on some level but at the same time, his cheer and seemingly open adoration of all things witcher is disarming. Somehow, I get the feeling you would like him. If I can find out more about him, I might try and send him your way. Makes me wonder what it is about bards and witchers but now there are two pairs at least on this continent. Maybe I should shuck my swords and take up a lute if I want to keep my own wolf happy.

Stay safe and warm, hold your wolf close on these cold nights. Witcher P.S. I took your advice and laid my heart bare. I no longer sleep in my room and have never been happier.

Upon reading the letter, Jaskier squealed in delight. His witcher friend had a wolf to hold and love. Even if their Paths took opposing directions, they now both had someone for return to, to fight for.

My dearest Witcher,

Your letter was the best news. I am so pleased you and your wolf have found solace in each other. Long may your love last and may you keep each other safe. And please, do let me know of this other bard. I would love to meet him. As long as it isn’t that talentless hack, Vadlo Marx, imitating me once more. If it is, please do the world and your witcher brother a favour and snap his neck. Everyone will thank you for it in the long term, trust me.

I’ve only managed to fall in love with my wolf’s family. They’re a quiet, reserved bunch but absolutely endearing. And let me tell you about the love between two of them. I don’t think I’ve seen a love more true or pure. There’s so much I want to ask them about how they found peace with each other, how they manage out in the world without each other when on the Path. If I glean anything useful, I will be sure to pass it onto you and it might help ease your burdens when a new season rolls around.

Have a happy winter, Bard

Carefully, Jaskier fixed the letter to the pigeon and opened the window. However, the cold must have frightened it because it took off towards the door, flying through the keep with Jaskier running after it, yelling. They ended up in the kitchen where Eskel was lounging against the counter while Lambert kneaded some bread.

“Oh hello,” Eskel cooed at the pigeon and held a hand out for it to land. Grinning, he plucked the letter off with practised ease. “You came back a lot quicker than expected. Less than a day.”

Which was when Jaskier burst into the kitchen, huffing and puffing, glaring at the pigeon. He scooped the bird up from Eskel’s palm with a stern glare. “You are a little brat. Now look what you’ve done, lost my letter too. What are we going to do with you?”

Only listening with half an ear as Eskel read his letter, he paused and looked up at Jaskier in surprise.

“Bard?”

Realisation made Jaskier drop the pigeon. “Witcher? Which can only mean-” he turned to look at Lambert, “-wolf?”

“Which makes Geralt...” Eskel trailed off and let out a gruff huff as Jaskier launched himself at him in a hug.

“I am so happy for you!” Jaskier laughed brightly and Eskel could only return the hug, a smile of his own slowly blossoming across his face.

#geraskier #eskel/lambert #geralt of rivia #jaskier #eskel #lambert #tldr: jaskier and eskel become accidental pen pals

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doorsclosingslowly · 3 years

Text

Your death is a number but I cannot count that high (11/16)

In which Death Watch enter the enemy ship, and Asajj gets her shot at freedom.

Zombie Savage AU | 2.5k | warning for body horror

For the first time in weeks, Asajj feels light. It’s almost offensive, how quickly she slipped from world-devouring grief and heartburn and eternal nightmares into mission planning and execution mode, but then again: she enjoys bounty hunting. Pursuit and infiltration are basically her comfort zone, and even the present company cannot spoil her thrill.

She finally has solid ground under her feet again. The swamp that broils and laps at her with every dream and with every wriggling fleshworm that fucking Savage Opress sends her way is receding, and soon enough, when she gets her chance, she’ll kill it off—kill him—for good.

Asajj’s sisters and Mother Talzin may have accidentally landed her in a malignant trap when they tried to help her fight Dooku, but Asajj will chew her way free.

That’s why she volunteered to be ground troop today. She needs to rescue herself. She needs to cut off this bond, cut off the mate, cut off the drowning boulder. She’d been prepared to argue and fight for the opportunity, since it’s not like anybody trusts her here, but it was surprisingly easy. Not even a doubtful look—no, the only response she’d received was appreciation for her fearlessness in the face of certain death. Well, maybe it is. Maul keeps insisting that Savage’s torture is a trap laid by Sidious, his past shadowy Sith Master, and that setting a foot on Entralla means getting fried and disappeared and tortured. He himself is going down still, obviously—by now it doesn’t even appear to be bravado or tending to his image before his following but genuine mushy affection for that dumb creature, and if Asajj wasn’t busy she might almost be curious—Maul is coming down with her, as are Kast and Saxon and three dozen other supercommandos. That’s what they’d settled on, once their advance droid surveillance footage yesterday had revealed their target to be a small spaceship surrounded by a hundred medium-sized tents.

Maul, Kast and Saxon at once, who as far as she’s observed are the three highest-ranking members of Death Watch, and on what all of them believe is a suicide mission—Asajj would call them brain-dead, but actually, she doesn’t care. Either Maul is every inch the scared wretch of a cast-off Sith plaything he appears and is making mountains out of skrant-hills, or she’ll, most likely, be dead too. Looks like that gamorrean sow Kast likes to suck face with will soon inherit the whole sorry rest of their terrorist crew.

Most of Death Watch, though, is inside three hundred small Kom’rk-class fighters or the two stolen Separatist dreadnaughts, standing by to intercept any fleeing ship with gravity wells or sheer violence. Well. That’s one of the reasons. Every ground Mando is in periodic radio contact with one of their motherships, and should they go silent when Sidious gets them… if the mission goes sour, dead man’s switch. Asajj doesn’t know about the exact logistics of how many have to miss check-in before the omnicidal aerial bombardment begins… but she’s starting to understand Maul’s paranoia regarding this ‘Sidious’ well enough to know they’re going to risk killing their Mand’alor sooner rather than later. It’s reassuring, almost. They’ll kill Sidious no matter what.

Well. And her, too.

But Asajj knew when she allowed that Mando to think she’d captured her that this wasn’t going to be easy. Up until know she’s always found a way to make it out alive. She’ll manage. And Sidious killed her sisters. Killed Talzin. Killed Dathomir.

Sidious will die, and so will Opress. Anything else is secondary.

She’s wearing a set of scavenged armor over her clothes and a jetpack and a gas mask, nothing more. Most of the ground team have massive tanks mounted on their back, too, full of some quick heavyweight airborne soporific Death Watch managed to procure on short notice.

(“If it’s taking this long to cook something up, we could just use poison,” Asajj had suggested, entirely not for selfless reasons. “We’re using the weedkiller tanks you Mandos use for farming, after all. We could just keep the weedkiller.”

“This is still a rescue mission,” Kast had replied severely. Unfortunately, despite being a fanatic terrorist and obeying Maul of all people and a habit of throwing tantrums about the horrible plight of Savage Opress, she wasn’t entirely braindead. “Damage is acceptable, but we won’t kill our brother.”

Maul had looked on, silent.)

Maul and Asajj are going to enter the ship first. That makes sense—both of them are assassins more than soldiers, they’re better than the Mandos at keeping quiet—and even if Maul will be a hindrance when they find Savage, she can use him as a distraction before that.

It feels weird, somehow, touching ground in front of the enemy’s ship. The unconscious guards on the ground are wearing clone trooper armor, which means that—yes, it means Death Watch got the drop on them and it means the soporific gas is effective, which is great, but Asajj didn’t expect this mission against Sidious to include a Grand Army of the Republic protection detail, and neither did Maul, though he appears far less perturbed by this information than Asajj is. Nothing before has linked Sidious to the Republic. She trusts the magicks she used to find this location, though. This is where the bondmate is being held.

Maul opens a control panel next to the ship’s door and plays around with a couple of screwdrivers, while Mando supercommandos direct their sedative gas into the ship’s pried-open air vents.

And… they’re in.

Too easy.

This was far too easy for a secret prison of the illusive Sith Lord, and Maul, apparently, thinks so too. He keeps glancing sideways at her while the supercommandos tie up the sedated soldiers outside and while they enter the ship’s galley, and he insists they shouldn’t split up.

“This location does not appear my Master’s—my former Master’s style,” he whispers in his clipped accent. “It’s neither desolate, nor are there plush red carpets. It’s not a torture dungeon.” Maul looks at Asajj, and his eyes gleam with suspicion. “If you have lied to me, you are dead. If this hurts my brother, you’ll wish you were.”

“This is the place. My sisters’ magicks are never wrong,” Asajj replies haughtily. It won’t do any good if both of them admit to their unease.

(Maul’s been vibrating faintly ever since Asajj broke into his brain to find Opress. It’s probably fear and anticipation, and most of all the superfluous awareness of him that she’s gained ever since exploiting both their bonds. Maybe he was always this high-strung.

“Someone’s attacking him,” he’d whispered to her just minutes before they reached Entralla, as if by joining their minds she had proven she cared. His eyes had been dark, agonized. In a movement that appeared entirely involuntary, he’d gripped at his neck as if looking for a pendant, and then he’d hugged himself, holding onto his torso and stomach as if his slippery entrails were ready to leak out.

Asajj had looked down and realized she was mirroring him.

When she slid her eyes half-shut, she could see the shadows of undulating metal cables.)

The ship, on the inside, just appears a standard Republic cruiser. It has a single long hallway that Asajj is pulled down by the worms in her gut, and Maul, frowning and broadcasting dread, follows.

They pass unconscious Republic clones at uneven intervals.

It’s so—ordinary. Asajj knows these ships. And there are no traps at all, just that pulsing connection drawing her forwards, shading and twisting, the memory of desolation and grief and that orange boy getting chocked (Kast’s eyes were so hard when she said, “He tried to give me his lightsaber, too, so I would have an easy time of killing him, if—when, he said, when he was used again to hurt his little brother,” that Asajj almost felt guilty) and everyone on Dathomir is dead and—

There.

She stops, and Maul comes to a halt behind her, ‘saber raised.

An open doorway, half-blocked by an armored redhead that seems vaguely familiar, and the beckoning hand of her sisters, and if Sidious doesn’t have the heart to provide a distraction for Maul then Asajj will just improvise.

“Back there, I think,” Asajj whispers, pointing at a random closed door to her left. “I can feel your brother in there.”

Maul’s eyes are wide. “I do not feel—are you sure?” he whispers, and he looks so young and hopeful bathed in the green glow he doesn’t understand and never had a right to wear that Asajj almost dares to believe her plan will work.

“I know these magicks,” Asajj drawls. “I don’t mind double-checking, but I thought you wanted him as alive as possible. He’s not doing well. Might get deep-fried at any moment, that’s not healthy for such a weak brain.”

It works. Maul bites back whatever kind of response he might have had, and he starts frantically working on slicing the door that was—her sisters are smiling upon Asajj—thankfully locked.

Asajj, meanwhile, tiptoes hurriedly forward and past the redhead—almost a decent glimpse of his head, why does she feel she knows him and—and inside the room she looks at a monster. The scene is arranged as if to mock her, a single bare cot in the middle of the room approximating a stone slab and the dimmed red electric lights a stand-in for the fire on the day she was tied to the boulder that tries to drown her. On the cot, as he was supine on the slab back then, lies unconscious Savage Opress.

Well. The used dog toy formerly known as Opress.

He’s always made her uncomfortable, even when they met. First, it was his silent bruised obsequiousness and the glances he’d shoot her after that arena fight, like he expected her to ravish him then and there just because she’d beaten him up. The sense that she’d stumbled into a world she didn’t understand drawn in silent rules and violence and sex—and Asajj has never liked that anxiety born of ignorance though she can and will tough it out and persevere, and only with the bond strangling her did she realize her stupid mistake—the sense that there was something hiding below her feet ready to devour her. He only got more obsequious and annoying after the ritual that tied Asajj to him, with his empty brainless eyes that somehow simultaneously said do whatever you want with me and I’ll kill you. She was happy to use him, if it got her traitorous ex-Master Dooku off her back, but she was at least as happy that the plan included Opress staying at Dooku’s side, not hers. Well, in the end, he was as useless as he was stupid and creepy, and Asajj had to fight Dooku on her own while Opress escaped his leash and used the power gifted to him by Talzin to harass innocent villagers and Obi-Wan Kenobi.

He doesn’t have the body that Mother Talzin gave him anymore. Not that he ever deserved it.

Savage Opress, who is bound by ancient magicks to Asajj, looks like someone took his corpse and stuffed it full of a crashed spaceship debris in a desperately poor attempt at covering up an accident. The body Mother Talzin’s Dathomiri magicks gave him was stout, forceful, architected and executed with a keen eye and deep control, while whoever did this was a careless butcher. Asajj has seen carnage and pain, she’s fought and killed and maimed, and yet she has never seen anything as bestial as the body before her.

Savage Opress, who is making her share his torture through a telepathic bond, looks like a gutted carcass. This is what became of one of the three last survivors of Dathomir: worms writhe in and out of him, the things she’s been feeling like phantom maggots burrowing into her heart made real and she can see them feasting and seaming up his raw mottled shoulders and lap at the empty spots where someone tore out his hearts. He’s still conscious, though, just asleep. She can feel him feeling the worms. She can see him breathing, though he doesn’t need to, not without an intact torso. Not without hearts. She feels sick. So this is what has been calling out to her. What has been sliding into her mind, unstoppable and unwanted. This has violated her dreams.

Savage Opress, the bondmate Asajj came here to covertly murder, looks like death would be a mercy.

“Ventress, what are you playing at? The room was empty and Kenobi is here,” Maul hisses from somewhere behind her. “I told you. You’ll die for your betrayal—Savage…”

Asajj turns, expecting a fight, but Maul looks like the air was punched out of him, and he’s rooted to the doorway. The air around him tastes of abhorrence and dawning dread. He could have reached Savage before her, in her stupor—he could have jammed his ‘saber into her back—but now she’s jolted loose and ready to take her one chance at freedom.

To take mercy on Savage, for once in her life.

She drives her lightsaber into his right eye socket.

Maul’s scream behind her is vile, deeply inhuman and guttural and echoing over and over and over in the small room. It’s so loud her eye starts to hurt. His howl is the storm and the cave and the first drink in a lifetime. It’s green. It’s gentleness and sympathy he thought his Master had long driven out of the apprentice, but in teaching Savage he can’t help but refrain from using the techniques he once had endured himself. He doesn’t understand the reason—he is Sith and if he does not teach his apprentice to draw power from pain, he will have failed him. He doesn’t understand, but he feels something quake when he is called brother and when he notices he turned his back to Savage and never even expected to get hurt—he doesn’t understand, but somehow, he does. He loves Savage. Savage loves him. Maul was never meant for love, was made a weapon to be used and abused and discarded by a Master wielding power he’ll never attain, but somehow, Maul found this one person who loves him. Maul lost the person who loves him. Maul just lost him again. Maul won’t lose the person who loves him. He won’t. He can’t. He refuses. He loves—

And desperate love paints the room acid green. Greedy love tears the cot to tiny metal shreds. Unconditional love presses hot and painful into Asajj’s right eye, and she’s taking tiny measured steps toward Savage, in rhythmic unison with Maul and unstoppable no matter how hard she tries to take back her body.

