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kowaiitenshii · 11 months

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[Sunkiller Lullaby Part Two]

Pairing: Darth Vader X Reader

Plot Summary: Accepting your role as Lord Vader’s personal attendant, you take the first steps in learning your new duties, and proving your loyalty to your new master.

Warnings: Canon-level violence. Mentions of death/murder. Descriptions of fear. Corruption. Canon-divergent. Unburnt!Vader. Reader is a former slave. Improper use of the force. Vader is his own warning. Descriptions of mistreatment. AFAB reader, feminine pronouns and descriptions used. 18+ content to come in later chapters.

Words: 4.2k

A/N: First off, thank you so much everyone for all the love on part one! I truly did not think so many people would enjoy it! I appreciate everyone who reblogged and liked, and I cannot wait to continue sharing this story with you. If people continue to enjoy my writing, I will most likely open up for requests/prompts!

Part One HERE

Part II:

To your dismay, you awaken to bright beams of starlight peeking through the sheer inner curtains of your suite.

You blink in confusion as you mull over the contents of the past night’s dream, and lament the fact that it was only that; a dream.

Sighing deeply in disappointment, you slowly rise from bed and dress yourself for the day, deciding on a deep ruby red set of robes. They’re thick and soft as you slide them on, and you decide that red really compliments you.

You are again presented with a decadent breakfast, this time dining on exotic ripened fruits, cured strips of thinly sliced meat, and toasted breads.

When you finish, the friendly droid again kindly leads you to Lord Vader’s private chambers.

As the doors slide open, you nearly jump out of your skin when you find your master awaiting you, staring at the door expectantly as he anticipates your arrival.

Forcing yourself to hold your head high, you saunter into the room as nonchalantly as you can muster. Your hands shake as you approach, and you clench them tightly in an attempt to push down your building nerves.

“Morning, young one.” he greets you coolly, his deep voice resonating through the silence.

“Good morning, My Lord.” you reply calmly, bowing to the Sith Lord.

He gives you an approving nod as you rise, before turning to the large window behind himself, commanding you to join him.

“Come.” he booms simply, and you oblige him. Standing next to him only highlights the size difference between the two of you, seeing as you only reach his shoulder at the highest.

All the lights of the room both overhead and from electric controls shine off of Vader’s helmet and armor, creating almost an aura of light which glints off of him. Your eyes are drawn to the heavy slant of his shoulders with his cape draped over, and the curve of his very evident biceps beneath his thick suit. Your face reddens slightly before you turn to face the window, feeling a measure of shame for looking at a Sith Lord in such a way.

The two of you gaze out at the expanse of stars before you, and you can’t help but marvel at the sight. Being from a small planet and having been enslaved since you were just a young girl, you had never any chance to explore or travel, no matter how badly you may have wanted to.

One of the things that amazes you the most as you stare out into space is the realisation that the stars are colourful.

There are stars of every colour you can imagine, and most of them are planets. Each star glittering across the sky in endless hues, they remind you of the fields of wildflowers that were common on your home-planet.

For a fleeting moment, you imagine lying amongst the stars and wrapping yourself in a blanket made of space itself, before Vader speaks again.

“I have arranged a test for you today.” he asserts, his tone unreadable.

Cocking your head, you glance up at your master, questioning exactly what sort of test he had in mind.

“We need to have the understanding that we can trust in one another if I am to take you on in personal servitude.” He explains, sensing your curiosity.

You can feel yourself go cold as the words sink in. It could be any kind of test, and ice cold pangs of fear grip your heart as you pray you do not fail.

Failure is simply not an option.

The trembling in your fingers only worsens, and to your horror, Vader notices.

He takes one of your quivering hands tightly within his own before placing the other heavy, leather-clad hand over top of yours. His touch is like holding a livewire, like nothing you had ever felt before, and it makes you jolt in your skin.

His gaze albeit masked is fixed upon you as he speaks, the air catching in your throat.

“I can sense your fear, your hurt. Your rage.” he says, a reassuring tone hidden in his distorted voice. “Use them. Do not fear me.” he commands, before dropping your hand like he had never touched it in the first place.

Not fearing him was a hefty task indeed.

You say nothing in response, swallowing thickly and flexing your fingers to rid them of the lingering sensation of his touch.

