#and it billowed out behind them like a shape shifting cloud

[katsumatsu4]

Smoke and mirrors

Also on Ao3

[And then, the faintest thought. He looks like me.

-

In the aftermatch of Niji and Yonji's capture Reiju reevaluates her relationship with her brothers. Takes place during Germa cover story]

Inspired by @sangerie theories/analyses about ichiji and all the sus things he does during wci, they're awesome :*

(hope this is better present than handsome judge pictures xd)

Stone wall wasn't the most comfortable place to sit, but moving away meant getting her eyes off the horizon. So Reiju stayed.

It’s funny how little it takes to lose sight of another person in the heat of battle. She could swear Yonji was just behind her, covering their retreat with his long-reach attacks. When clouds of smoke billowing from one of the ruined buildings surrounded them, she didn’t look back to see if he was still there. When she saw Ichiji on the other ship, she didn’t check if Niji managed to get on board.

If she was to be honest with herself, she wasn’t thinking about her other brothers in any way, too occupied worrying about whether Sanji and his crew escaped safely or not.

It was only when the fleet reunited that Reiju realized Ichiji assumed their younger brothers went with her. Father was furious, but it was hard to tell if his anger was directed more at two children who returned or the ones that didn’t.

It wasn’t important now. Now, Reiju was sitting in a crenel, cold stone sapping away her body heat. Ichiji on top of a crumbling merlon a few steps away. Father somewhere in the back, out of her field of vision. Silence weighted down on them but no one said a world ever since their lookout started, as if talking would force them to admit-

"They are not coming back."

Trust Ichiji to disregard any emotional tension. Reiju closed her eyes and leaned back, quietly grateful someone else voiced the thoughts plaguing her mind.

"All ships returned or were reported as destroyed," Ichiji continued. "Even if they were not captured, there is very little chance they can come back on their own."

Father grunted something under his breath. He barked at the two soldiers nearby to stand watch before addressing his children.

"Don't tell anyone Niji and Yonji are not back yet, we will deal with that later. Clean yourself before coming to the dining hall, it's unbecoming of royalty to look this disheveled. Don't bring even more shame to our name."

Reiju half-opened her eyes to watch him leave. The nerve of this man. Nothing we could do would give Germa more shame than it already proudly displays.

She threw the sea one last look and get up herself. She was about to reach the stairs when sudden voice stopped her in her tracks.

"Reiju?"

She looked over her shoulder at Ichiji, still sitting on the wall, his back turned away from her. "Yes?"

"Do you think they are dead?" come a monotone question. Reiju's mood soured even more. He could as well be talking about disappointing weather.

"I don't think so. They-" are probably being experimented on. Big Mom wants to know how to make something like us too much to kill them. That was what she intended to say. But then she looked at Ichiji again, his silhouette cutting out a dark shape against an orange sky. Lone shadow, soon to disappear when the sun finally sets down. And she hesitated. "They are strong."

Reiju waited for any indication he even heard her, but silence was the only response she got.

*

The situation at the table seemed almost surreal. They were being served at usual hour, in their usual places, with dishes planned for tonight on their plates. None of it masked the smell of smoke in the air or that the meal was clearly not as extravagant as it was supposed to be, even though cooks surely did what they could with inadequate supplies.

Behind her chair father, high above them, was unenthusiastically chewing on his food. Ichiji looked almost unbothered but she could see his head shifting every few minutes, eyes constantly drawn towards empty seats. Almost like a black hole, sucking in any attempts to create normal meal atmosphere.

She was getting tired of pretending.

"Father. What are we going to do about Niji and Yonji?"

The sudden quiet fell on them like a thick, heavy curtain.

"Father?"

"Nothing. At least for now."

Reiju gripped her utensils harder, slightly bending the spoon.

"May I ask why?"

"We just came back, the Charlotte family would expect us. We would gain nothing by charging in and we don't have enough soldiers to send them away from the kingdom. It's best to wait until their guard is down, then I will send the retrieval party."

Of course, what did she expect.

"If our numbers are an issue, maybe Ichiji and I could be of use? Smaller but stronger team could infiltrate and find our brothers with little problem. The two of us have enough manpower to save them and avoid any confrontation with pirates altogether."

"You clearly do not see the full picture, Reiju," Ichiji said in father's place. "We can not leave now either. We will be needed here to fill in for Niji and Yonji's responsibilities."

Father nodded at that, apparently intending to say the same thing.

Reiju ignored how tight her chest felt hearing this. She was almost surprised he spoke up at all instead of waiting and observing like usual. Still, she turned towards father. Ichiji wasn't the one she needed to convince.

"Wouldn't it be better for our image if we rescued them quickly? It would send a message, that anyone who plays havoc with us will get swift comeuppance."

Father, as impenetrable to criticism as always, disregarded her comment with a wave.

"We are not ready, I'm not going to waste resources on this. Besides, it could do us more good if enemy sees how invulnerable to pain and fear they are even when solely on their mercy."

Like you were during the wedding? Reijuthought, but kept to herself.

Logically, it made sense. Those were the words of a king and a scientist, clearly knowing the extent of damage his soldiers, his creations, could take before they would need to be scrapped. The bile come higher up her throat.

"I-" she started.

"It is a good intimidation tactic," Ichiji interrupted her. "If they are truly after our research then they will try to keep Yonji and Niji alive long enough to gain as much as possible from the experience. It should give us enough time to rebuild and regroup. There is no need to rush."

"Exactly," father said. "Ichiji, I trust you to take care of setting the course and dealing with any complications for today. Make sure to quell whispers among the staff, I don't need mass panic on my hands right now. I'm retiring for the evening; that was a long day."

Ichiji gave him a curt nod.

"As you wish, father."

He stood up and turned to her.

"After I relay the orders, I am going to call it a day too. I advise you do the same. Get some rest."

Soon both him and father left the room, leaving Reiju alone.

She looked down at her clenched fists, frustrated scream climbing up. But like always, she swallowed it down before it could reach her mouth.

Maybe I'll feel better after an hour-long shower. Or two.

*

Hot water didn't bring Reiju a peace of mind she was looking for. She emerged from the bathroom with a head only slightly less heavy than before.

Out of habit, Reiju reached for the curtains to close them shut and block the lights from Niji's rooms. He was always the last one to fall asleep and his castle had annoying habit of flanking hers.

She stopped halfway.

It wasn't that she missed them, exactly. How could you miss someone whose main enjoyment in life were violence and cruelty? How could you miss someone who only knew how to laugh at people's pain?

("They are getting so huge mom! Does that mean I won't be their big sister anymore?" Reiju said, Niji still refusing to let go of her finger, mumbling something in his sleep.

Mother smiled and caressed her head.

"Of course not sweetheart. You will always be their big sister, even if they grow taller."

"Taller than me?" Reiju asked.

"Taller than me!" mother laughed.

"Taller than dad?"

"Taller than all the doors!"

"Taller than the roof!" Reiju played along.

"They will be so big we will have to build a castle for each!

"And I'll still be the biggest sister!" she said with pride, her chest puffed.

"The biggest and the best sister in the entire world!" Mother touched their foreheads together. "Oh darling, they'll be so lucky to have you.")

One hand clutched on the fabric, Reiju felt the bitter laugh building up. Sometimes she wanted to curse mother, for placing this burden on her. For giving all her hopes and desperation to her eldest child, not thinking how much pain it's going to bring her.

But you can't curse the dead, can you? Not truly. Because every word she threw mother's way just seemed to fall back on Reiju anyway.

You failed them. They were yours to protect but the only thing you could think to do for them was dying with them. And you failed to do even that.

I tried! I tried to convince father! I tried to save them! If only Ichiji helped me-

How hypocritical. You were perfectly fine with letting them die earlier. You didn't even try to help, to warn them. How is that any different? Because you can't join them?

And that was it, wasn't it.

The tight feeling in her chest, threatening to choke her. Guilt.

Because she didn't die. Because they won't either, at least for now. No, instead they will be cut open and spread on the table like frogs, kept just alive enough for Big Mom and her children to learn how they work.

And then they'll die.

And she still won't.

And what then? She could vividly imagine father's disappointed face, looking down at what remained of his two perfect soldiers. Maybe he sighs and tells the staff to clean the mess. Maybe he scolds Ichiji for failing his mission. Maybe he even sheds a few tears at seeing his dream destroyed like that. Or maybe some spark appears in his eyes, he points at the blood and gore on the floor, says Take what's still usable and shuts himself in the labs. Maybe months later she sees next batch of soldiers with a familial jawline or flashing a self-assuring smirk that will make her heart clench.

Maybe Ichiji would care. Maybe he wouldn't. It's not like it changed anything.

Her reflection in the glass had red, puffed eyes and wet streak on its cheek.

How proud mother would be of you right now. Crying not because your brothers will die, but because you're left behind to deal with it.

Reiju reached for the handle and opened the window, letting cold night wind dry her tears and blow the thoughts away.

She looked down at the dark weaves below and suddenly felt unbearably tired.

Her hands, propelled at the windowsill, etched closer to the edge. Her body tilted over the threshold, mesmerized by the dance happening before her. Howling air and roaring sea filled her ears, two elements fighting for her attention. She closed her eyes and imagined how unnoticeable a single splash would be.

It could be over so easy...

(Blond hair kind smile gentle hands smelling like antiseptic and cigarettes I love you I love you I love you-)

I should go to sleep.

*

The moon disappeared behind the castle tower.

Reiju was staring at the darkness behind the window when the footsteps came. Slowly, not to appear startled, she turned her head.

Ichiji was standing in the doorway. Reiju wrinkled her nose. Didn’t even knock, of course.

“Good, you are not asleep. Get ready, we are leaving soon. Be in the strategy room in full gear, fifteen minutes should suffice. We have a job to do.” And before she could respond, he turned around and closed the door behind him.

Reiju rolled her eyes but started preparing. What did father came up with now? New mission so short after the humiliation at the hand of Big Mom Pirates? At this hour no less. The old fool probably wanted to cast an illusion that they weren’t affected by their loses. Or tried to catch any clients before their attempted alliance with pirates puts them on blacklists of most kingdoms associated with World Government.

Well, too little too late; judging by how excitingly Morgan had been taking photos of father's crying face, the news were bound to spread soon. This will only make them seem more desperate and all the more pathetic. Not that she had any energy or will to care about how others perceived this rotten mess of a kingdom.

Yonji probably would care, if only to please father-

She closed her eyes and banished him from her mind before the image of her youngest brother, talking excitedly about new experiment he was a witness of, could turn into a bloody figure pinning her under accusing stare.

Maybe at least this farce will get my thoughts off them.

Reiju run fingers through her hair and looked in the mirror. Standing in the cold did wonders for the puffed skin around her eyes, you could barely tell she was crying before. Her tears had evaporated, leaving behind only slightly sticky trails. She opened the faucet, quickly washed away remaining evidence and reached for the towel.

Dried up, she glanced at the mirror again. Vinsmoke Reiju, the first child of the royal family, the crown princess of the Germa kingdom, stared back at her. The oldest sister retreated behind the steel of her eyes, where she belonged.

She checked the clock. There was still a little time left.

The emptiness of corridors was more unnerving than she expected. Night was the time of rest but there should still be more soldiers around. She could hear the murmur of boilers from lower levels and the staff tiptoeing on carpets, off to finish their chores. Still, it was all too quiet.

Reiju shook her head and pushed the doors of the strategy room. She was met with another surprise, when the only figure greeting her was Ichiji again. Where was father?

Instead of explanation he just gave her a nod and gestured to follow.

She did. As she was supposed to. Reiju wished she could see Ichiji’s face but she settled on gluing her eyes to his back; something fishy was going on.

“What’s the mission?” she said, trying to sound as bored as possible. “You didn’t give me any details.”

“Our main objective is retrieving Yonji and Niji from the pirates.” -Reiju almost missed a step- “Our side objective is to destroy any of their assets if possible, as long as it does not interfere with the main goal.”

Reiju dismissed the terrified servant who almost bumped into them while rounding the corner and used resulting pause to collect herself.

“I see. It is an unusual hour for a takeoff though. Did father tell you this in person? I was under the impression he was against quick action. As were you,” she prodded.

Ichiji stayed silent for a few heartbeats.

“Father focuses his attention on more pressing issues. Our infrastructure, especially research areas, had taken a lot of damage. We also lost a lot of clones, which can not be replenished without functioning laboratories, so that obviously takes priority. However, I established that our defenses are in such state of disarray that some major changes need to be done imminently. Otherwise we will be left unprotected against even minor threats, which is unacceptable. As such, since I have been given certain freedom to handle other subjects, I deemed it necessary to move the rescue mission forward in time. We should be back by tomorrow noon if no complications arise.”

Reiju nodded, not missing that he didn’t actually confirmed what father knows.

Ichiji turned his head slightly, no doubt watching for her reaction now.

“I assumed, given your earlier arguments, that you would be onboard with this plan. But if you continue to dispute my decisions I will have to leave you behind.”

“I’m not disputing you, I agree that getting them back early will work in our favor. I was simply curious; father did make his stance quite clear after all. I was surprised he changed his mind this quickly.”

“Father trusts my judgment,” he said with flat tone.

“Does he now,” she responded.

And then, the faintest thought. He looks like me.

It was silly. Of course there were some similarities. Despite all the experiments and modifications the same blood was still running through their vines.

So why did it fell important?

Apparently satisfied with what he saw, Ichiji faced away from her again. Reiju shook her head, focusing back on the situation.

Ichiji was far from stupid, he had to know Judge wouldn’t approve of what he’s doing, even if her brother claimed he was just making important impromptu decision for the good of the kingdom. None of them could disregard father's orders, and going against his wishes like that…

But he didn’t forbade them from going, did he? It was Ichiji who said they can't leave right now; father only agreed with him. Kinda. Just vague enough to give them some wiggle room.

He said he’s not going to send anyone, not that nobody could go. Reiju looked back at their conversation. Did Ichiji plan for this? Is that why he didn’t push father harder, like she tried?

Had he already make his decision back then and was just waiting for the only person capable of stopping him to fall asleep?

But why? Why would he pretend before her? Why had he tried to make it seem like father’s decision?

Had he thought she wouldn’t agree to go with him otherwise?

What is your game? she thought. What do you have to gain?

It couldn't actually be about their defenses. True, they suffered heavy losses but it wasn't something two more people, even as dangerous as Yonji and Niji, could change.

She briefly entertained the thought of Ichiji trying to spare their brothers unnecessary pain. Reiju had to drag their exhausted bodies away from battlefield too many times to seriously consider it. There were no limits Ichiji would not go right past just to finish the mission.

There was no doubt in her mind that if Ichiji was the one captured he wouldn't expect to be rescued. If he had no regard for his own pain it was unlikely he would have any to spare for the rest of them.

Not valuing our lives seems to be the only thing we all have in common, she thought bitterly. Another great victory for the Kingdom of Germa 66.

Hadn't Sanji's botched wedding prove it? She sill remembered that moment with crystal clarity. Moves restricted by hard candy, guns to her head and the calm that came with the realization that this was it. All the evil of their bloodline contained in one place, destined to end right there and then.

The grating laughs of her brothers, unable to care uncaring about their oncoming deaths only validating her resolve to do nothing-

“Stop crying father, it’s pathetic,” half-remembered words rang in her ears. At the moment she took them as nothing more but another proof of Ichiji’s heartlessness, one even father was not except from. But wasn’t she thinking something of a sort too, back then? Reiju send Ichiji another curious look.

The mere idea of being anything like her brothers normally would make her sick. But if that meant Ichiji could be anything like her… If he… Could they have similar motivations right now?

The new spark of hope was carefully grabbed and stuffed deeper into her heart. Just deep enough to be protected when reality came back to extinguish it.

When she broke out of her thoughts they already reached the docking area. Few soldiers came rushing to their side.

“Prepare the ship. The smallest and fastest the better. And hurry, I do not have time for incompetence,” Ichiji said.

The closest soldier saluted.

“Yes my lord! How many units to prepare for departure?”

Her brother’s frown deepened. He looked back at her. In his usually inexpressive face she read the question, or warning, clear as day: Last call to stay if I can’t count on you.

She nodded.

“Princess Reiju and I will be going alone. Am I clear?” Ichiji snared.

The soldier saluted again and rushed to fulfill new orders.

Their ship was ready in the matter of minutes (for some reason it felt like hours).

After making sure the course was locked onto Toto Island, she found Ichiji leaning against the railing at the front of the ship, eyes fixed on the horizon.

Reiju felt the need to say something. She learned to crush urges like that a long time ago. Especially with Ichiji, who always seemed a little too aware of what she chose to share and what she didn’t.

And yet.

“We will get them back in time. They're going to be fine.”

“Of course. They're strong,” he responded, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like the option of anything else was so unprobable it wasn’t even worth mulling over.

Reiju felt the corners of her lips twitch upwards, as if pulled by invisible strings, before she schooled her expression out of habit.

And she dared hope the similar movement she glanced on Ichiji’s face was more than just the trick of light.

#my stufff #katsu writes #fanfiction #fanfic #one piece fanfiction #one piece #vinsmoke family #vinsmoke judge #vinsmoke reiju #vinsmoke ichiji #reiju #ichiji #judge #one piece reiju #one piece ichiji #one piece judge #germa 66 #evil m&ms

[kathrynalicemc]

Day 2 - Hat

Summer Break Challenge by @usernoneexistent. This was a one shot I wrote like a year or two ago but I just fixed it up with editing.

September 1st, 2008

It was raining when the Hogwarts Express pulled out of the station, gleaming red and billowing smoke into the chilly morning air. Glancing out the window, Dafne reluctantly gave a quick wave to her grandparents on the platform outside as they rolled by. Steadying herself using the wall, she walked down the hallway with an occasional glance into side compartments as she searched for an empty one.

Her gaze met a curious sight when to her surprise she glanced in and saw an olive green skinned girl almost buried in a mass of wavy unkempt seaweed green hair. Looking at her was like a slap of vibrant color in your face. She was gesturing wildly and grinning broadly as she told a passionate story to some clearly nervous students sharing the compartment.

“There are sooo many minnows in my lake at home! They were good when I was little but now I kind of prefer salmon...” she rambled, sharp teeth poking out of her lips.

At that moment the student paused her story to take notice of Dafne staring and gave her an enthusiastic wave. Startled, Dafne immediately took off at a fast pace to find her own compartment. She managed to find one near the very back and, with a heavy sigh, she flung down her bag in a heap at her feet and curled up with her back to the window.

The afternoon rain pelted against the window behind her as she passed the time flipping through her textbooks. She skimmed her Astrology book and then the Defense Against the Dark Arts, barely taking in any words. As she started to skim the History of Magic textbook, however, she stopped skipping pages and started to read the text, absentmindedly shoving candy she had bought from the trolley into her mouth. Hours later, she found herself deep in a story about the Giant Wars, having been lost in the book. Turning to look outside, she discovered the rain had stopped and the clouds parted revealing the dusk of night and the twinkling stars in the sky being awakened by the fading light.

Before she knew it, Dafne was dressed in her robes and was led to some row boats by a giant of a man. He was so tall that she assumed he might be a giant himself, her mind returning to the story she’d read. She learned that his name was Hagrid and, hearing another student's rude comment, she decided she quite liked him, thank you very much. Even if he was really loud.

*SPLASH*

Her thoughts were interrupted by a wave of cold water that hit her. Everyone turned to look at the lake as the student she had seen earlier surfaced, green hair disheveled and covering her face, a broad smile showing from underneath.

“WOW! This water is just like the water I live in back home!” she cheerfully exclaimed in a shrill and kind of raspy voice, as if she had phlegm in her throat or something that was distorting it slightly.

“.....Alright,” Hagrid slowly replied. “I guess everyone else ‘an get into the boats, three per boat please!”

Everyone got into the boats and they slowly drifted across the lake towards the brightly lit towering castle in the distance, the shapes and lights being reflected perfectly on the surface of the water. The odd green girl swam alongside the boats, having fun diving and resurfacing occasionally and letting out whoops of glee.

Before long, they were walking up the smooth stone steps to the castle and up to the deep mahogany double doors to the Great Hall. Taking a moment, Dafne fixed her hair to keep her scarred eye hidden and straightened her robes out. The other students around her shifted their feet, displaying various degrees of nervousness or excitement. Finally, Professor Mcgonagall came to collect them and threw the doors wide open, bright warm light and a clattering of voices spilling out. With a deep breath, Dafne walked across the threshold and into the light.

The walk up the Great Hall was the longest of her life. All around her she could hear the cacophonous whispers of the students and the burning glares. She couldn't help but feel like they were all directed at her. At that moment Dafne remembered the green girl she saw on the train and glanced over, wondering how she was doing with all of this. Remarkably, the girl looked completely unfazed. In fact, she was practically vibrating with excitement, yellow eyes shifting around the room taking everything in. Dafne hated to admit it but she was envious of the girl.

At last, they arrived at the raised platform at the far end of the Great Hall. Upon it was a single solitary stool.

“Amaryllis, Kiri,” the words echoed off the walls, and a hush fell across the room.

There were a few moments of silence before Dafne felt a small hand push on her leg and a quiet little squeak behind her stammered a quick apology. Emerging from the crowd came the smallest girl in all of Hogwarts. She was so short that Dafne was certain she wasn't old enough to be here. The girl appeared to be a house elf, but she had an abundance of curly golden beige hair and a face that seemed human. However, the girl's soft brown eyes took up the majority of her face and her large droopy elf ears made her stand out as not entirely human.

The girl named Kiri ever so slowly skittered forwards. Dafne could tell she was shaking with fear and the tips of her ears were beet red. As Kiri scaled the stool with difficulty, the whispers grew again. The poor girl was almost in tears when the large tattered soft leather of the sorting hat obscured her vision. She was almost swallowed whole by the hat as it was placed upon her head.

“HUFFLEPUFF!” the hat exclaimed loudly a few seconds later and the room erupted into polite applause as the small girl scampered down and across the room to the hufflepuff table as fast as her little legs could carry her. Dafne had little time to observe her further as a name was called out.

“Arcano, Dafne.”

With a gulp, and one more hair check, she made her way cautiously up to the stool. This time, all eyes were on her as her heart hammered in her chest and in her ears. She was terrified they would hear it too but it appeared that she didn't attract nearly as much attention. Dafne felt a surge of relief but then a small flash of disappointment.

As the hat was placed upon her head, a million questions raced through her head. What house would I be in? How long will it take to decide? What if it never decides? Do I belong here?

“RAVENCLAW!” the hat interrupted before she could complete her thought. She blinked in surprise, like she wasn't expecting that answer. All the same, she got up off the stool and wandered to the Ravenclaw table and gingerly sat down, barely hearing the applause.

Dafne always speculated on which house she would get when she finally attended Hogwarts. It never really mattered to her about the result, however. She thought any house was just as likely. Now Dafne had her answer and she decided it fit her just fine.

The sorting ceremony continued on, Mcgonagall calling out name after name, but Dafne hardly paid attention. Her gaze was drawn upwards as the hundreds of lit candles gently floated and danced in the air. It was everything she imagined it would be, having heard stories from her uncle Kaari and older sister. Dayamanti would be somewhere at the Gryffindor table, as she was now in year four.

Dafne didn’t bother to find her in the train as she wanted to be alone. Dayamanti had always accompanied her everywhere ever since their parents died last year. Also, she doubted Da would want her little sister to bother her in front of her friends.

Her thoughts distracted her for a few minutes but she managed to zone back in just in time to hear the next name called.

“Lucerne, Nessi.”

There was a shrill shriek she recognized and the green girl from earlier ran through the crowd and up to the stool, almost knocking it over in the process. Having the stool for reference, Dafne realized the girl was rather tall compared to other students. She also noted the lack of shoes. Nessi was practically bouncing in her seat when the hat was placed on her green head.

The hat seemed to debate for a second before finally exclaiming “SLYTHERIN!” In its familiar booming voice.

The girl countered it with her own shrill shriek and dashed to her table. Dafne kept her eyes on her and watched as Nessi shook every hand she could possibly reach and then jumped right into conversation, much to the dismay of many students.

There were a few more students sorted but none others attracted Dafnes attention quite like the two girls she observed. Finally the sorting was done, the stool and hat removed. After a short speech from Headmaster Mcgonagall, the tables were magically piled high with all manner of food and desserts. The food piled high and steaming from silver platters and wooden bowls reminded her of the feasts at Yuletide at Skalafell. Dafne dug in hungrily, eager to begin her life here at Hogwarts. It seemed like she wouldn't have nearly enough trouble fitting in as she originally thought.

#hpma #magic awakened #hphm #hogwarts mystery #summer break challenge 2022 #dafne arcano #kiri amaryllis #nessi lucerne #cryptid trio

[sanbaowa]

#madebyPW #PWportfolio #LQQKdesigner #this was inspired by a guy i saw walking on the highway LIKE A RUNWAY #they were wearing this flowy black #flowy black jacket #and it billowed out behind them like a shape shifting cloud #and i wanted to draw a garment likethat #like a cloud that just envelops you and youre bathed floated swathed in it #fashion #fashion illustration #fashion sketch #degenderfashion #croquis

[yejiroh]

Siren Scales & Village Tales

•••

For @chaoticyuna 's Summerween event!

Siren Gojo with a female reader.

Word count: 2.3k

TW: large bodies of water, bullying, blood.

•••

“The water was always murky by the bog trees, billows of dirt and sod and other bits always falling into the water by the pounds. Further down the dirt road that passes through the swamp, and you’d find a well, then a town.