Love, no matter what it takes, and both their green-bathed hands touch Savage.

All goes black.

#asajj ventress #darth maul #savage opress #savage oppress #dimtraces makes things #zombie savage au

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greenninjagal-blog · 4 years

Text

Happy Little Stars

Hello Lovelies! I’m back with more of the Alien au! If you missed the previous parts you can find them [Here] on Ao3!

Previous: [Stars Die (But We Don’t)]

Start: [The Space Between Us]

Summary: Virgil is Happy. Logan helps him realize how much. (ft: Anxceit, gays in space, and good feelings)

Words: 6885

Quick Taglist:@alias290 @chelsvans @coyboi300 @dante-reblogs @dwbh888 @glitchybina @faithfulcat111 @felicianoromano @harrypotternerdprincess @holliberries @jemthebookworm @killerfangirl3 @mrbubbajones @musical-nerd18 @nonasficcollection @stricken-with-clairvoyancy @the-sunshine-dims @themagicheartmailman @themultishipperchild @thenaiads @treasureofpriam @vianadraws @welovelogansanders

Read on Ao3 || General Writing Masterlist

Virgil stretched out his shoulders as he walked into the kitchen area. It was somewhere between too-late and why-the-fuck-was-he-awake-this-early o’clock and his body was bemoaning it. But Space revolutions and rotations had long since thrown off his circadian rhythm. He wasn’t sure how much he was sleeping compared to how much he’d been sleeping on Earth: he hadn’t exactly been abducted with a watch and different planets regulated time by different intervals.

Logically Virgil knew that one rotation of a planet was one day, and one revolution was a year, but aliens used the word “Qisannu” to describe minutes, but their minutes were something like 84 seconds and their hours (“Phisannu”) were about 42 quisannu each and Virgil had decided that he was perfectly happy not knowing what time it was, ever. Logan had been very interested in how humans told time but had gotten distracted by the finger multiplication Virgil had been doing while trying to explain it all and they had never gotten back on track.

The point was that Virgil had slept and that even in the expanse of Space, the Final Frontier(™) he was still not a morning person. Janus and Logan were already up though: the former sipping tea from Patton’s secret stash and the latter reading off one of the Interspace Nook-like devices that usually brought news of the important type to them while sitting at the table quietly.

Virgil gave a blurry, still sleepy nod in the direction of the living beings and shuffled over to the cabinet where food was stored. He poked around for a moment before picking out some weird substance that Roman had specifically told him not to eat. It had reminded him of Jello, but the flavor was more towards cough syrups than fruit. They had picked it up off a distant planet and Roman had nearly paid thrice the amount of griot for it. Virgil didn't see what the hype was, but it was substance and he was hungry and really Roman had practically invited him to take it when he said don’t even look at it, you Deathworlder!

“I was thinking,” Janus started. “Rozario.”

“Rozario?” Virgil echoed.

“Spanish origins to remind us of Spanish class where you repeated embarrassed yourself every single day--”

“Seriously,” Virgil said, “Can’t you wait until I wake up to insult me?”

“--And it's elegant. Listen to it: Virgil Rozario, Janus Rozario.” He paused for emphasis as Virgil blinked at him slowly, “Really it's my favorite so far--”

"FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS SCIENCE!" Logan yelled, "I CONCEDE! I GIVE UP!"

At any other moment this would be a momentous occasion. Logan, the smartest of the Tenekarie, the most feared alien on this side of the cosmos, the relentless scientist, finally admitting defeat. Virgil hadn’t thought that Logan even knew the Common words for "give up" much less how to use them in a sentence. He was passionate and determined and once he set his mind to something there was a better chance of stopping a black hole’s gravitational pull than getting him to back down.

And yet, at stupid-early o'clock on their mostly silent spaceship in the middle of completely silent Space, hearing Logan scream at the top of his lungs was not what Virgil was expecting nor was he prepared for.

"What the fuck!" The human growled from on the floor surrounded by the remains of his breakfast, whatever alien food it was. “Actual fucking Hell! Logan!”

Janus looked down at him from his delicate perch on the table, humming into his cup of tea like he hadn't also startled at the sound of Logan's exclamation and poured half his drink on the ground. "Oh dear," he said innocently, intentionally, asshole-ishly. "That's quite a mess there, Virgil. You should really be more careful."

Virgil flipped him the bird, which of course only made him laugh. He ignored it in favor of turning back toward Logan. The alien was dancing with lights all singing so brightly it was near hard to look at and with so many colors Virgil's empty stomach attempted to rebel.

"What the Hell, man?” Virgil squinted and raised a hand to blot out the sight, while his heart was fluttering like a butterfly over a fucking venus fly trap. “What's wrong?"

Logan's lights briefly concluded, shutting off like he was taking a deep breath and then flickering back on at a less intense, less violent pace. His lower arms crossed themselves while his upper arms kneaded the table.

"You!" Logan snarled, "You two are my problem!"

Virgil's shoulders tensed and his back straightened and every single thought of his when careening out the goddamn airlock in the void. Because, yeah, this was it! This was the start to every single nightmare Virgil had ever had since joining the crew: Logan the only one who had wanted him around, the one who brought him here and gave him a place to stay, the one was now fed up with him for something he didn't realize he was doing wrong and now going to kick him off into space or sell him back to the Welsors or something equally terrible that Virgil can't even imagine because he's not entirely space savvy yet. And the worst part would be that Virgil didn't even know what he was doing wrong! And he dragged Janus into it by default which meant Janus was getting the same punishment and then Janus would hate him for getting them into the same mess all over again and Virgil can withstand a lot but the mere idea of Janus sneering at him and pushing him away had hislungs shrinking right there in his chest, shriveling up as a way to make it easy for him to just die--

Janus slipped off the table in a fluid motion and landed softly next to Virgil. He placed a hand on Virgil's shoulder blade but used the other to help clean up some of his dropped breakfast and the slipped tea with a towel he materialized out of who knows where. "Breathe," Janus's words ghosted into Virgil's brain without him actually having to say them. "Breathe and relax."

Logan let out a frustrated screech again, "I do not understand! You both are confusing me!" His lights flicked again harshly around his neck notches, "Please just tell me: what is the human greeting custom?"

"The what now?" Virgil asked all eloquently out of breath and strained and near dying. His heartbeat was thumping in his throat, like a frog and no amount of breathing could get the foggy panic to subside.

Logan, though, appeared to be oblivious to his plight. He pulled out a pocket notebook, and flipped through it angrily. "Roman reported that when you two saw each other you had- and I quote-- "open mouth kissed in the grossest display of love I have ever seen, you should have been there Lo it was terrifying seeing Virgil looking so emotional" end quote. However!! I have been documenting your interactions on the ship and out of seventeen times that you two have greeted each other, only six times have those been with kissing and only twice has it been with tongue--"

"OKAY!" Virgil screeched, cutting him off. “That’s enough Science for today and probably tomorrow, too!”

Logan plowed on like he hadn’t even spoken, “--On the days that you two do not greet each other with a kiss, your interactions range from a nod, to actually speaking words, to brushing a hand over one or the other or to becoming hostile-- although Patton has informed me that those last interactions may be considered as “play fighting” or “flirting”. As you can see there is a large amount of inconsistency--”

“Oh my god, Logan,” Virgil begged, “How long have you been watching us?”

“Eighteen days, six phisannu, and eleven qisannu.” Logan recited.

“Jesus…” Virgil dug his chin into his chest and forced himself to exhale long and slow. Eighteen days? That was just about when Janus and Remus had first come aboard. Now that he was thinking about it….yeah Logan had been watching them closer than normal. Virgil had been so distracted by Janus being alive and breathing and not dead, that he had written off most everything else.

Speaking of, he peaked up at Janus, at Janus’s stupid smirk and his shaking shoulders and realized, the jerk was laughing.

“You knew about this?” Virgil accused, launching a hand in the distressed Logan’s direction.

Janus held up a jiggly cube of alien food and ever so sweetly winked at him. “I had my suspicions. He is hardly subtle when it comes to taking notes.”

“And you let him?!”

“Who am I to get in the middle of a scientist’s project?”

Logan gave another frustrated screech and tossed his upper arms into the air. “So you’ve been intentionally messing with my observations instead? You have been manipulating my data! No wonder I cannot get a significant answer!”

“You could have just asked us,” Virgil groaned. He grabbed another Jello-like cube and put it in his empty bowl. His stomach growled faintly at the smell of them, because while they tasted like cough syrup they gave off the aroma of fresh strawberries. Was it wrong to want to eat them off the floor? Surely Patton had just cleaned the kitchen and really Virgil had eaten worse back on Earth and hadn’t died. Could he die of alien germs?

Janus plucked the next Jello cube from his hand and put it in the bowl as if he knew exactly what Virgil was thinking and taking action against it like the killjoy he was.

It was hard to make out Logan’s exact expression because of the thick light blocking glasses he was wearing, but Virgil thought he could guess. Tenekarie expressions were similar enough to humans that he could see the “I’m regretting everything” look from galaxies away.

“Roman told me that it was rude to ask a human about their customs,” Logan said.

“And you listened to him?” Janus asked, not at all delicately. Logan made a series of noises in the back of his throat that sounded suspiciously like an engine dropping out of warp drive.

“Roman literally calls us Deathworlders,” Virgil pointed out.

“Roman is also more experienced in the customs of other species than I am,” Logan said, stubbornly. “I am perhaps one of the only ones of my kind to venture off world. Social niceties of other species do not make sense to me.”

“Logan, you literally taught me how to speak,” Virgil said. “All you had to do was ask. I would tell you anything.” And it wasn’t even a lie. If Logan asked him to explain the governing system from back on Earth, Virgil would begrudgingly rack his brain for all he knew about the Electoral College from eighth grade Government class.

“But you greatly dislike talking about humans!” Logan snapped his pocket notebook closed, his upper hands twisted in the air like he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with them. “I do not know much of anything about human expressions and culture, but your mood greatly decreases when Earth is mentioned and you are caused great distress when any one of us attempt to uncover knowledge of your childhood.”

Virgil was well aware of the eyes on him: both Logan’s hidden light sensitive ones and Janus’s curious heterochromic ones. He plopped another cube in the bowl and stood up, measuring out his breaths as evenly as he could.

“I mean, I guess--” Virgil tried to play it off like his mind wasn’t furiously fighting off unwelcome memories, like he was perfectly fine and there was nothing wrong with where this conversation was going at all, period. “You could have still asked.”

Logan’s face pinched. “What sort of friend would I be if I caused you intentional distress?”

Janus didn’t say anything, just sat back on his hunches and watched Virgil with that critical gaze of his. Virgil could barely even remember the last time Janus had to analyse him for information. Was it before the Robotics Show from Hell or later when they were lying on the floor of Janus’s room for the first time so sleep deprived that they were enjoying each other's company? It was the look he used when he was picking apart words and tone and emphasis and intention, the look he used when he was weedling his way into someone’s mind and figuring out how they thought, the look he used when he was filling in gaps of information without needing to ask.

Virgil didn’t necessarily hate when Janus did it to him, but it made his body go rigid and his eyes stiffly avoid contact and connection and all the things that amateur profilists used to determine when one was lying and telling the truth.

Virgil sighed out another breath, “Alright, alright.” He left the bowl on the counter and sat down in one of the chairs at the table, opening his palms to Logan. “Ask your questions.”

Logan’s lights slowed, flooding purple and green with dashes of red in between, Northern Lights style. He tapped two of his four fingers on the table across from Virgil as if he wasn’t satisfied with Virgil suddenly opening up.

“I do not want to bring harm to your emotional status,” the alien said.

“Whatever he doesn’t want to answer, I will,” Janus offered, pulling himself up off the ground and brushing imaginary space dirt off his pants (which were actually Virgil’s, because they still hadn’t stopped somewhere to pick up supplies. Not that Virgil was complaining. Janus calves really stood out in the slim fit). Janus smiled without teeth and Virgil saw Logan doing an extensive overthinking process before finally nodding.

“Okay,” Logan said. “What is the normal way for humans to greet each other?”

“Depends,” Virgil said.

There was a beat of silence, before Janus huffed and sat himself on Virgil’s lap. “What he means, Logan, is that humans have a lot of ways to greet each other based on their relationship to one another. The closer the relationship the more personal the greetings tend to be. I might greet a new acquaintance with a handshake, but hug a close friend or ruffle the hair of a younger cousin.”

Logan scribbled something in his notebook, which Virgil knew from experience was in ancient Tenekarie language as well as in a code that only Logan knew the key of. Supposedly it helped keep all his information organized and prevented theft but they had yet to encounter someone willing to fight Logan for his information.

“These things change between humans,” Virgil added, “In some families it might be normal to kiss a relative on the cheek, and in others that can be weird or uncomfortable. Between cultures too.”

“Cultures?” Logan repeated, “How many cultures are on your planet?”

“Please don’t make me count them,” Virgil said.

Janus shuffled so he was better seated in between Virgil’s thighs. “Perhaps it's easier to explain like this: if there is something for humans to disagree over, there is a different culture for it.”

Logan stopped writing to look up at them. When neither of them corrected each other he hummed. “That sounds truly chaotic and ill designed.”

Virgil shrugged, “Its not all that bad.” He carefully carted his fingers through Janus’s hair. It was soft, a little greasy because it had been a day and a half since he showered and he smelled like the healing aloe even though the scars on his face were as healed as they were getting. Still he was warm to the touch and Virgil felt himself practically melting into him.

“Sometimes it's really cool,” Virgil said. “You meet people from an entirely different way of life and if everyone doesn’t suck, you get to learn something new.”

“Suck?” Logan echoed confusedly, but Janus warded it off with a wave of his hand and a sip of his tea.

“Many cultures,” Janus summarized, “Many ways to greet each other. Next question.”

Logan accepted the answer with all the grace of the Tenekarie. “From my observations, kissing is a very personal act. This means that you two have a very personal relationship, correct?”

“Yes,” They answered together.

Logan nodded. “So what is your relationship?”