Just then, the ship begins to descend on a barren planet. The land is desolate, clouds of smoky-coloured dust covering the rough, rocky terrain.

You take deep breaths to steady yourself as the ship lands, still reeling from the touch along with your nerves and their gnashing teeth gnawing at the back of your mind.

As you disembark, you can feel how tightly wound your body is with anticipation. Despite this, you diligently follow your master as he treks along the barren, grey landscape, leading you to a wide clearing in the rocky wasteland.

All around you are boulders and crystals of enormous size, and you figure this must be an Empire-controlled resource planet.

Looking up to the violet sky, you pray to the maker that you make it out of this in one piece.

Vader stops at once, turning to regard you once more as you come to stand before him.

“Before we begin,” he starts “What is your name?” he asks, striking you with the realisation that you had not yet told him, and that he almost certainly already knew it. Truthfully, you had nearly forgotten that you had a name, as more derogatory terms were commonly used to refer to slaves. It is a strange thought that Lord Vader would even care to know it.

“(Y/N).” you answer dutifully.

“(Y/N).” he confirms before speaking again. “As I previously stated, we must be without a shadow of a doubt that we trust in one another. I have brought you here to assess that fact.” he explains, his droning voice reverberating off of the jagged walls of the terrain surrounding you.

Doing your best to maintain your shaken composure, you watch as the Sith Lord strides a few paces away before speaking again once more.

“I will test you, as you will test me.” He iterates, now turning towards you and watching you for a moment.

Rooted to the spot, you clench your shaking hands and swallow the lump in your throat, fixing your gaze upon Lord Vader.

You will test him? What could he possibly mean by that?

You watch in thinly veiled terror as he raises his right hand and the ashen earth around you begins to tremble. A large mass of sparkling crystal sizable enough to crush a freighter breaks away from the earth, beginning to levitate.

Stomach in knots and your mind racing, you watch in horror as it rises impossibly high and comes to a stop directly over your head.

In your youth you had heard tales of the Jedi and the Sith, but you had always taken them with a grain of salt. It is then that you come to understand that the stories were true, and the force is more powerful than you could ever have imagined.

Vader’s voice cuts through your frenzied train of thought, snapping you back into the moment.

“Focus on me.” he instructs you, holding the spiked mass of crystals steady above you, pulling it higher.

Although every atom in your body screams at you to run, you know there is no point. Wiping away the fine sweat forming on your brow, you obey your master, fixing your widened eyes upon him.

“Feel your fear.” he commands in a guiding tone. “Feel it, and understand that I will never harm you.”

Dread cuts into your chest like knives, and still you obey. You feel the goosebumps on every inch of your skin, your muscles poised to flee, and the fine tremble running through you in waves.

You look upon Lord Vader who holds your life in his hands so effortlessly. Focusing on the expressionless countenance of his helmet, you envision looking into his eyes and finding unwavering certainty there.

You stand as a statue as the massive crystal drops, time itself seeming to slow, and you don’t so much as blink when Vader catches it just before it hits.

“Very good.” Darth Vader affirms, before reeling back and launching the crystals far off into the distance; the sound of impact only coming as a murmured echo.

Sighing a huge breath of relief, your shoulders and head droop as the tension washes away in waves. When you lift your head, the Sith Lord is in front of you again, this time holding a cylindrical silver and black object in his outstretched right hand, motioning for you to take it.

“Do you know what this is?” he asks as you carefully take it from him, examining the activation switch on the side.

“Yes,” you affirm as you inspect the object with great curiosity. “It is a lightsaber.”

You had seen them in use only once when your planet was under siege, but you had also seen them traded by smugglers a handful of times.

However, you had never held one. The metal is cool to the touch, and it is deceptively heavy in your hands as you marvel at it, turning it over and over in your hands.

“Turn it on.” Vader demands, cutting your observation short. You swallow your nerves, holding the lightsaber in your right hand and placing your thumb over the switch. You jump as you press it, the glowing crimson plasma blade instantly shooting out with a sharp sound.

The glowing saber incandesces between the two of you, red light illuminating Vader’s ominous visage.

“Good. Now off.” he directs, and you obey immediately.

“Now, we test my faith in you.” he states intently, stepping closer and closer until he is merely an arm’s length away, looming expectantly over you.