“A merchant’s town, children waddled through the puddles that filled the pit holes- it wasn’t a rich area, despite all the good business. In the center of the town, a big fountain captured the sun’s rays during the golden hour- usually around 5 in the afternoon.

“Now, back to the well- it’s kind of important.

“The well, around 3 feet wide, was built of what was now crumbling bricks- terribly small, but just big enough to fall down; should you be unlucky enough.

“But there was also a rumor- as there is in every town and village. And, like other rumors that resided in other towns and villages, it was that of the supernatural. But in this case…

“Sirens.

“Sirens were fish tailed peoples with webbed hands and glowing eyes. It was said that if you ever heard one singing, you’d be inclined to bring yourself forward, to take their hand and fall.”

“Fall?”

“Yes, fall. Fall down the well, they would tell you. However, once in a blue moon, there’s a survivor, one who crawls their way up from hell and back to the siren as if they were addicted to their voice; coming back every day while the sun is still up, just to leave crying their eyes out as the sun comes down.”

“Why only during the day?”

“Well, no one knows. It’s just something that happens. Like a law of nature.”

***

“Don’t you think it’d be better to just relax once in a while? It wouldn’t hurt you, I promise.”

Despite all the reassurances of saying a story was a story until proven otherwise, better safe than sorry. And the only well in a 15 mile radius was this one. 

Curse them for being so cheap. 

Your hands burned from the rope as you dragged the bucket up, clear water sloshing around spilling out some. 

“Nanami, with all due respect, you are the last one I want to hear the word ‘relax’ from.”

Gravel bits dug into the souls of your shoes, some chunky enough to feel even through the rubber. It kind of stung. 

“Y/n, I’m going to be frank with you; mermen? They don’t exist. Neither do griffins, or hydras, or any of that fairy tail nonsense you’re always babbling about. It’s just us two, and old Mr. Gakuganji down the road.”

Sighing, Nanami adjusted his glasses, not bothering to wait for you as he loaded the last gallon onto the wagon, getting ready to go. 

***

People surged forward, coins and paper money grasped in hands before thrown at you two, grabbing at the jars of the well water. It was always like this, the town coming up to the well water like it was their life sustainer, and maybe for some, it was. 

“Y/n! Welcome back! Did you see anything unnatural today?”

A mocking laugh, a tall man tore his shirt off- Aoi Todo. Behind him, the Zen’in twins chuckled.

“Actually Todo, I haven’t. BUT, I do have something else to note. That well water you’re drinking? It hasn’t been boiled yet.”

Watching his face contort, a smile is set on your face as Aoi began to hurl, tiny worms and water with last night's feast falling onto his feet.

“Y/n! What the hell! Did your siren buddy put you up to this?”

“What happened to them not being real?”

It was the same conversation everyday. And, like everyday, you was met with a horrible answer.

Todo scoffed before spitting onto the ground, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“No man is every gonna want you, you stupid woman.”

“And if I don’t want to marry?”

***

As the hours passed, dusk came, bringing the stormy clouds with it- but it wasn’t yet raining. A ripple in the lake waters caught your eye- maybe a fish, but the fish weren’t in season, so it was unlikely. 

You shouldn’t have been out after curfew- there were rules for a reason, yeah, but what was the harm? Especially after dinner, where you’d only had time for stale bread; chewing down the more than stale pieces was troubling. 

The sands of the lake were dry, like all the water had been taken from the ground, pooling into the lake. Odd.

“A  law of nature? But that's so…”

“Boring? Stupid? Illogical? Aye, it is.”

Kneeling down, you dipped your fingers into the water. There was something missing from the story the elders told you, you're sure of it; no matter how many times you waved your hand in the shallows, not a single ripple- only from that tail you saw earlier. 

Something rumbled, whether or not it was the stormy clouds or your stomach, you didn’t bother to check. 

Dipping your feet into the water, a sigh of relief escapes your lips- a breath let go you didn’t know you were holding. 

Another roll of thunder- but something caught your eye; the tail again. 

It was only for a moment, but you could make out the colors and fin shape. Various shades of blue and silver and yellows, shifting in the light, and the fin, large and (almost) pillowy. 

It hit the water, disappearing once again. 

“Stran-THE HELL?

Digits quickly grabbed your foot, webbed and slimy, pulling you under before you could scream. 

Something pressed into your mouth- maybe seaweed? Bitter and salty, whatever it was was quickly shoved down your throat, forcing you to swallow. 

As clear as the water was on the top, it was far too dark and dirty underneath. The vice grip that had pulled you down was now dragging you deeper, the breath you were saving long gone with the swallow, your eyes began to close. 

‘Count the digits!’

A tiny raise of suspicion, you felt around for a limb, feeling up before coming to your wrist. 

Forcing your eyes to open, the tears that pricked at your eyes were quickly swept away with the current.  

Head feeling light, panic was soon replaced with adrenaline, and you raised your legs, knees to your chest, before kicking out hard. Your feet hit the thing holding you, and it let go quickly, allowing you a chance to escape. 

Already out of breath, you swam up as fast as you could, finally breaking through the water’s surface. You sucked in a deep breath, coughing violently as you wiped the water and dirt out of your eyes, hurrying to the land. 

Behind you, waves crashed, and the water of the lake that seemed crystal clear was now red and thickened. The air became heavy with the scent of iron, and soon the entire lake shifted up, sands and all, dragging you up with it.

“Now, now, it's not strange, is it? I think it’s quite the opposite. Normal even.”

You found yourself in the palm of a hand- or, in the webbing between fingers that curled in, as if to cradle you.

Finally getting a good look at the thing in question, it didn’t take long to put two and two together; the fish from the beginning, the thing that pulled you under...and now…

“I’m Y/n, what the fuck are you, and what’s your name? Also, you’re hot.”

And it was true. Big glossy blue eyes that seemed to be lashed by the purest white doves feathered around,the hair, just as white as the lashes, seemed to trail deep down, and looking down, you leaned over it’s thumb, holding it tight as you peered down. Purple scales glimmered all the way down. 

Two fingers grabbed your collar, picking you up, bringing you to face an eye. 

“You’re a funny little thing- I could just eat you up”-it opened its mouth, biting the air before laughing”- “I am Gojo. You’ve heard of me, yes? I’m a Siren...but I guess the more accurate description would be to say that I am this lake. And thank you, Y/n. You’re much too kind, considering I was about to drown you. Here, let me brush you off.”

As Gojo patted you down, your insides churned; it was much too fast, and to be frank, it was more like you were getting spanked. It didn’t help that dust clouds rolled off you. 

“Y-you-ow-’re a -OW-guy?- STOP THAT HURTS!”

Gojo laughed, smiling as you coughed and waved your arms.

“A guy hmm...I suppose I am. You’re quite big for a fairy. And what the hell are you doing near a lake with no wings?”

“Fairy? I’m a human. There’s a whole ass village down the road through the forest.”

“Human? Oh...Ohh, yeah that makes a lot of sense.”

“Are mermaids- sorry, sirens- -lake dudes?”

“Lake dude, siren, doesn’t matter.”

“Right. Are y’all supposed to be this huge?”

 Gojo gasped, a webbed hand on his chest and mouth hanging open before promptly putting you down, laying down himself as his lower half dissolved into water, the pit that was the lake somewhat there again.

“Big? You think I’m big? I’m just a small lake! You flatter me Y/n!”

Propping himself on his elbows, he rested his face in his palms, looking at you with a smile. 

“Eh, it wasn’t for flattery- just curiosity.”

“Still...well, now I feel bad. I was gonna eat you.”

“Eat me?”

“Yeah.” Gojo scoffed before looking down, glaring at the ground. “There’s this human who calls himself Todo- a real-

“Pain in the ass? Insufferable? Obnoxious? Egotistic? A liar?”

“YES EXACTLY- you know him?” Gojo put his head down, and you watched in interest as some of him crumbled to sand before promptly climbing up onto his nose.Tapping it lightly, you let out a out a small “oomph” as he rose up, eyes on you. 

“Yeah, I know him. He’s actually why I’m here now- kinda. The fucking jerk kept messing with me, talkin’ about how, ‘Oh, Y/n, did you see anything weird? A siren perhaps?’ and yeah, the fucking town laughed at me, but it’s okay, cause the well water he drank hadn’t been purified ye-”

Gojo interrupted you, waving his hands around in the water before bursting into laughter.

“The WELL? Not the one by this place I hope? Oh god, thank Yaga y’all purify that!”

Joining in the laughter nervously, you asked why, which sent the siren bawling into more laughter,forcing him to place you on his head so you wouldn’t fall off.

“Oh, oh my gosh- stop tugging my hair Y/n- that well water is connected to this lake- me! Y’all would have been drinking my piss and body had you not purified it! And I can’t have a pretty thing like you melting from the inside out and drowning in your own blood because of scales or something!”

“So...what I’m getting at here is...Todo is going to die if he hasn’t already? I mean, he spit it out, but he still drank a bit-”

A sudden burst of wind, you tugged Gojo’s hair again, holding on so tight your knuckles turned white. 

Gojo hummed, deep in thought before exhaling slowly.

“Well- no pun intended-, I believe he’d turn into a fish. At least, that's what happened to the last guy who did that. Man, he was a crazy one. Called himself Get, going on and on about how everything he consumed he could turn into. Weird shit, Y/n.”

“Turned into a fish but could shapeshift?”

“Ah yeah- you guys know magic and stuff is real right? Anyways, my body, as you can see, is basically this entire lake- not like a lake god or something. Once I die, this place will have never existed. Back to what I was saying, I have a strict ‘no-no’ policy. A little spell just so I could get more dinner. And, I don’t think anyone would want to just be a lake their whole damn life.”

“Huh...that makes sense.”

“Yeah. “

“So…”

The two of you paused for a moment, and you couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly; to think that sirens were only bloodthirsty monsters- well, he did try to kill you, and it was true that they were beautiful, but the fact that you were literally sitting on the head of one now- one who claimed to be small- it was entirely laughable. 

Clearing your throat, you crawled over, leaning down to come facing his eyes once again, poking his forehead.

“Say...Gojo, you wouldn’t mind eating Todo if he turned into a fish right?”

“Hmmm...not really. Why?”

“Just asking. I’ll drop by here tomorrow, yeah? It’s getting late, and I gotta make sure no one took my dumplings.”

And with that, you said your goodbyes, promising to meet again, you with your vial of well water and siren scales, and Gojo with a gold coin.

“Payment, my dear. Nothing is free in this life, you know. Hopefully now you’ll have some better village tales to tell now.”

#fanfiction #meena #x reader #jujutsu kaisen #fem reader #jjk gojo #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo x female reader #female reader #jujutsu kaisen fic #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jujutsu kaisen Summerween #Summerween #reader #self insert #jujutsu kaisen x you #x you #mr. yaga #todo aoi #y/n l/n

[littlemisspascal]

Death and an Angel part 13

Death!Din x Cupid F!Reader

Summary: Ahsoka takes Din on a journey through the past.

“You should know though, you might not like what you see.”

Din shakes his head, dismissing the warning. “What’s one more nightmare?”

Rating: T

Word Count: 5,958

Warnings: angst, swearing, character death (canonical, but with my own twist), made up planet name that is ridiculous, dialogue heavy, plot plot plot, backstory

Author Note: Good lord this is soooo late coming out. To anyone who sent me an encouraging message I am beyond grateful because I really needed the encouragement to finish this segment. I hope more than anything this segment gives more answers than it raises questions (although reading your theories is both awesome and entertaining so keep them coming too!)

Links to Part 1 and Part 12 and Part 14

Cross-posted on AO3.

Photo Inspiration:

“Who the fuck is Moff Gideon?”

Ahsoka looks at Din, her brow furrowed deeply. He’s seen the expression on her face enough times to recognize its meaning: this is the face she makes when she is about to reveal a message directly from the universe itself. As an Oracle, she is the only immortal who can glimpse details of the past, present, and future. She has a soft spot for mortals, sharing the few precious snippets the universe allows her to with them in the forms of riddles and vague prophecies that never fail to give Din a migraine with their crypticness when he hears them.

“Moff Gideon is a Seraph who grew discontent with his position amongst immortals,” she says at last.

“Is he the one responsible for keeping my soulmate from me?” he asks, voice as harsh and unforgiving as the environment surrounding them.

“He is responsible for many sins.”

“I don’t have time for your vague answers,” he growls, hands twisting into fists. “You tell me not to kill this Seraph, then in the next breath claim he’s a threat. I am not a mortal who will be entertained by riddles, Ahsoka. You summoned me here to talk, so start talking. Tell me what you know.”

The Oracle’s mouth purses into a thin line. Nearly a full minute passes before she speaks again. When she does, the calmness is no longer natural, but forced. “Telling you what I know would be impossible.”

“Ahsoka—”

“But,” she pitches her voice higher than his protest while narrowing her eyes disapprovingly, “I am capable of showing you. You should know though, you might not like what you see.”

Din shakes his head, dismissing the warning. “What’s one more nightmare?”

She reaches forward, pressing her index and middle fingers to the center of his visor. If not for his helmet, she’d be touching the space directly between his eyes and instinct tells him the positioning isn’t random.

“We’ll start at the beginning,” she says, but her voice has changed from its usual cadence. It is ancient and youthful, a harsh scream and a hushed whisper all at once.

Din has only the slightest of seconds to process this in addition to the way her facial markings start to glow and her eyes flash white before he finds himself standing in the midst of a crisis.

There is mass hysteria every direction he turns. People screaming in terror, pushing each other and tripping over those who have fallen in their haste to flee an unseen threat; whole buildings are crumbling, sending flaming debris and shards of glass raining down upon the streets as smoke billows into the sky. The edges of his field of view are blurred, like he’s looking at everything through someone’s glasses, and it creates an ache behind his eyeballs. Fuck, is this what it’s like for Ahsoka when she experiences visions?

‘You remember the Fall of Mandalore, don’t you, Death?’ Ahsoka’s voice resonates from deep inside his brain, as if she’s fused her consciousness with his.

His jaw tightens when he says, “Of course.”

‘Oh, look. There you are.’

Sure enough, when Din looks forward he sees himself moving swiftly through the crowd, unaffected by the chaos as he stoops to reap the soul of a woman who’s had her skull caved in by the stampede of frantic civilians. He wonders how many others can say they’ve had an out-of-body-experience such as what he’s dealing with right now: reliving a traumatic event all over again while observing himself the same way a stranger would from a distance.

“Why are you showing me this?”

‘Because it’s important,’ Ahsoka answers, and the image of her frowning face enters his mind unbiddenly. ‘The universe has a plethora of endings imagined for every civilization, but it is the individual choices of the community that act as stepping stones bringing them closer to a specific fate.’

“Mandalore was always meant to fall apart. It was just a matter of how, not when,” he surmises, voice devoid of emotion. His words are punctuated by another fiery blast from a nearby complex, followed by an ear-piercing wall of a terrified child.

‘Precisely. But the same cannot be said for an individual’s lifespan. There are consequences if someone perishes before their time has come. You should know that better than anyone.’ There is a hint of accusation thinly veiled in her tone that has his body tensing reflexively.

His location shifts, shapes and colors mixing together without warning before another scene gradually comes into focus. It’s a large chamber with sparse furnishings, but its beauty is tarnished by the copious amounts of glass littering the room as every single one of the ornately designed windows have been shattered from the force of the explosions outside. Din knows before he even lays eyes on the throne he’s inside the royal palace because he first sees the familiar face of his most trusted reaper standing next to a blond-haired woman. Both women have such strikingly similar facial features nobody who sees them side by side can have any doubt they are related.

Whereas Bo-Katan dons gray-and-blue armor with a jetpack strapped to her back and two blaster pistols holstered at her sides, her sister, Satine, wears a garnet colored dress with a gold belt wrapped around her slender waist. In this moment, the sisters differ from each other as much as night and day; one a military leader, the other a pacifistic duchess.

“You need someone here to protect you. We don’t know who or what we’re dealing with and it isn’t safe for you to be alone,” Bo-Katan argues, crossing her arms over her chest as if to intimidate her sister into submitting.

“Our people are scared and defenseless, Bo. They need your protection during this crisis more than I currently do,” Satine says, voice soft but firm in a way only those deeply involved in politics can master.

Bo-Katan glances out the broken windows at the burning city, stubborn loyalty to protect her sister warring with her duty to protect her people. “Then at least send a message to Obi-Wan to come here.”

Satine shakes her head. “Bo—”

“I know things are strained between you two right now—”

“That’s a glaring understatement.”

“—but he’s one of our best and most loyal guards. He’s proven more than a dozen times he’ll fight anyone who’s a threat to you.”

“I don’t need the reminder of what he’s done for me.”

Bo-Katan places a hand on the blonde’s shoulder and squeezes it when she says, “He’s the only one other than myself I trust to protect you if you were to encounter danger.”

“Just because I’m committed to peace does not mean I am incapable of looking after myself.” Satine reaches behind herself to detach a weapon that had been clipped to the back of her belt. She clicks a button on its hilt, emitting a white blade shining brightly like a beacon amongst the dark clouds of smoke tainting the air.

Din’s breath catches in his throat. “Is that…?”

‘The Lightsaber of Mandalore,’ Ahsoka confirms. ‘Made by the Armorer herself.’

The Armorer is deeply respected by both mortals and immortals alike. As the goddess of metalworking and blacksmiths, there is nothing she cannot forge and infuse with grand powers. However, she is exceedingly cautious about choosing who is a recipient of her creations.

Din is one such recipient, having been given his armor of pure beskar when the Armorer realized how dangerous his touch was to mortals. He remains eternally grateful for the gift not only because it prohibits unwanted physical contact, but also because it is invulnerable to damage or rust like other types of armor. Ahsoka’s dual sabers were also made in the Armorer’s forge, specifically designed for the Oracle’s grip alone and meant to protect her during her journeys throughout the galaxy, but in contrast to the white blade of the Lightsaber, the blades of Ahsoka’s weapons matched the same blue coloring as the stripes on her lekku and montrals.

According to the legends Din’s heard, the Armorer created the Lightsaber for the first ruler of Mandalore because she was impressed with their culture and strong military, and it was passed on to each new heir to the throne over the centuries. When wielded in battle, the Lightsaber made the user invincible against enemy attacks as it siphoned off energy from the souls of those it sliced through.

Throughout the long history of Mandalore, Satine was distinguished as the only ruler to avoid warfare as she sincerely believed negotiations and treaties could solve any problem quicker than bloodshed.

As such, Din isn’t surprised when Bo-Katan raises a judgmental eyebrow. “Did you forget who you’re talking to? I know you wouldn’t use the Lightsaber even to cut a piece of fruit.”

Satine sighs through her nose, sheathing the weapon once more. “Fine. I’ll contact Obi the second you’re gone.”

“You better.” Bo-Katan leans forward, pressing her forehead against her sister’s. A gesture of affection within their culture. “I’ll see you soon.”

And then she’s gone, flying out the nearby window and diving straight into the fray. As a mortal and as a reaper, the redhead is fearless in the face of danger. Some might consider the behavior reckless, but Din’s always been impressed by her dogged tenacity to achieve victory no matter the difficulty of her mission.

Din looks back at Satine. Now that she is alone in the room, she is able to freely express her distress at the unfolding situation, looking as if she’s aged ten years within the blink of an eye. She fiddles with the comlink around her wrist, seeming hesitant to call this Obi-Wan fellow like she agreed to.

‘They haven’t realized it, but they’re soulmates, ’ Ahsoka murmurs, low and melancholic. Hearing it makes Din’s chest constrict with unease. ‘They fought recently and parted ways upset with each other. Unfortunately, she dies before they can resolve their miscommunication.’

The next sequence of events play out startlingly quick, as if Ahsoka has chosen to suddenly jump forward in time. His eyes struggle to absorb the fleeting details—the doors to the throne room being blown open; a Seraph in black armor emerging from the smoke; his voice is unique, velvety and thorny at the same time, as he addresses the duchess by her full name Satine Kryze; Satine attempting to stall as she subtly taps at her comlink, only for the tactic to fail as the foe teleports closer, eliminating the space between them.

“You have something I want,” he tells her, seizing hold of her throat. “You may think you have some idea of what you have in your possession, but you do not.”

One of Satine’s hands claws at his face, attempting to gouge out his eyeballs with her nails, while the other reaches for the Lightsaber. Her fingertips brush against its metal hilt just as he throws her to the floor. The impact knocks the breath out of her lungs, eliciting a strangled gasp, and shards of glass dig into her exposed skin, dotting the pale flesh with beads of blood.

Gideon—Din doesn’t need Ahsoka’s input to know this, for who else could the Seraph be but him?—places the heel of his boot over Satine’s neck. He doesn’t apply pressure yet, but the action in itself has the duchess squirming with panic, hitting at his leg futilely. There is a red light on the comlink flashing insistently, indicating someone on the other end is speaking but they’ve been muted.

“Give me the asset I seek.”

Through clenched teeth, Satine wheezes, “It belongs to Mandalore.”

“I thought you might say that,” Gideon replies, feigning disappointment. “However, in case you haven’t noticed Duchess,” he gestures towards the windows, “Mandalore is dead. My accomplices have made sure of that.”

“You’re a coward for hiding behind others. You don’t deserve the Lightsaber.”

There is a sudden change in the atmosphere, air turning impossibly frigid and crisp.

“I deserve it more than anyone,” Gideon says, angry enough he is trembling. The Seraph’s stance shifts, and although Din has witnessed every type of brutal death imaginable, he flinches at the sound of Satine’s neck snapping beneath his heel.

Gideon rolls her lifeless body over and rips the Lightsaber off her belt, a satisfied smirk on his face. He disappears as quickly as he arrived, reward in hand, and an eerie silence envelops the room. It’s almost as if the palace itself is stunned by the loss of its ruler, struggling to make sense of the merciless act of violence.

Time skips forward again, showing a young bearded-man dressed in military armor clutching at Satine’s body, pressing his forehead against hers as he weeps. Over and over he keeps murmuring apologies for not being quicker, for failing to be there when she needed him, for never saying he loved her.

“How do you know Satine and Obi-Wan are soulmates if they never matched?” Din asks, feeling like he’s intruding on a private moment despite not actually being there.

He thinks of a similarly phrased question he’d asked his angel on their way to Sorgan what feels like entire lifetimes ago: how will I know it’s my soulmate? Her eloquent response remains embedded deep in his memory, safely stored away along with every other moment they’ve spent together. Longing twists like a knife in his side as he allows himself a second of weakness to look at the soulmate marking on his palm.

‘I saw the life they were going to share,’ Ahsoka tells him. ‘Satine Kryze was not meant to die here. She and Obi-Wan should have both survived the Fall of Mandalore, settling down happily with each other elsewhere in the galaxy. Gideon’s greed altered their destinies.’

The palace fades away to reveal a much older Obi-Wan, gray-haired and wrinkled. He’s in Mos Eisley; Din recognizes the crowded spaceport instantly having taken his ship there for repairs numerous times over the years.

‘The universe puts a lot of effort into making sure soulmates match with each other at a very precise moment. Even if the match is rejected, the individuals still had an important impact on each other’s lives. Timing is the most important factor for a soulmate pairing, and if it’s off then the universe will attempt to fix it.’

Obi-Wan stops to help a woman who’s accidentally dropped her shopping bag, contents spilling out onto the sandy ground. She thanks him as he offers her a polite smile, both of their attentions on each other’s faces and not their hands. More specifically: their marked hands. There is the barest brush of their fingertips as they reach for the same item before an invisible blast of energy erupts from their touch, splitting them apart and sending every person and thing surrounding them flying in all directions.

The shock on Obi-Wan’s face matches Din’s own beneath his helmet. He remembers his angel telling him after the failed match with Omera what happened on Sorgan wasn’t the first time an event like that occurred, but she hadn’t been privy to the details. Her superior had told her she wasn’t high enough ranking which Din had thought sounded like a load of bantha shit at the time.

“Ahsoka, what is the meaning of this?” Din asks the questions quietly, but there’s an audible coating of frustration that he knows she won’t miss. “Satine’s dead.”

‘You didn’t reap her soul,’ Ahsoka says. It’s said as a gentle reminder, but it nevertheless has Din feeling like the ground has disappeared beneath his feet as realization dawns.

“I...didn’t.”

A quiet sigh echoes through his head. ‘I forgot how ignorant you can be. You can’t reap a mortal soul that transforms into a new entity.’

“She’s a Cupid,” Din murmurs. Either that or a reaper, but he knows each of his reapers like the back of his hand and Satine isn’t nor has she ever been one. He shakes his head, thinking of Obi-Wan finding Satine’s body in the throne room. “That doesn’t make any sense. Obi-Wan clearly loved her.”

‘Rejection can sometimes stem from a misunderstanding. Satine’s last living encounter with Obi-Wan was him saying so long as he was part of the royal guard they had no future together. She perceived this as him denying he cared about her, not knowing he had made plans to retire in order to ask for her hand.’

In front of Din, Obi-Wan rubs at his soulmate marking while staring at the mess around him, lines of unease and confusion creasing his forehead.

‘You asked, what is the meaning of this moment?’ Ahsoka continues. ‘It’s one of the universe’s attempts to reconnect Obi-Wan and Satine so they experience their matching as they were intended to.’

“But they’re of different statuses,” he points out needlessly. “She’ll outlive him.”

‘Yes, but the matching of soulmates not only influences the lives of the pair, but the lives of other people as well in ways both obvious and invisible. Think of it as a ripple effect.’

“Did the universe’s attempt work?” Din wonders. “Were they ever reunited?”