Virgil’s fingers froze midway through their path in Janus’s hair. “Uhhh…”

Janus frowned, and looked back at Virgil. Even now their faces were less than a couple inches apart and his breath smelled pretty awful, but Virgil didn’t think he could push him away even if all life in the cosmos depended on it. It was something about his eyes-- always about his eyes. Virgil had probably made a million metaphors and similes about his eyes before and he could probably make a million more and still not manage to capture his quintessential essence of him.

It was nearly embarrassing as all hell. Middle School Virgil who righteously suffered through all English classes would be completely mortified to know that he had turned into a poetic sap who liked to make love songs out of the way that Janus’s lips taste and the rhythm of his heartbeat. All those times he had ripped up his own emo writing and now he was trying to figure out if “vivacious” rhymed with “Janus” because there was no other way to describe how his heart was acting any time the other boy fluttered his eyelashes.

Maybe words weren’t enough, maybe they would never be enough. Janus would probably know better anyway, because he knew so many different words in different languages, but Virgil would rather eject himself into space than admit all those very real, very mushy, very gushy emotions in his head.

Maybe that was the reason why Virgil was breathlessly staring into Janus’s eyes scrambling for an answer he wasn’t sure even existed.

Poor little Virgil, who never got a chance to tell Janus how he felt three years ago and now chased him down in Space and still couldn’t get the words “I’m super fucking gay for you” out unironically. It wasn’t like Janus didn’t know. Virgil knew he knew already. The words weren’t necessary between them, when they could look at each other and recognize that they’d do anything for each other.

How can he put a name to that? Virgil didn’t think there was a name.

The emotion in his chest, the burning desire in his heart, the hum in his soul that finally settled when Janus was next to him-- those weren’t things that Virgil thought had a name. It wasn’t simple to explain, not like sadness, or anger, or fear.

It was dangerous, Virgil knew. Because it was the emotion, the feeling, the urge that made him want to bend over backwards for Janus’s smile, that made him bullheaded enough to sneak over the mansion walls into the Ekans Estate and climb the trellis to the Janus’s bedroom window, that made him want to pick out Prom Tuxes and dream of a perfect world where Janus’s parents didn’t hate the mere idea of Virgil. Virgil had done stupid things for the sake of Janus’s real smile already; what was stopping him from doing more? What was stopping him from doing stupider things? Virgil would fight the whole world, dozens of worlds, thousands for the sake of Janus.

And Logan wants him to define a dedication like that in a simple relationship status?

“Oh my god,” Janus said, staring at Virgil, “You are way over thinking this.”

He rotated on Virgil’s lap and faced Logan with a look of determination that Virgil was honestly a little terrified of. “Our relationship is Fuckbuddies, okay? Fuckbuddies with emotions.”

“EXCUSE ME,” Virgil yelped, “What?!”

“Fuck.” Janus said, “Buddies.” Deliberately. Slowly. Cheekily. “Am I wrong, Virgil?”

And oh.

Virgil was right there, right next to Janus’s lips, right next to his wide eyes and soft, very kissable lips, right next to--

And then suddenly he was closer.

Kissing Janus was like setting himself on fire, but in a good way or whatever. Virgil didn’t know. In a single breath Janus managed to make him stupid, caused him lose focus of everything around him, drew him in and held him tight in his clutches until Virgil honestly forgot what his own name was. All that matter was Janus, Janus’s hands cupping Virgil's face, and Janus’s sneaky clever little tongue was darting between Virgil’s lips, searching for a gap between his teeth--

“Pardon my interruption,” Logan said. Like a beacon of light in the middle of a rainstorm, like the fire alarm in the middle of the night, like Janus’s mother knocking on the door to ask why he’s still awake when Virgil is not welcomed in her home and he’s currently lounging on the bed next to Janus.

Virgil yanked back on instinct and Janus gave him a toothy, smug grin in return. The boy in his lap patted Virgil’s cheeks, and licked his lips again because he was an asshole and Virgil was very much blushing across his entire face.

“But what exactly is a-- What did you say?” Logan tapped his pen, “A Fuckboodie?”

“A fuckbuddy,” Janus repeated the English word which he did not bother to try and convert to any sort of alien language.

“Yes,” Logan said. “That. What is that?”

Virgil was so lost in the sensation of Janus running his thumb over Virgil’s lips, of the sight of Janus looking all coy on Virgil’s lap, twisting just ever so much….he totally completely missed what Janus said next.

The next thing he knew Janus was plucking himself out of Virgil’s lap drawing his fingers across the underside of Virgil’s chin and walking away with a sway in his hips that definitely wasn’t there before and definitely impossible to look away from. He was hypnotizing all the way out the door and out of sight.

“--Virgil?” Logan said.

Virgil blinked twice. “What the fuck just happened?”

Logan adjusted his glasses, “Janus said that you would be better suited for answering what a fuckboodie was… are you okay?”

Virgil couldn’t help but laugh, “Asshole.” He shook his head slightly, but he couldn’t keep that stupid smile off his face. Absently he wondered if his cheeks should be hurting this much from smiling. When was the last time he smiled this much? Had he ever?

“Virgil, I will admit, you are starting to scare me,” Logan said. “It is very unlike you to act so…aloof and whimsical. Ever since I have known you, you have been very direct and, well, possibly paranoid. Is there perhaps a pheromone that Janus is giving off that is making you like this?”

“Pheromone?” Virgil repeated to make sure he heard that right, “Pheromone? Humans don’t give off like pheromones-- at least I don’t think they do? At least not pheromones that other humans can really pick up on. I think I read a Wikipedia article about some basic stuff that suggested early humans did but Janus can’t and doesn’t-- I’m not acting weird.”

Logan didn’t say anything and Virgil felt the weight of his own words come careening back down on him. Like a guillotine.

“Okay, maybe I’m acting a little weird,” Virgil allowed, with a sigh. He gently touched the underside of his chin where Janus had drawn his fingers. The ghost imprint of his fingertips made him shiver and maybe hold that stupid fond smile longer than he meant to.

Logan wrote something in his notebook with the fluidity that made Virgil certain he was writing down possible pheromones types.

“Janus and I are not fuckbuddies,” Virgil blurted out, if only to distract him. “We’re uh...what’s the word…” Boyfriends. Lovers. Stupid Idiots. Best Friends. Don’t they all mean the same thing between the two of them, anyway? “Partners.”

“Romantic partners?”

“Yes.” Virgil said. He picked up Janus’s abandoned tea and twisted the tea bag around his finger. “Yeah.”

Logan tracked the motion, as shown by the tilt of his head and the press of his lips together. The lights racing through his body slowed further into a contemplative tempo, something that someone could slow dance too, not that Virgil was thinking of slow dancing or anything. He was a scorned poetic, not a masochist.

The tea tasted like Jasmine although Virgil doubted any planets this far from Earth produced the plant they were used to.

“You are happy,” Logan stated. Which very much sounded like an unchangeable fact than a guess or an observation.

Virgil blinked at the sudden change of tone, but he nodded carefully. “Yeah?”

“Janus makes you happy.” Logan stated again.

“Yeah,” Virgil answered again. He couldn’t help but feel like he was taking a test suddenly, like Logan was his Spanish Teacher and he was being graded on his pronunciation in front of the entire class, like there was a lot riding on his every answer but he couldn’t figure out the trick that was going on.

Logan tapped his writing pen on his notebook, and drummed two fingers from another hand on the edge of the table, much like Virgil’s actual Spanish Teacher when she was about to fail him.

“I am causing you distress,” Logan said leaning back, “I apologize. My line of thinking was not intended to make you uncomfortable. Through my observations and with the help of your answers I am formulating conclusions--”

“That is way too much thinking for this early in the morning, Logan.” Virgil told him, shifting slightly. “Really too much--

“Were you unhappy?”

Virgil froze.

He felt his blood run cold and turn to ice crystals in his veins, cutting off all feeling to his extremities. He felt the warmth disappear from his cheeks, felt the air in his lungs come to an absolute stop and the vacuum of space suck away every moderately decent feeling he was having. Virgil had never been tossed out into space but he figured that this feeling was pretty close to how his carbon based body would react to Absolute Zero.

“We have known you for two years,” Logan continued, talking much like he was the dam and the words were the water breaking through his barriers and drowning them both. “Ever since we picked you up from TS-1219, you have portrayed a certain personality: you don’t smile, despite having told us that humans smile to show happiness, you’ve always held yourself at a distance and been closed off about your past. You have always been a difficult person to get to know, although Roman, Patton, and I have put forth a valiant effort to befriend you, Virgil. However in just the short time Janus and Remus have been on our ship, you have-- you have--”

His upper arms writhed in the air with hopelessness bordering on frustration that was covering some other emotion Virgil couldn’t quite pick out and was afraid to pick out. This was Logan, and he didn’t do “hopeless”. He had a plan for everything. He was the anchor in the storm, the calm in the chaos, the reassurance in the panic. When Virgil had lost everything and everyone, Logan had shown up and pulled him out of that dark place.

“Were you unhappy?” Logan asked quietly with all his lights going dark, “Did we make you unhappy?”

Virgil's mouth moved, but the lack of oxygen in his lungs twisted his insides into a mess, wriggling like a knot of snakes that were devouring each other. Before he even knew what he was doing he sprung across the table, catching Logan in the Cosmos’s Most Awkward Hug ever. Janus’s stupid tea spilled again but Virgil couldn’t have cared less about getting hot leaf juice on himself when Logan was sitting across from him wondering if he was the reason that Virgil had hated living for so long.

Logan was larger than him, but Virgil fit his arms between Logan’s upper and lower ones and held him as tight as he could, tighter than he could, tightly enough to convey all the words he couldn’t articulate. He buried his face into Logan’s crystal collarbone just as Logan’s probably completely confused, maybe a little terrified arms circle back around to tentatively hold him back.

“Vir...gil…” He whispered. “What…?”

“No, no, nonono,” Virgil said, “No, Logan. I wasn’t-- I’m not-- I swear--”

There was something warm trailing down his cheeks, and it took him a half a quisannu to realize, oh, those were tears. His tears.

He was crying.

Logan floundered his upper arms. “Virgil you-- your eyes--!”

“I’m sorry,” Virgil said.

Logan made a hysterical noise in the back of his throat, running lines of agitated lights up and down his arms. Virgil could feel the warmth of them as he pressed his face into Logan’s chest, like holding his palm to a birthday candle. The alien smelled like dish soap-- the fancy stuff that the Ekans kept in their kitchen that made the best bubbles at two in the morning when they were trying to clean up any signs that they had been making cookies.

“I do not understand why you are apologizing,” Logan said desperately, “Please do not apologize! I was the one who asked--”

“I’m sorry,” Virgil said again, “That I made you… fuck, Lo...Did I really…?” He sucked in a dangerous breath, an urgent, determined, dire breath and forced it back out.

“You guys made me so happy, Lo,” Virgil told him. “You don’t… you really don’t know how happy you guys made me.”

Because they did make him happy. They made him so stupid happy. Virgil’s favorite memories were the ones where Patton was hopping around the kitchen, experimenting with new foods and sweeping everyone else in to dances, the ones where Roman was polishing his sword collection and telling the corresponding tales for each weapon, the ones where Logan read off science tidbits to the room and got excited for new experiments in testing, the ones where the others let him play around with their broken electronics and he created something ultimately useless but that the others were so amazed over. They were the memories that bandaged up the gaping wound in his heart and finally allowed it to heal over, the ones that reminded him he could smile, that there were still things to smile about.

They pulled him out of the black hole of despair he’d fallen into, they brushed the Welsor fighting ring’s dirt off of him, and they accepted him-- even when Patton had started out so terrified of him and Roman was so distrustful and Logan was struggling to climb that language barrier between them.

When Janus had disappeared from Earth, Virgil had been left empty. The three of them had filled him up again.

And they hadn’t asked for anything in return for it.

Virgil wasn’t sure how to tell Logan that in definite words, in concrete breaths, in a way that didn’t dredge up the memories of who he was before Logan, Patton, and Roman. Because he was sorry he ever made them doubt how happy Virgil had been with them, that he made Logan so scared he had to ask the question out loud, that he hadn’t realized his actions could have been perceived that way at all.

Sometimes Virgil forgot as alien as they were to him, he was just as much as an unknown to them.

There were a billion, million, trillion stars in all the galaxies and Virgil would give them all up for the sake of the people he called family. Screw Earth and the Human Race; Virgil had already decided he didn’t want to save his own last name. He didn’t want the people that he had grown up with.

He wanted the three aliens and Janus and hell maybe even Remus too, when the guy stopped trying to sell them to the Space Pirates of the Caribbean. He wanted to travel and see nebulas, watch the death of a star and the formation of a sun and all that stupid stuff he never thought he was ever gonna see.

He wanted to be able to turn around and grasp at the nearest person and ask “Are you seeing this?! Isn’t it so fucking cool?!” Because that was his deepest desire, what he saw in the Mirror of Erised, what he would be happy doing for the rest of his tiny, insignificant life.

There was a thin line between being content and being happy and Virgil had walked on the far side of it for most of his life. Before Janus, he had clawed his way through his parent’s disappointed gazes and he had resigned himself to being content on the days where they’d rather ignore him than ask him if he had gotten any better at kissing his teachers shoes. Before Janus’s death, he had been content with those stolen late nights with Janus and happy with the cherished few hours he could get away with.

Before, before, before. Virgil had been content with what he had. He wrapped himself around those things that brought him warmth and he held onto those memories even when they burned him-- even when Janus’s ghost had been laughing in his ears and he had torn himself apart missing it, he clung to the concept of it. He had been content once upon a time, and he was content knowing that even if he had never reached that state again.

But now?

Now, he was more than content.

He was happy.

Because Janus wasn’t dead and he had Logan, Patton, and Roman who wanted him around. Because he was in space and learning new things. Because it was everything he had never dared dreamed of and more.

“Oh Great Disney,” A voice behind them said, “What did you do to him, Pocket Calculator?”

Logan shifted slightly, but he did not go as far as to try to remove Virgil from clutching him. Even from behind closed eyes, Virgil could tell he was giving off purple flashes in regular slow inverals, the type that usually calmed Virgil down when he was waking up from a nightmare and couldn’t get imaginary alien blood out from under his nails.

“I ah… I’m afraid I’m not entirely certain,” Logan admitted. “He mentioned that perhaps I was doing too much thinking this early in the rotation.”

Roman-- Virgil couldn’t think of another person who’s footsteps could sound so dramatic other than Janus, but Janus didn’t have a tail-- let out a huff, “Yeah well! I would also burst into tears if you started talking about warp cores and all that junk before I got my Shishdouble.”

“Is that what this is?” Logan asked tiredly. “Crying?”