Stomach tingling and your mind blank, you watch as he harshly grips the wrist of your right hand and presses the unarmed lightsaber against the blinking control panel on his chestplate, the shocking sensation of his touch feeling a million miles away.

Staring at where the hilt of the blade rests against his armor, you have the cold understanding that you could kill him right now.

You could kill him, and yet it would do nothing to change your fate.

It takes a moment to realise he’s staring at you before you look up to meet the blank gaze of his mask. Somehow you can feel it in him, the faith he has in you and the understanding that killing him would not save you.

You’re like that for a moment, staring at each other and listening to the rhythmic sound of his breathing before he steps away, and you hand the lightsaber back to him.

“Well done.” he praises as he beckons you to follow. “Come. We are done here.”

You both board Lord Vader’s ship once again, your mind and emotions still reeling from the stress of the situation you just managed to live through as he calmly leads you to his chambers.

“Make yourself comfortable.” he orders as you enter the room, and you waste no time in shrugging off your outermost robe, leaving on your cowl and belted underdress. Plopping wearily onto one of the long couches in the room, you notice that it’s notably firmer than the plush furnishings of your suite, though you were in no place to complain.

Lord Vader stares at you for a moment, and you become bashful at the idea of him looking upon your uncovered skin, before he turns to his place at the large window to watch as the ship takes off.

You wonder if he does anything other than stare out the window in contemplation.

Straightening yourself up, you watch the grey planet fade away as the ship flies, bidding the site of your near-grave a goodbye before looking around the room in which you sit.

Now that you have the chance to really look, you take in your surroundings. To your right, the wall with the door is covered in blinking controls which you can only assume are either used to manipulate aspects of the room or call droids and Imperial personnel. On the far wall opposite where you sit, there is a large open doorway into an illuminated room housing an enormous tank filled with a mysterious blueish liquid, and you wonder what the purpose for it could possibly be.

You don’t see a bed in the room, so you assume that Vader sleeps elsewhere. That is, if he indeed sleeps.

In the left hand corner of the opposite wall, you can see a long white table littered with various parts, mechanisms and tools laid out upon it, and you find it mildly interesting that Darth Vader likes to tinker.

The Sith Lord’s voice cuts through your curious observations like a razor.

“What do you know of the force?” He asks, peering over his shoulder at you.

You’re stunned for a moment before you answer.

“I must admit, Lord Vader, I know very little, as it was forbidden to be taught on my homeworld.” you reply truthfully, caught off guard by the seemingly random question. It was true, the ways of the force were not formally taught as a form of trying to shield the people of your home-planet from the Empire; all you know are the legends and the myths that were told as stories.

Lord Vader nods in acceptance.

“This ship is equipped with an entire library full of knowledge of the force, both light and dark; Jedi and Sith. You are free to utilise it if you so wish.” He offers, but it sounds more like an order.

Feeling as though there’s something he’s not saying, you simply nod.

“Thank you master.” you accept graciously with a soft smile.

He only nods in reply, gaze lingering heavily upon you before he turns away from the window, pacing over to his work bench in the opposite corner from where you sit and taking a seat.

You do not know how long he toils over his machines, nor how long you accompany him in doing so.

The last thing you remember before waking up in your own bed is dozing off on Lord Vader’s couch.

Confused and unaware of how you got back to your suite, you rub the sleep out of your eyes and sit up. As you rise, a gentle knock sounds behind the door.

“Come in!” you call out, clearing your throat and wetting your lips.

The friendly droid enters, bowing to you and chirping its greetings.

“Good evening, Madam! I’m assured you’re ready for your meal?” it asks politely. Smiling softly at the kind droid, you nod.

“Yes, please.”

After all, the stress of the day's activities has left you quite hungry, your stomach growling at the thought of the decadent spreads you’ve been spoiled with.

The droid steps out for a moment, promptly returning with a spread no less extravagant than the others you’ve been lucky enough to enjoy. Tonight, your meal consists of a striking plum-coloured stew, accompanied by an herbed mash of root vegetables, and crusty baked breads still warm from the oven.

As you eat, a curious and humorous thought crosses your mind, and you set down your spoon to ask the droid a question.

“Was it you that carried me all the way back here?” you giggle playfully, finding amusement in the idea of the spindly droid hauling you through the corridors.

“No milady, Lord Vader saw to that himself.” the droid answers dutifully.