‘When Satine awoke as a Cupid, it was a surprise to both her and Gideon. Rather than kill her a second time, the Seraph chose to inflict a worse fate. She became the first of her kind to have her memories erased. However, he’d never previously used his ability on another immortal before, resulting in him nearly wiping her entire mind clean. The universe is capable of many miracles, big and small, but every attempt of reuniting the pair failed. It remains the universe’s most profound regret which is ultimately the reason why the universe brought you to Trinomliaxeros without your armor so that history wouldn’t repeat itself.’

There is a strange, heavy feeling that suddenly inflates within the confines of Din’s chest like a balloon. It’s different from the rampant anger he can still detect simmering beneath the skin of his human façade. He tries to shake it off, focusing on his breathing and the desert heat emanating from the twin suns overhead, only to slowly realize that what he’s feeling is fear.

Within his memory he can recall just one other distinct moment in his existence where he felt this spine-chilling emotion, and that moment was experienced on Trinomliaxeros.

“What did you just say?” His voice sounds shaky even to his own ears, but he can’t find any energy within himself to care.

A long stretch of silence fills his head; it’s the fragile kind, too, preventing him from snapping at Ahsoka to answer lest she become angry at him and yank him out the vision entirely.

‘Twice the timing of a soulmate match has been disturbed. The first pair affected was Obi-Wan and Satine. And the second pair was...’

“Ahsoka,” he says when she hesitates to continue, but any additional words he can think of saying catch in the back of his throat.

‘The second pair was you and your angel.’ Another pause of silence, shorter but no less meaningful. ‘Only fifty years ago, she wasn’t an angel.’

This is what Din remembers from Trinomliaxeros: feeling a pull so forceful, impatient and unanticipated it drags him across the galaxy in his civilian clothes, arriving to find the planet engulfed in smoke, unable to see his hand in front of his face, even without his gloves on. Finding skeletal remains burnt to blackened crisps with the souls inside shaking and traumatized, practically leaping into his outstretched hand, knowing either the afterlife or damnation would be better destinations than lingering there even a second longer. Explosions in the distance, bursts of flames as intense and hot as the sun, greedily consuming everything in their radius.

Out of the smoke and darkness, a survivor. A girl, covered in soot and sweat, colliding with his chest. The dead are calling out to him, pleading for him to reap them, to save them. Their voices swirl around his head, clawing at his brain and pounding against his skull. Shoving the girl aside, one foot in front of the other, letting his powers guide him to the next soul. Her voice cuts across the distance, a plasma bolt striking him in the back. We’re soulmates, she says.

His breath stills in his lungs. Fear spreads like a virus through his bloodstream, slipping beneath his defenses, turning him into a stranger within his own body. The declaration is a lie, an impossibility, a delusion. He has no match, hands unmarked, flesh poisonous and lethal. His words, too, are weapons themselves. Sharp, ruthless, desiring to wound her as she’s wounded him. You could never be my soulmate.

And then he’d left her.

This is what Din remembers. But, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut so tightly it hurts, I’ve remembered everything all wrong.

Phantom hands gently press against the sides of his helmet, offering comfort without caring about the dried blood. He keeps his eyes shut, knowing it’s just a manifestation crafted by Ahsoka in his head. ‘Don’t blame yourself. This was the only viable outcome the universe could produce to ensure the bad timing would be remedied in the future,’ she says, but it does little to lessen the weight on his chest. ‘Your rejection saved her life. It granted you both a second chance of a first meeting.’

“How did—” Din struggles to string words together, to fucking breathe. “She—She knew. What we were. How…?”

The Oracle puts him out of his misery. ‘She found out the way all soulmates do: through touch.’

Din’s eyes fly open at that, and he has to blink a few times to bring everything into focus because there’s him and his angel right in front of him, frozen mid-collision. She’s grasping the sleeves of his coat to keep her balance, the palm of her marked hand touching his wrist. He stares at the point of contact for a moment, then barks out a laugh, hysterical and strangled sounding.

“That’s not possible.”

‘Soulmates can’t kill each other. She’s always been meant to withstand your touch.’

Din swallows thickly, staring at his angel’s face. He hates the question forming on his tongue, but it will haunt him the rest of his life if he doesn’t ask it. “In your visions, when I meet her at the right time, what happens?”

'You’re different by then, less broody and more accepting of the notion you could be loved. You have a soulmate marking,’ Ahsoka tells him. ‘You fall for her hard, even before your hands brush. You love her throughout the entirety of her lifetime.’

“And...when she dies?” The words taste like blood in his mouth.

‘Don’t torture yourself, Death. That timeline doesn’t exist anymore.’

For one brief, fleeting second Din is actually grateful Gideon altered their destinies. However, in the next, he’s trying not to let the fear gnawing at the back of his mind increase as it belatedly occurs to him that the universe is not as infallible as he’s always believed it was.

He wishes he could see Ahsoka, if only so he could glare at her directly. “Everything you’ve shown me has only further convinced me Gideon deserves death. Why have you asked me to promise not to kill him?”

'Do you remember what happens after this moment on Trinomliaxeros?’

Din frowns at the change of subject. “I continued to reap souls.”

'Yes. And then?’

He huffs a frustrated breath through his nose. This is Ahsoka, he thinks, at her most annoying. But, as much he loathes admitting it, this is also the most helpfully transparent she’s ever been. Today may be the only time she trusts him enough to share her visions. He owes it to her to be as open as she’s being with him.

That being said, he’s still wary of the memories he’s kept in the distant, shadowy corners of his mind being pulled into the spotlight. “Tell me we’re not gonna talk about the kid.”

‘We talked about the universe’s biggest regret. It’s only fair we talk about yours too.’ Ahsoka has found the crack in his armor he’s tried so long to conceal, peeling it open without remorse.

She doesn’t spare him time to argue. All he does is blink and he’s looking at his past self locked in a staring contest with a little green-skinned child who is propped up inside a floating, orb-shaped pram.

Of all the buildings and homes on the planet, only its temple had remained untouched by the destruction. Din didn’t know if it had been the structure’s own holy foundation keeping it standing or if it was the personal choice of the mastermind behind the attack, but he’d been drawn to it regardless, finding souls there to reap whose hosts had differed from other victims in that their throats had been slit. The walls of the temple were adorned with intricate murals depicting immortal figures and religious events of ancient history, but before he could observe the artwork closer, a quiet coo had stopped him in his tracks.

When he opened the pram, he hadn’t anticipated finding a baby of all creatures. When their eyes connected, every background noise abruptly ceased. Even the voices of the dead fell silent. Rather than rouse his suspicions, Din had felt only a sense of peace he usually only experienced in the midst of hyperspace travel where the stars were his voiceless companions.

An unspoken conversation transpired between the two of them, one Din still can’t translate into words all these years later, but it concluded with him knowing he would take the child with him.

Din had reached for him unthinkingly, the child lifting his arms up in eagerness to be held, but self-awareness kicked in right before contact and Din retracted his hands away so fast it startled the child into crying, brown eyes filling with tears. Panicked, he surveyed the room, looking for something to put an end to the wailing, before looking down at his own coat, experiencing a lightbulb moment.

“Alright, kid, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Watching his past self shrug off the coat, Din remembers it had been his favorite of his civilian clothes, well worth the cost for its soft fabric and length. He managed to successfully swaddle the child, ensuring his arms were safely tucked away to prevent him endangering his life, and Din exhaled a quiet breath of relief when the tears dried up almost immediately.

However, the ensuing silence wasn’t as peaceful as the previous one. Both past and present Din turn at the sound of distant shuffling echoing off the temple walls from another room.

“Ignore it,” Din tells his past self. “Just take the kid and leave.”

But his plea goes unheard and the past remains unchanged. Ahsoka is silent inside his head, either because she knows he won’t accept any more comforting words or because she thinks he’s undeserving of them for choosing to leave the child behind in his pram, closing it when he starts to whine again, so Din can go investigate the noise.

Din exhales a quiet breath, fingers twitching restlessly at his sides as he watches himself stalk through the temple halls, checking each room he comes across. It’s strange, seeing himself from this perspective. The distanced viewpoint allows Din to glimpse new details he hadn’t been capable of noticing back then.

Such as the reappearance of a familiar Seraph emerging from the shadows to stab him in the back.

Here’s one of the perks about being Death: he can’t be killed. That fact doesn’t mean there haven’t been attempts though. As Death, people sometimes look at his armor as a challenge. Like if they can fire a shot or throw a knife at just the right angle, it’ll wound him and allow them to live longer. Simply put, all those people are idiots.

When he looks like a regular, unintimidating civilian, he’s also been involved in violent predicaments where someone’s attempted to mug him or where he’s tried to save someone else from a similarly sticky situation.

Armor or no armor though, he’s always walked away from these encounters completely unscathed.

Well. With the sole exception of Trinomliaxeros where he was mostly unscathed.

It wasn’t the first time Din had been stabbed before. Usually knife wounds felt like a mild pinch. More irritating than painful, similar to a splinter stuck in one’s thumb. Once the weapon was removed, the damage healed within seconds, leaving behind no scar or proof he was ever attacked.

Usually, is the keyword to note here.

Ahsoka freezes time right when the blade of the Lightsaber is driven straight through the center of Din’s body, bone and flesh as easy to slice through as melted butter. His agonized expression—eyes screwed shut and lips open in a silent scream—would be comical if Din didn’t remember the exact emotions he was feeling in that moment.

Instead of a pinch, it’d felt as if thousands of invisible hands were pulling and scratching at him, attempting to strip apart his human exterior layer by layer—peeling off skin, scraping away muscle and bone marrow, seeking to reach the core of himself where his powers resided.

‘Looks like it hurts,’ Ahsoka says. The return of her naturally calm and neutral tone of voice seems almost cruel given the frozen, graphic display.

Din again wishes he could glare at her. “Is this funny to you?”

‘The transformation of the Lightsaber into the Darksaber is anything but funny.’

Lost in recollection, he failed to notice until now how the blade of the Lightsaber has changed in color from white to black. It’s the same inky hue that absorbs the brown in his eyes, that had dyed his veins during the execution of Hess.

‘The Armorer specifically instructed the Lightsaber only be used against enemies. As a neutral entity, you are, by definition, no one’s ally or adversary. By stabbing you, the saber became corrupted. It is a consequence Gideon still has yet to fully realize the monumental repercussions of.’

Time resumes, Din’s past self collapsing onto the floor, pressing a hand to the throbbing hole in his chest, attention too consumed by the franticness of his powers struggling to repair the trauma to notice Gideon lingering behind him. The Seraph’s stunned look of shock lasts barely ten seconds, morphing into one of deep contemplation as his gaze flicked between the weapon and Din, before he vanished.

When Din recovered enough to stand, he teleported back to the child’s location at once. He needs to get the little guy as far away from here as possible, somewhere peaceful and safe. His planning came to an abrupt halt upon finding the pram open and empty, his coat shredded and scattered about the floor in pieces.

“Gideon took him.” It isn’t a question.

‘Yes,’ she confirms. ‘The child was the intended target of this siege.’

“Why?”

‘He’s...very special.’ There is something about how her voice hitches when she says ‘special’ that has Din’s instincts prickling with alertness, but he holds his tongue. ‘Gideon considers him a tool he can take advantage of.’

The ugly, tight mass of anger swells inside of him and presses against his lungs, resulting in a low growl slipping out of his mouth. He curses his own ineptitude. If he’d paid more attention, hadn’t allowed himself to be wounded, he could have subdued Gideon and spared both his angel and the child from being captured.

“I warned you once upon a time, there would be consequences if you released your darkness,” Ahsoka says, her voice no longer emitting from inside his head. The vision fades back into reality the same sudden, jarring way one wakes up from dreaming. It takes all of Din’s self-restraint not to perform a full-body shake. “Your control is slipping as your rage increases. It’s making you not think clearly which is exactly what Gideon wants. That is the reason I am asking you to promise you will not kill him.”

Put like that, Din no longer thinks her request sounds quite so outlandish, even though he does still remain in the dark as to what consequences exactly will unfold. Ahsoka has remained stubbornly tight-lipped about the topic from their very first encounter, claiming the universe is adamant she can only share the details with one other person and it isn’t him.

“He deserves to die for all he’s done,” Din says quietly, but he’s self-aware to know his resistance is beginning to crumble.

“Between you and me, I think so, too,” she admits in the same low tone. Her ocean eyes are dark and stormy, reflecting her internal turmoil. “But rules are made for a reason and we would be fools to carelessly overlook the consequences of breaking them.”

The accusatory note from earlier has returned with a vengeance. He’s not surprised—of course the universe would utilize the Oracle to express its disapproval—but aggravation still thrums through his veins.

“Hess played a hand in my soulmate’s fate. He called her a whore.” Din’s upper lip twitches with the urge to snarl. “I don’t regret what I did to him.”

Ahsoka sighs. “I was afraid you’d say that. When you swore your creed, you promised the universe you’d only reap a soul when their host’s time has reached its destined end. By killing Hess, you not only broke a sacred rule, you also broke your creed.”

Din recoils, feeling like he’s been stabbed with the Lightsaber all over again.

“...What?” The anger is gone, extinguished by the weight of the revelation. Confusion and wariness are quick to fill the void. “What does that mean?”

She looks away then, but not quick enough to hide her troubled expression. “I...don’t know.”

He blinks, mind scrambling to understand the implications. “Isn’t that your purpose? To know everything?”

“For the very first time, the future’s unclear to me,” she murmurs, eyes briefly turning cloudy as if she’s trying to take a peek at the potential timelines right then and there. She shakes her head a beat later, frowning. “There are many choices left to be made, each one capable of influencing the fate of the galaxy. It is not possible at this time for me to predict our upcoming reality, let alone your consequences. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Din says, because it’s the truth and he doesn’t like seeing her crestfallen expression. Fuck, he might actually consider her a friend after all.

Whatever happens, he thinks to himself, it can’t be any worse to deal with than being separated from his soulmate. If he can survive this, he can survive anything.

“The last promise I made was broken.” He bites back a wince at the memory of his angel’s pinky promise. “But if making another one is the only way you’ll take me to my soulmate, then you have my word. I won’t kill him.”

A ghost of a smile pulls at her lips before she grabs hold of one of his vambraces. “Take me to your ship. I will guide you to her location.”

“You don’t trust me to go alone?” he asks, unsure whether to be amused or indignant.

“No,” Ahsoka replies bluntly.

Din huffs. “Fine.”

“I may not be able to see much at the moment, but I know it’s never wise to turn down support. You’re going to need us.”

“Us?”

“It’s Bo-Katan’s choice to make, but you and I both know she’s never been one to back down from a fight. Especially once she learns Gideon is her sister’s murderer.”

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#din djarin x you #din x you #my fic #death and an angel #mandalorian x reader #Din Djarin #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din x reader

[kettlequills]

and if the world should end (hold me)

Dragonborn Laataazin does not manifest their Dragon Aspect often. When they do, they are ... different. A03. a short and sweet piece of laat/miraak. tw: dacryphilia, dragon aspect, daedric corruption, pre-sex. n s f w ish, r. Mature.

Laat wasn’t hard to track.

Their passage had seared footprints ringed with soot into the dark wet earth below the hardpacked snow. Hail stung Miraak’s eyes, made him wish for his mask as he followed them, stepping from footprint to footprint in imitation of their aggressive, short stride. White winds gathering speed billowed around him, rumbling clouds bruiselike with the anger of a Dragonborn’s impetuous, imperious presence.

Kyne the war-hawk recognised the realised majesty of her lover, the dragon. But the winds that battered Miraak’s robes like seeking fingers were, for once, not for him; Laat was a bloodsong behind his heartbeat. His senses prickled in that chilling calling of soul to soul, the second of warning he had directly before a dragon dropped from the sky spitting flaming death.

Their Shout still rung in heaven’s ears; shudders of grey rock pitted the flung-fingers of the reaching trees. He saw the shape of them, indescribable and immense, the starry wings that eclipsed the sun, the interlocking scales like plates of black diamond. They were blurry with heat through the trees, thick with curling black spines that made his mouth dry in remembered fear of the overlord great enough to force dragons to heel.

In a small clearing ringed by bony black trees, they waited for him, incandescent as a heretic’s pyre. Unapologetic for the vicious spike-dripping crown of their fearsome Dragon Aspect, as unalike the auroral shimmering of his as night to day.

He hardly understood the words that flew out of mouth.

"Use me."

Laat shot him a wild-eyed glare over their ramrod stiff shoulders. The line of their spine was steel, naked as a child, they had never looked fiercer. It only made the scales that ridged from the normally-soft, giving flesh sharper, darker against their sunstruck skin, highlighted the curve of muscles wound killing-tight. Scars painted that rippling canvas, furrowed like plough-marks beneath the earth cut through the sunken ruins of Miraak’s time, scarring hidden barrows and graves with a thousand criss-crossing reminders of the new age.

Miraak's breath hitched on a choking swallow.

"I know - I know you need to-" He couldn't bring himself to say it. To claim understanding. "You - you can use me."

Laat turned fully to face him, their eyes raking over him with a palpable hunger. Centuries of torment facing the worst daedra and dragons could muster had Miraak stiffen his body instead of stepping back. How red Laataazin’s eyes glowed, framed by light-sucking oubliettes of the void between stars caught in each cruelly-glittering scale. He didn’t think he would ever grow accustomed to how they looked at him, even with soft brown human eyes. With their humanity washed away to reveal the world-eater beneath, it struck him as a hurricane strikes a poor-rooted tree, scattering needles like prayers and tearing roots from the ground, leaving behind only hollows – aching, dark, twisted hollows, that begged to be filled.

“Leave," they rumbled, and their voice shook the trees, the sky, the sun, the stars. Shook Miraak’s soul free in his chest, and he yearned to stretch his own wings, test his fang and fire against theirs. "Dii britrozii. Leave now."

It was his chance to renounce this stupidity.

"No," Miraak whispered.

Laat lunged for him.

He stood his ground, managed even not to hiss when they collided and Laat slammed him back against a tree. The wet chill seeped in through the back of his robes, the rough bark dug into the knobbles of his vertebra. An old wound flared to life with a dull ache, and he grimaced. The tree groaned; he heard the woody screech of Laat’s claws churning the bark to charnel. Smoke scorched his arm, he shifted and embraced them instead.

They were scarcely better. Laat was so hot they burned, pinning him between the slick ice of the deep-frozen tree and the fire of the fever in their soul. Their eyes flickered with mad red glow when he touched them of his own accord, some softening of the slit pupil that managed to coax a flurry of desire along with a distant sense of crippling danger.

At first, he thought they would seize a kiss from him, but instead, they pressed their feverish forehead against his. They had to lean up on their toes to reach him, he felt the trembling of their body, half-fever, half the strain of keeping themselves lifted. Sweat-slick locks of their hair tickled his cheeks. The tree shivered as they sunk their claws in deeper for purchase. The hard nubs of the swelling horns were near-painful, like resting his bare skin against fresh-forged maceheads, but the skin underneath it was still human, dripping with sweat that splashed onto his Miraak’s cheeks like tears.

“I could hurt you,” they warned him, maelstrom eyes beckoning him to fall in, let the wine-waters wash over him, into him.

“You’re not hurting me now,” Miraak pointed out, “And I’ll heal.”

They growled at that, actually growled, and Miraak swallowed past a dizzying rush. Their fingers wove knots into the tangled hair, tugging him down to them. They bit his cheek, above the rasp of his beard. The sharpness of the pain made his eyes water involuntarily; knowing them, he blinked and let the tear fall. Laat’s warm, wet tongue chased it, their saliva sticky and cold on his cheek. Their moan reverberated through them like a living thing, buzzed through Miraak’s bones like a symphony, like a roar.

“You don’t like daedra,” they said, with an increasingly strained voice.

Miraak hesitated. It was true that he could see Sanguine all over them, in the sticky strawberry handprints that followed the hunger of their blush, the reddish glow, the fiery fever that melted holes in the snow. Their breath tasted of wine, their lips of chillies and crushed pistachio. Erotic tastes, exotic tastes, nothing like the dull human tastes of sweat and the faint reek of armour oil he associated with them.

In their Dragon Aspect, the fullest expansion of their soul, Sanguine stained them as Mora had corrupted him. Miraak saw the path of Sanguine’s touches, the places where he had scraped bitter nails over Laat’s ribs, the splutters of his cursed wine in their belly, the burnished royal red and purples that shifted like abstract bruises under their skin, seductively drawing his eye to their hips, their breasts, the rasp of their stubble. Their sensitive places, their soft places, marked with claws and teeth and bloodsport long before he had even known of their existence.

To touch them would be to walk his fingertips over the leavings of a daedric lord.

He lifted his head from theirs to avoid their cursed eyes. He focused instead on the scars that twisted their forehead, counting them to ground himself. Faded, a little, under the burning wreath of horns that tumbled around their head like deadly locks of hair, but ever-present and quartering their beloved face like the grid of a map leading to something like home.

There were six scarlines that disappeared into their hair; number four wavered drunkenly over some long-ago notch and split into a wide river of pinkish white. Number two came accompanied by a star-scatter of freckles, dots and splashes of brown that hid in the wrinkles of their skin, the perpetual frown lines, the soft creases of age and laughter around their eyes.

He knew these scars, had felt them, traced them, kissed them, just as he knew the impatient tugging of their trembling hands woven into his beard. Knew them, the Dragonborn who loved life too passionately to waste it at Hermaeus Mora’s command, who had taken every backslide and frustration of his long recovery in stride. Who touched him with such tenderness Miraak could almost believe he had never met any daedra that wasted his body and destroyed his pride at all.

The hair that pushed its way stubbornly out amidst the scars was grey and stringy, touches of brown still surviving at the tips. He could not stop himself from cupping their cheeks, tilting their head down to nibble on the soft fuzz. The keratin crunched under his playful teeth.

He remembered to purse his lips together in one of Laat’s odd kisses when he rubbed his nose against the familiar topography of their scarred face, nuzzling them as Sahrotaar, the friendliest of his dragons, would. Even now, it made them smile; he felt the reflexive twitch of their cheek muscles under his palms, the notch of their dimples against the pad of his thumbs.

“You are not a daedra,” he murmured, words that whispered round the actual truth, “I trust you.”

They bit his shoulder through his robes, but they didn’t cleave a snaggletoothed bite through layers of fabric until they could rend and tear properly at his bloodied flesh. Instead they held him in their mouth, their damp tongue pressing against his collarbone, then mumbled and mouthed their way across to the neckline of his robes. There, they bit on painless fabric, hard enough he saw their jaw pale with the force and their teeth ground audibly. Their lips were wet when they lifted their head, too-bright eyes swirling like chips of galaxies set into a mortal face.

“Let me,” Laataazin begged.

Miraak offered them a small, nervous smile.

“Zu’u losiil, Laat Dovahkiin.”

#miraak #inkwrites #laataazin #tes #elder scrolls #skyrim

[alderaani]

Embers

summary: After Umbara, Boil learns how to endure, and how to reclaim pieces of his brothers marching on | AO3 | series

warnings: canonical character death, grief, animal injury + mentions of animal death (completely not explicit, on the level of canon-typical violence).

a/n: finally another part of my 100 clone prompts - the rest of the series is linked above! i know there’s not much in canon to support Waxer being an animal lover, but i wanted to give Gree a friend to nerd out with and it’s cute. also gotta pay homage to @nibeul’s wonderful art here - while I wasn’t consciously inspired by it, it hits on v similar themes and is just beautiful like...that image of waxer holding up numa lives in my head rent free.

-

Insects swirled in a halo around his helmet. They swarmed around the seams of his blacks, too, attracted to the small beads of sweat there, to the tiny strips of flesh he couldn’t quite cover. The rising bites itched, rubbing where the edge of his vambraces met fabric, and the buzzing was enough to drive a man mad. Boil sighed, brushing them off half-heartedly and watching them billow angrily away. They’d be back. They always were.

In the reprieve, he fumbled at his belt for the viewfinders hooked there and brought them to his visor. As he spun the dial to within half a klik so that he could search the undergrowth, his thumb settled in the comforting groove where Waxer had dropped them and chipped the plastoid. He worried at it with his nail while he scanned, frowning.

It was too still.

Too quiet.

Had been in his head for weeks now, verging on a month, and he was still waiting to feel something other than crippling emptiness. There weren’t any dreams any more, none except for the oldest one they all pretended not to have; levelling a blaster against Kenobi’s head and pulling the trigger. Even that didn’t feel like the nightmare it used to.

Eventually he lowered the viewfinder, feeling the hair stand up on the back of his neck at the stifled sound of his own breath in the dense air. A faint, humid breeze stirred the leaves, sending a cloud of thick yellow pollen up towards the canopy. Boil blinked to bring up the filter diagnostic on his HUD, keeping his belly low to the ground to avoid the stuff as it drifted lazily overhead.

“Kid, you doin’ alright out there?”

He listened to the static hum of the comm line for a few moments, biting back the panic that crawled up the back of his throat when it dragged on just a beat too long.

“Apart from gettin’ gnawed on by the bugs? Just grand, Sir.”

Potshot sounded a little winded, but that was probably just the heat. Blacks self-regulated temperature, but only to the extent that they made sure you sweated evenly. It never used to be quite so bad; that had been the one thing Phase 1 armour had going for it, for all it was bulkier and less adaptable to varied terrain. He supposed the Republic had had to cut costs somewhere. Waxer would’ve been whining by now that his ass was so hot they could light a flare off it. Potshot was young enough that he’d never known any different.