There were some sounds of things being pushed around, cabinets being opened and closed; Roman must have been looking for food. A specific type of food. The food that Virgil had already poured all over the floor and then cleaned up hurriedly and placed back on the counter.

“Uh yeah,” Roman said, “Seriously, what did you say to him? Virge, whatever it was, I’m sure he didn’t mean--where is my Shishdouble?”

Virgil gave Logan another, last tight squeeze and untangled himself from the rocky alien. He was a little wobbly standing back up, but he managed and he even got to rub away the slight tear tracks on his cheeks.

“Sorry, Lo,” He rasped out.

Logan was peering at him curiously and Roman, too, now. The latter had a spoon in his mouth and was watching from next to the counter, his bone plates clacking together in what Virgil thought might have been surprise.

It took Virgil a moment to figure out why. He was sure he looked great: his bed head was probably still in effect and he was wearing a sleep shirt with too many holes in it, not to mention the way his face grew blotchy when he cried and the red rim to his eyes.

But even through all that, he was smiling. Teeth and all. Oh God, when was the last time he smiled like this? Had he ever?

“You broke him!” Roman hissed.

“I didn’t--!!” Logan snapped back.

And Virgil laughed. It felt a bit like he was letting go of a weight he didn’t know he was holding, like an invisible straight jacket being cut off him, like he had been drowning his entire life and just now came up for air for the first time.

“S-sorry,” He laughed between gasps for breath, “I-- oh fuck, god, sh-shit! I’m sorry!”

“Don’t let Pat hear you say that,” Roman said, “You’ll make both his hearts give out with such strong language.”

“I have already said this, but it bears repeating,” Logan said, “You do not need to apologize, Virgil. I appeared to have overstepped your boundaries with my personal questions and that is my fault. I should be apologizing to you.”

“Disney, guys,” Roman moaned. His tail knocked against the counter, “Just how deep did the two of you get this morning? Its only the seventh Phisannu.”

Virgil laughed again, shorter, lighter.

Because he was happy.

Not just content with things, but happy.

Happier than he thought he had ever been.

“To answer…” Virgil said, looking at Logan, “to answer your question, Lo, I am the happiest fucking man in the galaxy. I am living my best life. If I die right now I will have, like, no regrets at all.”

Logan and Roman shared a look. Roman sucked on his spoon for a second before popping it back out and using it to point at him.

“So this whole…. “Pleasant personality” gimmick is sticking around?” The Erefren asked, sounding damn near disappointed. “You’re much less entertaining to make fun of when you’re upbeat.”

“You like kicking men when they’re down, Princey?”

“Only when they attempt to steal the 350 griot Shishdouble that I bought for myself and specifically told them not to even think about taking.” Roman pointed to Virgil’s abandoned bowl of jello like cubes. They jiggled in accordance with the barely recognizable power of the distant engines.

“Who says I wasn’t getting it for you?” Virgil asked sweetly. “Maybe I was being a decent person!”

Roman blinked several times, twisting between Virgil and the bowl. Virgil could see the moment his suspicions melted away: Roman’s telltale tail started wriggling in the air behind him dangerously close to lodging into the cupboards (Which, unfortunately would not have been a new occurrence, but Virgil doubted that Patton and Logan’s combined budget plan included funds for new cabinet doors. Again.) His face flushed purple in a way that suggested he was letting himself be flattered and he picked up the bowl delicately.

“Oh, well,” He said, “That was really nice of you, Vee. This “kind actions” routine is different but I think we could all certainly get used to it! Needless to say no small actions will go unappreciated under my watch from here on out!”

“You trust me way too much,” Virgil told him as he took an exaggerated bite of his stupid cough syrup tasting Jello.

“Wait what--”

Logan winced from his spot at the table, “He poured that all over the floor.”

“Unapologetically,” Virgil added, because being nice was overrated and watching Roman get an impressive distance with his spit take was his new favorite breakfast event.

The Erefren pawed at his purple tongue and spit the rest of the half eaten Jello on the floor. He cursed in his native language, growled something in Common, and threw the bowl back on the counter.

“You heathen!” He cried. “You don’t mess with a man’s food! Don’t you know how much that cost me?”

“Is now a bad time to tell you I used the last of your shampoo last night?”

Roman’s bone plates clicked and then fanned out, oozing the red toxin that his race was known wildly for. He growled, baring his teeth and took a threatening step towards Virgil.

“I’ll take that as a “no”,” Virgil said, and offered a quick double thumbs up to Logan, “Like I said, no regrets!” Then he sprinted towards the door back to the inner bowels of the ship.

Roman let out an Erefren warcry and charged after him.

Erefrens were fast, but Virgil was faster. By just a little bit. It also helped that Virgil was able to dodge the sleepy Patton coming around the corner when Roman tripped right over him-- if the series of thuds and slew of curses were anything to go by. Virgil thought about turning to check but then a bone lodged into the wall mere inches from his face and the flight instincts kicked in again.

“Hey Pat! Bye Pat!” Virgil yelled.

“Careful!” Patton’s voice called after him. “No Running in the halls--”

“I’m gonna eject you into Space, you Deathworlder!” Roman bellowed drowning out the rest of Patton’s helpful advice. “My Shishdouble! Virgil! Have you no honor?!”

And yeah, Virgil thought that if every morning started like this for the rest of his life….he wouldn’t mind it. At all.

Out here in Space? He was happier than he thought he could ever be.

#sanders sides #Virgil Sanders #Janus Sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #Alien Au #anxceit #platonic analogical #Sympathetic Deceit #eighteen pages of Virgil being a happy boy in space #humans are space orcs #sometimes I just want them to be happy #okay? okay #1am editing spree #rip Romans Shishdouble #and his shampoo #Virgil being a little shit #wow I said fuck a lot in this

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seijch · 4 years

Text

➣ ushijima wakatoshi: a being capable of bringing entire armies to their knees, wielder of the severin cleaver, and the one whose appearance turns your world upside down.

ushijima wakatoshi + gender neutral!reader (no pronouns mentioned)

high fantasy au

1.2k

this fic is inspired by the video game xenoblade chronicles 2, but knowledge of that game is not needed to enjoy this fic :-)

You lived a simple life before Ushijima Wakatoshi.

It was a simple life, stitched together haphazardly with odd jobs and courier duty, but it was a simple life nonetheless. It's long days and hard work, sweat beading at your hairline; it's also all you know.

A trade ship has come to port, bringing with it goods and commodities the town can't supply on its own. The land was fertile, sure, but all your technology was imported from the faraway Mor Ardain. You were, as always, tasked with making sure everything got where it needed to go. This was easy. This was routine. You brace yourself (both mentally and physically) for the ache in your feet that's sure to come.

Thankfully, the day goes by rather quickly. You're on one of your last jobs, en route to the bakery, when you collide with a young man.

Your brain is on autopilot, steadying him while you set the crate of supplies on the ground, hoping this interaction won't throw off your momentum. "Oh," you say, on your knees to return the things that have spilled from his knapsack, "I'm sorry, let me help you-"

His warning comes a second too late: "Don't touch that!"

That: a glowing mauve gem you've just wrapped your hand around. It's a bit warm, if not heavier than it had looked.

The pleasant warmth turns into a surprising heat as the crystal lights up, so bright you shield your eyes with your free hand. When it subsides, there is a man standing before you.

Human men: comprised of flesh, bone, and certainly not rectangular gems set neatly into the junction between the base of their throat and their collarbone.

This is not a man, no matter how much he might resemble one. No, in front of you now is a blade, capable of bestowing upon their wielders — known as drivers — their power and (more importantly) their weapon. Any one of them could raise hell in the right hands, this much you know to be true. You've heard the legends of drivers felling the most fearsome of monsters. (You’d wanted to be a driver, once--but that was before reality had set in.)

"My name is Ushijima Wakatoshi." In his hands is a double-sided battleaxe so large it makes you look puny in comparison. "My power is yours." To demonstrate, he twirls the handle of the axe in one fluid motion before slamming a razor-sharp edge into the ground.

At the point of impact is what can only be called a miniature crater, displaced dirt flying everywhere.

A crowd has gathered; it's not very often a blade is awakened so publicly, let alone one so strong. And strong he is, he must be; his very aura tells you this blade, this...Ushijima, must be a cut (or two, maybe twenty) above the rest. By now, the routine you'd been so eager to follow has gone completely off the rails, a loose thread tugged on and undoing all the work you've done.

Ushijima, ignorant to your plight, offers the handle to you. His palms are face up as he does, open and ready. For a moment, there is silence in the bustling market. Everyone watches with bated breath for your next move.

The young man whose blade you'd just stolen decides to make it for you.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asks, pointing an accusatory finger at you. "You summoned a blade from my core crystal!" He tries to claim Ushijima for himself, wrapping both hands around the axe handle.

It doesn't work. He caves under its weight, knees hitting the ground almost instantly. Ushijima picks the axe up as though it were a toothpick. "You are not my driver." Coming from his mouth, it sounds irrefutable. You're sure the actual driver with actual experience would be a better fit for all this than you, but you keep your mouth shut.

He offers the weapon to you once more. "If you'll have me, I assure you that all who dare oppose us will be shown no mercy."

Drivers were powerful. They were also stupid. Who willingly throws themselves in the face of death in the hopes that they come out on top?

You lived a simple life before Ushijima Wakatoshi.

You'll live a simple life after him, too.

"I'm sorry," you tell him, picking the crate back up. "I don't think I'm what you're looking for."

And you walk away.

(You weren't cut out for a life on the road, of odd jobs more dangerous than the deliveries and repairs you were accustomed to. Your head was in the clouds when you thought you could make a living as a driver. As harsh as the ground beneath you might feel, coming down from those lofty dreams is a much better fate than being eaten by some hostile creature.)

What you don't expect is for him to follow, to take the supplies in his hands in an act of service. "I'm afraid I don't understand. You are worthy. You would not have survived my awakening if you were not." That much is true; you've heard horror stories of weak bodies attempting to summon strong blades. It never ends well, often with month-long migraines or worse yet, bodies gone still and pulses long gone.

"Whatever crime-fighting, monster-killing life you expect from me isn't going to happen. I'm no driver. I have a hard enough time as it is." You take the crate back. "You can find someone else."

"...I can't.”

“Huh?”

“Blades cannot switch drivers, not without a crystal that very few have ever come across." He tries to reclaim the crate, but you swivel out of the way. (It ends up in his arms anyway. You don't know what to do, fingers twitching now that there's nothing to hold.)

"I will not push the issue further, but let me say this: there is potential in you to become strong, whether you realize it or not." He speaks with enough conviction to make your head spin. To him, this is fact. To you, this is a compliment beyond compare. "They call people like you diamonds in the rough. I will leave the choice of polishing it up to you."

You don't say anything, but you don't need to. Ushijima's words have wormed their way into your head, taken root in the recesses of your brain. You finish your deliveries. (News travels fast; everyone is well aware of who your newfound companion is.) The only thing left on your checklist is to figure out what to do with the blade that’s walked alongside you without complaint.

You lived a simple life before Ushijima Wakatoshi.

But when you take the axe in your hands under the light of the dying sun, it feels so right that you wonder if this serendipitous set of circumstances may have been preordained after all. You feel...worthy.

You lift it, bringing it down in a hefty swing. (It takes a bit of effort to avoid slicing your foot clean off.) You're not sure if it's just a trick of the light, but you swear you see the corners of his mouth quirk up when you do.

Your simple life was stitched together, fraying at the seams as you tried to make ends meet. Ushijima's arrival brings with it an entirely new fabric, a second chance to weave the tapestry of life into something worth living.

A question: when you return the axe to him, he lets it sit on his open palms, face up and open once again.

An answer: you wrap your fingers against the handle once more, meeting his gaze head-on.

Life was never meant to be simple, anyway.

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primasveraas-writing · 4 years

Text

This is Home

Request: “Finnpoe where Finn keeps slipping into First Order habits/has culture shock with the Resistance?”

Thanks for sending this in!

Ship/drabble requests are open!

WORD COUNT: 2855

XXX

Finn knows he was reborn the day he left the First Order.

Out of blood and pain, he reentered the world. He was given a name. He was held in the embrace of friends who would become family, and the moment they saw him, they loved him.

He was struck down, and he awoke again, taking teetering, unsteady steps as he relearned how to walk. There was fire and water and darkness as he stumbled confusedly on the ship until he ran into Poe, and the universe began to make sense again.

And Finn was reborn.

Yet the past never left him. The sensation of freedom, at last, overtook him- a weight off his chest, blissful as he’d never known before. Finn wasn’t sure if it was rational to expect complete liberation when the ideals of the First Order were so deeply ingrained within him, but he was given a new life and a new identity to make his own.

If he was reborn, then FN-2187 is the ghost that haunts his every step.

On a surface level, everything is fine. He has friends, Poe and Rey, and the whole of the Resistance seems to welcome him with open arms. He is free to do as he pleases, so long as he pitches in around the base, and he doesn’t have to fight in combat unless he chooses to. He has full meals three times a day, and people who smile at him when he passes in the hall. On their new base, he can go outside and smell the fresh air and explore the natural world.

Every morning, Finn wakes up at 0600. It’s the same time the claxon went off in the First Order barracks, and true to his earliest memories, his eyes open routinely, even before the sun dawns over Ajan Kloss. Since duties don't start until 0700 or 0800, depending on rank, Finn watches the sun rise through his window, and tries not to think about how for the first time in his life, he has a window to call his own. He has his own private quarters, and they are deathly silent each day.

Regardless, Finn dresses promptly, then turns to face the light. The sun hasn’t yet crept through the trees into his room, but he knows it will soon. He glances at the chronometer sitting on his bedside table. Yesterday, the sun rose at 0641, the first beams coming through the window slowly, almost one by one. Today, he waits for the sun to rise just a few minutes later.

This is how Finn bides his time, counting minutes of sunlight because he cannot escape a lifetime of conditioning.

At 0705, Finn rises, stretching his limbs, which are aching after an hour of sitting idly. Poe rises at 0700, and Finn has quickly learned that his friend is someone who can be considered a "morning person." It's a choice, apparently, to wake early and be productive at the start of the day. They make a habit of eating together before much of the base has come to life. In this sense, they are unique: few others willingly wake so early. Even Poe’s activity and enthusiasm are special, but Finn discovers that this is due to his two cups of caf taken daily in the morning. Even so, he's still brighter than Jessika, who refuses to talk until her first cup is empty, consumed slowly and accompanied with tired, sulky eyes.