Knowing it is incapable of lying, the idea hits you like a train, and you’re struck by it for a moment.

Carrying you to your room seemed like a task that would be uncharacteristically tender, too gentle for Vader to carry out. You can feel the flush that spreads across your cheeks as you come to the understanding that there is still much you do not know about your master.

“Oh, um. Give him my thanks.” you reply quietly, leaving it at that.

“As you wish, Milady.” the droid affirms.

Spending the rest of your meal in contemplative silence, it does you well, nourishing and soothing your tired body.

Before the droid leaves you for the night, you request the books that Lord Vader had mentioned, thinking some studying may help you to understand your master, even if just a small bit more.

It happily delivers them to you, leaving you with a stack of thick and heavy books with weathered bindings.

Elsewhere, Darth Vader paces in his chamber, heavy footsteps echoing around him.

He is quite satisfied with the recent turn of events, knowing surely now that your spirit had not been broken by your life of torment, but that it was bendable.

It was true that you had great fear within you, but your lust for power and your anger was greater. Your suffering had made you fierce, it made you courageous.

The Emperor will be pleased.

Remembering the strength in your expression as you had connected with him while your very life hung in the balance, the absolute, steady faith you had in him; And then the dichotomy of holding your serenely peaceful sleeping body in his arms, your angelic calmness, he feels an unfamiliar flutter in his chest before shaking it off.

Spending the rest of the night flipping through an ancient tome, you are thoroughly intrigued by the stories contained within. They read like fairy tales; tales of heroic bravery, of villainous contempt, of epic battles and galactic love.

They’re enchanting, reminding you of those cherished times as a child when your parents would read to you before putting you to bed.

Well into the late hours of the night, you finally ready yourself for sleep, yawning and stretching as you shrug off your garments.

As you lay out an outfit for the next day, you catch a glimpse of a passing moon. It’s beautiful, a light yellow hue to the pallid monolith as it glows. Moons always reminded you of solitude, your only companion in those quiet hours of the night. As you watch it pass, you silently hope that you dream of your mysterious suitor again.

Your prayers are answered.

Becoming aware of your surroundings, your eyes scan the room around you. It’s a more intimate setting this time, a quaint stone cottage within a verdant forest. There are strange herbs and flowers hung to dry all about the room, leaving it with a floral, green aroma.

Sitting on the floor in front of a warm, crackling fire, your vision finally adjusts to your dimly lit setting, and you spot the one you had wished for standing just within the doorway.

He smiles warmly as your eyes land on him, exposing a row of perfect teeth. You can’t help but to smile back.

Striding out of the shadows, he joins you by the fire, nestling you against his side. His energy is the same and you can feel it just as strongly as before, entrancing and sultry as the fire before you.

You spend a long moment just looking at him, committing every aspect of his features to memory in case you never get the pleasure of seeing him again.

He’s still got that warm smile on his face as he gazes back at you, making your stomach flutter. His hair falls in perfect golden waves on his shoulders, framing his outstandingly handsome features. His eyes are half-lidded, his pupils blown wide as he looks upon you; his full, pink lips parted.

Feeling the heat in your body rising, spreading across your face and tinging the tips of your ears, you look away shyly.

The connection you feel with this man still baffles you, it doesn't make any sense, leaving you confused and questioning whether you can even trust your own emotions.

Though, you suppose dreams don’t have to make any sense.

Reaching over to you, he brushes a tress of hair away from your face to read your expression, pulling your attention back to him.

You blink sheepishly at him through long lashes as he hooks a finger under your chin, turning you to face him fully. Goosebumps form instantly at the contact, your hairs standing on end as a wistful sigh leaves your lips.

He brings your face so close to his own that you can feel his gentle breaths tickling your lips. The air, the energy between you is like a thunderstorm; intense, restless, and exhilarating.

You revel in the way he touches you like something that threatens to break.

The realisation then hits you that this is your first time seeing him unhidden by his cloak. You take your time in taking in all the new details you had missed, noticing a lengthy scar on the right side of his face, running nearly all the way from his hairline to just below his eye.

He slowly curls a strong arm around your waist, pulling you onto his lap, never breaking eye contact while doing so. Following his movements obediently, you shift your legs to wrap around his waist as you perch on him; the tips of your noses tickling each other as you adjust yourself.

You want, you crave nothing more than this closeness and contact with him.