“Good, you see anything?” Boil grunted, pinging his location anyway. There was no real reason for it; Potshot might’ve still been green but he wasn’t stupid, and he’d done well to keep up so far. Boil could stand being self aware enough to acknowledge that he hadn’t been the most welcoming, or the most patient with the new partner he’d never wanted. He wouldn’t have had any right to be overbearing now, but it was for his own comfort, however small and bittersweet.

“Nothin’ at all. That seem odd to you too?” Potshot said, as the surveillance holos he’d taken popped up. Boil flipped through them, earmarking a couple to show him how to improve the angle later. The important shit was all there - enough to confirm what he’d already suspected. No birds, no creatures, no fresh droppings.

Just the bugs, and the trees, and them.

“Yeah, it’s odd alright. Think we’ve found what the general’s looking for.”

Boil felt pressure around his right boot and turned, vibroblade in hand, to stab into the fleshy vine knotting round it. It writhed and retreated, leaving behind pitted, smoking trails where acid had started eating into the plastoid. He registered the damage with a dull sort of annoyance. It was something else to take care of later, a way to look busy and shape the silence. It would fend off the others and their offers of company, made out of pity he couldn’t bear to look at.

“Really? What’re you seein’, boss?” Potshot asked.

Boil glanced upwards to track the position of the sun; high, almost directly overhead. At the peak of the day this place should have been teeming. Instead the only tracks he’d found had been baked solid, and this wasn’t the shocked quiet that followed a stampede. It was stagnant, aging.

“This forest is in the centre of an old super-volcanic crater, right?” he asked, not waiting for a response. It had been in the mission dossier, alongside profiles of the flesh eating plants, the deadly pollen and the venomous creatures, all of it fenced into the sloped, unforgiving bowl of the terrain. It was the kind of forest that stuck in the mind. “And we know that something has driven the wildlife away.”

Potshot hummed, the comm muffling for a second as he shifted. It took a moment of bitter disappointment coiling in Boil’s belly for him to realise that he’d been waiting for a sharp quip that wasn’t coming. He swallowed thickly, wondering how it was possible to feel so wrongfooted while lying down. If he’d ever find his balance again. If he ever wanted to feel whole now that such a fundamental piece was missing.

Potshot groaned suddenly. “Kriff it, the factories we’re looking for are underground, aren’t they?”

Boil forced a chuckle, choking past the self hatred clawing up through his lungs. The kid deserved better, deserved a superior who didn’t constantly treat him like a ghost.

“That’s it, kid. Just like the simulations, eh?”

Potshot laughed, the easy sound making Boil’s throat seize in longing so strong his teeth ached. Waxer would’ve loved him, and that made it all the worse.

“Hardly. What do we do next?”

“Alright,” Boil said, lifting the viewfinder for one last look at where he could see slight fog rising through the trees. “You get your ass back to forward command and debrief the General, I’m heading in for a closer look.”

“ What? But - Sir! We’re supposed to be working as a team. I can’t leave you -”

“Sometimes working as a team means you do your duty and trust the others to do theirs.” He cut in, keeping his voice steady by force of will. Sometimes, it meant carrying on alone. Boil clipped the viewfinder back into place and prepared to move, even as Potshot continued protesting. Boil didn’t answer for long enough that silence fell on the line.

“...am I not performing to the standard expected, Sir?”

Potshot’s voice was soft, all vulnerable underbelly. Still so shiny, and Boil remembered feeling like that, like there was still a scorecard constantly on his forehead.

“No - kid -” Boil sighed, dropping his head forward. He’d never learned how to be gentle - it hadn’t ever come naturally, and there had been no reason to lose his sharp edges when Waxer had always been there to foil them for him. He felt sharper now than ever, full of shards that didn’t sit right, and fished among the pieces for something his brother might have said. “I trust you to have my back. You’re doing everything right. But...sometimes we’ve gotta think of the mission. We need more proof before we can move in, but the two of us get caught, command loses what we already know.”

“Can’t we just send a comm?” Potshot asked, his voice still tight and hurt sounding and he was fucking this up, shouldn’t have been trusted to try to fix himself without breaking everyone else wide open in the process.

“Don’t trust it not to get intercepted,” Boil said, which was only half a lie, and would have made Cody scoff at the back to front over-caution. “And it don’t all fit in a comm. They’ll need everything you can remember to plan the advance.”

Potshot sighed, but when he spoke again his voice was looser. “...Yes, Sir. I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t,” Boil said, feeling his own chest lighten. “If you don’t hear from me by 1100 then raise me on the priority channel.”

He listened until Potshot had stated a reluctant affirmative and clicked off the line, then bellied out of the undergrowth and headed further in, to the epicentre of the unnatural quiet. He liked the way his mind went silent on recon, how everything else fell away. It wasn’t quite the same, tilted just a little off axis, but similar enough to when it had been Waxer at his six that if he didn’t think about it, he could almost trick himself into believing nothing had changed.

Plus, the space was good, just for a few minutes, where he didn't have to pretend for anyone.

It was a quiet journey, for the most part, punctuated only by the steps he couldn’t quite muffle. His thoughts were broken some time later when he suddenly heard it; the distant mechanical boom of something deep underground. He quickened his pace, following the vibrations until the earth under his feet grew hot, the air shimmering unnaturally in front of him. It had been like this at Point Rain, when the sand baked and glinted, glass-like, under the blaze of the overhead sun. If he hadn’t known the super-volcano was very thoroughly extinct, he could have kidded himself that it was just the geothermal energy of magma moving close to the surface. A clever disguise. But not clever enough.

The ground sloped ever downwards the further into the bowl he got. He watched where he placed his feet as it grew rockier, stones and small craters acting like pitfall traps concealed by the moss. Boil pinged his scanner every minute, searching for Seppie probes as the terrain tapered, falling away into a green-rimmed yawning abyss. Set into the centre of it was a huge grate, the source of the searing air. Here were the factories they’d been looking for, exactly where he’d suspected. It was a muted sort of satisfaction.

He crouched at the edge of the drop, taking holos and transmitting them directly to the Commander’s HUD. Then he checked his chrono and sent an unapologetic follow up that he’d be late to rendezvous, seeing that 1100 was about to come and go. Then he minimised the comms on his HUD to flash for priority only; he’d get bollocked for being late sooner or later, but he figured it would be novel to have it fully in person.

Finally he turned, ready to start the rapid scale back towards the 212th's forward camp, when he registered a low, keening whine.

His blaster was in his hands within a moment, trained at the knee-high leaves. The sound came again, higher this time, followed by laboured panting.

He gently brushed aside some of the foliage with his blaster barrel. Dark eyes stared at him from between the leaves. They both froze. It was some sort of animal, obviously; a mammal, probably a predator. It was small too, with paws too large for its scrawny body and a dark, downy fur that rippled with every laboured breath.

Sharp teeth. A narrow muzzle. A long, whip-like tail.

A vornskr, Boil thought, and hated how readily the identification came, how readily he tensed in anticipation of the inevitable Boil can you see - do you know how rare -

He shook the memories away, of Waxer leaning precariously over the top bunk to wave some manual Commander Gree had sent him in his face, bleating about some animal or species that Boil couldn’t pronounce. In the present the vornskr pup cowered away from him, pushing backwards on thin, spindly legs. Deceptively powerful though, he’d bet.

The creature let out another whine and stumbled, an odd abortive movement. Boil pressed more of the leaves away to get a better look and swore when he saw the brutal metal trap closed around one of its small hind legs, paring down to bone. His blaster was up and trained on the thing before he thought much about it. Better to shoot it, put it out of its misery, than prolong its suffering. It was what they did as part of the cleanup sometimes; wildlife was usually pretty good at getting out of the active battlefronts, but there were always stragglers. The too old or the too young, mostly.

Creatures like this one.

The vornskr stilled, staring at him with those big, wide eyes as if it knew exactly what he was thinking. Boil swallowed. Waxer wouldn’t have let him shoot it. Waxer also wasn’t here now to stop him, but Boil felt his arm lower all the same, just a few inches before he pulled the trigger. The vornskr yelped as the trap hinges came apart in two neat halves and immediately tried to run. It didn’t get very far before it collapsed, panting again.

Boil sighed and shook his head, holstering his blaster across his back.

“That was a stupid thing to do,” he tsked, shuffling closer.

He kept half an eye on the tail, remembering something about it being venomous. While being high off his ass on some unknown substance had the potential to make Cody’s dressing down more interesting, it might also kill him before he got there.

The vornskr growled as he leaned over it, baring needle sharp teeth, and made a snap at him when Boil reached out.

“Ah, give over,” he muttered, batting the attempt away. The little body was light in his hands as he lifted it, careful to let the injured leg hang out as he folded it into his chest. The vornskr made an odd, throaty sound and shifted, almost experimental. Then it huffed, and after a pause laid its head across his vambrace.

Boil rolled his eyes at the display, setting off towards forward command as soon as he was halfway sure he wasn’t in danger of losing a finger.

It was...nice, to have that little body cradled to him, reminiscent of better occasions when Waxer just had to stick his nose into every curious happening and inevitably adopted some struggling lifeform. However much Boil had complained, it had never steered them wrong.

When he got back to command it was to find Cody pacing the perimeter, Potshot perched on a crate nearby. The Commander’s bucket was under his arm. Boil winced. With Cody that was never an accident - usually so he could get the full weight of a glare in, the excavating kind he’d learned from Kenobi and then weaponised so that it pierced straight down to bone.

“Boss!” Potshot exclaimed, pushing off his seat. “You made it!”

“What time d’you call this?” Cody demanded, stalking over. “I was about to -”

Cody stopped short, gaze dropping to the furry bundle against Boil’s breastplate. Something in his expression softened and Boil felt in his heart, panicking as a lump rose in his throat.

“What’s that?” Cody asked.

Boil let his gaze slide downwards to a point far beyond, where two troopers were fighting over a tarp.

“Found it in a trap,” he said, his voice ragged. “Couldn’t - couldn’t let it die.”

He flicked his eyes back to Cody’s face and breathed through the grief and understanding he found there. Cody stepped forward and clasped Boil’s elbow.

“I’m sure Tranq will be able to do something for it.” A little upturn crept into the line of Cody’s lips. “Debrief in fifteen.”

Boil nodded and broke away, tipping his head to Potshot before clearing his throat roughly and popping his bucket off one-handed as he made his way to the medtent. The sun was warm on his face here, the air lighter. A butterfly flew lazily past and the vornskr lifted its head, tracking the motion with large, interested eyes.

Boil smiled, hoisting his bucket under one arm and daring to touch the creature's head with his freed hand. It wouldn’t ever bring Waxer back, but it meant something that this little life continued, because of the choices his brother would have made and all that he had been. Like the phantom touch of the sun still lingering in cooling earth.

It wouldn’t ever be enough. But, perhaps, it was just the right amount to cling onto.

-

taglist // @nelba @leias-left-hair-bun @simping-for-fives @iscream4clones @bad-batch-of-fics @battletales @majorshiraharu @dom-i-nic @snippytano @missinashkin @808tsuika @eries45 @lussyyung @whatanoof // join here

#clone trooper waxer #clone trooper boil #original clone characters #clone oc potshot #commander cody #212th attack battalion #the clone wars #star wars #the clone wars fanfiction #alderwrites

[be-the-spark-flyboy]

Pathfinder [1]

The mummy Au

Pairing: librarian!Poe Dameron x GN!Reader

A/n: I’ve tagged some ppl I think might be interested. If you don’t wanna be tagged please lemme know

Series warnings: major spoilers for both the mummy and star wars movies (duh😂), swearing, violence, fluff, Finn’s a jedi bitches!!!

Word count: 2.8k

—-

Sweat slid down your back as you adjusted your grip on your blaster. This was just going to be a massacre, you know it. No one was coming for a troop of soldiers who went wandering. The bandits were getting closer on their speeders and you cursed your commander once again. Fucking idiot. Now you were going to pay for his curiosity with your lives.

You felt something moving in your peripheral. Not something, someone. Your commander was sprinting full speed towards his speeder. Fucking coward. You could feel the unease within your troop passing through like a wave. Uncertainty, watching their leader running away, leaving them for dead.

“You just got promoted,” a voice snarked. You looked at Hux kneeling on the sand beside you with his own blaster in a death grip.

“Hold your positions!” You bellowed to your men. “You’re with me on this one right?” You asked him.

“Oh, your strength gives me strength,” Hux replied. Bantha shit. You only hoped he didn’t run off too early in the battle for you to notice. No such luck. 

Hux scrambled to his feet, kicking up a cloud of sand as he ran for his life. “Wait! Wait for me!” It was so quiet you could hear his blaster clatter to the sand where he dropped it. 

“Steady!” Force help us. “Fire!” Figures toppled from speeders as many of the glowing red bolts found its marks. Some nicked just the right places of the speeders for them to combust. But it just wasn’t enough. They kept coming. It took seconds for the sand to be littered with spoils of a battle. At least the scavengers were up for a treat.

“Shit, shit, shit,” They were gaining too fast. Where the hell did this many bandits come from? There were already many soldiers running for their lives. And there were only so many bolts left in your blaster. You got up from your position, firing and running. And it wasn’t easy by any means.

You catch a glimpse of Hux running before you. Now his decision to desert only seemed smart. You never should’ve trusted your commander.

“Run Hux! Run!” You yelled after him, trying to take out as many bandits on your tail as possible. Hux was running towards a heavy stone door.

“Get inside! Get inside!” You yelled again. Maybe you could make it too.

“Hey!” No, no, no. “Don’t you close that door!” That fucker! Hux was very enthusiastically shutting the door after himself. Kriff, he really didn’t care if you died, did he? “Don’t you close that fucking door!” Again, no such luck. Hux shut the door on your face. The stone ledge cracked and crumbled under the assault of the blaster bolts and you took off running again.

Leaping over walls and dodging pillars did no good. You only ended up more winded by the time you got cornered against a large sculpture. There was nowhere left to go. About eight bandits stood in a single file before you, their blasters aimed for your head. There are worse ways to go, you tried to tell yourself. Like what? Your brain unhelpfully supplied. 

You squeezed your eyes as tightly as possible, bracing for the impact of the blaster bolts ripping you apart, but it never came. You slowly opened one eye against the harsh sun and saw... nothing. None of the bandits were there anymore. Only a lingering cloud of dust signalling their swift exit. Weird.

You dared to venture one step from the shelter of the statue. Then another one. The sounds of battle had ceased. The only thing you could hear was the distant sound of speeders fleeing. And a rasp in the air like a whisper.

“You will die,” It chanted. You had to run. 

“You will die,” You took a step forward and the sand shifted beneath your feet. Jumping to your side, trying to dodge the sand which now erratically shifted around like something was moving underneath it.

You stumbled backwards just in time to see the sand form the shape of a huge screaming face. And then there was a deafening roar. Nope, you were not sticking around to see what happens next.

--

“The creature remains undiscovered,” The dark-skinned man announced, sitting on the speeder, flanked by men and women dressed similar to him in robes of beige.

“And what of this one, Finn?” One asked, nodding at the figure scrambling away towards the vast spread of sand.

“Should we kill them?” The figure turned as if it heard them speaking about it.

“No,” Finn said as it turned back and continued running. “The desert will kill them,”

---

“Battle of Yavin volume one, volume two,” Poe was standing on a ladder propped against a shelf, sorting out the new arrivals into their proper places. His dress shoes pinched uncomfortably, but Ben insisted that the dress code be strictly followed at all time. It did get annoying at times.

“Crait Terrains? What are you doing here?” That doesn’t go on that shelf, he must’ve picked up a wrong book.

Poe wasn’t mad, talking to books in an empty library. It was routine work and it got really quiet sometimes. The sound of his own voice was his only companion. “I’m gonna put you where you belong,” 

It would’ve been wise to climb down the ladder, prop it against the opposite shelf, climb said ladder, then place the book in its place. But sometimes, Poe liked to work smarter, not harder. Or so he told himself.

He reached back towards the shelf behind him, firmly gripping onto the rung. The problem however, was not how hard he held on to the ladder. The momentum of his weight shifting forward was enough to move the ladder in an upright position.

With a yelp, Poe managed to pull himself up, which wasn’t the smartest move considering he was now perilously balanced on a ladder propped against nothing.

And then the ladder wobbled, Poe shifted his weight, trying not to fall. But he was just having a very bad day and the ladder wasn’t cooperating. He managed to wrangle it in an ever more precarious position away from the shelves.

“Help,” he whispered unable to find his voice in his very mild panic. The ladder creaked and wobbled again but at least now he faced the shelves.

Then he fell.

Right on top bookshelf he had painstakingly sorted and arranged all day long. It toppled right on top of the next on, setting off a chain reaction as Poe watched in horror. He crambling away just in time as the last shelf collapsed over the spot he was standing on barely a few seconds ago.

Well, fuck.

“What... How...” It seemed his bad luck wasn’t done fucking with his day. Just then, his employer appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Very few things really elicit a visible reaction from Ben Kenobi, but Poe seemed to be the only person who managed to make his blood boil without even trying.

“Oh, look at this! Force!” He exclaimed. “Give me Banthas! Or even porgs! Anything but you!” Poe grimaced, shrinking back from the old man who was a whole head taller than him, now marching over to him.

“I’m so very sorry, it was an accident,” He stumbled over his apology, but it seemed his employer wasn’t done berating him.

“You, are a catastrophe! Look at my library! Why do I put up with you?” Ben threw his hands in the air. 

“I put up with you because... because,” Poe grappled for something to say. Something that wouldn’t send Ben into another fit of rage or get him unemployed, but he couldn’t come up with anything.

“I put up with you because of your godmother is one of our finest patrons!” Oh well, “Now, I don’t care how you do it, I don’t care how long it takes. Straighten up this mess!” Ben exclaimed one final time before spinning around towards the entrance, his long tan cloak billowing behind him like a cape.

Poe threw his head back groaning, loudly. It seemed like luck just wasn’t on his side when it came to Ben Kenobi. In just one week of employment, Poe managed to get himself almost fired, not once, but a total of three times. He wondered if he was going to break some kind of record for the fastest person to ever be sacked as a librarian of all things.

A clattering noise pulled him out of his reverie. Poe sighed. The last thing he needed right now was something else to fall apart in the storage room and risk further angering Ben Kenobi. He quickly grabbed a flashlight from the desk before going to check on the noise.

The storage room, much to his annoyance, almost never had working lights in it. Somehow, the room filled with ancient artefacts and important documents was almost always dark. The beam of light dancing over random objects made shadows dance over the walls. Poe hated the dark.

“Hello?” Poe called out into the room and no one responded. He wasn’t sure if he would’ve preferred to hear a reply. Great. Now he’s got to risk his life twice before lunchtime. Librarians are so underrated.

“Snap?” He called out, noticing his voice only wavered slightly despite the darkness. Poe swore to himself, he was going to haunt the hell out of Kenobi’s ass if he died today. “Beebee?”

Poe almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of a loud thud coming from a corner. Please let it be Beebee, please let it be Beebee. Poe chanted under his breath. He couldn’t die, not today, not in the hands of a ghost. No way.

Thud. With a rare boost of bravery, Poe persevered towards the sound. How bad could it be? It was just a storage room in a library, there’s no way he was going to-

SCREEEEEEEE

A skeletal figure popped up with a deafening screech. Poe screamed, almost dropping the flashlight in his hurry to get the fuck out of there. But the sound of laughter that soon followed the screech, stopped him on his tracks.

He turned back to the open sarcophagus that Rey sat on, her whole face red from wheezing from laughter. The withering glare Poe sent her might have sent a stranger running but Rey only laughed harder at his expense.

“Don’t you have any respect for the dead?” He started to berate her.

“Of course I do, But sometimes I’d rather like to join them,” she grinned up at him, throwing an arm over the skeleton as if it weren’t a fucking skeleton. Poe suppressed a shudder. He hated bones. Yeah, ironic for someone trying to dig up dead stuff.

“Well I wish you’d do it sooner rather than later before you ruin my career-” Rey gave a long-suffering sigh, having heard this speech just about enough times already.

“Oh please, career is too generous of a word for whatever it is you’re doing,” She folds her arms behind her head, leaning back. But Poe wrapped his hands around her arms, easily hefting her off. For someone who looked like they’ll snap in half if it gets a little too windy, Rey got into more trouble then anyone he knew. Himself included.

“Now get out,” Poe unceremoniously dropped her on the floor.

“Woah! Hey, now who pissed in your drink,” she kicked him, dusting off her tan pants.

“Rey, im really not in the mood right now, I just made a bit of a mess in the library and Kenobi’s gonna kick my ass if I don’t fix it.” Poe plopped into an upturned crate, signing. He really didn’t want to go back into the library. It gave him a headache just thinking of the colossal mess he made.

“Besides,” She continued, paying no mind to him. “I’ve got just the thing to cheer you up!”

“What did you do this time?” He whined as she thrust a pyramid-shaped object into his hands, softly glowing a deep shade of red. There were inscriptions along the edges. Inscriptions he recognized.

“Rey, I think you found something,” He whispered, looking at her wide-eyed with excitement. Rey thought he looked very slightly deranged like this. In an endearing way, of course. “Its the Sith pathfinder,”

---

“You see the inscriptions on it? It’s the royal seal of Palpatine the first, I’m sure of it,” Poe announced as Ben Kenobi intently examined the pyramid-shaped object.

“Two questions,” Rey interrupted, “Who the hell was Palpatine the first, and was he rich?”

“He was the second emperor of the Sith dynasty, said to be the wealthiest emperor of them all,” Poe informed her. He had more than a little distaste for the name. After all, his parents were both taken by the war started by the Sith sympathisers. 

“Good. That’s good. I like this fellow,” Rey proclaimed. “I like him very much,” Poe shook his head in resignation. He didn’t fault her, Rey was way too young to know the horrors of war. But she was no stranger to hardship. She was just a scrawny eleven-year-old alone and fighting for survival in the harsh Jakku dessert when Ben Kenobi and Luke Skywalker found her.

“I’ve already dated the map, its almost three thousand years old,” Poe pointed to a part of the map, “And if you look at the hieratic just here, well,” Poe shrugged, knowing full well the kind of scepticism the place invoked. “Its Exegol,” Rey perked up at the sound of the name, suddenly becoming a hell lot more interested in the object that had come into her possession.

“Force, don’t be ridiculous. We’re scholars, not treasure hunters.” Ben Kenobi snaps at him. “Exegol is a myth told by ancient storytellers,”

“Oh? Was the war instigated by the senator who believed in Sith dictatorship a myth too?” snapped back at him. Ben looked taken aback by his reaction. It was rare for Poe to act out or even be disrespectful, at least it had been the past few years. He had more than a few rebellious years when he was much younger. Poe sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “My research has led be to believe that the city itself may have actually existed,”

“Are we talking about the Exegol,”

“Yes, the City of the Sith, located right over the cave kyber crystals are said to be found,”

“Oh, yes. A cave full of kyber crystals,” Rey’s voice was full of awe. Ben scoffed at her eagerness. “Oh please, everybody knows that story,” then proceeded to yelp as the sleeve of his robe sleeve caught on the edge of the table and the sith pathfinder goes tumbling over the desk. Poe and Rey dived right after it trying to catch it before it hit the ground but to no avail.

“You broke it, you broke a part of the city!” Rey accused him, scooping up the pathfinder, now missing a chunk on the side which laid shattered on the ground beside her.

“It’s for the best, I’m sure,” Ben said. “Many men have wasted their lives in the foolish pursuit of Exegol. No one’s ever found it.” He had a distant look in his eyes, almost like he was reminiscing. “Most have never returned.”

Rey’s voice was soft when she spoke again. Poe almost missed it. “Is there where uncle Luke went?” Ben sighed, getting up from his seat. He walked over to Rey, cupping her face in between his palms. Her small face dwarfed by his much larger hands.

“What makes you say that, Rey?” He asked her with a tenderness Poe had almost never heard from the man before. He felt like he was intruding in a private moment. “No one knows where he went or why, my child,” Ben pulled Rey into a hug, allowing them a single moment’s grief for their missing family member.

“Now run along, you both have things to do,” Poe didn’t resist, mentally drained from the eventful day he just had he was more than ready to call it a day, even if it was barely three o’clock.

Rey nudged him with her elbow as the two of them walked out of the office. Her face was alight with the conspiring smirk Poe was well acquainted with. “I have an idea,” 

Despite his earlier reservations about being more than ready to end the day, Poe felt his own lips pull into a smile at the promise trouble. “Lead the way, Kenobi,” Just like old times then, he thought. Rey hooked at arm under his elbow, skipping down the steps as she led him out of the library.

---

Part 2

—-

Series Taglist:

@witchyavenger @dameronsethnichips @wasicskosgirl @autumnleaves1991-blog @spider-starry @arkofblake @writefightandflightclub @demigod-dragonrider-schoolidol

#the mummy au #poe dameron #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron au #poe x reader #poe dameron imagine

[c-rose2081]

Through the Rubble

—

It started and ended with Mal.

Mal, Maleficent’s only daughter. Mal who so desperately wanted to follow in her moms footsteps; to become the most evil of them all. Mal who was far to soft inside to ever be truly be cruel or heartless.

Mal; the girl who failed to defeat Maleficent.

Audrey, like the rest of those at the coronation, stood in petrified horror. She could see all that was going on, but couldn’t move a muscle. There was a scream caught in her throat still; one which the Dark Fae had oh so gleefully silenced. Mal and her little friends stood face to face with a monster. And were there such a thing as happily ever after, they may have succeeded in overpowering her.