Poe greets him loudly, smiling wide and clapping the other man on the back. Finn can’t help but respond just as happily, although it’s dampened with exhaustion, even after being awake for just one hour. Poe doesn’t notice, however, or attributes it to the normalcy of life during the war. Either way, Finn is glad no one else knows. He hasn’t told anyone of his sleeplessness, that he can betray the First Order but not shake them in his daily habits.

When they get to the mess, Poe heaps his plate with food, gleefully exclaiming about the freshness of a new dish that has appeared among the standard breakfast options. Finn takes small portions of a few staples, remembering how his stomach ached when he ate too much rich food immediately after joining the Resistance.

Jessika is already at their usual table, glowering at Poe when he says good morning. After Finn asks her why she’s up so early, she tosses back her dark hair, preparing to unload her grievances.

“Someone assigned me training duty,” she says, pointing a finger accusingly at Poe, who only grins in response. “I’m teaching a few new recruits the x-wing basics.” And although she rolls her eyes to puncuate this statement, Finn knows that she doesn’t really mind, aside from requiring an extra cup of caf and some pretend sympathy for the lost hour of rest.

The female pilot sighs, returning to her plate and half-emptied mug. She looks at Finn and shakes her head. “Man, I cannot understand how you don’t eat more. I wake up and I’m starving.” Almost to emphasize her point, she shovels a pile of eggs into her mouth decorously.

“Charming, Pava,” Poe says, snorting. Finn chuckles too, ignoring the sensation of his stomach dropping into the floor. The food provided by the Resistance is far more than he’s used to- so much more than the First Order had ever allotted for their soldiers. It was never enough then, but it didn’t matter. Their job was to function, not to be satisfied.

Still, Finn considers taking more food. His portioning had led to embarrassment one day when his stomach had growled loudly during a Resistance meeting. Most paid him no mind, but Poe, standing next to him, had offered Finn a ration bar, furthering the heat already burning Finn’s cheeks. He had promptly refused, ashamed that his body had ousted his hunger. He was already receiving plenty of food; he shouldn’t need even more.

Despite his thoughts, the meal continues, the pilots beside Finn drawing him out of his reverie. They are a reminder; he is a part of them now, but Finn does not get up to add more food to his plate. He starts the day still hungry.

Most of the day passes normally; by now he knows to smile at his fellow Resistance members in the hall and relax his posture when he walks. Only once does he catch himself looking around in fear of being reprimanded for breaking protocol, but he manages to remember where he is and the right way to behave. He attends a strategy meeting, laughs with his friends, and as the day continues, the knot of anxiety in his stomach begins to unwind.

It’s clearly fine, and Finn tries to show it. Most of the time, Finn doesn’t even feel his heart beating out of his chest; the fact that he can disregard it demonstrates his progress. Even when his voice falters midconversation, after missing Snap’s layered sarcasm minutes into a debate, he recovers quickly enough that they all can laugh and move on. Finn laughs the loudest, failing to notice how Poe refrains, moving slightly closer to his friend.

It’s been a good day, Finn decides, with significantly fewer blunders made than the day before. Finn tries to maintain the conversation before he lets himself get lost in review, thinking over what he should have done better. But by the time he’s in the command room, even after the last meal of the day, his mind wanders, and General Organa, made haughty by extended hours, barks out his name suddenly.

Finn instantly stiffens, snapping to attention. His gaze hardens, staring straight ahead, and his heart thuds in his chest, so loudly that he’ll be scolded for that too. His arms are rods at his side, and Finn braces for Phasma’s raised voice-

“Relax, Finn,” the General says softly. Her tone is as gentle as Finn’s ever heard it, mirroring her comforting touch as she reaches out to grasp Finn's shoulder. "We don't do that here. I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

Finn nods, shame burning inside him, fueled by the anxiety that’s made its home within every part of his being. She is looking at him with pity in her eyes, and Finn cannot meet her gaze. Perhaps she realizes this, because she speaks again, this time assuming something closer to her typical conviction.

“To win a battle and to return scarred is still a victory. You have been fighting this battle ever since you got here. Nobody expects you to lose, but no one expects it to be easy, either.” Her words become conversational, as if Finn’s plight were the changing of the seasons. “But one good thing about living on a rebel base is that you’re surrounded by good, patient people. And most of us know a thing or two about change, too.”

She leaves it at that, but her eyes are sparkling. Finn comes back to himself, nodding. That one of the biggest differences between his old life and this new one- he's never felt a mother's gaze until Leia had looked at him, with such an unfamiliar sympathy and love. It's inexplicably wonderful; Finn wants to burst into tears and hug the General all at once. Sometimes he wonders if she would ever let him, but he can't allow himself to ever decide. Instead, he nods again, clearing his throat so he can manage a soft “thank you.”

Leia smiles briefly, then dismisses him for the night, declaring to the whole room that they have free time until duty begins again tomorrow.

***

Weeks pass, and Finn does better. He still doesn’t take more food, but each day, even each hour, he becomes more and more unrecognizable as a First Order trooper. He becomes Finn, who is part of the rebellion all around, born of his friends’ humor, love, and loyalty. It is good, even if he can still sometimes hear his heart pounding in his chest or stiffens whenever an admiral passes by.

At night, he collapses into bed, exhausted from the effort of assimilating into the Resistance. As soon as he’s left off from duty, Finn usually retreats to his quarters, preferring a few moments of peace and quiet to himself, lying on his bed as the world spins around him and he tries to regain a sense of balance between his new life and the one he left behind. He doesn’t wish to go back- of course not- but when he’s exhausted and depleted at the end of the day, he wants something familiar. Which in turn makes him angry, because all that’s ever been familiar was the First Order, and he certainly doesn’t want that. So the cycle continues, and Finn is helpless to it, even if it gets easier day by day. He is still resigned to the hurricane of emotions and tiredness at every quiet moment available to him, when the bustling life in the Resistance slows enough for him to think.

It’s on one of these nights, when Finn is halfway undressed and slumped in bed, that Poe comes knocking on his door. Finn, mostly asleep and lethargically watching the sun set through his window, scrambles to his feet, pulling on a pair of pants frantically.

“Coming!” Finn shouts, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, although his heart is racing enough that he’s fully awake already.

Poe is smiling when the door opens, but it quickly fades upon seeing Finn, wrinkled clothes, messy hair, and all. Tenderly, he reaches out to touch the other man’s shoulder, but Finn fights to keep a smile on his face still.

“Can I come in?”

Finn steps aside, allowing Poe into his quarters, almost regretting it when Poe’s critical eyes sweep over the room, taking in the emptiness of it all, including the bed that has already been slept in that evening.

“Take a breath, Finn,” Poe tells him, managing an easy grin once more. “I was just stopping by.”

Finn nods, relaxing his shoulders and posture, leaning into Poe as he speaks, showing calculated interest beyond his genuine appreciation at Poe’s visit.

“So,” the pilot continues, “is this where you disappear to every night?”

Freezing momentarily, as if he’d been caught, Finn has to remember how to talk. Perhaps Poe realizes this, because he speaks again, his tone gentle.

“I was just worried about you, buddy. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Finn shifts uncomfortably, dropping his gaze. “It’s a lot. Every day” His words are timid and painfully soft. “I just want to fit in but it’s all so new.”

Stepping closer to Finn, Poe reaches out to grasp Finn’s arm. “I understand, Finn. But you aren’t alone in this. I know how overwhelming this can be. We’re surrounded by all kinds of beings from around the galaxy during the middle of a war. I know it’s harder for you, but if you ever need anything, just ask.”

Wordlessly, Finn nods, and Poe draws him close, wrapping his arms around Finn’s waist and letting the former stormtrooper bury his face in Poe’s neck.

***

So Finn does ask. In the morning, when Poe offers him a bite of his food, he tries it and asks for more. Not every day, but sometimes. He asks about species of beings he’s never seen before, to try and understand all parts of the Resistance. He asks how he can help, how he can reach out to people he’s never talked to on the base. He asks how to fit in, how he should address his superiors and compose himself during meetings. He asks medics and Poe and everyone he knows who has faced impossible odds and the anxiety that comes with it on how to find and keep calm. He asks for help when he doesn’t understand something, even after the relevant moment has passed, because Poe is always there afterward, his eyes kind and knowing, and Finn learns that Poe will never stop being there for him. It is gradual and slow, but soon enough, Finn isn’t embarrassed or afraid anymore, to need Poe’s help and patience, and life becomes easier.

So Finn later asks, only partially shy, if he can kiss Poe.

(Poe says yes.)

Then Poe is there, in the early hours, when Finn wakes before dawn. His boyfriend is a light sleeper; as soon as Finn stirs in in his arms, Poe rises too. At first, they start their day together, beginning their daily duties hours earlier, but as time goes on, and Finn feels more at home in Poe’s embrace, he stays in bed longer, even if he can’t fall asleep again. Until, one day, Finn opens his eyes and sees Poe smiling above him. Finn is confused, but upon checking the chronometer next to him, he realizes that it is far past 0600. This does not happen the next day, nor the one after that, but it is the start of a gradual change, one that will continue through to the rest of his life.

They share a cup of caf after, especially when it becomes routine for Poe to wake Finn, despite the latter's grumpy protests. Finn starts by sipping the dark beverage, made strong and without sugary additives, even though it's far too bitter for Finn's preferences. Poe laughs at him when his nose wrinkles at the flavor, but he doesn't mind it when their kisses shortly thereafter still have the lingering warmth and taste of the drink.

Finn discovers his favorite food, a dish made from exotic fruits. The recipe has been passed on from Shara Bey to her son, who recreates it for Finn after a particularly bountiful supply run, and all Finn wants is more, a thousand more lazy afternoons watching Poe cook and mutter to himself in languages from Yavin IV, and kissing Finn periodically as he does it all.

They hold hands in the hall, and Finn finds himself grinning back at his friends, heat flushing his cheeks when Poe tells him how beautiful his smile is. That’s new too, the ease with which he can navigate teasing and sarcasm, and he is overjoyed when Black Squadron falls to pieces at one of his jokes.

Leia smiles at him brightly as ever, and after Finn suggests a new strategy, he realizes she's beaming at him. Once the meeting adjourns, she wraps her arm around his shoulder and tells him she's glad he's home. He does get choked up then, turning away so Leia doesn't see the shine in his eyes, but she is merciful enough to squeeze his arm and walk away, leaving the statement hanging in the air, and Finn to his joy and thoughts.

But she’s right, he thinks, as the Resistance celebrates another victory that night. He’s curled in Poe’s arms, watching the flames of the bonfire flicker into the night, listening to the laughter and shouts of joy from the rest of the base as they drink and party with a sense of carefreeness that is surprisingly common here, even during the war.

This is home.

#finnpoe #finn x poe #poefinn #finnpoe fanfic #finnpoe fanfiction #finnpoe imagine #finnpoe headcanons #stormpilot #stormpilot fanfiction #stormpilot headcanons #stormpilot imagine #stormpilot fanfic #finn #poe dameron #star wars #star wars fanfiction

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greennightspider · 4 years

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Secrets VI: Mothers in Law (Final Chapter)

Summary: Hvitserk is usually the quiet, mischievous brother. No one really knows what he does, or where he is half of the time, he’s usually an enigma. So what if the reason why….was not an it, but a who?

Secrets, Secrets II, Secrets III, Secrets IV, Secrets V

Hvitserk x Rumena (Mena for short) (OC)

The morning sun awoke Rumena with its gentle rays, and the feel of Hvitserk kissing up her legs was also a welcome pronouncement. “Morning.” She purred, to which Hvitserk returned her smile. “Good morning.”

Hvitserk continued his journey, kissing up Mena’s leg and her thigh. As he came close to her sex Rumena caressed his face, running her fingers through his hair. “Such a treat, and so early.” She sighed, moving her hips further down, so that Hvitserk’s arms came to circle under her thighs.

In truth, Hvitserk was still jaded from the previous day’s events, the thought of his brothers laying a hand on his woman-

Yes. His woman.

He sank his mouth into her sex hearing her broken moan, and lifted her hips so that his hands could cup her supple ass. Her warmth was always so inviting, her moans always so tempting, the way she would buck her hips begging for more.

Hvitserk’s possessiveness was getting the better of him, rocking her his to meet the rhythm of his inflections on her clit, making her squeal. He would be damned if any of this brothers tried to take Rumena away from him.

She brought shivers down his spine with the way her thighs spasmed around his ears, only able to hear her muffled cries of his name. He loved the way she tangled her fingers in his hair and rolled his head into her when she was close, Hvitserk making sure never to let up until he felt her cream on his tongue her orgasmic cries music to his ears. Yes, he loved their excursions, but it was more than that.

The way he wanted to take care of her, the way he looked forward every day to seeing her welcome him home. Hvitserk knew the night before, and the way Mena looked at him and kissed him with such fervour drew him over the edge.

He knew his heart belonged to her forever.

He drew himself up to her flushed face, covering them both in the bedfurs once more, trying to gather the courage to confess what he now knew. “Rumena, I-“

“Knock knock!”

The pair looked at each other quizzically, but before they could answer the door flung wide open, the first prince of Kattegat himself strolling in. “Morning little brother.”

“Bjorn what the hell are you doing here again!” Hvitserk hissed, trying to make sure that Rumena was covered up. A cautious Ubbe followed in tow, trying to avert his eyes from the obviously dishevelled girl.

“And where’s the snake-y one.” Rumena said boldly.

Bjorn turned on his heels and cocked his head. “Snakey one?”

“The minx means me.” Ivar strode in, the final person in the party, making no effort to stab his crutch into the floorboards menacingly. Rumena noted now that at full height Ivar stood almost taller than Hvitserk, the youngest prince taking his place near the table to lean on.

“Oh! She doesn’t know who we are. Bad Hvitty.” Bjorn chuckled. “I am Bjorn son of Lagertha and Ragnar Lothbrok. That is Ubbe,” he then nodded in the direction of the snakey one. “And the grumpy one is Ivar.”

“Again why are you here.” Hvitserk growled.

“We’re here because mother sent for you.” Ubbe sighed. “She heard, and now she wants to meet her.”

“Why is it any of her business.” Hvitserk scoffed.

“Well, technically she did come aboard a slave boat, as none of us remember her being on any other ship.” Ivar said. “So as a slave-“

“I am not a slave.” Mena stated, feeling Hvitserk’s arm pull protectively behind her back.

Bjorn interrupted. “That is not for you to decide, err-”

“My name is Rumena.”

“Slave or not, as a newcomer you need to be presented to the regent of this place, Rumena.” Ubbe folded his arms, finally daring a look at the girl. “You are a foreigner, a stranger here. And if you want to be accepted in this place, this is your chance.”