After being denied pleasant, consensual human contact for so long, the feeling is intoxicating. It makes your head swim, and your heartbeat race.

Still face to face, you delicately raise your right hand, ghosting the tips of your fingers down the length of his scar, taking great care in case it’s still painful for him. Your fingers buzz and tingle, like nerve endings coming back to life after having fallen asleep.

Lips parting and eyes falling shut at your touch, he presses his forehead against yours.

Your whole body lights up and hums at the sensation, like a static charge. His intense and all-consuming energy surrounds you, threatening to swallow you whole.

And you let it. You let him in.

Holding the doors to your mind open, you begin receiving visions.

Visions of a small boy with tawny hair and bright blue eyes. Visions of the familiar sandy, dual-sunned landscape of Tatooine. Visions of that small boy toiling away in the shop of a cruel junk dealer.

Your eyes fly back open with the newfound understanding that the child was him, that he truly had lived a life like yours.

In this moment, as your heart races and your eyes flit between his, he feels like the person closest to you in the entire world.

He looks back at you with soft eyes. The expression on his face is one that says:

This is me. Do you see it? This is me.

Overwhelmed by the connection, by the painful swelling of your heart in your chest, you let instinct lead rather than logic.

Leaning into him further, you brush your lips just barely over the full curve of his, inviting him to close the distance.

Instantly he relents, capturing your own lips with his, pure passion and intense longing radiating off of him in waves.

As he tangles a large hand in your soft hair, you can feel your heart thumping against your ribcage, your blood rushing through your veins. Draping your arms over his sturdy shoulders, the very air around the two of you feels electric, tingling and crackling with released tension. Lips locking over and over, hands everywhere, tongues tasting each other in the heat of your fiery desire, you send a message through your ministrations.

I see you. You say with every touch of the lips, every tease of his tongue, every rake of your nails across the soft skin of his abdomen. I see you.

When you finally break the session to suck in greedy gasps of much needed air, he bites onto your bottom lip, prolonging the contact for as long as possible. He clutches you tightly, possessively to his strong body, as if you could be ripped from his arms at any moment; his own chest heaving as he breathes.

He slides a large, rough hand up the small of your back, steadying you as you rest your head on his shoulder for a moment. Pressing a feather light kiss to the petal-soft skin of his throat, your eyes slide shut with great satisfaction.

Credz:

Lightsaber graphic creds: @saradika

Taglist:

@heyitsaloy

@poisonedsultana

@cryptidsrcool

@mayhemories

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anki-of-beleriand · 8 months

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Under the storm

Summary: You wish hating Wanda for what she made you feel was far easier, perhaps next time you would be finally ready to end her. Or she would be ready to put you out of your misery.

Warnings: Angst, drama, unrequited love, so much drama and angst. misunderstandings, suicidal thoughts.

Pairings: Jedi!Wanda x Sith!Reader

Author's Note: I just watched Ahsoka and I thought it was fantastic but it made me think of this. Hope you guys like it, rmemeber English is not my mother tongue so I apologise for any grammar, spelling and funny mistake.

Thunder fell upon the earth, striking the land with purplish light while igniting the sky above your head. Your lips quirked upwards, your hand grasping the hilt of your lightsaber tightly just as the dark hood of your robe covered your face.

The gusty wind pushed at the slopes of your clothing, and the only sound was that of howling weather that had left you and her alone in the shipyard. You tilted your head, the Force allowing you to sense her fear and hesitation.

Another lightning breaking up the darkness surrounding you, the cold water of rain making your clothing heavier and difficult to handle. Not that you two were moving at all, both of you had been standing like this ever since the rain started falling. Bickering back and forth was easier than actually standing against one another, knowing that this battle would end in one way.

Wanda slid her right foot, her stance changing ever so slightly while her left hand went upwards with her own weapon held in a tight grip. Her green eyes found yours, and your heart almost skipped a beat at the sight you had always loved. She was still your greatest regret, the one person you went down a path many thought was full of darkness.

The way of the Sith was not as simple as that.

You had learnt that the hard way.

Wanda opened her mouth, but as soon as she did, she clamped her lips close shaking her head. Regret. And you clenched your jaw because the sight of such an emotion, of her stepping back made your heart hurt; she was never brave enough to finally take a leap of fate and go with you.