But life was cruel, and Maleficent was evil. The magic wand in Mal’s grip shattered to a million pieces. It wasn’t built to be held by someone of Dark Fae blood. The VK’s were powerless. And as Maleficent transformed into a dragon with a mighty roar and scream of triumph, the walls of the Palace came tumbling down. Audrey was caught in the chaos like everyone else, but unlike everyone else, she somehow lived.

It was pure luck — a miracle, honestly — that she wasn’t crushed or suffocated when the walls collapsed. She was instead trapped in a den of darkness and mortar dust, the magic which held her limbs in place gradually wearing off. Through the cracks, water gently trickled down from a rain that had begun falling. From these trickles the Princess drank, spitting out the coppery blood which lingered on her bit tongue, and washing away the taste of brick and sand. It felt like forever before she was able to move again, and even longer until she had full control over her body.

Audrey began to dig herself from the rubble when she was strong and well rested enough. A few times she had nearly been crushed by her own tunnel, and another time she had screamed when a lifeless hand brushed against her exposed thigh. The hand could’ve belonged to anyone really, as the skin was already hard and cold like frost. Audrey swallowed thickly and kept moving upwards, through the dark maze of stone, rebar and glass. She couldn’t risk another collapse by trying to identify who had touched her. What good it would do anyway other then make her heart hurt? By the time Audrey broke through into the fresh air, heaving and sweating from endless crawling, scuffling and shifting of rubble, a chill night had fallen.

Pulling herself out of the pile with a squeak of pain and a grunt of effort, Audrey skidded down to the floor on her side. The once polished marble was slick and muddied with rainwater; the roof was completely gone, exposing the grand foyer to the dark, dreary sky. Clouds mixed with billows of ash from fires all around Auradon, the horizon painted a vicious, burning red.

Beast’s Palace was no more. Maleficent had taken the whole place down with her, leaving behind only lumps of undefinable dust. Audrey sat atop a rather large block, squinting through the night to see if she could spot anyone; a survivor, even just a body. But as she had been, everyone attending the Coronation was now stuck under several feet of debris. How she had managed to get out herself, the Princess wasn’t sure. Somewhere down there, Chad, Grammy and her parents slept on. And Audrey felt tears leak from her eyes as she imagined it.

Shaking her head and swallowing those emotions for the moment, Audrey began picking her way further into the mess. In her hazy brain, she could still imagine how the room used to look. She could see the beautiful alabaster pylons and the heavy velvet blue drapes. She could still see the glisten of golden chandeliers above, and hear the echo of voices.

This place was now empty, and filled with ghosts.

Shaking the vision of what had previously been here, Audrey made her way towards where she recalled seeing Mal and her friends last. She didn’t see any bodies, but then again they could’ve been swept aside or taken someplace else by Maleficent. They could still be alive; Audrey wouldn’t be the wiser. But she didn’t care about Mal, or her little friends. She didn’t care about anything other then falling to her knees and digging through the dirt with her bare hands.

It felt hopeless after only a few minutes. Her fingers and nails were bleeding, but Audrey continued to sift. She was pushing away blocks, cutting her palms on glass, and leaving red fingerprints all over the floor. She was ready to give up, her emotions hot and burning in her throat as she began to cry. But then her bloody hand wrapped around something small, and a cry of triumph left her throat.

A wood fragment.

It was insignificant, and shaped like a small elongated diamond. The outer edge was painted ivory white, while the interior glistened with natural wood and gold flakes. Audrey cradled the shard like it was the most precious thing in the world. And to her, alone in a rubble pile with the world burning around her, and the dead sleeping somewhere under the ruined castle, it was.

Audrey continued her search with fervor. Day in and day out, hour after hour, she sifted and moved the palace by hand. For nearly two years, as Maleficent set up her dominion in Auradon and the world was ruled by villains, Audrey stayed in the ruins. She barely ate or slept; her back and shoulders developed a permanent hunch from crawling around on the floor. Audrey’s once healthy physique deteriorated. She went just a bit mad, searching, praying, uncovering bodies and reburying them with a little prayer but nothing more.

But with each magic wand fragment she found, the fire of hope burned brighter within her.

Two years rolled into three, and three into four. Audrey, unrecognizable, continued to live amongst the rubble. The remaining walls were covered in vines and foliage, and animals made homes in the nooks and crannies of the piles. Audrey was dying slowly, but she continued to dig. Her weak bones couldn’t lift much anymore, and her back couldn’t hold her upright. Her coronation dress was brown where it was once pink, and her hair had gone long and now kissed her tailbone.

It was on a rainy afternoon that Audrey found what she was looking for. It was nearly washed away in the storm, and had the former Princess not been looking for it, all hope would’ve been lost. She scrambled on her knees, catching the tiny white paint chip with shaking, bony fingers. Her wide brown eyes stared at the flake in disbelief as she ghosted her thumb against its surface.

Holding the fragment to her chest, Audrey crawled her way back to the small den she had carved for herself. Here, on a piece of her own skirt, the other fragments lay waiting.

“...please work,” Audrey rasped, having lost her voice a year before to a rather bad case of pneumonia, “please work,”

Dropping the paint fleck onto the pile, nothing happened at first. Audrey was heartbroken, but gasped and grinned widely as there was a brilliant flash. The wand, in all of its beautiful splendor, wove itself back together before her eyes. The cracks disappeared, and a sturdy ivory shaft was left behind.

“Thank you,” Audrey whispered to the thing, picking it up in her hands as the magic thrummed through her, “you can fix this, can’t you? All of this death and destruction?”

The wand wasn’t sentient, but Audrey held it to her ear as though listening. She had gone just a bit insane, searching for all those years. Loneliness and longing had tainted her heart and mind black, “please help me fix this. I know you can,” she told the wand desperately, taking the handle in her hand and waving it, “please work for me. Bibbidi-Bobbity...Boo,”

And with a flick and flash, everything went dark.

Late night lit doodle from my drafts. Thought about time travel and such.

#disney descendants #descendants #audrey rose #descendants 1 #descendants fanfiction #thoughts #time travel #lit doodle

[elvish-sky]

A Light From the Shadows Chapter 3- We Always Keep Going, or The One Where Shit Goes Down. Literally.

A.N: Indecision strikes again in the form of me honestly not being able to pick a title for this chapter- so I picked two! Also- I won’t be able to post fics (b/c no access to AO3 or Google Drive) tomorrow or Sunday, which is why this is being posted today. This is the first chapter, and honestly the first thing I've written in so long that I like and am actually proud of. I feel like I might be getting back into the writing groove? Fingers crossed! But, seriously, thank you all for the love and support of this fic. I am so happy you like it <3. Also i’m very excited for your reactions to the canon characters showing up…

Warning: Blood, Angst

A Light From the Shadows Masterlist

Read on Wattpad and AO3

*******

The faint grey light of the moon filtered down into the cell from a small crack in the stone ceiling, barely illuminating Aeri’s face. It cast a shadow across her hands and set the vaguely familiar face of the elf passed out in the cell next to her aglow.

Aeri lay on the cold stone floor, hands and feet still bound. Her fingers flexed as she tried to get some blood flowing to her arms. She’d been in the same position for a very long time- it was so dark that she could not tell exactly how long had passed since Rhugar had dumped the body in the cell next door.

“Where am I?” a weak voice asked.

Aeri started. She turned her head and saw the other elf clinging to the bars separating them, even more, familiar with her eyes open.

She looked so scared, terror illuminating her face just as the moon had moments before.

“Please tell me. Where am I?” She clutched at the bars desperately.

Aeri shifted, trying to move closer. “You’re in Dol Guldur.”

The elf looked horrified. “Really?”

Aeri nodded, and she could see the despair crashing over the elf’s face. She tried to think of a way to distract her.

“Who are you?”

The elf looked away, “I don’t know if I can tell you that.”

Aeri sighed. “Fine. Will it help if I tell you my name first?”

She didn’t respond, so Aeri continued.

“I’m Aerinithil.”

The elf’s spine straightened, eyes widening in shock. “Really?”

Aeri couldn’t help but laugh. “I think I’d know my own name. But how do you know it?”

“You’re Calenglîn’s daughter! The one she had with that human.”

Aeri grew wary. “How do you know my mother?”

The elf had a faint smile on her face, reminiscing. “We were best friends, inseparable until she left with Eddard.”

And then Aeri realized where she’d seen her before.

“...Celebrían?”

The elf nodded. And then passed out.

Aeri scrambled over to her, chains clanking against the rock-solid floor as she crashed into the bars separating them.

“Celebrían!!! Celebrían! Please wake up, please, please, please…”

Aeri trailed off. She’d been shaking Celebrían through the bars and rolled the elf over to see blood spilling through her dress, pooling on the floor underneath her. Aeri parted the fabric at the source, on the left side of Celebrían’s abdomen, and saw a stab wound, bleeding and so clearly infected Aeri was sure the blade that had done it had been poisoned.

“Oh no, no no no no no,” Aeri muttered, scrambling for something to stop the bleeding. She looked down at herself, the ragged hem of her tunic. Quickly, she tore it off and tried to wrap it around Celebrían through the bars of the cell. She succeeded, getting the fabric over Celebrían’s wound and tied it, contorting her arms through the bars.

Aeri heard padding footsteps, the ones that she now recognized as belonging to Rhugar, and panicked. Celebrían was passed out, possibly dying, because of a clearly poisoned stab wound in her side, and Aeri was sure that Rhugar would only make it worse. She had to do something. And she had to do it now.

Aeri knew that the one thing that could help her now was the thing she was terrified to do- at some point when she was bleeding, broken on the floor, something had seeped into her. A shadow. She’d spent the time in this cell learning its language, and now she called them all, whispering, muttering to the very things that had once sought to destroy her.

And they came.

Darkness spread across the cell as Aeri’s hands moved, directing the shadows to cover each wall and crack and crevice until there was no light at all. Aeri realized that she could sense shapes in the darkness- she could feel Celebrían’s hair like it was brushing against her hand instead of attached to the elf’s head a foot away. She was aware of everything happening in the pool of shadow she had created that spanned the two cells.

She sent shadows worming into the manacles on her ankles and wrists, worming their way into the very heart of the metal, and then the darkness expanded, corrupting the metal until it collapsed off of her wrists. She did the same to those shackling Celebrían, heard the clink of the broken shackles on the floor once the shadows had done their work, and called them back to her.

Aeri heard Rhugar drawing closer and closer to the cell, and drew back the shadows so that there was a small circle of light around her and Celebrían, but darkness still separated them from the doorways to both cells.

Rhugar opened the cell door and saw nothing but darkness. The entire cell was just pitch-black- he’d been able to at least see his hand in front of his face when he’d been in here before. But this was different. There wasn’t a little light that made it easier to bear- this was the total absence of light.

“Aerinithil…” Rhugar entered the cell, unsheathing his sword as he moved, trying to find his niece.

Aeri crouched, waiting in the pool of light she’d left for herself and Celebrían. She could feel where Rhugar was in the cell and felt it as he drew closer and closer. Just as she sensed him about to emerge from the dark, she put her hands behind her back.

Rhugar stepped forward, emerging into the light. He threw up a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden brightness.

Aeri watched him, waiting for him to look down and notice him. He blinked, trying to adjust to the light and when he looked at her he grinned.

“Ah. There you are,” he drew closer, “but what’s going on with our friend over there?” He gestured to Celebrían.

Aeri waited as Rhugar padded over to the bars separating them from the elf. Her hands twitched behind her back, flexing.

“Where are her chains, Aerinithil?” His voice had a dangerous edge.

Rhugar turned to look at his niece once more, and Aeri took a deep breath.

She raised her hands, shrugging. “I don’t know.”

It took him a second to notice the lack of manacles on her as well, but when he did, the expression on his face was almost comical. Until it became twisted, wrong, his face echoing the evil in his eyes.

“What. Did. You. Do?”

Aeri raised her unshackled hands. “I learned.”

She brought them together and the darkness rushed in around them, shadows racing forward at her call to bind Rhugar’s wrists and ankles the way he’d bound hers, forcing him down until he was kneeling at her feet.

“Farewell, Uncle,” she told him, and then punched him in the face. Rhugar collapsed onto the floor, unconscious, and Aeri limped past him.

She left her cell and approached the still-locked door of the one next to it. Twisting her hand, she called a shadow and directed into the metal of the lock, corrupting it until it fell apart. She shoved the door open, wincing at the shriek of metal against stone, and saw Celebrían laying on the floor. Aeri rushed over to the elf, kneeling beside her and trying to shake her awake, careful not to touch her wound.

“Celebrían, please, wake up, please wake up.”

Celebrían’s eyes opened. “Aerinithil?”

Aeri nodded, blinking back tears of relief. “Yes, yes, it’s me. Can you stand? We have to go!”

Celebrían winced. “I do not know if I have the strength.”

“You have to.”

Aeri heaved Celebrían to her feet, apologizing as the elf cried out in pain. She slung Celebrían’s arm over her shoulders, supporting her, and they walked out the door together, both limping, Celebrían hanging on to Aeri like her life depended on it.

They made their way down the hall slowly, cautious of any enemies waiting around the corner.

“Do you know the way out?”

Celebrían shook her head.

Aeri sighed, “Me neither. Guess we’ll find out,” and they limped on.

A ways down the hall, an orc rounded the corner in front of them, stopping short at the sight.

“How did you get out of your cells?”

Aeri shrugged Celebrían’s arm off her shoulder, leaving the elf leaning against the wall. She sprang forward and knocked the orc unconscious, much like she’d done to her uncle only a while earlier, and then grabbed Celebrían once more.

They hobbled through the halls together, every time they saw an enemy Aeri would knock it unconscious. Until there were too many.

A horde of orcs was chasing them as they limped as fast as they could through the cold stone hallways, bare feet hurting on the rough floor.

Aeri released Celebrían once again and turned to face them all as they rushed towards her.

She raised her arms, flexing her hands and twisting her fingers

Celebrían looked up at Aeri. “What are you doing?”

“Bringing it all down.”

Elladan sat astride his horse, racing towards the fortress of Dol Guldur alongside his brother. They’d been tracking the orcs that had kidnapped their mother for weeks and were finally closing in.

“Brother!” came a shout from next to him, “Look!”

Elladan looked. The fortress was starting to shake, a rumble sounding through the air. He stopped his horse.

“Should we keep going?”

“Our mother is in there,” Elrohir told him, “We always keep going.”

Elladan spurred his horse after his brother and kept going.

Several minutes later, the twins stopped short in horror. A cloud of darkness was rising from the fortress, filling the sky and casting shadows on the surrounding land. It billowed up and up in waves, blanketing the forest as it spread.

“What do we do?” Elrohir asked.

Elladan held up a hand, “What is that?” and peered into the darkness.

A person, a young woman, was racing towards them at the front of the darkness, another woman cradled in her arms.

Aeri sprinted at the front of the shadows she had summoned, the darkness following at her heels as she ran. Celebrían was cradled in her arms, muttering and groaning as Aeri moved, trying her hardest not to jolt her friend.

She saw two figures astride horses waiting on the path ahead, and slowed for a moment. She could tell they were elves, but after Rhugar’s betrayal, she wasn’t sure who she could trust. And then she drew closer and saw the same features of the elf in her arms in their faces. Aeri knew that Celebrían had twin sons, and these must be them. She started sprinting again.

Honestly, she wasn’t sure how she was managing to carry her friend, as well as keep up the darkness that was currently tearing the fortress apart. She thought it might be adrenaline. But she was thankful for the extra energy as she heard the thunderous noises of the fortress crumbling behind her.

Aeri approached the twins, slowing as she reached them.

Elrohir watched this mysterious woman approach them. She had ears like an elf’s but there was something about her that assured him that she wasn’t, or at least not entirely so. He could see the elf she had cradled in his arms, see that it was-

“Emmë?” Elladan whispered.

Elrohir slid off his horse, walking towards the girl that held their mother.

“Who are you?” He whispered as he got closer.

Through the dust and grime covering her face, he saw a faint smile as she spoke. “A friend.”

Elladan walked up behind his brother. “Thank you for bringing her.”

The girl nodded. “Of course. She has a poisoned wound, so get her to a healer soon.’

“Thank you again,” said Elrohir.

She nodded. “Take care of her,” said the not-quite-an-elf-that-had-pointy-ears, and then she strode into the forest, alone.

Later, Aeri sat on a branch high in an old oak, looking out over the forest. Dol Guldur still dominated the landscape, but it looked much different. Instead of the commanding fortress it had been that morning, it was a crumbling pile of rubble. She couldn’t believe that she had done that.

Holding up her hand, she let a shadow wind around it, wrapping around her right-hand thumb like a ring, shaking. This new power, controlling darkness, was terrifying. She’d brought down a fortress with it in a matter of minutes- who knew what else she’d do? But something inside her called for more- it wanted to be set free, shown to the world in an even greater display than what she’d just done.

Rhugar hauled himself up onto the wall, wincing. He’d been knocked unconscious by that awful niece of his, and just as he’d come to the ceiling had crashed down around him. Small scrapes and bruises covered every part of his body. His head was throbbing, and he reached up to wipe at his face. His hand came away red with blood, and as the pain grew he realized he had a large cut on his face. He grimaced as he stood, surveying the land around him. He was at the top of the ruins now, having spent a long time hauling himself up, and could see for miles. He could also clearly see that Dol Guldur, his base, was completely destroyed. His master would not be pleased, but that would not matter. Dol Guldur could be used whether ruined or not.

Rhugar took a deep breath and began the descent.

Aeri didn’t know whether Rhugar had survived. As much as she wanted him to be gone, some part of her still thought of him as family, remembered the uncle that he once was. But she knew he wasn’t, that he hadn’t been that person for a long time. Something had reached into the inner depths of his soul and turned them rotten.

She climbed down the tree and limped off into the woods, in the direction of the home that, after the deaths of her parents, only she knew about. The safehouse hidden in the far north, above even Erebor, that she hadn’t been to for years. She began planning- how she’d get supplies to withstand the long journey north, acquiring a horse, and how to wipe out the blight known as the servants and master of Mordor off Middle-Earth, once and for all.

Aeri had no clue why the shadows had chosen her, but she knew she’d try to do better with them than Rhugar had done with the darkness inside himself.

*******

A.N: WHAT DO YOU THINK?!?! I’m honestly so excited to hear your thoughts on this!! What do you think of the canon characters appearing? I loved getting to include Celebrían, even if I did have to make a minor tweak to canon to include her (but it was very minor). and what do you think of Aeri’s powers?

Everything tag: @entishramblings @itgetsatadhazy @boyruins @anjhope1 @kumqu4t @katbby16 @thewhiteladyofrohan @kirstenscaffeinateddisaster @beenovel @shethereadinghobbit @guardianofrivendell @hey-its-nonny

ALFTS tag: @lothloriien @laurfilijames @cassiabaggins @claraofthepen @wishingtobeinadifferentuniverse

#a light from the shadows #alfts #aeri #aerinithil #aeri x aragorn #aragorn #aragorn x aeri #aragorn x oc #lord of the rings #the hobbit #jrr tolkien #dol guldur #aragorn fanfic #aragorn/aeri #aragorn/oc #rhugar #sauron #calenglîn x eddard #calenglîn #eddard #oc x oc

[opalescent-cheetah]

shenhe/rosaria - nightmare

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Summary: A sequel to this. Shenhe wakes up from a nightmare during her journey to Mondstadt and, unable to return to sleep in the confines of an unfamiliar room, decides to take a walk through Mondstadt's alleyways, where she happens to encounter a familiar face.

~

It happens again.

Shenhe jolts awake, her mind whirling with panic as she takes in the unfamiliar room, with its simple wooden furnishings and the feather-soft mattress beneath her. She can feel darkness clawing at her insides: the curse, rearing its ugly head, preying on her subconscious in her most vulnerable moments.

When did the ropes fall so loose?

She scrambles to tighten them, feeling the pinch of red fibres against her skin. Oddly enough, that pain is comforting now.

Her breathing steadies as she fixes her bindings, and gradually, she begins to remember where she is: Mondstadt, the city of freedom, of wind and song. 

Shenhe’s chest tightens. She could never fit in here; someone like her could never be free.

Suddenly, the tiny room becomes at once stifling and lonely. It’s been years since Shenhe had to wake up from a nightmare without Cloud Retainer at her side, gently easing her racing mind back into the present. Initially, Shenhe had been grateful for a chance at independence, but in moments like these, all she wants to do is bury her face in Cloud Retainer’s feathers and cry.

It would be impossible for her to return to slumber now, and she is unwilling to spend another moment in this stuffy room, grieving for the wounded child within her. She acts impulsively, pushing open the window and climbing down into the streets below.

Mondstadt is surprisingly busy, considering the late hour. Tavern lights twinkle in the darkness, and groups of people mill about, basking in the pools of amber and gold. The carefree, drunken smiles on their faces send a stab of envy through Shenhe’s heart; will she ever get to wear an expression like that?

Turning away from the joyous scene, Shenhe begins wandering the alleyways, making her way back to the row of rooftops Rosaria led her to just the night before.

She doesn’t make it very far.

The alleyway is blocked by shadowy figures, their faces obscured in the darkness. Shenhe can only just make out the shapes of four people: three of them are of average height and build, but the fourth is tall and slender, the waves of fabric billowing out behind them making them seem inhuman, almost godly.

“And who’s gonna stop us, eh? Some prostitute masquerading as a nun?” an unfamiliar voice sneers. Shenhe stiffens, her fingers immediately folding themselves around her polearm. 

“Sure,” a different voice replies coldly. “If that’s what you want to go out believing.” 

That voice – it’s not – it couldn’t be –

Shenhe barely has time to respond before the tall, slender figure leaps into action and the alley flashes in white and blue, snowflakes coating the mossy bricks in frost. The three unfamiliar figures can hardly react before a spear cuts through the cool night air, impaling them one by one with a practised dexterity. All too soon, the commotion quietens, and the breeze that drifts through the alley carries an iron tang.

Shenhe swallows thickly, watching the ragged edges of that familiar habit shifting in the breeze.

“Rosaria?”

~

Rosaria stiffens at the sound of that melodic voice.

No.

Please, no. Not here. Not now.

Not like this.

She turns slowly, wishing with every breath that she’ll jolt awake and realise that this is all a terrible dream. That Shenhe won’t be standing there, barely three feet away, staring at the crimson stains on her gloves.

She wants to pinch herself, but she knows it would be pointless. This was bound to happen someday - some unsuspecting, innocent person would inevitably find her doing her dirty work, and the reality behind Mondstadt’s peaceful existence would be revealed to them like a cold, cruel slap to the face. Rosaria does her work under the cover of night, but there are still eyes in the darkness.

But of all the eyes that could’ve seen Rosaria like this, why did they have to be hers?

She wants to shrink under that opalescent stare. Shenhe is wreathed in shadow, but her eyes are still so bright, so beautiful. The sight of them now tears open a wound in Rosaria’s chest.

“Shenhe,” she finally responds, her voice feeling dry and foreign in her throat.

The sound of her own name seems to snap Shenhe out of a stupor. The next thing Rosaria knows, Shenhe’s cool hands are on her face, those brilliant eyes mere inches away from her own.

“Rosaria,” Shenhe says again, scanning her face with such attentiveness that Rosaria feels like she’s a precious treasure. “Are you alright?”

“Of course. I’m just doing my job.” I wish you didn’t have to see it, though.

“Your job?” Shenhe’s brow creases. “I thought you were a Sister.”

“More in name than in practice,” Rosaria explains. “It’s a cover, really. I do the dirty work, keep Mondstadt safe, and pretend I enjoy going to choir practice so nobody guesses what goes on behind-the-scenes.”

“Oh. That’s very noble of you,” Shenhe says, and Rosaria blinks, surprised. This is not how she expected this conversation to go.

“What are you doing out here this late?” Rosaria finds herself asking. She needs to change the topic before her heart combusts.

She hates herself for it, though, when Shenhe’s face falls, and her hands drift away from Rosaria’s cheeks.

“A nightmare,” she says quietly, fingers picking at the woven ropes around her shoulders. “I couldn’t stay in that room any longer.”

“Oh.” Rosaria isn’t sure what to say.

“I’m glad I ran into you,” Shenhe continues, glancing up again. Rosaria is struck by the earnestness in the depths of those jewel-toned eyes. “I-I’m sure you’re busy, but… can I stay with you?” She hesitates briefly, before a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “I happen to be quite skilled in the art of dismembering monsters myself.”

Rosaria finds herself grinning. “I’d be more than happy to have you.”

#opal writes #genshin impact #genshin fanfic #shenhe #rosaria #shensaria #shenhe x rosaria #rosaria x shenhe #i love them your honour

[meetthetank]

Beast Code Chapter 1: The Twilit City

Rating: Mature Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Category: F/M Fandom: NieR: Automata (Video Game) Relationship: 2B/9S (NieR: Automata) Characters: 2B (NieR: Automata), 9S (NieR: Automata), Original YoRHa Characters (NieR: Automata) Additional Tags: Transformation, gothic horror, Android Lycanthropy...sort of, Inspired by Bloodborne (Video Game), Everyday i get closer to just writing a Bloodborne AU

Summary:  Break the vicious cycle with tooth and claw. Unleash the beast within and destroy your chains. But the strength to defy fate comes at a grave cost. Will it be enough, little doll? Or will you succumb to despair once more?