Rumena steeled a look at Hvitserk, who was still glaring at his brothers. But Rumena knew the older one had spoken the truth. Turning back to his brothers, she squeezed Hvitserk’s hand.

“We will come then.”

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It was hard not to feel the stares of everyone as she walked through the town. Some looked at her with disdain, others with curiosity, as to why such a being would be escorted by the princes of Kattegat. The only thing that kept her going was Hvitserk’s hand in hers, squeezing her reassuringly. She took comfort in Hvitserk, but was unsure what defence they had against a queen.

The doors of the hall were already open, and as she entered Mena marveled at the furs that covered the throne. And of course, the woman who sat upon it. Even sitting down Rumena could tell that she was quite tall, her features very angular. She was wearing a dark blue dress that contrasted with her firey hair, her wrists slender as they peeked out of the long embroidered sleeves.

She definitely looked regal. And Rumena was starting to realize how significant her relationship with Hvitserk might be.

Aslaug peered at the girl who entered alongside her son, her expression revealing neither disdain nor approval.

“What is your name, slave.”

“I am not a slave- your Highness.” Rumena said, slightly bowing.

Aslaug tipped her head ever so slightly to the right. “That is not what I asked.”

Rumena gulped, thequeen’s piercing glare icier than the winter’s chill. “Rumena.”

“And is it true, Rumena, that you came here from the raids on a slave boat, only to escape and attempt to find favour in my son’s arms?”

“No!” Rumena shouted, but the crowd had already begun to murmur. Her fists started to shake, knowing that the word of a foreigner might not have any weight here at all.

“That is a lie.” Rumena felt Hvitserk’s presence as he stood shoulder to shoulder with her, staring down his mother and his queen with no remorse.

“The ship that you were aboard belonged to King Harald. Therefore any and all slaves

aboard that ship were his property.” Aslaug smiled coldly at her son. “So as it stands, she is property of a King of a neighbouring land.”

“That is not fair!” Hvitserk barked.

“Well it is not like we have anyone here to vouch for the truth of your story.” Aslaug said bluntly.

“Yes there is.”

A soft but strong voice came from the entrance of the hall, revealing a quirky but very well-known couple, a pair that were known to be companions of Ragnar himself.

“Helga.” Rumena almost cried in relief seeing her friend.

“We will vouch for them. Wont we Floki?” Helga smiled at her husband, who giggled in return.

“Yes we will.” Floki gazed mischeviously at the throne before going into a curtsy. “Your highness.”

“As do I.”

Rumena saw the queen’s jaw instantly clench, as all turned to see who was in the doorway. The crowd instantly made way for the newcomer.

Lagertha (and an out of breath Bjorn) made their way through the hall towards the throne.

“Who is that?” Mena whispered.

“My stepmother and Bjorn’s mother.” Hvitserk whispered back. “It is a long story.”

“Welcome, Earl Ingstad.” Aslaug stood and clasped her hands. “What an unexpected surprise.” She smiled, although her voice made Rumena shiver.

Lagertha returned the gaze. “I came on the behest of my son, to told me of these two and their plight.” She nooded at Rumena and Hvitserk.

“Well I cannot see how it is any business of yours.” Aslaug laughed.

“Actually it is.” Lagertha cut off her chuckle sharply, taking one step towards the throne, her eyes lingering on the empty one beside. “You see, the residence in which Hvitserk and this girl have lived is within the borders of Hedeby.” Lagertha’s smile instantly faded. “Which makes it my business.”

Aslaug’s smile faded too, her bony fingers clenching the throne.

“As such,” Lagertha continued, turning around and walking back to the couple. “It is within my right and power, to deem this girl a free woman, as she always has been.”

She then “If King Harald has any quam about a missing ‘slave’ that he never knew about to begin with, then he can answer to me.”

Rumena’s mouth dropped open at her smile, as did Hvtiserk’s, looking to Bjorn for some explanation, but his older brother just shrugged with his hands folded.

Lagertha spun around with a smug tug in her smile. “Does that suit you?”

“Are you done here then?” Aslaug maintained her poise, trying not to let her contempt show for the Earl.

Lagertha paused, before turning to Hvitserk. “I would also like to make a proposition to your son Hvitserk. That he become my personal messenger and an ambassador of Hedeby.” Gasps were heard all across the hall at that.

“Of course, having such an intermediary, will mean that I would not have to come myself.” Lagertha propositioned, knowing that Aslaug would rather see her counterpart as little as possible.

“I accept.” Hvitserk nodded hastily, stepping forward. “If it pleases the queen.”

Aslaug’s fingers thrummed on the armrests of the throne. She had hoped to be able to marry Hvitserk off to a neighbouring kingdoms’ daughter, or at least someone highborn. And she hated the idea of Lagertha outshining her in her own kingdom. But then she sighed, exasperated. “Do what you want.” She waved her arm dismissively at the gathering. The queen had neither the time nor energy to fight this battle.

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“How did your mother know about this?” Hvitserk whispered to his brother lowly.

“Ah well, I may or may not have owed her a visit. And when I told her it would be a chance to one-up your mother, well she was one her horse halfway here.” Bjorn laughed.

“Brother, I don’t know how to thank you.” Hvitserk shook his head.

Bjorn scoffed, shrugging his shoulders before putting his arms around both Rumena and Hvitserk. “It is the least we can do after giving your woman such a scare. Especially when the snakey one doesn’t apologize.”

Lagertha smiled at the trio. “You know you two are welcome in Hedeby any time.”

Rumena took a chance and smiled at the older woman. “Thank you very much.” She then turned to Hvitserk, grabbed his face and kissed him with all of her might, a couple of villagers whistling at the sight.

She felt Hvitserk’s strong arms encircle her as she pulled back. “I love you, Viseka.”

Hvitserk’s shock turned into a grin as he picked her up and whipped her around. “I love you too Rumena!” He shouted, not caring who heard or what they thought. All that mattered was her.

“Earl Ingstad!” Hvitserk called out, Lagertha turning quizzically to him.

Hvitserk then held Rumena’s face in his hands. “I would like us to be married.” He grinned. “If Rumena accepts.”

“Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes!” Rumena cried, pulling him into her arms once more.

“Always yes.”

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#hvitserk #hvitserk fanfiction #hvitserk fanfic #vikings fanfiction #vikings fanfic #hvitserk series #greennightspider #hvitserk x oc #hvitserk x woc #vikings series #vikings x woc

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rotzaprachim · 5 years

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in secret, between the shadow and the soul 1/2

Kanej, Inej-centric. Teen ish, marriage of convenience, 3000 words

(About 6 years post Crooked Kingdom)

Read here on ao3

The apothecary asks her how long it’s been since she’s been intimate with her husband, and Inej almost chokes, says no, she hasn’t been in a very long time. Honesty is always difficult in her carse- dealing with her own past, own demons is hard enough without having to watch other people attempt proper emotional responses on her behalf, and maybe the apothecary senses that because she doesn’t ask more.

----

“It’s legal more than anything. A question of economics,” Kaz said, and Inej nodded, because it's kerch and how could it be anything but? Certainly nothing as tawdry as emotion or desire, let alone love, could interfere with so large a life decision.

Only Kerch citizens can hold berths in the water, and its significantly easier to manage bank accounts and conduct major financial decisions of the kind Inej needs to make on the near daily when restocking her ships. There's one route faster than all the others to becoming a Kerch citizen.

Inej suggested it before Kaz did.

She isn’t ready for marriage, she said. She isn’t ready to be tied to a man, to be anything more or less than herself alone. The Kerch made the whole business easy by never referring to this thing they’re doing as a marriage, all the paperwork is about Economic Units, Civil Unions. There’s so many pages of jargon it made Inej’s eyes bleed. Future children held less inches of fine grey type than agreements on pigs and shipping company stocks, and were described in the same economic language.

Kaz went through the whole thing line by line until the shore she was going to call for an annulment before they’d even gotten the damned thing notarized, or else make herself a tastefully rich and very young widow.

“It’s a contract,” he said. “You should know all the details before you sign your life away.”

“For heaven’s sake,” Inej said, irritated by the last several pages about Property Division in the Event of Medium Sized or Larger Storms, Grisha Attacks, and General Flooding, “I’m not signing my life away.”

“When you get married, it might be difficult to annul if you’ve still got a legal Kerch-”

“When I get married?” she shoots back challengingly. “To who?”

“I don’t know. That fire-tongued revolutionary who writes you poetry and will make you a new world. The Kaelish tavern maid who always pours you a free beer in her bar while you sing about the plight of the repressed. Someone hopelessly moon-eyed and optimistic, who thinks the world shits rainbows and knows what you’re worth.”

“You, Kaz Brekker,” she finally sighed, “are a hell of a lot dumber than they say you are.”

---

She doesn’t tell her parents. She’s not ready for that conversation.

---

She doesn’t tell Nina. She’s not ready for that conversation either.

---

The whole thing was finished in a notary’s office in ten minutes.

Kaz’s gloves were off, more because they both need to be fingerprinted than anything else.

He swore a short, official oath of his loyalty to both her and the Kerch market, promising not to cheat in foreign ports and to provide for and any hypothetical children. She thought of the paid-off indenture and the ship and the found parents and berth twenty-two and and her room in the house in bought on the Zelverstraat and thought that maybe he’s better at doing that than he thinks he is.

She swore a shorter official oath about fidelity and staying true and all her children being her husband’s, because to do otherwise would be bad economics and make her a poor investment, a value-destroyer, on the family line. Because it’s Kerch and of course it is.

---

“What are you thinking about?” he asked her afterward in an attempt at being casual. They’d been sipping at warm lukewarm flagons of beer in one of the harbour’s more reputable establishments and looking out at the water for twenty minutes.

“I’m thinking,” she said slowly, tasting her words, “that Alys Van Eyck is a very, very lucky woman that we came around when we did.” She’s still thinking about the various punishments for women who pollute the family line, which even if motivated by economics over faith as such things would be in Fjerda, are not dissimilar in practice. She’s realising more and more the Kerch neuroticism over bastardry probably comes from having so many of the young men gone for half the year at sea.

Kaz guffawed, which was not a sound she was really used to him making. “You never fail to surprise me, Wraith.”

“How is the Vrouw Dazi”

Kaz shrugged. “Not useful to my purposes anymore. Wylan’s got her an Bajan set up in a little cottage outside Pijl with a tidy sum tied to not making too much noise.”

Sometimes she fantasized about breaking into that cottage and putting on a performance similar to the one that sent Pekka Rollins screaming from Ketterdam. She didn’t, because she didn’t subscribe to the idea of the sins of the father and thought Saartje Kazanja deserved a da with his mental pieces mostly intact. But saints take all, she wanted too.

“How’s Saartje?”

“I don’t know. Kid? Looks more like she could be ours than Jan Van Eyck’s, that’s for sure.

The tips of Kaz’s ears went red before he finished that sentence and he stared into the foam at the bottom of his glass, head turned decisively away from her.

“Fine, I think. In school now. No reason to keep tabs.”

They toasted her new Kerch citizenship. Inej swore she saw his hand shaking.

----

Her citizenship documents, stamped with a wax seal of three flying fish and a small Kerch flag came three days later, expedited by Kaz in ways she cannot begin to fathom. It’s only then she realised that they’re for the new Vrouw Rietveld, that she made her vows to Kasper Rietveld. It’s only logical- Rietveld can be the upstanding businessman who only exists on paper in a way Kaz Brekker cannot, all the better for her dowings, but it still feels like a piece of himself gifted to her.

She could forge Rietveld’s name for her own purposes too; they practiced on old betting slips that she then threw into the fire. Kerch women can legally make almost every kind of financial decision and dealing, less due to the Merchers’ Council’s upstanding opinion of the female gender than the portion of the year the men are at sea, the incredible odds they won’t come back.

(They’ve rather flipped that scenario.

“How much cross-stitch will you do do fill up the void of my absences, she chided him. “They say the old sailor’s wives used to knit lace from the white froth of the sea.” Nowadays Wealthy Kerch women waiting for their husbands to come home tended to stick to knitting hats and scarves for orphans. So saints-damned many hats and socks, and yet you could still scarcely move for the number of bare-headed, barefoot orphans come winter. It was one of Ketterdam’s greatest mysteries.

“Inej,” Kaz sayid, eyes closed, genuine concern cutting his voice. Ever more she was picking up a sailor’s sense of gallows humour.)

---

They exchanged rings at the registry. Inej’s was a simple band, no gemstones but she suspected it was solid gold. Inside was etched a wave pattern, an endless strip of open sea.

Wearing it on her finger meant something, soo she looped it onto a sturdy chain that she hid between her shirt and her beating heart. That seemed appropriate, doable. Young sailors often took the bracelets and handkerchiefs of their sweethearts out to sea as good luck tokens; Inej had a gold wedding band.

Kaz’s fingers brushed the chain in the warm dip between neck and collar as he said goodbye to her on the docks, and after she nodded infinitesimally, telling him to go on, finish this chapter of the story, he slowly pulled up the rest of the chain and found the band.

“I thought-” he said, but she looked him in the eyes, square as she could, and he halted. She doesn’t know what he thought.

“There was not and is not and will probably me a different man for me than you, Kaz Brekker.

He swallowed thickly and then slowly lifted her skin-warmed band to his lips, even though he did not believe in luck, had said he believed in nothing but her.

---

The Kerch don’t have seperate words for “husband’ and “man.”

---

“Mijn mann,” she says in response to the curious looks her crew gives her after the band slips free during repair work, and it doesn’t feel like anything more or less than the truth.

“Mijn mann,” she says tacitly when border authorities raise their eyebrows in suspicion at her Kerch passport.

“Mijn mann,” she begins her letters back to him. “Dearest Inej,” his come back, sometimes even “Loveliest Inej,” but he never uses a possessive pronoun form.

---

Having any kind of passport, official documentation, feels alien and strange. She comes from a people without a land, and for her entire childhood they Suli were denied any official documentation of Ravkan citizenship. That’s changing now, but many are still wary, and with very good reason to be.

---

The quick bureaucratic sketch to mark Vrouw Inej Rietveld as a Seetsen Van Det Kerchrepublik, looked absolutely nothing like the drawings on the three individual sets of national wanted posters that keep cropping up in seedy port cities. Absolutely none of the above get her nose right.

“I look white in this one,” she said, holding a particularly egregious example up to Aigerim, who commiserate mightily. “Look how fucking straight this nose is. No eyebrows.”

Hitting the nose furnishes very fun target practice for when her fingers itch to throw knives.