But as soon as the world changed, she found someone to do the very same thing you hoped for.

It wasn’t about the relationship; it was about you.

You were in love with her, but she wasn’t in love with you.

You snarled looking away before striking forward, the red saber clashing against her blue one. Sparks flew around mixing up with the drops of water falling on you, the hood finally falling to your back, and your eyes just as angry as they had been on your last meeting.

You pushed forward, and Wanda stepped back, her hand trembling but holding the hilt firmly. She couldn’t hide her sadness, and this only made you angrier, sweeping around kicking her on her stomach while striking her with the saber once more.

Sparks filled the stormy night, the humming of the swords breaking into the thunder while your eyes locked of those of Wanda trying to understand when your love for her turned into such a hatred.

“Y/N…” She mouthed, and you could almost hear her voice calling out to you just moments before you turned your back to her and run towards the man you ended up calling Master.

The crimson red of your sword igniting your face, your lips showing off a mocking smirk while your hand stretched to Force push the woman in front of you. You had always been great with your fighting style, much better than Wanda but there was no mistaken the young woman had practiced as well. There is another clash of weapons, and just as you trusted your hand forward, Wanda did the same and the Force used by the both of you created a space between you.

You took a deep breath trying to calm down your beating heart, the rumbling of the storm deafening the sounds around you. Wanda softened her features, her hand lowering the saber while her eyes tried to reach out yours. You could feel her presence around you, her willingness to just stop this madness and talk to you. You closed up the link she was trying to open, shaking your head knowing you were out here buying time for your master to get the map.

“Y/N…”

You could hear her voice in your mind, and in a desperate attempted to shut her up you launched another attack never noticing the blast of a gun until it hits your shoulder.

You screamed in pain, your right feet stumbling and almost making you fall. Your left hand stretching around grabbing the lightsaber before blocking the blasting of the invisible gun, Wanda screaming out for the person to stop shooting losing her sight on you while trying to stop the whole madness.

You saw the opening, and without thinking too much went at it again.

The slash itself didn’t hurt you at first, you stood there with your eyes wide open and the world stopping around you.

The only thing you were aware of was your hard breathing, and the sudden lack of light from your right eye. Then, the piercing pain on your face and shoulder, and finally the scream leaving your mouth as you fell to the ground.

Wanda was looking at you wide eyes, her lightsaber still humming furiously pointed directly at you.

“Wanda! Kill her!”

She could hear the voice of Vision inside the com, the urgency in his voice but Wanda was not able to move at all. You put your hand on your now bleeding face, your good eyes glaring at her with anger and disbelief.

“Not today, Princess.” You gritted your teeth, standing weakly before Wanda.

Your free hand clenching in thin air, suing the Force as your ally to tighten Wanda’s throat and pulled her to you. The other woman was breathing as hard as you were, and you let her see the nasty wound on your face, the blood and the lost eye. Your lips broke into a nasty smile.

“Enjoy your fuck toy while you can, Jedi.” You snarled and Wanda saw the tears you had been hiding, she saw the pain and the betrayal and the brokenhearted pain of unrequited love.

And Wanda wished she was not so weak, she wished she could tell you that she loved you. That she was pretty much in love with you, but she couldn’t, she just couldn’t let her beliefs aside to go with you when the whole universe depended on the few standing Jedi to help it out. To once more, became the Galaxy a place of peace and justice.

You tightened your hold on her, your body ready to give in. Your wounds hurting all over, the blood pouring out from your shoulder and eyes, you could sense your Master coming forward as much as you could sense the other Rebels coming for Wanda.

“We…we will see each other once more.” You whispered, putting Wanda’s head down and placing a kiss on her forehead. “Next time, your better pierce my heart or else, I will destroy everything you hold dear, Wanda. I will make you feel the pain I went through the day you broke my heart.”

You put your saber right through her side, making sure you didn’t touch any vital organs before stepping aside on wobbly legs. Your body ready to give up until you saw the ship flying towards you, your smirked watching everyone coming forward. Natasha running as fast as she could her eyes on you, her mouth forming your name with her lips.

You scoffed turning around, wincing as you approached the sentinel class craft, the escorting TIE firing to the enemy giving you enough time to go inside your escape route.

You left your former life behind, falling to your knees, you allowed the droids to drag you to the medical bay while your Master ranted about the mission and how foolish you had been for falling into such a childish game.