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31546982

The assignment to the Twilight Belt comes as a shock to 2B and 9S. Rarely, if ever, are YorHa units sent to this border of perpetual daylight and eternal night. Conditions are always reported as unstable by the infrequent scans by one of the other satellite bases that orbit earth, too dangerous to deploy scanners by themselves, and too depleted of resources for the Council to care about. The mystery surrounding the strip of permanent twilight goads curious operators and scanners alike to comb through files searching for nuggets of data, image or video files, anything they can get their hands on. All but a few pieces of data reveal tantalizing scraps and clues to the puzzle of the Sunset Belt. Photographs of dead machines with toothy, gaping maws that split their spherical heads in two and minerals warped in peculiar shapes. According to one of the situation reports from a scanner that had been sent there, there was an eerie, foreboding feeling about the place; that strange and frightening sounds would echo across the landscape and that he felt close to a forbidden barrier that separated this world from another. Though the file and its contents are now treated as a human “ghost story”, many androids, including 2B and 9S, believe at least some portion of the tale.

9S relays this story to 2B as they descend to Earth’s surface, his chattering easing some of 2B’s trepidation. The pair had fallen into an easy rhythm over the course of several assignments to Earth, most of which involved retrieving data from lost servers buried in rubble or clearing out an area of machine lifeforms. Despite her outwardly cold demeanor, 9S wormed his way past all of her defenses, forming a strong, solid relationship with the battler android. His voice is a centering point for her and assists in ignoring the gut churning possibilities of what could be waiting for them below.

“...What do you think, 2B?” his voice crackles from the comms system inside her flight unit.

“Hm?” she shifts her head to the side, glancing at his jet black flight unit cruising beside hers.

“What do you think made the target go rogue?”

She bites her lower lip. There are a thousand possible answers as to why a normally punctual, efficient YorHa Battle unit would suddenly stop responding to command and not checking in at required times. Only a few of those options were machine lifeform related complications.

“We’ll find out when we arrive, 9S.” she says curtly, eager to shut down the conversation, “Focus on landing protocol.”

He sighs, a sound of annoyance and frustration, “Yeah, yeah.”

“One affirmation will-”

“Fiiiiiiiine.”

The final phase of their descent is spent in silence. They pass through the Earth’s atmosphere in streaks of fire and light towards the border of day and night, and a continent that humans called Europe. Even as they descend, the outlines of ancient, massive structures come into view. Both androids are used to the thick vegetation eating away at the remains of human structures, but here the trees are gnarled, twisted, and void of leaves or blossoms. Their branches reach to the crimson sky and permanently setting sun like bony hands in prayer or a stag’s antlers. As 2B and 9S set their flight units down a few miles away from the outskirts of a sprawling, ancient city. It amazes 9S, as he exits his own unit, that the buildings are in such good condition considering the millenia that have passed it by. Great spires of countless cathedrals pierce the heavens, casting an ominous, looming shadow over the otherwise barren landscape. A well worn cobblestone road, lined with rusted iron lighting fixtures long since burnt out, leads into the city proper. 

2B and 9S stand at the precipice of this ancient beast of stone and metal in awe of its size, and terrified of what might lurk within. A hoarse bird’s caw, jolts the androids back into awareness, 2B drawing her katana and prepares for battle.

“Heh,” 9S laughs, trying to calm them both down, “Just a raven, 2B.”

“What?”

“A large black bird. Harmless to us.” He doesn’t tell her about the chill he gets down his spine as he watches the corvid gaze down at them with beady black eyes, or how humans saw these birds as ill omens or prophets of death.

They begin the trek into the forgotten city. 2B doesn’t put Virtuous Contract away.

Pod 042 alerts 2B to the presence of an unidentifiable android signal, marking the location on both hers and 9S’ map. Since the area has yet to be properly mapped out by satellite imagery (as inaccurate as that process is) only a vague street layout is available through a very low power scan. They have no way of judging what might block their path to the target beyond featureless grey masses depicting buildings, rubble, large trees, or whatever else may lie in wait. Their target, represented by a small orange dot on the map, appears to be near the city’s main gate and inside one of the larger buildings. 2B refuses to admit it to herself, but she’s relieved to not have to delve too far into this labyrinthine city.

“I’ve never seen the sky this color…” 9S muses as he stares up, transfixed by the blood red sky and orange sun hanging low.

Though hauntingly beautiful, she won’t deny, 2B keeps her gaze fixed on the wrought iron gate ahead of them. The heavens disturb her; they are the color of death. Of war. And the sun is… wrong. 

She snaps at 9S to keep focused as they approach the gate to the city. Though scans indicate there are no machine lifeforms, or any lifeforms beyond their target, she’s learned from countless combat assignments to not rely totally on what the support unit reports. She’s encountered and seen machines that mask themselves from scans or camouflage themselves in the environment, and in a place like this anything could be hiding in the shadows just outside of view. 

The iron gate lies ajar, worn from millennia of neglect. Clouds of rust particles burst from the hinges as 2B shoves it open further, the metal grinding against itself with a horrible grating shriek. The sound makes them both wince, and they slip through the partially opened gate as soon as they can.

Standing inside the city gates, 9S can’t shake the uneasy feeling that claws at the back of his mind. The great ancient human structures loom above them, and though he knows that the buildings themselves aren’t alive, he can’t shake the notion that he’s being watched by them. The windows are dark, but when he passes by the light of the setting sun reflects off of them, giving them the illusion of intelligence. Suddenly, 9S feels as if he’s inside a cave, or locked in a room with no exit. Suddenly… He finds it hard to breathe. 9S tugs at the collar of his jacket as if it's tightening around his throat. His synthetic lungs fill with air as much as he can take, then he releases it moments later. It calms him, if only a little.

2B’s gaze is fixed ahead on the building Pod 042 marked as the rogue android’s hiding place. It’s a much smaller structure than the others that choke the sky, but its reach stretches across the streets like a tree’s roots. Judging by the well preserved signs that hang from crumbled doors it looked to have multiple uses. 9S commands his own Pod to run scans on the words and symbols for later analysis. 

“The target’s in here…” 2B murmurs, holding her free hand up in a tight fist, signaling 9S to stop behind her.

This portion of the sprawling building is similar in structure to the massive spires above. It has the same pointed section on the roof, but much smaller in scale, and similar symbols decorate the exterior. A cross, winged humans, various flowering plants, and a number of human figures bowing their heads or supplicating themselves to the winged humans.

“This must have been a place of worship,” 9S muses aloud.

“Focus.”

He nods. Typically 9S argues with his partner about the necessity for recording data like this, or excuse his wandering attention to his designation as a scanner, but he knows the danger within the house of worship, or rather, he doesn’t know. Neither one of them knows what this rouge android is capable of. 

2B presses her hand against the wooden doors to the chapel and pushes it open as slowly as possible. It groans in protest, dust falls from its hinges and frame, but it swings inward. A rush of warm air washes over them carrying the scent of stale incense and dead machines. Clouds of smoke billow out of the doorway, rising into the red sky like twisted fingers. 2B enters first, sliding in sword arm first. She motions for 9S to wait for a moment, then commands Pod 042 to switch on its flashlight. 

9S peeks his head around the door, keeping a few paces behind his partner. He switches on his own Pod’s flashlight to illuminate more of the pitch black interior. Long wooden benches are pushed up against the walls, opening up the center space. Ornate candle holders, rotting books, charred incense burners, and pieces of artwork among other things 9S has no name for are scattered across the ground, each one a priceless human artifact that could fuel hours of study. Yet it’s not these that hold 9S’ attention, but the statue at the far back of the chapel, and the figure kneeling in front of it.

It looks to be made of some kind of marble, a pristine white stone that has been sheltered from time and the elements. The subject is another winged human, this one wearing splendid armor and wielding a great spear. Beneath them, a grotesque, writhing beast bares its teeth and claws at the warrior as the blade pierces its throat. 9S has never seen anything like it in person, and very few records of these kinds of sculptures remain at all. It’s both horrific and beautiful at once. He wonders what the human who made this saw that inspired it. Did creatures like these roam the world during their time?

2B steps in front of him, Virtuous Contract at the ready. The figure in front of the statue rises to their feet as the Pod’s flashlights center on them. A cloak made of feathers conceals most of their form but they appear to be a female android, perhaps a YorHa model. Though, if that were the case it would have been in the mission briefing. That is, unless... 

The android turns her head to the side, glaring at the pair over her shoulder.

“So, Command sent the wolves, did they?” She asks, a distinct rumble in her voice.

2B raises her blade and keeps her gaze steady. She hears 9S also ready his weapon, the golden katana Cruel Oath. 

Lazily, the android turns her body to face them. Her clothes confirm her origins; there’s no mistaking the sharp white embellishments and black velvet of a YorHa uniform; however each piece is ripped, tattered, and stitched together with other scraps of clothing or… animal hide. 

The rouge android drags the blade of a bloodied top heavy sword between her fingers, cleaning the gore from it. “It doesn’t matter, dog.” Her eyes shine with a strange, purplish light that refracts around her collapsed, twisted pupils. “You will fall like the rest.”

It isn’t until the rogue android rushes forward, sword raised, that 2B sees the corpses of YorHa units piled in front of the statue, and the blood that soaks it.

She dashes backward and shoves the bewildered 9S out of harm's way. The android’s bloodied sword crashes into the stonework floor, sending thousands of years of dust into the air. 2B lunges, her katana poised to take advantage of the enemy’s opening, but she sidesteps much quicker than anticipated. The rogue’s fist slams into 2B’s chest, distorting her internal sensors and throwing her off balance. 2B watches in horror as the rogue drives her sword towards her, but a golden flash knocks the blade away. 

“2B!” 9S shouts, brandishing Cruel Oath. “Are you okay?!”

She shakes her head as if it would clear the internal errors from her vision, but she assumes her battle stance next to her partner. “Fine.”

Both androids launch into an assault on the rogue, attacking in tandem. Despite 2B’s scrambled sensors, she and 9S have an undeniable synergy that comes with countless missions. 2B forces the rogue back with singular, powerful blows, while 9S jabs at any opening he can reach from the sides. However, even with their combined might the rogue deflects and maneuvers out of the way of each attack as casually as one would flick away an insect or step around a puddle. She looks to be expending no effort at all as she dances around the two YorHa. Anger and frustration rises in 2B, culminating in a harsh growl. She mimics the rogue’s tactic from earlier, rushing forward and feinting with a crushing overhead strike that is easily dodged but allows no time for recovery. She slams her fist into the rogue android’s face, sending her stumbling backwards. Before 9S can dive in with a horizontal slash the rogue dashes backward, putting crucial distance between her and her hunters.

The rogue android lowers her gaze at the pair, sizing them up, taking stock of their abilities and assessing their weaknesses. 2B watches her eyes dart back and forth between her and 9S, then linger on 9S. Sensing the rogue’s motive and deciding at that moment that the outcome is unacceptable, 2B dives in front of the strike meant for 9S. The rogue’s sword slices cleanly through her chest, coating the rogue’s clothes in splatters of fresh blood. The battler falls to her knees, clutching the wound with one hand while supporting herself on her sword. 

“No!!” 9S screams and lunges at their target. “2B!!”

“Hm. Interesting.” The rogue murmurs, easily deflecting the scanner’s wild strikes.

2B watches through blurred, error obscured vision as 9S drives the rogue back. If she didn’t know any better it’d seem that he has the upper hand, but the rogue’s eyes glint in a way 2B recognizes all too well. She’s baiting him. 

9S slams his blade against the rogue’s, pressing all of his power and weight into the strike. It’s the moment she had been waiting for. Suddenly she pulls back, letting 9S’ weight fall forward and forcing him off balance. She kicks his legs out from under him then shoves him into the floor. 9S lets out a startled, choked gasp as his weight and the force of the rogue’s attack cracks the stone floor, sending up more clouds of dust into the air. 

Clutching her chest, 2B roars and charges at the target with blinding speed. When she sees the smirk twisting the rogue’s lips and the pointed iron rod in her grip, it’s too late. With a flash of her crowfeather cape, the android meets 2B’s charge with her own, the skewer aimed at her wounded chest. 2B tries to divert her body away, but the momentum is too strong. It’s just enough to roll her body to the side so that the spike pierces clean through her shoulder, clear of critical systems. 

The pain, however, is agonizing. 

It’s different from the injuries 2B has suffered in the past. Countless machine swords, spears, and axes have torn through her body and of course all of those injuries hurt, but they were manageable. When the iron bar rips through layers of cloth, skin, carbon plating and frame, and synthetic muscle fibers it's as if her shoulder has been set on fire. She clenches her teeth, muffling a scream to a low growl. Her hand wraps around the skewer, close to the wound itself. Instinct tells her to tear it out immediately, but she knows that without treatment doing so would only worsen her condition. 2B doesn’t get to make that decision, unfortunately. The rogue grabs hold of the end of the iron rod and twists it side to side, driving it further into 2B’s shoulder. 

2B sinks to her knees and tries to hold back the cries of agony. Her injured arm stops responding to commands and lies limp and useless against her side. She swats at the rogue android with her weakening other arm, desperate to escape from this torment. Her strength fades along with her vision; it becomes impossible to even hold herself upright.

She must not fall, she must not… she must stay strong, she must stay alive.

She will not allow him to die… 

Not for the sake of a monster like her….

9S leaps into the fight as the rogue android prepares a killing blow. A flurry of Pod fire, sword strikes, and furious movement all blur together into a white, gold, and black haze. She fights to stay awake, she fights to stand, but her body begins to shut down non-vital systems and conserve as much energy as she can. First her tactile sensors switch off, leaving her in a numbing cold. Then her hearing, quickly followed by sight. A warning flashes across the last vestiges of her vision that she is entering a forced shutdown state, and despite her audio sensors being deactivated, she swears she hears 9S cry out for her.

….

….

…….

………

……….

……..

….

2B opens her eyes to the blinding, sterile white of hacking space. This itself is not shocking. Oftentimes she would run diagnostics on her critical systems when in a forced shutdown, both to manage critical systems and to keep herself busy. 

But now, in the distance, there is an anomaly.

A single figure, black as night, approaches her. It’s shape is human up till its head, which sports pointed ears and a long snout like that of a dog or wolf. It looms over her and leaves a black, fragmented mist in its wake. But most troubling of all in this world of stark monochrome is its eye…. or what 2B believes is an eye. In the center of its lupine face is a strange geometric sigil that emits a highly saturated purple light. It feels… malicious. The thought itself is insane to 2B. Light cannot possess intent or emotions, and yet… 

“This is an unacceptable outcome.” A voice booms in her head. Somehow she knows it is the entity speaking. 

2B opens her mouth to respond, but instead of words, thick crimson fluid leaks from her throat.

“You will die. He will die. You cannot abide by this.”

She shakes her head. Droplets of blood fall to the pristine floor. The entity is right. If she has any strength left, 9S will live.

“Stand, little doll,” the entity commands, “Stand and unleash y-...Be——…..d.”

The entity’s voice becomes warped and distorted with audio glitches, yet 2B understands its words with frightening clarity.

“Take-......l-...s within.” 

It holds a hand out to her, offering her something she can’t quite make out. The shape in its palm is amorphous, colorless, and flickers with lines of jumbled code. Somehow, she knows this piece of herself in intimate detail, yet cannot remember what this does or what its relation to the entity is. 

But it promises strength enough to save 9S.

2B reaches out and takes the code in her hand… 

….

………….

…………………………

………………………………………………………..

Her eyes snap open. A current of raw energy runs through her body, electrifying every nerve and sensor within her. She shakes with each pulse of her circulatory apparatus as a new, terrifying strength takes hold. 2B rises to her feet, flexing her hands, legs, arms. One arm’s movement is restricted by the iron bar still stuck in her shoulder. She tears it out with little effort, casting it to the floor. The rattling, hollow sound echoes against the stone chapel. 

The rogue’s head snaps up from her combat with 9S, who is barely able to hold his sword. Something in her expression changes. She kicks 9S and points her sword at 2B, her arms shaking in a way they had not before. 

2B lunges forward, her sword raised high. The rogue raises her own sword to deflect, but 2B’s newfound strength breaks her guard with one mighty strike. With blinding speed 2B slices through the rogue android’s body. Her crowfeather cape flutters to the floor, soon followed by her arm. The rouge android staggers back, an expression of shock and horror twisting her face. 2B drives her sword through the rogue’s chest, forcing her back further. Instead of drawing her sword back for another strike, a terrifying feeling takes over 2B. She leaves the sword inside the rogue’s chest and tackles her to the ground. With her bare hands and horrible strength, 2B delivers blow after blow to the android’s chest, shoulder, arms, head, and abdomen. Each piece is reduced to a pulp of flesh and metal one after the next until nothing remains but scrap. 

2B throws her head back as she straddles her victim, a horrible, twisted grin plastered across her face and arms outstretched. Her body feels wrong… horribly wrong, yet for the first time since she can remember, her chest is light. She gazes up at the morbid sculpture with an emotion she can’t quite describe. It isn’t the same as a combat high, she is intimately familiar with that heady rush. This is something akin to… euphoria. A laugh begins to bubble up in her throat-

“2B?”

She’s forced back to reality by the 9S’ voice, right beside her ear. Suddenly, the terrible strength from moments before fades from her body. Her arms go limp by her sides, and it becomes hard to sit upright. Even breathing is laborious. 9S wraps his arms around her shoulders and tugs her gently, laying her head and shoulders against his chest.

“I’ve got you. We… I think we’re safe.” His breathing is uneven and ragged, much like 2B’s. He swivels his head back and forth, searching for any lingering threats as quickly as possible. “Pod, run a scan for machine lifeform or android signals in the immediate area,” he commands.

Pod 153 is silent for a moment, then emits a grating, hideous garbled noise. Words try to break through the audio distortions but neither 2B or 9S is confident it isn’t simply what they wish to hear. 

“Alert:” Pod 042 begins, “Interference from unknown source is preventing accurate scans of the surrounding area. Proposal: Relocate to an elevated aaaaaaa…..a-r-....rrr……”

The same audio distortions come from 042, mingling with 153’s until they both cut off, leaving the androids in silence. “Pod?” 9S calls to the floating support unit. “Pod, respond. ... Pod?”

2B mutters weakly to her own Pod, but it's the same as 9S’. No response at all.

9S pulls up a small data screen, map data, from what 2B can tell. Or… where map data would be. Instead, there’s a blank, grey screen and a little message box that reads No Data. 

“What the-...” 9S whispers, flipping through different screens at a frantic pace. “Where-... There’s… all the data is gone!” he shouts, “No map, no signal scans… I can’t even connect to the Bunker…”

“We’re stranded…” 2B muses aloud.

Silence passes between them. Only the ominous wind passing through ancient wood and stone reminds them that the world hasn’t stopped moving around them. 

“We should move to a higher area, like your Pod said.” 9S suggests, rising to his feet. “Can you stand?”

When 9S offers a hand out to her, 2B takes it without thinking. His touch, even through his thick gloves, calms the beast pacing inside her. 

Beast? 

…..What does that mean?

2B rises to her feet, her hands lingering in 9S’ for a moment longer than she normally would. There’s a fog in her head that distorts her equilibrium. She leans on 9S for support, to which he wraps his arm around her waist and positions himself under her shoulder.

“I got you.” He says with a small smile.

2B feels just a bit lighter.

They exit the chapel and make for higher ground. 9S rationalizes that if they simply continue up stairs or inclines they would find a space clear of whatever is interfering with the Pod’s satellite connections. Perhaps it’s the fog that creeps across the cobblestone streets or the odd angle of the sun (not that it makes sense to 9S or 2B but they have to consider all possibilities), or perhaps it’s something beyond that. There’s a strange, eerie feeling about this city that neither can explain, and neither want to talk about. As if there’s a presence constantly watching over them.

They climb the stairs of one of the massive sprawling religious buildings. From what 9S assesses, it seems to have one of the tallest spires in the city. Only a larger time-keeping building looming in the distance is larger. If he could reach the top he should be far enough above whatever is interfering with the Pods. When he relays his plan to 2B who only nods, her eyes unfocused and breathing shallow, worry starts to lace its icy fingers through his chest. Something is wrong with her. 

9S’ first instinct is to prepare a data backup with the bunker, but the Pods are both out of commission for the time being. His next is to contact command and ask how they should proceed, to the same conclusion. Climbing the spire is the only course of action he can take, but first, he has to make sure 2B is safe.

He leads her through the castle of worship, now supporting most of her weight. That… frightening show of strength must have exhausted her power supply. There are plenty of well preserved wooden benches that stretch across half of the main worship chambers, at least it would be more comfortable than the stone floors. Under watch by the countless grotesque statues that sit in the rafters, 9S helps 2B onto a long bench, laying her on her back. She hisses and grinds her teeth as she moves. She must have sustained internal damage from that fight… 

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, “I’m going to go to the roof to get a clear signal.”

All 2B gives in response is a slow nod. He lingers by her side before leaving, a moment longer than needed.

Now alone in this spacious, hollow, human structure, 2B takes stock of her condition. There’s pain in her shoulders, particularly her right arm. Her legs are tight, most locking up from the strain of the previous battle and trekking up to her current location. Her back, as well, is tense beyond discomfort. It spasms and jolts if she breathes too hard. At least these are injury related, explainable. The black wolfman with purple eyes lingering in the corners of her vision, is not. 

She sees the entity in the shadows, lurking just out of view. 9S walks right past it, not even sparing a glance at the tall, gangly creature. It doesn’t respond to 9S either, instead focusing on 2B and only 2B. 

The sight of it makes her stomach turn. She tries to close her eyes, but the glowing, purple sigil is burned into her vision. With a groan she digs her knuckles into her eyelids as if she could carve the hallucination out of the air. Defeated, 2B lets her arms down once more. One hand touches the cool stone floor, decorated with elegant mosaics, and she suddenly realizes how warm she is. According to the warning messages displayed in her vision her body temperature is ten degrees above normal levels. 

“Pod,” she groans, forcing herself to sit up, “retrieve water from storage-”

“Report: Mail notification received from Command.”

The monotone voice of her support unit shocks her. Pod 042 had been silent up until now due to whatever interference was in the area, and now it’s getting messages from Command? 9S must have established a connection from the roof.

Her heart sinks. If that’s the case he would contact her. The first thing she’d hear would be his voice.

She opens the message, dreading its contents.

Subject has accessed confidential records. Eliminate the Target.

At the top of the spire 9S takes in the view of the entire city, the wind rushing through his hair. It’s breathtaking. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen. The sky dyes the entire urban sprawl red, as well as the mountains on the horizon. His pulse races as he drinks in the terrifying awe of what the ancient humans were capable of, hoping to remember every last detail of the buildings, the streets, and the magnificent sculptures that litter the city. It’s all so well preserved that he feels as though a human might appear, walking down the cobblestone streets as if nothing were wrong. As if they didn’t go extinct. 

Reluctantly he draws his attention away from the splendor of humanity’s ruins, and shakes away the creeping emptiness that comes with that line of thought. He can’t think about that now. He and 2B are stranded. 9S produces a holographic terminal that mirrors Pod 153’s settings menu. Pod’s diagnostics on his end show buildup of foreign material in and around certain receivers, something that 9S expects, but that is only part of the problem. It seems that the atmosphere in this place is clogged with various chemicals and particles that make satellite transmissions more difficult. Considering all of the decaying metal and stone it’s no wonder that there’s so much particulate in the air. Once Pod’s receivers are clear 9S has Pod 153 hover just above the spire’s tip. It stays suspended in the air, the small light on the top of its body turning on and off at regular intervals.

“Connection established.” Pod 153 announces moments later. “Proposal: Contact the Bunker for support.”

“Great! Set up a relay connection for Pod 042 as well.”

“Affirmative.”

9S opens a data screen laden with information and begins composing his message to Operator 21O. With an unreliable connection a live call would be too risky, a simple text based message won’t be distorted or cut out. He records a brief message, attaches a transcription of his words, and sends it to the Bunker. Hopefully 21O would send something quickly-

A flash of movement in the streets below catches his eye. Something running on all fours... “Pod… run a scan for machine lifeforms…” He says, a chill creeping up his spine.

Pod 153 floats down to his side. “Alert: Multiple machine lifeforms detected. Proposal: Regroup with Unit 2B.”

“But-” 

That thing didn’t look like a machine…

“Alert: Anomalous signal detect-”

Pod 153’s words are drowned by a horrific, mournful howl that reverberates through the entire building. 9S clings to the ornate decorations on the spire and covers his ears with his free hand. His body runs cold. He’s never heard a sound like that before. Nothing the machines make comes close to that. The pain and sorrow in that noise is something that no animal could produce either. That left only one possibility…

Another roar wracks the building from within… 

2B clutches the sides of her head, the data screen long dismissed.

No…

Her chest strains under her panicked breaths. 

No.

She hadn’t been watching him. She hadn’t been keeping track of his questions and behavior…

No… No.

And now she…

No no no no no .

She has to…

no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no.

NO.

She will not do this. Not again. 

Her skin feels… tight. 

She will fight off every single goddamn android Command sends until there are none left but her and him. She will not be a part of this cycle again. Her hands curl into fists as a surge rushes through her body, alighting her nerves with energy. With power.

A shadow moves across the stone floor of the castle of worship. The entity, its form inky black, its sigil emitting a baleful purple light, glides towards her. It bathes her in the highly saturated light, a light not even shielding her eyes can diffuse. It bores into her core, it peers into her mind. It speaks into her mind.

“You will not allow this to happen.” Its voice echoes off the hollow shell of where humans once sought God. “But strength comes at a price, little doll.”