Inej wins a lot of games of darts in a lot of seamy seaside pubs tucked into a lot of different gritty port cities.

---

They dock in Pijl before Ketterdam to catch their breath and do repairs. Ketterdam’s a good place for business and to look for secrets and plan strategy but a shite location to re-sew a sail or patch up a wall, unless you like replacing your supplies every time they’re stolen. The prices of grain and barrels of water and apples are lower are lower closer to the fields as well, even if that involves bartering loudly in a Centraalmarket that smells like spilled cider and pig shit, straw crunching underfoot, rather than the hallowed halls of the Exchange.

It takes her three days to come down with the evil hybrid chest cold-stomache flu of her fucking life. Ameera shoves her back into bed with ginger tea and another blanket. The thing they don’t tell you about awesome pirate ships with awesome international crews is that you also get the full spectrum of awesome international germs.

By the fourth day, she’s putting on all three of her coats and stuffing a wad of kruge and her passport into a pocket to visit the clinic in town.

---

Other people seem to register this whole being-married business than Inej ever does. She just prefers the expedited customs lines.

The splotchy faced, matronly woman at the clinic sits her on a paper-covered table and reads through a list of questions on a clipboard. Nian loves the lab smell of pure alcohol, would probably dab it on as perfume if she could, but Inej only associates it with injury, with being patched and stitched up after a bad scrape, with the white-coated doctor who came in every two weeks to swab Tante Heleen’s girls for disease, with the brown bottle of the stuff she uses to clean blood and worse off of her knives.

“Family history of pulmonary infections?” the woman asks her. “Smoking, alcohol, jurda use?” Every question makes her squirm slightly, as if in the historyof her wheezing lunghs is some sin she’s committed and will only now find out about. Nejn, nejn, nejn. Inej forgot how much she hated being looked at.

No grisha in her family that she knows of- scribble scribble scribble- but a lot of bad eyesight.

“When was the last time you had intimate relations with your husband?” the woman asks bluntly, and that’s the question that knocks the air out from her. The woman’s thin yellow eyebrow quirks up, but Inej manages to disguise her gasp as a particularly bad fit of hacking. She knows its nothing but a bit of intrusive medical questioning, but words can have many meanings and the answers to questions can be both yes and no at the same time and a certain turn of phrase can punch like a fist and cut like a knife. So she just says “six months ago,” and gives the woman her answer for the write-up.

“Long time.”

“He’s a sailor. I cry as I wait for him to return to me.”

“Ghezen’s speed that he does.”

---

She isn’t quite sure the Kerch even believe in Ghezen as anything beyond a bit of window-dressing to their financial affairs and the punchlien to jokes. Not like she honours her saints, the small painted icon of Sankta Inej she also keeps next to her heart, her daily prayers in the dark comfort her her room. She stands with Merjan, one of her crewmates, at the grave of Sankta Mahari, Queen of Mercy and Patroness of the Lost as they read the ancient prayers together, their voices settling into the steadiness of bees. Our queen, protector of our people, give us mercy, pray for peace, pray for us, pray to bring light to the shadows of the things we have done.

Sankta Anastasia, Sankt Dmitri, Sankta Mahari, she whispers into her knuckles, her fingers moving along the prayer rope with the decisive snapping of wooden beats, pray for our safety in the storm and bring us to the shore.

---

If Inej has found her own name, written with a familar jagged hand, among the prayer-knots tied to the Zentzbridge in a plea of mercy from the sea, she will not mention it.

---

Ketterdam is ugly and bright and familiear. You can smell the rotting flesh and beer smell before you see the smoky smudge of the city on the horizon. The crew makes quick work of unfolding the grishaworked official three-flying-fish flag that gives them clearance to enter the harbour without having their decks searched by the council of tides and carefully docks at Berth 22. Considering that the berths are now being numbered out into the two-hundereds, its a plum location, but its also damn close to the action, meaning that she can already see the glimmer of plastic beads floating on the water, the dark smudges of drunkards bobbing along. A few of the crew memebrs are going to get their pockets picked right off the bat. Inej already has a slush fund tucked away for precisily this reason. She’s getting better at this, she hopes, being a leader. Predicting what will happena dn why and when. Being someone that other people- many younger and more vulnerable than her- can rely on.

“AIGERIM,” she screams as she buttons up her city coat, “only two of thsoe pink trinks with the paper umbrellas MAXIMUM. You hear me?”

“Yeah, boss.”

She sighs. She doesn’t want to be anyone’s boss. “If there’s anything like what happened with the canal and the Stadwatch last time happens again, I think I’ll find the decks need a good scrubbing.”

Aigerim gestures wildly. “Course, boss..”

She tries to take deep rbeaths to calm her nerves. Maybe she’s becoming a worried old crone forty years early, but she’s the one who survived this hellhole of a city. She’s the one who survived this far. In this world, twenty-three is a badge of honour.

---

He cuts a familar figure on the docks. THey each have their own webs now, know of each other’s doings three or four times removed, like recognising a faovrite drinking song on it’s third round of translation. The recognition of a familiar trick, hand, murder method. Kaz will read in a news paper of a mysterious storm that’s tripled the price of indigo and sweet-wood fans after a whole line of ships went missing off the Southern Pelagic Reefs and Inej will hear in a greasy Kaelish bar about the shocking downfall of an old Kerch trading family and they will each smile, privately, and admire the other’s handiwork.

But seeing him in person is something altogether different, and she still rushes over the slats of the quay, coat streaming behind her, stopping abruptly when she comes to him. They pause there for a second and then he lifts his arms and they wrap themselves together around each other, hesitantly but then warmly, firmly, sturdy as a sailor’s knot and with all the inevitability of the sea wearing stone to sand.

“I’ve missed you, Wraith,” he says into her hair and she shrugs into him, her head level with his chest. His chin rests neatly on her head now, if he leans down slighlty, and she swears that wasnt the case the first time they embraced, the first time she left Ketterdam. He denies that the Ice Court, Van Eyck, all that happened while he was a boy not finished with growing. Yet she herself’s tried on that first Wraith outfit- a costume of sorts, really, how different was it from the Scarab Queen’s glass-bead veil in the third act of the Komedie Brute- to find it no longer fit, that she couldn’t easily do up the buttons on the front. She has more of a woman’s set of curves to her hips and long, hard-earned muscles on her legs and thighs, and even if she is creating some new kind of legend it is under her own name now.

Sometimes, Ketterdam feels like that too-small jacket; it cannot fit the woman she’s becoming. So she sews herself a new coat from the fabric of the world.

“Mijn mann,” she says, because she likes the way his body flinches and then stills under her fingers with those words, sharp and unexpected as any knife. “I’ve missed you too.”

#my writings #kanej #i'm surreee there's spelling mistakes #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #kaz x inej #kaz brekker x inej ghafa #kanej fic #six of crows fic #grishaverse fic

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wombathos · 4 years

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just saw one of the worst posts I’ve seen in a while and while I’m usually hesitant to screenshot-dunk and it probably wasn’t made with malicious intentions but rather just comes from a place of profound ignorance, it is pretty horrific and..... okay y’know what here’s the link to it. and like it’s a mess the whole way through but there’s so much going on here that I’m just gonna run through a few of those things in whatever the tumblr-equivalent of a subtweet is:

It is generally a bad idea to use the Holocaust as a plot device. It is an even worse idea to want the Holocaust to be used as a plot device for the sake of your ship between two non-Jewish characters. If your show is about time-travelling and your main character regularly saves a lot of people, the best thing to do with that bit of history is stay away because obviously the main character can’t change it but trying to justify not changing it is.... eh, how do you say... bad. At most you can use it as a backdrop in another country with its own experiences of WWII (c.f. Empty Child/Doctor Dances) or you can essentially tell a story about something completely different (Let’s Kill Hitler - which understands the show cannot kill Hitler and it’s distasteful to have an episode handwringing about it but does have that moment where they imply River Song is worse than Hitler, which, bad idea). Another franchise that’s amply demonstrated why this kind of alternative-universe-but-not-really-in-the-context-of-world-war-ii is a bad idea is Fantastic Beasts, a limping reminder of why your answer to ‘why didn’t wizards stop the holocaust’ should be ‘ehhhh let’s not talk about it’, not ‘magic hitler was trying to stop the holocaust’

What genre fiction does allow you to do is to take a sideways look at any of the aspects of the Holocaust people feel compelled to interpret and examine through fiction: whether the rise of fascism or industrialised mass killing or resisting authoritarianism or genocide (though there is a tendency for American media in particular to visually code its baddies as Nazis while refusing to engage with any of these issues on a substantive level, but let’s not get into that). Someone in the reply to the same post said something along the lines of ‘don’t these people know what the Daleks are based on’ and..... yes, of course they are, but the ‘based on’ tells you why it’s different. Sff gives us the space to tell these stories with - ideally - safe distance. The real ‘let’s kill Hitler’ story wasn’t the eponymous episode, it was Magician’s Apprentice/Witch’s Familiar - but because Davros isn’t Hitler but merely shares some of the same features (i.e. will grow up to be responsible for genocide), you can tackle those thorny moral issues without dealing with living, painful history (the other thing OP mentioned was making this whole bit of history a fixed point in history *sigh*, which is similar to the plot of the episode Fires of Pompeii except that this is different for several reasons because it’s a lot, lot further in the past and is less painful/contentious, and is also a natural disaster rather than a man-engineered atrocity). In the context of the show’s long history, the Daleks have been used to illustrate or tackle various aspects of the Nazis - as have various other villains - but it would be different if you had actual Nazis in those episodes because Daleks are fictional pepperpots who haven’t actually killed any real people. Take any episode with the Daleks in it and replace the word ‘dalek’ with ‘nazi’ and quite rightly the end product would be accused of trivialising the Nazis, because fiction and reality are not the same and you need a degree of caution when dealing with real-world history that is simply not comparable to its equivalent in fiction.

That’s the short version on why it would generally be extremely hard to write something in genre fiction on the Holocaust where realistically a protagonist would have the power to change it. There’s also a reason why Doctor Who specifically might be best to stay away from it: it’s a ‘family’ TV show. While there’s been plenty of thematically dark material throughout the show’s history, there’s still going to be limits on what they let four-year olds see. Any episode that doesn’t shy away from its horror to the extent that they’d show a concentration camp (another gem from OP’s post) would either not make it to the beeb’s kid-friendly programming or would be watered down in a way that is frankly insulting. I know opinions differ on this and I’m sure some people find books like The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas a helpful teaching resource (though that book is additionally bad for a specific reason I’ll also come back to). My personal view is that at some point you should introduce children to material that at least attempts to capture the true horror of the Holocaust rather than a watered-down version that may end up being the only thing they ever see, but... like... while I am aware of Doctor Who’s original remit and think some historical episodes could be helpful in introducing kids to certain periods.... not this one.

Which brings us to the really really bad bit of this specific post, the idea that this should all be done in service of a ship, and specifically in response to a moment in the previous series where the white protagonist removed the disguise of the antagonist of colour and left him at the mercy of Nazi soldiers in WWII Paris - and it is never addressed again. Now. That was bad and frankly for me served as even more explanation why perhaps the show should stay away from the Nazis and certainly not do... that. Using the plight of Holocaust victims as a way to remedy that would be.... not exactly better. You are using their suffering in a way that is fundamentally not about their stories - and here TBITSP is relevant again because it focused on the child of a Nazi officer and that family’s suffering while using a Jewish child as essentially a walking plot device; which is remarkably similar to what OP is suggesting. This isn’t just some nice historical backdrop. You aren’t fixing anything. All it ends up doing is making light of the horrific suffering real people endured for fictional angst. However much you would try to ‘flesh out’ the Jewish character in question, it still wouldn’t be a story about them. The show has plenty of powerful analogies at its disposal to discuss history and morality - use those instead.

And lastly, and I cannot believe I am saying this, but coming from Switzerland of all places doesn’t give you a special insight into the Holocaust. Learning about it in school doesn’t make you an expert. Again, I don’t think OP was actively malicious but they are very wrong and it frustrates me that the post is gaining any traction at all. The way it’s framed and the tags on the first post make obvious that this was entirely about a ship. Speculating about whether the Master would’ve avoided being trapped in a concentration camp in the notes (I’m sure they didn’t mean to imply that this was something that could’ve been avoided with enough intelligence and yet) or whether the Master (currently played by an actor of colour) would support genocide because he was helping Nazis (and yes the episodes in question already went there but they sure shouldn’t have!) is just remarkably disrespectful. I’m usually of the ‘do whatever you want’ view when it comes to fandom but there are limits and apparently this one’s mine especially a week after there was the whole journalist writing anne frank fanfiction discourse. Think before you post.

#i don't have any clue how to tag this apart from *screams*#eh trying to figure out what people might have blacklisted #cw holocaust #doctor who negativity #txt #the space box show #also read what the person arguing with them said because i'm really only supplementing that

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gixvannas · 4 years

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(amy jackson, twenty eight, female, human) Blimey! Is that (GIOVANNA SANTORI)? (SHE) is the (DOCTOR) on the Cursed Serpent and has been onboard the ship for (SEVEN YEARS). Legend has it they are (BOLD & ZEALOUS), but don’t get on their bad side, because I hear they’re (SHORT-FUSED & FICKLE). Aye! Stop staring! (GIOVANNA) has their (POISONED SCALPEL) out!

BACKGROUND

Having lost her mother a plague she swore she magic-born when she was just eleven years old, Giovanna took it upon herself to study exactly what it was that robbed her mother from her. Call it revenge or perhaps something more meaningful – Giovanna promised her mother that her life would not be taken in vain. In doing so, Giovanna worked under a respected practitioner known around Naples, shadowed him until his tricks became hers and his craft was done in her name. Call it greed, call it malice—but she called it justice. From then, she worked even harder to ensure nobody died at the hands of a curse, charm or any other plight of magic. She found her way onboard the Cursed Serpent due to an unfortunate run-in with an angry relative of the man whose work she had stolen. Stolen for the good of the world hardly seemed a reasonable vendetta to Gi but to him— he hunted her. From hospital to hospital, church to church, it seemed she carried her half-borrowed, half-built-on research until the vessel was docked just outside of Naples. She hopped on, with promises of her great talent at healing – and more than proved it on an ailing crew member. She hadn’t realised exactly what setting foot on the ship would mean for her, but perhaps to live an honest life, a pirate’s life, was something capable of to return meaning back to her life.