You didn’t listen, your mind still on the fight. On Wanda.

“Detka…”

Her voice reaching out to you, you closed your eyes.

“I will make you regret the pain you caused me, Wanda…”

“Detka, please…come back…”

“Next time, Wanda, kill me. Please just kill me, or I will end him and everyone else around you…”

And with those last words, you closed the link, the world around you going dark as you finally lose consciousness.

#personal #fanfic #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wandaxreader #female reader #imagine wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x female reader #Jedi!wanda xSith!Reader

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youryurigoddess · 3 months

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The stuff dreams are made of, or the interesting case of Anthony J. Crowley

We’ve talked a bit about Crowley’s trauma and his way of reclaiming the narrative in the past, but it’s time for some deep dive into the story he’s trying to tell. A story that meanders through the fabric of time and space, slightly changing with the human fashion trends, but slowly and surely bringing the demon closer to a certain angel like the red thread of fate.

1793

Some stories start in a garden, some even Before the Beginning, but this one starts with an Arrangement. Or, to be precise, a little bit after that.

See, most of the iterations of Crowley we saw throughout the history until then didn’t delve too deep into human cultural tropes. If anything, they were the inspirations behind more or less prominent biblical figures, maybe some nameless villains matching his demonic provenance and role assigned to him by his employers.

But in the hustle and bustle of the revolutionary Paris, Crowley emerges as a prototype of the Scarlet Pimpernel — a chivalrous Englishman who rescues aristocrats before they are sent to the guillotine. Stan Lee famously called him “the first character who could be called a superhero”.

Sir Percy Blakeney, the main character of the novel and the West End play under the same title, leads a double life. Appearing as nothing more than a wealthy fop, in reality he’s a formidable swordsman, a quick-thinking master of disguise and an escape artist. Even his own wife, Marguerite, has no idea.

Unfortunately Marguerite is being blackmailed with her brother’s life to find and expose the wanted Pimpernel. She regrets betraying her husband the moment she's forced to do it and spends the rest of the plot working to save him. She does, they make up, and return together to England.

In Aziraphale and Crowley’s case there was just a short stop for crêpes. But what seems to be an inspiration of a specific scene might as well come up later in the wider perspective of the show, so keep in mind those fragments of the musical’s libretto:

We all are caught in the middle

of one long treacherous riddle.

Can I trust you?

Should you trust me too?...

We shamble on through this hell

taking on more secrets to sell

'til there comes a day

when we sell our souls away.

We seek him here, we seek him there,

Those Frenchies seek him everywhere!

Is he in heaven? Is he in hell?

Where is that damn elusive Pimpernel!

1941

The London Blitz is when we see a full-fledged iteration of the superhero Crowley performing dashing and heroic deeds under the literal cover of darkness and air bomb smoke. In a bespoke double-breasted suit and a fedora — still free from the unfortunate modern connotations from the internet culture — he’s clearly channeling Humphrey Bogart as a private investigator Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon (1941) now.

It all starts with a woman and a simple plan gone wrong: Spade’s partner is shot dead, just like the man he was supposed to be tailing upon the request of a mysterious Miss Wonderly. And when a very soft-looking, sweet-scented man named Joel Cairo appears in his office willing to pay a hefty price for a "black figure of a bird", Spade starts not only a new job, but also his own quest for truth.

On the surface, The Maltese Falcon ends happily: the killer gets caught, and the hero winds up with the Falcon. But Spade's victory is completely hollow. The Falcon itself, originally meant as a symbol of loyalty, transforms into a symbol of a corrupting, futile, and self-destructive greed that makes people betray their own loyalties.

The treasure is just a worthless forgery and he’s fallen in love with the criminal — one of the first femmes fatales on screen. Despite his feelings for her and a kiss, Spade gives her up and submits the statuette as evidence, describing it as "the stuff that dreams are made of".

Remember the eagle lectern? The eagle was believed to be flying highest in the sky and therefore closest to heaven, symbolizing the carrying of the word of God to the four corners of the world. Aziraphale in the 1941 church scene is the closest to Heaven we’ve seen him on Earth. Just look at him: dressed in a smart, well-fitted coat with peaked lapels, symbolizing his Heavenly allegiance, and doing good this time not as a work assignment, but of his own accord. Being the closest to Heaven means the furthest and most unattainable for a demon like Crowley.