The entity plunges its claws into her chest. Heat explodes throughout her body to the point where she fears she might self-destruct. The boiling tendrils of this ethereal monster sink into her artificial heart and her Black Box. Something activates, or… unlocks, and suddenly she feels… confined. Her body… it’s too small….

“Time to pay the toll…”

It rips its claws, now writhing shadow-like whips, out of her chest, then vanishes. 2B’s vision is obscured, but not by warnings and error messages, by blood. Red veins pulse on the edges of her sight in time with her heart. Each beat sends waves of heat, electricity, and agony through her body.

“Stand, little doll. Stand, and unleash your beasthood.”

A scream forms in 2B’s throat, but it cannot break through her swelling throat and gritted teeth. She takes frantic, shallow breaths. Her limbs shake, her fingernails dig into the stonework floor. It’s so hot… 

2B rolls onto the floor and rips away her tight uniform. Far too tight. Parts of her dress were already beginning to tear as her muscles swell. Blood trickles from various wounds where her skin has split, revealing the thick, synthetic muscle cords that lie beneath. Her blindfold is next, but removing it does not help her vision. One eye is unfocused, blurring all of her vision.

She drags her fingernails across her body and lets out a deep, animal snarl when she tears into her own flesh. Looking down at her hands, she recoils at the sight of long, black claws that split her fingers down the center. Skin falls from them in long strips to the point where the mechanical joints of her hands are exposed.

Something snaps inside her, somewhere in her upper back. She howls in agony, in sorrow, as her spine lengthens, twists, and grows too fast for her body to maintain. Her insides are compacted and grind against each other, sending sickening vibrations throughout her. Her throat finally opens up, allowing her to breathe. She watches as puffs of steam escape her mouth into the warm twilight air. 

Another crack and something explodes out of her lower back. Her balance is thrown off and she falls forward, smashing her face into stone. Another snarl, this one combined with the gnashing of fangs. Her mouth warps, splitting out of her face into a muzzle. Eyes follow, one swelling to fit its now spacious socket while the other stunts and refuses to change. She claws at the peeling skin of whatever she can reach, spilling more of her blood in the process. Everything hurts, everything itches, but oh god the power feels so good.

A growth springs from above her unchanged eye, weighing her head down and hunching her body over. She supports herself with one enormous hand, the other scooping the wires and tubing that spills out of her torn stomach and forcing them back inside her abdominal cavity. The twisting extension of her spine, a tail, thuds against the floor and counters the weight of her head. 

2B shakes the mane of bloodied, white hair from her functioning eye, turns her head to the sky, and roars.

#nier automata #2B #9S #2B9S #fanfiction #nier fanfiction #Tanks fics

[seafleece]

“hello, um—” 

he shifts uncomfortably, the soft leather of his boots sliding against itself where his legs touch, crossed under him on the ground. “mollymauk, right?”

it’s starting to snow again, soft ethereal flakes that fall apart at the slightest touch of warmth, and they’re starting to soak into his traveling cloak.

it’s funny, you know, how he never thought to buy one before this. how he never thought of going somewhere without the reminder that he is important, that he is special, that he’s worth something to someone.

as if no one would believe it otherwise.

he wonders if caduceus would be angry with him for digging, for disturbing a grave. maybe they all would— from their tone, he can tell that mollymauk was dear to them. but, well, ignorance can be feigned— slowly, he’s learning not to feel like his image topples in someone’s mind the moment he makes a mistake. and he needs to know, okay? he just needs it.

the body before him rises slightly— curious, how caduceus’s trademark fungi seem almost to serve as a facsimile for tissue, tendons, in this moment, knitting the bones together enough for movement— and nods. essek suddenly remembers this spell has a limit and curses under his breath.

it’s not as if he’d gotten to practice, though, right? it was hard enough to learn the spell, to even get someone to teach it to him— the den’s coroner had looked at him strangely— funny, i thought your type was more interested in making corpses and leaving them for someone else.

he’ll just have to be more careful.

“i, uh, i wanted to ask you about caleb widogast, if you remember him—” he pauses for a moment and then the rest of his thought comes rushing out of him so mollymauk— what was once mollymauk— doesn’t try to answer yet.

“did you love him?”

there’s a long silence— behind him, his horse snorts out a big cloud of breath and paws at the dirt. caleb had told him about when they’d had to travel on foot, and how molly would still be with them if they hadn’t. what would that mean, he thinks, for himself? whether they’d have had a fraction of the interest in him, if they’d still had their dear friend. if he’d still be alone, still cold inside. if he’d have made the wrong choice, when it mattered. 

he’d wanted to try it for himself, taking the long way. sleeping afraid under the stars, long days of dust kicked up by the horse. feeling small under the sky, fragile. mortal.

the corpse nods, and fear and sorrow climb in his throat like vines.

“ah,” he says, and swallows hard and scratchy. “i see—“

“i know who you are, you know.”

“what?”

another thing he’d forgotten about the spell— it lets them speak.

“jester’s tried to message me before. she thinks it doesn’t work, but i still heard them.” it’s an impossibly dry voice, like sandpaper on sandpaper. fibers from the fungi shift and stretch as the head tilts.

“oh.”

“she sounded happy when she talked about you. that’s enough for me.”

essek looks at the body of mollymauk tealeaf for a moment, first at where the horns curl out from the skull, back into an elegant spiral. jewelry still dangles from them, faded and covered almost entirely in dirt. the lower half of the breastbone is broken off entirely, as if crushed inward, and cracks spiderweb up out toward the ribs.

“does it hurt?”

“what?” and yet, he thinks mollymauk knows already.

“dying.”

he’s not afraid, not really— if things stay as they are, he will live another 400 years, at least. far longer than caleb. mollymauk’s skull regards him, and even without the bright red eyes caleb had told him about, he thinks that mollymauk can tell he’s not asking about himself.

“it doesn’t have to.”

“would you have chosen to be consecuted?”

he doesn’t ask if mollymuak knows what he means.

“i don’t know.” the body of mollymauk lifts its bare, skeletal hands, examines where they’re wrapped in thin fibers. “maybe, if i believed it would work. if i believed i was supposed to live any longer than i did.”

“but you didn’t.” it’s not a question.

“no.”

that same silence blooms between them, again, and then mollymauk’s body begins to lie down again, to slot itself back into the space the dirt has left for it.

“wait, i am not done—”

“that was five,” mollymauk says breezily. “i have no need to answer you further.”

essek reaches forward, presses one hand to the broken sternum. as though touch will extend the spell.

“i don’t think you’ll mind this last one.”

mollymauk says nothing, but pauses all the same.

“are you at peace?”

if he could, essek thinks, mollymauk would smile. he can hear it in the voice as the body lies back down fully, gazing up at the wide, winter-white sky.

“yes.”

essek stands again, brushes dirt from his pants. the cloak he knows to be mollymauk’s still hangs from the branch over the grave, catching and billowing for a moment on the wind and falling again. the blood that blooms across it is still red, somehow, bright red. to match his eyes, he supposes.

“thank you.”

essek is not a particularly religious man, but as he draws the dirt up and back over the body he says a prayer to the god caleb tells him is mollymauk’s. the moonweaver. a trickster. fitting.

he sends the horse away, first, back to the zadash stables. the part of the journey he knows he needed to spend on foot is over.

then, he sits and traces out the sigil for the xhorhaus in chalk, the way caleb still likes to. the sigil is different than the ones to any other major city— he and caleb had made it themselves, made it so that the magic worked just by drawing it, so they could all use it. so everyone could return home, if they wanted, after just a minute of work. because coming home should never be hard.

he chalks in the larger circle first, filling it inwards, and thinks about the smith in the gallimaufry he’d visited earlier that week.

(finally, veth’s shoulders stop shaking with laughter, and she tips her chair forward again.

“sorry, sorry,” she wheezes. “it’s cute, really. you should buy rings.”

“rings?”

“it’s a sign you’re together, if you both wear them.”

“you don’t have one from your husband,” he grouses, pride hurt, and backtracks immediately when her face falls. “i’m sorry, i—”

“it’s okay,” veth says, and looks at her hand, at the shaky black shape tattooed onto one of her fingers. essek recognizes jester’s handiwork. one of her earlier pieces, he guesses— it bears so little resemblance to the flowers he knows she’d given yasha, the elegant spirals he can see on beau’s back, briefly, when she stretches, but the color, the curiously deep shade of black is the same. 

“i lost it, awhile ago. we got these instead, after—” and her face scrunches a little further. they don’t talk about it too much, about the time before they trusted each other this way. about the things they all did before they had to think about if it was wrong. “you know.”

she brightens again. “but i’m sure caleb would like one. just make sure you measure beforehand.”)

and he had, had made sure caleb was deeply asleep in the plush armchair they’d had brought into the study, book threatening to tip backwards from his lap. he’d ordered one silver, for himself and one gold for caleb. with a blink he remembers the mismatched jewelry hanging from mollymauk’s horns, and laughs, completing the circle home.

(some shadowgast/widomauk for @fiovske!!)

#and was feelin those old widomauk vibes #my writing #critical role #shadowgast #widomauk #consider if you will.... shadowmauk #just a thought #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #shadowmauk #mollymauk tealeaf #veth brenatto #off to sleep i go #i was in a mood okay

[geminiwriter1881]

Paradise Is Lost

                                          In one breath it was gone

                Gold were the days                         That we laid to waste                                      In this burning sun

                Paradise is lost                         Paradise is lost                                 Paradise is lost.

                        — GoldTop ft. Sam Tinnesz – Paradise Is Lost —

A/N: I highly recommend listening to ^^this^^ song as you read. It heightens the atmosphere.

. . Sunlight flashes white atop cut-glass sapphire water that stands pattern-shifting under the restless fingertips of the wind. Sand froths golden beneath churning hooves of a crimson stallion screaming in triumph: 'never-die'.

.

.

Light explodes white in the hearts of houses turned to rubble from the stones flung out of the hands of unseen malevolent gods in the heavens. The high whine of wind shaped by propeller force echoes overhead, and it chants: 'all-shall-die'.

.

.

They stand beside one another, heads tilted back.

The flames lick hungrily toward the late-evening sky, as if with their searing fingertips they can clutch at the fabric of the firmament and catch it, also, alight. In the west, the weary sun takes pity and sends the silver bellies of the clouds to molten-gold and heated-iron glow.

The furious blaze glints on silver crowns; the mail of Narnian warriors as they cross back and forth before it, beating out advancing sparks that leap Dagori's Ford to rake at browning reeds. The jewels gleam scarlet on the halters of steaming chargers that stand heaving vapor into the ether; a cheap mime of southern drakes, their breath less devastating.

The half-built tower burns.

The tower combined of Calormene stone and Telmarine timber.

Housed of Daradans and Telmarine knights.

Screaming assaults the evening wind. Shadows draped in carmine garlands plunge from the walls of Tel-Ilil into the deep Great River lapping at its smoldering foundation.

Metal whines softly on fine metal as Edmund sheaths his sword.

"It’s good," Lucy murmurs, wiping blood from her dagger onto her soot-streaked crimson skirts.

"It is," he answers graciously, dark eyes on another glowing specter as it streaks from the tower like a Star earthbound. The hiss of steam – fire's reluctant death – whispers from the river's middle before drowning in the lap-lap-lap of the relentless current.

Narnia grows. Narnia lives. Narnia is free.

Forever.

It is good.

Pine shingles over Calormene heads is not a house of peace, but threat of war. Lucy smiles as the tower heaves and shudders and slides down the bank into the River, as if it never was. Not that it ever Was.

.

.

The scream will reverberate within his heart long after the source is dead and buried. The image of a boy-not-man with a shadow of another life lived long before his own welling dark and threatening in savage sky-clear eyes.

The shriek of ancient metal against golden hilt – that sword of kings he held in his hands but had not will to wield – and he saw Narnia in ermine and gold, streets paved in soft rose petals, chargers shod in silver, rulers bold and fearless and blessed by a god to reign. Honored by many, cursed by few. Haloed by the sun, guided by the stars, protected by the moon.

The blood of a thousand ancestors fallen under the edge of Narnian swords cried out in his veins, and he wanted to cower. But it was not his body that fell in front of the High King of Old.

Peter stepped away from Miraz.

To look to him.

And Caspian did not think he could be ready.

.

.

Gryphons wheel aloft.

Stallions scream below.

Smoke drifts along the battlefield, the gauze curtain between death and life—parted to accept the noble and valiant victims of war. Death knows no side, and chooses no victor.

Peter lifts his hand, and points the length of Rhindon toward the left.

Susan bows her head, eyes closing, and tears her malachite veil from her hair. It cracks in her grasp, longing to be set free to tangle in the wind's embrace.

Bowstrings tense; silver-white feathers kiss sun-brown cheeks and fray into unruly rugged whiskers.

Below them, Edmund throws his charger's head to the side, cavorting on the plains of war like a boy-prince plays with tin soldiers on a field of green felt. He laughs, and his general rears and shouts a war-cry, directing with his spear as he leaps toward the army's left flank.

A gryphon screeches. Edmund turns and lifts his shrewd gaze to the cliff’s face. His night-dark stallion rears beneath him, beating the air with iron-spiked hooves. Edmund raises his hand, and a ray of sun strikes against the silver crown in his raven hair, blinding in its piercing path of light. For a moment, Edmund is frozen; the portrait of glorious war. Then the stallion comes back to ground. Edmund drops his arm.

The veil whips out of Susan's clutch, billowing away behind her.

Arrows whisper farewell to archer lovers, falling broken under hooves, buried within hearts.

The Telmarines retreat, leaving their dying like rotting spoils of warfare in their wake. Lucy brings all race and creed beneath the shadow of her white tents. Healers know no flag, and the living will not join the dead without a second fight.

.

.

The flames lick upward along the collapsed timbers, the toppled brick like grinning jagged teeth against wolf's-eye yellow fire. It washes their pale faces in light.

Air raid sirens wail on high. Somewhere nearby a child screams— 'I am lost!'

Wind barrels down the broken street, funneling toward them to rough the edges of their hair and lift their ties like torn pennant banners in its wake. A lorry burdened with bags of sand roars by them, the rush of it cool in the presence of the bomb's seething aftermath. The street is cracked like china fine; rubble – dust and glass and ash – crunch under-heel; hell's gravel footpath.

A rumble, the ground quakes beneath their bodies. Light explodes over ridgepoles and roofs.

Bombs whine and aircraft growl a mile distant.

Edmund stares as gods fling flint-stones to make mortal-burning fires.

Edmund will not forget.

Gryphons can be German war-gods, too.

.

.

Sunlight flashes against ocean-spray. Wind beats wave, and hooves beat sand in staccato rhythm. Laughter lashes out and echoes down the beach, thrown against cliff-front and boulder-face.

Susan drives her golden-gleaming palfrey hock-deep into sapphire sea. She lowers her reins, looking back over her shoulder as her ribbons of raven hair catch on the wind, braids unwinding, then sinking down—weighted by the water, lying over the back of the gold mare with suggestion of a selkie's tattered hide. Susan beams, leaning back in her saddle, bare feet tickled by the surface of the ocean-top.

Peter's pale charger – the color of specters, mist, and death-shrouds – paws at the foam, kicking mermaid tears against his belly. The High King utters the war cry of Narnia, and nudges his stallion into motion. The white coarser snorts, rises up in a half-moon leap with Peter clinging to his arching mane— they plunge forward over waves shore-bound into deeper water. Peter presses his palm in circles against his beloved Capaill Uisce's coat, the silver ring on his finger outweighing saltwater's siren song.

Lucy's crimson and saffron skirts stream out behind her, pressing tight against her thighs. Her fingers wrapped close in flying ebon mane and silken rope—the only rein. Her heels sink low as she rises off her saddle. The mare is of Calor, her coat is called blood—her legs are so fine they look as if they will break with each step. But the delicate face and broad back conceal a loyal heart of molten fire; a devil temper of Tash's own make. Lucy's sun-kissed brown locks stream out behind her, a brass banner on the wind, and they race on.

Edmund rides bareback, without bridle, and hackamore-free. He presses down against billowing black waves of rippling mane that tangle with his own. Lather flies against his bare calves, and he whispers to his warhorse in the language of its ancestors—Telmarine. They stretch thin against the beach, a streak of black on gold-white sand. Shod hooves cleave half-circle furrows in their wake.

It is a golden age.

The sun will not set on their reign.

.

.

"What happened here?"

The question is not that at all, but a demand for answers. They are surrounded by dust and death and decay. Motes float bloated and sluggish on thick atmosphere. Sunlight shafts through broken ceiling. This is not the empire they left. This is not the Narnia they know.

Rusted swords, shattered shields, cleaved-in armor. Shadows loom velvet-thick over heaping piles of metal and bone and rotten wood.

Peter kicks a layer of mortar dust and chalky silt. It clouds into the room.

From his place among the shadows and marks of death, Edmund stares out into the circle of daylight beating down on his brother's golden head. Peter mourns, but mourning is for afterward of victory. They are not victors yet—he does not know what they are.

But we will find out, he vows in savage silence.

.

.

The sobs echo through the dim-lit cavern.

Susan steps off the main tunnel after a moment of gazing ahead to test none else have ears that hear. She lays her bow along the shelf for offerings and tokens. Her quiver follows. No arrow knocks fletching against another. She is silent.

The weeping continues without pause.

Susan steps down a shallow flight of stairs, each one wider than the last. Her aubergine hem kisses the dust, leaving a low-lying cloud in her wake that quickly fades.

She presses a hand to an earth-hewn pillar, gouging her nails until dirt-grains run down her chainmail sleeve. She stares into the darkness. Torches light at sparing intervals in the underground chamber stretching to infinity. A catacomb for the dead—a tomb for Narnia that bears no bodies, only the soul of a world struggling to gather breath.

Peter stumbles away from a pillar of his own to fall heavy on his knees. One hand presses dirty and stained to the ground, the other against his face. His tears fall unashamedly, and dampen the ground.

There is a legend the half-dwarven professor told her—how the High King's tears cause barren earth to bud and grow bounty to feed his starving subjects. But not a single stalk of green rises up in front of her brother; a boy that was a man who is so small in this massive place. He shudders as his lungs take in a gasp of air between one sob and another. His hand pressed to the ground trembles, his arm collapses, and he is bent over himself.

Like a woman hearing news she is become a widow.

Like a father learns he outlives his child.

Like a king mourns for his people.

"Oh, Peter," Susan breathes, though he cannot hear her. Gently, she draws near.

His head lifts as she comes to him, kneeling down. Her skirts rustle, an echo into graveside silence.

"Sue?" He says her name in a panting whisper, almost a breath. His lashes are black and sticking to one another. His eyes are clear, and full of horror.

"Oh, Peter," she says again, a soothing murmur that soothes nothing. In it he hears perhaps only accusation, and thinks her justified for such feeling.

"I can still hear them," he says, hoarse. He reaches for his neck, for his collar, clutching at his tunic with trembling hands. The earthen air quivers, and for a moment the world is rent. Time dissipates, vapor before heat; she sees dimly through a mirror.

Another king—the same king. Older. She is a woman, they are covered in blood and ash. The sky is death-black. The battle was won, the victory Pyrrhic.

Peter wept.

Everything is strange, but this remains the same.

Peter weeps.

"Hush then, hush then; shhh, Peter, hush now," she mantras gently, compassionately. Her hand goes to his hair and she strokes it back; it is shorter than her fingers remember it should be in moments like this, and smells of salt-grass and earth.

He leans into her, forehead against her shoulder, mouth open as he chokes another sob back but it spills forth because his heart has not yet ceased to mourn for what died and passed away. His breath is hot on her dress, and makes her skin fever-warm under the cloth.

Peter draws back, reaching for her, clinging to her sleeve, wrapping his fingers around her upper arms.

"Is there blood on my hands? Am I to blame? I don't understand—What have I done? I can still hear them, Sue! I can still hear them. . ." He breaks again, crumbling beneath the weight of twelve hundred years of majesty and skill that are no longer a match for a world gone mad with rage and ache.

Peter exhales, and his breath stirs the dust of the dirt floor. He coughs. Gags, moans, and closes raw eyes that have all but exhausted their tears.

Susan looks down at him, a consoling hand gentle on his back, running in useless circles meant to soothe.

The High King, brought level to a little child.

Oh how empires fall.

.

.

The sun shines through the stained glass at their backs, spilling around the marble edges of the four thrones. Peter does not look to his siblings as, haloed in golden light and crowned with a burning diadem of the sun, he rises.

As if they all understand – for they all understand the unspoken word – they stand from their thrones as one body in echo of the High King, while trumpets sound distant down the marble hall.

The diamonds and sapphires in Susan's midnight hair catch pinpricks of light, and set like stars. Her azure skirts with silver thread, and stardust grey under-slips swirl around her ankles as her hair falls to her feet. The prophets of Calormen called her a goddess of Narnia, and she thanked them graciously—but laughs behind Cair Paravel's locked doors at such blasphemy against the Great Lion.

Lucy's summer-green gown overextends its hem, sewn too long; to cover bare feet southern foreigners consider unseemly. She curls sun-browned fingers over the gold hilt of her dagger. Twin brass braids slide along bare shoulders, and when she smiles, spring begins anew in the hearts of all Narnians.

Edmund, the judge and wise man (prophets of Calormen have come to him to seek his understanding and departed newly taught) stands arrayed in black and silver with raven curls dragging to his chest, swept clear of his solemn brow and grave dark eyes with intricate centaur braids. His robe sloughs lazily down his arms, half worn, half falling free. Threatening action if it is demanded—even in the land of peace and plenty.

The Pashdaan from Calormen walks up the hall from the grand foyer beyond, but the splendor of his train fades pale compared to the wealth of happy Narnia.

"Most Elevated and Noble Majesties of this esteemed northern kingdom. I come from the Tisroc – may he live forever – to offer unto you such gifts and work and terms of peace so that you seek out no reparation for such destruction and war as the rash young Prince as placed before your path. Instead, to hope that you may deal mercifully. The Tisroc – may he live forever – has offered my own life in place of Prince Rabadash if you do not think such treasures as I bring sufficient. Do with your slave as you will have be done." He prostrates himself before the throne, a fearful subject from another land.

Lucy does not look at Peter as she moves forward, her gown rippling out behind her; gossamer silk flowing in currents of her own motion. Her bare feet are silent on the cool, rosy-white marble tiles.

A hand touches his face.

Shimri lifts his head and peers upward into the face of King Edmund. Beside him stands Queen Lucy. Her hand remains on his body, moved to his shoulder. Toward him, Edmund offers a pale hand ornamented with a lone silver ring. The serpent eats its tail, so evil will consume itself. The king who is a judge who is a wise man that could have been the brightest of prophets smiles down at him, and Shimri wonders if this is what it feels like to be blessed.

"You are no slave of Narnia, my dear lord," Lucy admonishes with brilliant kindness. "You need not grovel before us, as we require no such degradation; we do not hold you in offense for any wrong done by another."

"Come, take this hand of peace, and be met with friendship all our days, Pashdaan," Edmund coaxes, his voice the depth of a forest river, melodic as one also.

"We want for nothing from Calormen but that we be free," the High King declares, and the world seems to stand still as he speaks in golden tones, eternal summer rich in his voice. He smiles broadly when Shimri looks up at him, and the corners of Peter's eyes crinkle with mirth.

"I. . . have entered paradise."

Edmund smiles; it tilts crookedly. "An earthly one, perhaps—as best a mortal man can make. There is better still to come beyond the hallowed Shore in the Eastern Lands."

Shimri reaches out, ringed fingers trembling. He lays his dark hand inside Edmund's pale grasp, and stands.

A hearty cheer breaks through the great throne hall of Cair Paravel. Susan descends the dais of marble and stands beside the Pashdaan.

"Now, we shall feast as friends and equals. Tell us, what is your name?" She takes his arm as Narnians frolic about them, and soft blush petals float down from an invisible place above.

"Shimri, my lady. I am born Shimri, son of Paraan."

"I am Susan, Shimri. Welcome to Narnia—you are welcome forever, until the stars forget all our titles, and we are written into myth."

.

.

It is a forest. It is a jungle. It is desolate. The woods are so still and dark. There is no music calling softly to the ear, no fountains that bubble merry in their basins, no pale towers gleaming in this early light. There are only ruins, and apple trees grown feral from their gentle ancestors.

There is no perfume of spring-budded flowers in Susan's private garden. Jasmine does not cling any longer to the lattice around his balcony, tossing dappled sunlight over his dark head as he stirs at break of day. There are only marble castle bones, rising jagged from undergrowth of ancient rose briars.

There is only pain.

In the quiet morning rush of air coming sharp and brisk off the Eastern Ocean from the cove of the mermaids, Edmund Pevensie leans against what was once a marble pillar, and weeps.

Paradise is lost.

A/N:

I originally published this on Fanfiction.Net, but decided to brave up and post it here too; because why not?

This AU (sort of?) one-shot is wholly inspired by “Paradise Is Lost” by GoldTop featuring the vocals of singer Sam Tinnesz. For those wondering why I call it a “sort-of AU”, it’s because since I began writing Narnia fic in 2013, I head-canon a lot of little details and aspects to Narnia that are not written by C.S. Lewis, but, I like to believe, he wouldn’t be averse to. I combine elements of both the novel series, and their film adaptation counterparts. If you’ve got questions, don’t hesitate to shoot me a message. I’m friendly.

Dagori's Ford = inspired by my headcanon that there would be landmarks named after Digory Kirke and Polly Plummer since they're important to Narnian history and lore.