Giovanna’s loss of family so young left a void in her that’s been unable to be filled. While moving from town to town, place to place, she slept with every young Casanova that came her way. It was a thrilling life, full of electricity and chemistry and almost worth believing. That was, until, when bringing a lover onboard he pulled a cutlass on the first mate when they had been sleeping. A rival pirate, disguised as a dreamy French lover boy that Giovanna had unknowingly allowed to put her crew at risk. It still looms over her like a greying cloud of regret, and is all the more reason she feels she must remain onboard. While she is integral to the recovery from danger; she was also culpable in the cause.

The best word perhaps to describe Giovanna’s opinion on her fellow ventures between boundless love and indifference They are a family, sure, and family looks after one another but family also— bickers. Her desire to help those in need does little to diffuse Giovanna’s temper and her ill-contained bitterness and resentment towards those on ship she suspects of possessing the same magical qualities that stole her mother from her. Of course, she can’t be sure, but like many who had seen the dangers born of magic - she finds it best to keep her peers at a bandaged arms length. She can’t get hurt. Not again.

Having worked under Captain Bradway and being the last to hold him in her arms before his death took its toll on Giovanna. Despite her defences, working alongside him, treating him, was an honour she was glad to have taken. She criticises her ability and blames herself for not being able to treat his wounds – almost turning to her enemy, magic, to save him. It is part of the reason her disposition is cold and absent, and why she pours her every waking effort into ensuring the health of her crew. She can’t lose somebody else; not like she lost him.

SECRET

While her talent and flair for medicine is undeniable, what Giovanna will never tell is how she came to gather such knowledge. She knows the crew trust her, believe her to be good— and to a certain extent, she is. Her passion for healing, for denying God his right to taking life, cannot be dimmed or diluted by the notion that her past practices have been amoral. She wants to be good, and to help, and she’ll never let her crew members know that all of this was at another’s expense.

KEY RELATIONSHIPS

ROSE IN MY SIDE: Somebody who gets on Giovanna’s last nerve. As stated, despite her aptitude at healing and her undeniable talents in medicine, I would love to see Giovanna’s servitude be tested and put to the test. She’ll heal, sooth, bandage and stitch anybody the captain brings to her in a bid to remain playing God but, what happens when she doesn’t? Basic first aid is in the pocket of any pirates’ knowledge but her abilities are something fought for, something borrowed. They come to her, wounded, and she will be forced to decide to be loyal – or to be fair. And playing fair has not always been her forte.

GUIDING LIGHT: Somebody who has known her since she first set foot on the ship. A mere girl with nothing but a rucksack of her research to her name and a pretty face to carry her – I would love to have somebody who has seen the journey Giovanna has taken, however tumultuous it has been. Who has seen her pour her heart into her work, who has helped heal her wounds when she couldn’t herself. Despite her diligence, her temper and her fire, Giovanna is still a mosaic of the scared little girl who lost her mother too soon and who saw only stealing as the way to acquire the knowledge she so desperately desired. This person would perhaps be a mentor to her, a guide and somebody who reminds her of the home she lost.

FIRST (BED) MATE: As mentioned before, Giovanna’s sexuality is constant is constant as the waves of the ocean that lap at the sides of the ship. Intelligence, something she finds littered sparingly among her crew members, ignites her brain in a cloud of lust and she often goes to sleep at night – mind wild with the possibilities of falling asleep by one’s side. I would imagine she has had a string of partners, both off and on shore, but I would love for one to stick around a while. Be it to her delight or disgust, Giovanna isn’t used to those truly close to her sticking around. Will it be a freeing experience, or a stifling one?

ANYTHING ELSE

I would love to figure out Giovanna’s relationship with the idea of the Jewels. Her distaste for sorcery in all forms will naturally deter her from it, but power, wealth and knowledge delight her so acutely that I can’t see her turning down the opportunity to take possession of them.

#cs:intro #&. bio

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sireneia-a · 5 years

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🎰 Including the multi bc HIT ME

+*. @exalted--zealotry / roulette ships.

1. alfonse & kent - alfonse’s aversion to bonding with heroes works fine with kent tbh. he’s not against camaraderie, but kent deals well with well-defined boundaries and working in them as a retainer to a liege lord. mixing up the status quo is what frazzles him, so i don’t imagine these two really going beyond a very professional relationship unless alfonse started doing things out of the general interest of the order of heroes. even then, there’s like hundreds of other heroes that would get to alfonse before kent i wager lmao — assuming anna and sharena don’t get to him first.

2. travant & febail - I’M… NOT EVEN SURE HOW THESE TWO MEETING WOULD BE LIKE. like even on a platonic level. febail is a mercenary and perhaps that would have travant think better of febail, but febail hails from the manster region. he’s impoverished, yes, but he doesn’t know the conditions of thracia. while there’s a common thread that can work into sympathy, idk if these two would ever get along or even try to in the first place.

3. eldigan & coirpre - nobles from different side of the continent and also completely different time periods!!! i think eldigan and coirpre could maybe have interesting talks as fellow nobility who ended up getting crossed by their own countries, and well, if lene becomes ares’ lover, then we could get into the territory of in-laws interacting haha

4. anri & deimne - anri would be very complicated to deimne. one, deimne avoids high-ranking figures and anri’s an EXALT. two, anri crusaded against plegia, and i think deimne would learn to feel some sympathy towards plegia in his hypothetical time of askr, likening it at least a little to isaach. third is, despite everything else, anri believes in holy blood and exalted bloodlines perhaps as much as deimne does. the two are alike in how much emphasis they put in someone’s blood determining how much greatness they’re determined for, and i think this is the final nail in the coffin to justify why deimne wouldn’t interact much with anri – because he feels like he doesn’t mix well with the likes of him. still, if anri is interested in his potential ancestry, then there comes deimne as an interesting figure that was likely lost to the pages of history. deimne was a childhood friend to seliph and thus could tell anri what text cannot, but there’s also the potential that deimne could very well be seliph’s brother-in-law which could make this EXTREMELY WILD and have anri somewhat distantly related to him. god… imagine wanting to avoid your in-law because he’s just so ELEVATED compared to you.

5. eirika & mark - my memory of sacred stones: Puny. Tiny. Foolishly Small. still, i think mark would feel compelled to help eirika just cause her plight of being on the run and her love for family would remind him of lyn. mark appreciates eirika’s compassion and although he can be pretty pragmatic and emotionally distant… i don’t think he would scold her for the decisions she makes especially in terms of the Controversial lyon scene. he’d trust eirika thought it through, considering how thoughtful she normally is. she also exhibits a sincere desire to know tactics, and mark would be more than willing to help her if she asks him to. in the end though, despite his respect for her, i think he’d most likely inevitably leave her behind regardless of platonic versus romantic vibes between them.

#// damn rng would have given me a perfect streak of all the substitute kids being rp'd but it missed tristan ):#exalted--zealotry #✦ | answered asks.#✦ | ooc.#// anyway hi i snuck in my seliph/muirne agenda gkhgkrgrrg

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theouterdark · 5 years

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The Call of the World or: A Godless Man in Purgatory - Part 4

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

Find me a woman who can speak to the spirit of Death. I'll go to her and find out what's going to happen.

I have done a foolish thing. The Call echoed too strongly through the rocks and the sea for me to resist its summons a moment longer. The night after the Other arrived it thrummed through the resonant stone and beckoned me follow.

Come. Come closer, it said.

I tried to snuff it out with mud, and resorted to pounding my skull against the cliff until my eyes went wet with blood, but still it would not quiet.

Follow me, it said. Do not tarry. I will bring you home.

And how could I resist? What right did I have to ignore it? If I was ever meant to leave; it was then, with the Other slumbering in the palm grove, and the wind low and swaying through the reeds beside Cassilda’s broken spine.

I visited my love for comfort, and wondered if she’d beg me to let the Call go unanswered, as she had a thousand times before. Not without her, she’d told me. Together, not before. That is what she used to say.

I may be back again, I said, and soon. But if I don’t return, do not worry. I will find you in the end. My heart will always come back to you.

She had no words for me. She’d had none since the island snapped her neck and mangled the song that once billowed in her sails. But still I knelt beside her and said goodbye.

On the other side of the bamboo forest, beneath the bending palms, the first discordant whiskers emerged above the Other’s lips, and I thought at once of my third morning on the island, when I yearned to shave the shadows off. But perhaps he had a razor with him, in what remained of his kit bag there at his feet.

Best slit his throat now, and be done with it.

But no. It was not my right to take his life. That choice was his only real possession anymore. Now that the island had taken him in. I let him sleep soundly one last time, before the Call started whispering to him at night and flooding his dreams with thoughts of home.

He rolled over so his back was to the smoldering remains of the fire he’d built.

Enjoy the warmth while you can, I whispered, before the cold turns your heart to ice.

Better we didn’t know each other. It would be hard, if we knew each other. I would not have liked to leave him how my fellows left me. But we didn’t know each other. I could find solace in that. Encouragement, even. Perhaps he would find Cassilda, and resurrect her—succeed where I had failed—and once she was ready they could leave together. I would like that for her.

When I started to climb the rocks, the sea rose, and the island began to quake as it grew suspicious of my intentions. It did not suffer traitors gladly. It has never done.

A flicker of a thought passed. Turn back. Wake him, it said.

And I nearly did.

We have always been opposed, you and I, I told the island. But if my destiny lies on your shores at least I can make you work for it.

It would not do to dwell now that my mind was made. Not now the island knew for truth that which my heart held dear. The Call—and my drive to answer it—was always my purpose, not to rot here for eternity.

And so I climbed. And the island got mean.

The beast was where the Other left it, sloppily moored adrift in the rain-swept firth beyond the Devil’s Backbone—a spine of razor rock spires, always slick with brine—and the beast was scared, for it shrieked in a pained iron voice that cut through the din as the island tried to trap it in the shallows.

Thunder rent the sky in half.

The wind hollowed me out.

Shuddering went the waves that crashed.

I was not going to stop. Not for tremoring earth, nor sky. So I ventured out onto the crest of a crag a hundred feet above the bank—where the Backbone below broke the surf into an eddied, vicious place—and poised myself to leap, but the lightning must have shattered the ridge because I went tumbling end-over-end at the sound of a blast and a light so bright it burned my eyes. Shrapnel sliced straight through my clothes. I caught a whiff of singed hair. Then I slapped into the surf with a force I’d not known, and choked on a lungful of fear and salt.

A swell dragged me back and under before rolling me over and out into a sharp, slick rock which punctured bone. I screamed, but no one heard, as my blood mingled with the fire of brine.

Emerging from the sea like the trident of Poseidon, a rock came forth and pierced the iron beast, and so its scream joined mine.

But I was not done.

I kicked off the rock and water flooded my wound, and I winced, but I would not surrender to the cold and the heat and the malevolent tones of the island’s maddening squalor. Come back, it demanded. Come back at once.

I chewed back a curse, and spake out its name, and whispered to it between coughs and sputters, But I am a traitor now. And in your heart you will always know that is true.

Twice my legs failed to propel me through the chaotic shallows. They came undone beneath me and drifted apart like a boiled frog’s legs, and in my heart burned an incorrigible fear—that I would wake up on the sand as I had always done. And I hated that fear. I’d been weak. Foolish. I allowed the Call of the World to give me hope when there was none to be had.

I stole away still, and climbed a black netting left dangling from the beast’s scratched nose. The wind bucked, the rocks pierced, and the beast screamed, and I would have fallen if not for the grace of my own quickness. I tangled my legs in knots when the swells brought the beast yawing and dipped me beneath the water again. When finally I reached the top, I scraped myself over the taffrail like a knife with too much butter and dropped in a heap of softened muscle upon the iron deck, where the beastly groans beneath popped and strained against the island’s unrelenting scorn.

Lightning arced through the upper atmosphere as dark and terrible clouds gathered there, as if conjured. And I dragged myself moaning to a crooked stand on the bow, which seemed ever so much higher than it did from below. Waves broke the deck, and sent me into a shambling run for the cabin door, which was heavy, and metal, and grey. It groaned at the joints when I leaned on it, and here I now sit, in a pile at the wheel of the ship.

The controls I don’t know.

The manuals and books are penned in a dialect I do not recognize or try to decipher. With each pull of a lever and press of a button, the island responds in kind, as if on a lark I dared out to the beast, and expects me to come slinking back.

And now a mighty boon comes—a light in the shape of a star. And the gauges react and an engine ignites, and the wheel is responding too.

But its pace is a crawl, and the island is sick, and it sends onto me its force undiluted, and rolling now, iron into stone, as the nose points out to see. And a shriek of hatred bellows behind as I find what throttles the beast.

Behind us, water frothing, the island cannot pursue, but I hear its curses as I speed onward and over the swells near the reef. And when the beast and I crest, I hear it croon in apprehension, and we plummet and carve a path down and away, and for a moment there’s no island in sight, and I cannot believe my fortune.

But then we come back up, and its there again, and usually not where I left it. First aft, then abeam starboard and port, and then before us, waiting again.

And to my displeasure it seems no further away. But then I hear something on the edge of the wind, and come out of the cabin to spy it. Some distance on, below a shrouded blood moon, is the edge, the end, the great line before the horizon.

Over the Edge the waves thunder, down and beyond forever. And what first is fear becomes snarling cheers, as I push the beast on to meet her. The Edge of the World. The End. The Plummet.

I know not what to name it. But beyond that barrier, I hear the Call of the World, and I know now I can escape this place, just as the others before me left me behind, so would I leave the island, and the Other to be its companion.

The firelight on the southern shores has been doused by the island’s torrential frenzy. The Other can be its keeper now. I have no more desire to waste away in that wretched place. It can suffer with him, as I did with it.

The beast groans, and yields to waves taller than I’ve ever seen. I plow through them with a tooth-baring grin, and bellow at the top of my lungs, I’ve heard your plight, island, and I feel for you not. Surely this cannot be all you can muster!

Then the island shrieks its horrid gales, and sends rain down like bullets to welt and dent, and splatter. The waves rise higher than the peak of the island, and lightning spiderwebs across the bow like a furious gossamer trap, but we slide right through; it must be desperate now, it’s trying harder than ever before.

But the Call is just beyond the Edge of the World, past the Plummet, and it rumbles up through my feet. And here now, at the penultimate peak, I gaze down upon the thundering roar of water falling forever, down and away, and my heart opens to it.

We float atop this crest, the beast and I, for an age onto another. A bright age so beautiful my eyes fill with tears, as finally we start to tip over.

A mighty roar breaks the vessel in two, and the World twists ninety degrees. I come to the Plummet, and I cry and I shake at the joy of the moon hanging in a void of black emptiness.

A starless black sea before me.

The roar of the Edge, behind.

The Call of the World echoes with it, through the bones of the beast, left churning above, and I nosedive into oblivion.

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