Pashdaan = of similar status to an ambassador or lower-ranking European nobleman. I love Turkish/Ottoman/Middle Eastern culture and history, and I know C. S. Lewis modeled his Calormene after them, so I'm going to continue in that vein with my headcanons. Pashdaan is a play on the Turkish "Pasha".

Tel-Ilil = a watchtower built on the edge of the Great River (in Narnia, but near the Telmarine border, so technically an invasion of Narnia). Edmund and Lucy plot a covert attack and destroy it.

@nothinggold13​ Thought this might be something you’d like. 

#Narnia #narnia fanfiction #peter pevensie #edmund pevensie #susan pevensie #lucy pevensie #paradise is lost #narnia fic #golden age fic #prince caspian #miraz #aslan #fanfiction #AU #oneshot

[heli0s-writes]

VII. Try Again

Summary: Reconciliation has arrived. And it hurts. Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader A/N: Phew! I got one more chapter for ya and then we’ll be finished, my loves.

Slow Like Honey Masterpost

You watch Sam take off into the crowd and groan lightly at the way he almost resembles the road runner from those old Saturday morning cartoons, billowing dust clouds behind him and all. Steve clears his throat beside you and finally, you turn begrudgingly to regard him.

It’s been three weeks since the parking lot catastrophe, and almost two months since you’ve broken up. He stands now, blocking the sun, so that you’re eclipsed by the cool shade of his figure. It feels ominous, like a foreshadowing of how he might always be someone who takes the light but gives the shade. In this moment, you are both thankful and wary of the shade.

“Hey,” his voice is soft and careful. “I uh--- just wanted to say hi.”

“Yep, you said it.” You smile back, so that any passerby or watcher might interpret the look as one of warmth; no one is close enough to hear the stiff tone. But, to make polite conversation, since he did stalk you all this way, you ask, “Sarah with you?”

Steve points to the popsicle truck where Sarah bounces on her feet with Marnie holding onto her hand. There is a baseball cap on her head and a slight residue of pasty sunscreen on her arms that are quickly becoming ruddy in the sun.

It’s a little disappointing to see her like this, attached to her babysitter’s hip rather than her father’s. You’ve always wondered what the point of having a child was if parents don’t consistently spend time with them. It seems hypocritical that Steve and Peggy’s relationship fell apart because of her inability to spend time with Sarah—but here he is, too: not spending time with Sarah.

As if he could read your souring look, Steve shoves his hands in his pocket.

“I took your advice, you know.”

Your eyes flicker up to his as he kicks at a patch of vibrant green grass inattentively, “She’s been seeing a counselor... there’s-- as you said, lots of discussion. About the divorce. It’s getting better.”

A family comes up behind you to grab a piece of pie, so you and Steve find the right moment to move away from the front of the dessert table, taking your conversation away from possible eavesdropping ears. Chatter rises from the background, full of laughter and children's joyful shrieking. Popsicles shine in the daytime sun, sugary ice in dazzling and flamboyant hues, waving in the air as their owners run across the lawn. Colorful celebration flags flop noisily in the wind, adding their own percussion.

“And I… listened to the other thing you said, too.”

Sarah calls and waves to you from the line, pointing to the menu. You wave back with your best excited teacher face.

There’s no memory of that conversation sparking in your mind. You’re sure you’ve always thought so because he works so damn much—but can’t recall when it came up until your eyes begin to roam over the faded shirt stretched tightly over his chest. Speckled and gray, and perplexingly familiar. “What th—"

Suddenly the hazy sensation of your knees softly thumping against wood cabinets doors rushes into your mind. Soft grunts. A breathy laugh and low moans.

Oh.

Embarrassment creeps over your cheeks when you remember the last time you saw that shirt.

No, it wasn’t much of a conversation then, rather, more like a plead—a sigh passing your lips to encourage his hands as they slid over your body. The shirt, that Monday, had stayed on you for the rest of the day, even as Steve aligned his hips behind yours on the other side of the mirror.

You remember, too, its hem being rucked up when he took you back to bed again only a few hours later, sunlight pouring over you both and illuminating the thread-bare stipples of grey and white as he busied himself between your thighs. Steve couldn’t stop grinning each time he mentioned, “I really like this shirt on you,” even as his face was pressed into your lap.

The same grin graces his mouth now as you pull the brim of your hat down over your face once more. It’s a futile attempt to shield yourself from him and his knowing look, catching you in that burning memory.

“What do you want, Steve?”

“I know this isn’t the best time...”

“Yeah, no kidding.” You hiss, but Sarah comes flying back with two popsicles in her hand, one melted orange drop splattering on your knee.

“Sorry!” She laughs before pushing it to Steve’s face, “Here you go, Daddy!!”

Then, she’s off again, tugging Marnie along as she finds Christine Parsons in the distance and jumps into her arms. It makes your heart hurt just a little, how easy it is for children to find solace in new caretakers. Even Sarah, whom you’ve grown so close to and spent personal time with, has seem to have forgotten all about you.

You can’t blame her, though, because it’s only the third week of class and all you think about every second of the day are your own twenty-four litter of students. Such is life in an elementary school. At least she’s not proclaiming her hatred for her teacher anymore.

But you watch Sarah dance around Christine now, tossing a beanbag in the air and catching it clumsily. In the small timespan of three weeks, she’s shot up another inch—growing so quickly from the already rapid change during the summer break. Her face has shifted slightly, elongating, nose becoming less round and taller, so many little details that add up to one seemingly giant transformation.

Yes. You understand Peggy Carter’s envy.

A bead of sweat trickles down your neck. Steve hands you the popsicle in his fist and you take it without thinking.

“I hired Sam after we--- you know, well…” He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck.  “I realized my life needed some reupholstering. I had been too comfortable—falling into complacency, when I should have been paying more attention to the things that really matter.” His mouth turns into a forlorn crescent.

You glare, turning side to side, catching the eyes of the crowd shifting all around looking at the conversation that seems too serious to be in the middle of a bustling school picnic. He really has no sense at all, you think. Big, dumb, man.

Big, dumb, stupid, man.

Steve, unaware because he’s a big, dumb, stupid man, sighs as if he’s holding the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. “You told me you loved me, do you remember?”

To your right, a mother stops midway while reaching for a cut of brownie and you can see her eyes widen briefly before she quickly grabs the fudge square and plops it on her plate. She shuffles a little further away, but still in earshot as she pretends to look for another dessert for her tray. You think about saying something, but your eyes glaze over, trying to find the particular memory he’s referencing, instead.

No. Nothing. A cold trail slips down your palm and you realize the popsicle in your hand is dripping orange all the way down to your wrist.

Steve produces a tissue from his pocket and begins dabbing the melted ice away.

“I got ya.”

Your uninvited and eavesdropping audience member opens her mouth in a small round shape. Her eyebrows slope together as she absently places her hand to her chest, as if saying “aw.” Steve is tenderly wiping the bright orange trickle from your skin before he motions from the popsicle to your chin.

“You gonna eat that?”

When you stand too shocked and frankly flabbergasted to respond, he takes the opportunity to grab it and stick it in his own mouth, crunching the ice between his teeth and sucking the stick dry. A drop of sugar water lands in his beard.

“Huh--” He muses, “Thas pretty good!”

Your teeth gnash together in an attempt to push your suddenly growing smile away. Your eyes slip shut, frustrated with him. What the fuck, you think. Why is he like this? A smile weasels its way onto your face, tugging the left side of your mouth upward into a lopsided grin before you bite it down.

The mom, now taking an inordinate about of time to get a plate of dessert, smiles too.

“Is that a yes?” Steve whispers, peering down into your eyes. “You remember?”

“No.” You respond. “You’re being annoying. And messy.”

“Really?” He laughs, “Is that the best you got?”

Now you are glaring, because no, you’ve got so much more. He seems to pick up the cue and puts his hands up defensively. Then, out of reflex, Steve wipes your hand one more time for good measure. “Sorry, shouldn’t push it. Hey...” his voice grows softer now, and he leans in until you’re both sure the mother who is – goddamn it, still there—can no longer hear.

“Please give me another chance. Please, sweetheart. I really do love you.”

“Steve,” You snap, “That’s not something you say lightly. And it’s not something you say when you’re desperate, either. I have to go, and you should too because your daughter needs to spend time with you and not her babysitter, don’t you think?”

A sad smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah,” he admits, “Yeah. That’s why I hired Sam. He’s really good, you know? I wanted to show him the ropes around our fundraising events, but he’s been at the shop for almost a month now.”

It makes you pause.

“I’ve started taking off on the weekends. Come in just a few times—Wednesdays, for inventory. Fridays to prep for the Sunday rush. This is the first time I’ve called Marnie in almost a week.”

He looks so proud of himself, but he tucks his chin to his chest and regards you with shy eyes like a student waiting for a prize. Even his hands are inside his pockets again and he rocks back and forth on his heels, teeth tugging his heavy bottom lip gently. Big blue eyes. Stupid pretty eyelashes. Steven Grant Rogers knows exactly what he’s doing.

You begin to dig around in your purse in retaliation. Your fingers touch the edge of your phone—no, that’s not what you want. So, you continue to search as he waits.

Truly, you’re very proud of him-- beyond thrilled that he’s taken your advice to heart and has put Sarah first. Over at a game of cornhole, she cheers and claps when her teacher makes a beanbag in. Three weeks ago, that little girl was falling apart and cursing all of second grade.

The idea of him, finally not waking up at three in the morning and working until he literally drops seventeen hours later sweeps over your chest like a soothing current. You remember how exhausted he always was when you’d see him—and it was only summertime. His workload doubled with Sarah during the schoolyear. You remember coming over for spaghetti, and him, about to burst into tears while rolling meatballs.

It makes you relieved to know he would finally be taking care of not just his daughter, but himself as well.

Yes, you’re very proud of him.

Your fingers finally catch what you've been searching for. Slowly, with a ruinous smile, you peel off the points from the thin sheet of plastic and take it out of your purse.

“Congratulations, Steven,” you announce, sticking a quarter-sized and iridescent gold star over his chest. You hold up two thumbs and push them under his nose. “A-plus. Would you like a high-five, too?”

No, you’re not going to let him get away with his shit so easily.

Down the table, three more women have congregated, and they clap and cheer when Steve chuckles and leans his head back in mock defeat.

--

It’s four-thirty and you are slathering aloe vera on your shoulders when a knock pounds at your door. “No!” You yell, “Go away, Steve!”

You avoided him for the rest of the PTA Picnic, mingling with parents and your colleagues instead, but every time you would accidentally find his eyes over the yard, he’d smile at you. A few times, he actually waved. The star sticker, meant to be an insult, he wore as a badge of honor.

Big. Dumb. Stupid. Man.

Eventually, it got to the point where other people (other, other people, not just the eavesdropping mothers) noticed too. After the third person of the day asked if you were seeing Steve Rogers, you excused yourself and went home to nurse your growing sunburns.

“C’mon, hon!” Steve calls from the door, exceedingly pathetic.

“Fuck off!” Even though a laugh might escape.

“Sarah’s here!”

You yelp, because the f-bomb is fine and dandy, but not to her ears. When you yank the door open, wet glistening shoulders and all, ready to apologize... there’s no one there but Steve and two dozen roses freckled with baby’s breath and pearly wax flowers. Your arms cross and you think you might put your fist right through that outrageous arrangement. “Are you serious?”

Steve peeks over the massive amount of deep red and a river of words tumbles out.

“Yeah, Sam was positive that he clocked a flowers-and-chocolate girl from meeting you just one time and wouldn’t let me go without these. Figured it couldn’t hurt... but I got you something else...” He pulls a brown paper bag from behind his back and dangles it one-strapped from his pointer finger.

Two loaves of banana bread sit sandwiched next to each other inside- not even wrapped, just embedded in crinkled confetti-colored butcher paper. On top, a similarly colored scrap has scrawled in rushed and sloppy all-caps handwriting: UNLIMITED BANANA BREAD-- CAP&CO!

“You’re such an idiot.” You berate.

“I know!” Steve cries, “I know! I know! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please, please let me come in so I can talk to you. God, please? Even if it’s just so you can yell at me some more?”

“I am not yelling at you.” You retort, but let him in, anyway. “You’ll know when I’m yelling.”

Steve sits cautiously on the couch, places your gifts on the coffee table, and then looks around curiously. Things are a little different since he’s been here last. There are more plants, and you’ve gotten a little square bookshelf positioned in the corner of the room by the T.V. The kitchen even hangs a few wooden panels with abstract strokes and your corkboard of polaroid photos has been changed out for small doodles and tiny watercolor pieces.

He realizes, as he peeks over into the dining room, that you’ve been painting in his absence. Each picture is more refined than the last, as if you’ve been practicing. His little hobby that he pressed upon you hastily, you’ve taken to heart and improved on, even though he’s been gone.

It probably hurt so bad, he thinks, to have those paints in your house, to be reminded of him. Steve shuts his eyes and counts to ten. He doesn’t deserve you, but he wants you. He wants you so much.

“So?” You ask, brow furrowed on the sofa chair to his right. Now that he’s physically inside your apartment, the mood has changed considerably. The snarky banter in public and goading at the door has transformed into solemn and dead air. You don’t know what he might say, and even worse, you don’t know what it is you’ll do in return.

It’s easy. So easy to care for him. So easy to fall back into that routine of being with Steve Rogers.

But he’s shown you that he finds it easy to return to Peggy, too. And you— the easiest one of them all, will just forgive him for it? Your breath sticks to your lungs and refuses to come out. If you could go back to that day in bed and have pleaded with him not to pick up the phone, you probably would.

No, that’s too simple. It’s childish, and naïve, too.

“I’m sorry.” Steve finally speaks into the silence of your living room. His hands are folded over his knees, and he is looking at you like he is trying to bury those words inside your body. He calls your name. “Baby, I am so sorry. I am so goddamn sorry.”

It hurts. It hurts all over, but you won’t let him see you cry. “Okay.” You reply tepidly. Sorry isn’t enough.

“The truth is, I made a mistake. A really big mistake, and what’s worse is, I was too scared to admit it. I could think up of a million reasons why —about Peggy, or Sarah… It’s… so hard.” Steve puts his head in his hands, “The hard thing is that I have always been… stubborn. I was stubborn enough to move Sarah here by myself. I was stubborn to think that I could raise her on my own. Obviously, I couldn’t; I was falling apart, working too much, didn’t know how to talk to my daughter… and hadn’t spoken to Peggy in months. God, I hated being away from Sarah.  And when an easy road made its presence known to me— I went right for it.”

You want to focus on his words, because you know he means them, but a part of you begins to disengage to ease your own suffering.

“You got caught right up in the middle of it.” Steve whispers, choked on his sentences. “I wanted to badly to make my family work again, I didn’t realize that family doesn’t need to mean… what I think it means. It can be anything. And love can be anything.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Steve?”

The both of you are in tears now. Your breath comes out in short and sharp puffs as you try to contain the pooling wells of your eyes. Steve’s own face is flushed pink, as wipes his cheeks with the heel of his palm.

“Honey,” he stutters, “I love you. I love you so much. I know your love and it’s wonderful.”

“Y-you didn’t even c-call— I’m not— I’m not a fucking back up plan, Steve!”

He rushes off the couch in a fumble of noisy limbs and falls to your feet on his knees. You retreat into the cushion of the sofa chair, legs drawn and wrap your arms around yourself. Instinctively, you want to be protected from the hurt-- from him. You’re a jumble of wracked sobs and groans as your head begins to pound.

“I know you’re not.” His arms wrap around yours, digging behind your back as he shifts to move onto the seat as well. You’re an absolute mess, completely shattered into pieces in his embrace, jaw clenched and frozen as your eyes leak all the way down to your neck.

Steve holds on tighter, buries his head into your neck where droplets run down your shoulder and onto your back. He rubs your spine gently, shushing your cries.

He feels so warm and good to lean into. And in this moment of weakness and sadness, all you want is that warmth again, just for a single minute— even if it’s foolish.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I was afraid and stupid. I thought it would be easier to go back to something I had already known, but I know now that being with you is what I really want. Your love is a wonderful thing. I’m so sorry I ruined it.”

He says it into the top of your head, his warm breath washing over you with each exhale. Steve pulls you to his chest and you can hear his heart hammering in his ribcage. Your own is near identical to his, deafeningly loud in the quiet rest of the apartment. His hands rub up and down your arms.

“Could you love me again?” He asks softly. “Could you try? I won’t let you down this time... I swear.”

His words are sweet like the very honey he stirs into his recipes. They slide down his tongue and out his mouth and soak you in their sticky, syrupy promise. You pull away and look into his eyes, red and blue, glassy and crawling with veins. He wipes a tear from your cheek, and you do the same to him.

Everything is fuzzy. You feel worn down and scattered about, pieces of you lost and trying to find each other.

The two of you sit there, looking at one another on the tiny sofa couch. Then, distractedly, you sniff.

“Where is Sarah?”

Steve erupts into a sharp, wet, laugh before he inhales and blinks his tears away, “God, I thought you were going to headbutt me.” He admits.

“She’s with Marnie at a movie. I asked her to give me an hour and a half before dinner. Time’s almost up.” When you hum softly, he takes the opportunity to press his nose against yours. When you sigh, he does it again before sliding his lips over your mouth.

“I love you.” He whispers against your cheek. One then the other, he places kisses over your face. “I love you.” Your tongue sits swollen in your mouth, unable to find the right words for this moment. “I’d never say it if I didn’t mean it.”

You feel both heavy and weightless, wavering between acceptance and denial. “I--I don’t know, Steve.” You whisper.

“Let’s try again, baby,” he pleads, trailing his lips over your jaw, the two of you scrunched up like pretzels, legs entwined, arms linked and gripped tight.

It’s obvious why clichés like breakup sex and secret relationships are exciting. The aspect of having a potentially glorious thing one last time is a thrill. This, too-- this apologetic, tender, intimacy-- is thrilling. Steve Rogers, torn open and laid bare for you, waiting for you, pleading for you, makes your stomach flip and sink.

He smells like sandalwood and pine. Clean shampoo and summer sun. You try to swallow the deadened weight of your tongue away, but it only grows larger.

Finally, you sigh, wipe your face one last time, and wipe his eyes too. With a crooked smile, you say, “Let’s go get Sarah.”

--

The car ride to Steve’s house is as quiet as a funeral. Your radio remains off the whole time and your brain is wiped completely blank by sheer emotional exhaustion. Any time a thought of whether you’ve done the right or wrong thing arises, it turns into snowy static and disappears. Maybe you’re a saint. Or an idiot. Maybe idiots can also be saints, and maybe that’s what you are.

What you really want is to stop feeling so much. The ache has subsided but its now replaced by unease laced with a steady drumbeat of something that resembles elation. You can’t help but feel excited again, because Steve is here. Steve is back. Steve has promised. And you hope he will deliver. Your chest thumps noisily and at light speed when you remember how happy he made you just a few months ago.

The reality of that approaching happiness resurrects itself inside of you, taking off on eagerly flapping wings.

Yet, the concerned part of you still stands planted on the earth, arrow raised and nocked, waiting to loose the bolt to shoot that bird down.

The two of them watch each other guardedly as they grow further and further apart.

 You turn off the engine and meet him on the sidewalk where he stands waiting patiently. Marnie’s car isn’t here yet, so he leads you inside by the hand and brings you a glass of water, observing you all the while.

“What?” You ask hoarsely after a big gulp.

He smiles—wide, blindingly white, reminiscent of the old wallpaper on your phone. “Just glad you’re here.” He says, suddenly shy.

“Yeah,” You reply sadly, “Me too. I think.”

Steve takes the glass from your hand and sets it on the countertop. “It’s okay.” He whispers, tugging lightly on your finger like a lost child, “It’s okay.”

A knock from the front door pulls your attention away and you can hear Sarah chattering on the other side. Marnie opens the door with her spare key and Sarah leads here in with a half-eaten bag of popcorn clutched to her chest. She does look so tall now, you think, and older with her hair pulled back into a ponytail and her jawline beginning to angle just slightly more like her father’s.

“Hi daddy!” She says in-between a crunching mouthful, and then pauses when she sees you behind her father. “Hi!!! Wow! Are you gonna stay for a sleepover? Daddy doesn’t work tomorrow! Can we go somewhere?”

She places the bag on the nearest counter and runs over to where you stand by the coffee table, jumping right up into your arms.

You stumble, because she’s even bigger than the last time she did it, and your life flashes before your eyes.

This time, because he was expecting it, Steve catches you against his chest and sets you right. Marnie smiles and waves goodbye from the doorway.

--

You wash dishes side-by-side in the kitchen after Steve tucks Sarah into bed at eight. She’s worn out from spending her day outside and running around so much that over dinner you watched her nearly doze off while eating her vegetables.

Steve had made dinner with fluffy brown rice and sautéed shrimp and lemon zest. On the side, he steamed summer squash and cut fresh slices of sweet peppers. Once more, you and Sarah set the dinner table and poured the drinks while he arranged the plates.

Dessert was simple: plump, blood red cherries from the farmer’s market. Sarah splashed burgundy over her shirt, and you dabbed some vinegar on it before rinsing it out for her in the restroom. Her nose had scrunched up at the smell and she pretended to barf until she actually dry heaved a little.

Huh. Second grade, you thought, as you backed away from her.

Patting the dishes dry, you stack them neatly into their respective cabinets before washing your own hands. Steve brushes a strand of your hair away from your face and leads you back to the couch where it’s safe: neither too forward nor too modest. Appropriate enough for two adults to talk while Sarah sleeps in her room with the door cracked.

Her bedtime playlist slips down the hall as a tinny, melodic voice. The lights are dimmed low, just enough for the two of you to see each other and not much else.

His hands sandwich yours and he places them in his lap. As he turns to look at you, the lamp behind his head illuminates his long hair, casting radiance all around him. Your breath quickens.

Big. Stupid. Beautiful. Man.

“You know what I thought the first time I met you?” He asks suddenly, a sly smile growing on his face. You frown. The hand on top of yours brushes over your knuckles, fingers rubbing back and forth slowly as he continues, “I thought—”

“I was too young.” You interject, rolling your eyes at the memory of his crass words at Open House.

“Yes.” He laughs. “I did think you were too young. Inexperienced. I had this idea of what a teacher should have been… But then—” he snickers again suddenly, clapping his hand over yours, “then you handed me your resume and flicked me off at the same time.”

You grin, because yeah, you remember that, too. It was a pretty audacious move on your part, but he had really pissed you off. “Is that what won you over?”

“Yeah. It really was. It was impressive—your resume, and your middle finger.”

“I didn’t like you very much when I met you.” You admit, “Didn’t like you … for a long time.”

“Oh, I know, sweetheart.” Steve chuckles, “You would literally run away from me. I had to chase you down with a plate of food-- with specially made banana bread! Jesus, that recipe was so hard.”

“Well, Steve Rogers,” You sigh, “Thank God I like you now.”

“Not God,” Steve corrects, “Thank Bucky. He really set me straight— twice.”

Steve told you once over a conversation all about Bucky and Natasha, the two old friends you briefly met in early June. Bucky was the one who had encouraged Steve to ask you in the first place. You remember replying how you’d have to thank him next time you see him for giving Steve the idea. Apparently, you’ll have to thank him again, too.

“He pretty much yelled at me for twenty minutes after… you know.”

“You deserved it.” You say.

“Yeah,” Steve replies, “I really did.”

Then, after a moment of silence, because both of you are unsure where to take this conversation next—too soon to apologize again and too soon to start acting like nothing is wrong again, Steve clears his throat.

“I talked to Peggy, after the airport.” He says carefully, as if the very mention of her name might make you burst into tears. You’re pleasantly surprised when it doesn’t, but again, it wasn’t her you had been upset with. So, you nod quietly and wait for him to continue.

“I think... we’re all on the same page.”

“Which page is that?”

“That you’re too good for me.”

It’s supposed to come out as a humorous thing, a thing you would laugh at and tell him the opposite. He even holds his breath in wait for the moment when your laugh would escape in a joyful exhale, but instead you glare. “I’m just a person.” You say grimly, and he doesn’t quite understand why the joke that was supposed to be funny has suddenly turned serious.

“I’m just a person. Not a substitute. Not a replacement guardian. Not an idea of a lover or mother or--”

“Woah!” And then the tears are falling down your face again and Steve’s chest feels like it might break open. “Honey, I don’t love you as anyone but yourself. I love you as the caring teacher. The… new painter?” He offers you a sweet smile, “The funny, beautiful, glorious, and gracious girlfriend…”

“My girlfriend?” He asks bashfully.

A small laugh escapes as you wipe your eyes, “Don’t forget I’m good in bed, too.” You tack on jokingly.

Steve puts his forehead in his hand, “Jeez, you gotta meet Bucky again. You two are two of a kind.”

He peeks at you between his fingers. A slow, tender gaze, full of affection and promise. Steve bites his bottom lip, looks at you with hooded eyes and takes a deep breath in. His tongue rubs against the edge of his teeth. “Can’t wait to spend time with just you.” He says in a single quick breath. “I want to make you feel better, baby.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling. “Don’t disappoint me, Rogers.”

The comment that is meant to be a joke flips on its head. Steve surges forward and tucks both arms under yours, pressing his chest to your chest, burying his face into your neck. “I won’t.” He murmurs, pained. His beard tickles when it scrapes against your skin, but his hot breath wicks it away.

“I won’t ever again.”

“Okay, Steve” You sigh, cheek resting on his head, “Okay.”

Last Chapter

#marvel #mcu #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #modern au #fanfiction #reader insert #slow like honey heli0s