The Maltese Falcon is a metaphor for unattainability — things out of reach to desire and fight for, although never truly possess. It’s “the stuff that dreams are made of”. But Crowley secured the original — made of gold and encrusted with jewels, but hiding its real value under black enamel — eerily reminiscent of the demon himself and the unending kindness behind his inappropriately tight black clothing.

Quoting Michael Ralph — the production mastermind behind Good Omens — from the S01E04 “Saturday Morning Funtime” DVD commentary, “We wanted to tip our hat to the Maltese Falcon as being a precious object that no-one thought really exists but it does”. So we can safely assume that Crowley can and will achieve his dream in the future.

1967

Do you know what else happens in 1941 in Scotland? Ian Fleming, a British naval intelligence agent, meets with the famous occultist Aleister Crowley and asks him to lead the interrogation of newly imprisoned Rudolf Hess — a leading member of the Nazi Party in Nazi Germany appointed Deputy Führer — given the two men’s shared enthusiasm for the occult.

This meeting has a significant impact on Fleming’s work as a writer; Aleister Crowley becomes the inspiration for his first villain Le Chiffre and creates a blueprint for most of the James Bond’s franchise ever since 1953, the publication date of the novel Casino Royale.

Meanwhile our Anthony J. Crowley believes in himself not being the villain he’s usually and sometimes forcefully painted as, but a superhero in disguise. The character of James Bond in particular inspires him so much that he buys petrol to get the limited You Only Live Twice (1967) window decals for his Bentley, dons his own tactical turtleneck, and sets off to organize a heist like no other. Sean Connery style.

Like a typical superhero, Crowley’s once again both saved and betrayed by his love interest. Aziraphale leaves him with a thermos of Holy Water, a faint smile, and a hope that they’ll soon match their speeds to meet halfway at the Ritz. The cancelled heist is not an ending, but a promise of a new beginning. And the fact that UK decriminalizes homosexual acts in the very same year is more than telling in this regard.

2019

An exceptional situation calls for exceptional solutions, and what’s more important than the impending Apocalypse? Demon Crowley does his best to put the arsenal of his 20th century film inspirations to good use.

"Ask yourself, do you feel lucky?" Crowley drawls, clearly imitating (although slightly misquoting) the titular Dirty Harry (1971). He’s hoping to be menacing and making the point of being the one on the right side of the law and history.

Some situations require more than quoting action heroes is not everything though. He knows what to do:

A jeep was heading purposefully towards the gate, and it looked as though it was crowded with people who were about to shout questions and fire guns and not worry about which order they did this in.

[Crowley] brightened up. This was more what you might call his area of competence.

He took his hands out of his pockets and he raised them like Bruce Lee and then he smiled like Lee Van Cleef.

'Ah,' he said, 'here comes transport.'

When in doubt, Crowley acts. He transforms into a combination of a stoic martial arts phenomenon and a sardonic, menacing character. His smile alone — even on Aziraphale’s angelic face, as seen in one of the final cut scenes — seems to be enough to ward off evil spirits, angels, and humans alike.

But we all know that even as breathtaking performances as those can’t protect anyone from the cogs of the Heavenly machine and its plans.

2023

No wonder that Crowley’s tactical turtleneck comes back in style after mere four years of retirement with a self-introduction “Former Demon, hated by Heaven, loathed by Hell. How will our hero cope?”. Something has changed during this time; he’s more mature now, not playing pretend by hiding behind the usual veneer of sarcasm and movie quotes anymore. Finally comfortable with the fact that this is his own story and there’s no need to become anyone else than himself.

The bookshop fire and the Heavenly trial still seem to haunt the demon in a way that makes him realize what all humans know: that every hero is his own biggest enemy. His ultimate dream might effortlessly change into his greatest nightmare any moment now, and the only thing he can do about it is hover in a two-minute distance from the epicenter of his feelings. But Crowley has no time to work on it when a new mission appears, to protect his angel from Gabriel and the combined powers of Heaven and Hell. Even if this — rather ostentatiously — is the last thing he wants to think about at the moment.

Crowley tries to plan ahead, while his story slowly warps into a different genre due to Aziraphale’s interruptions. He eventually changes back into his usual Henley shirt after agreeing to swap places and guarding the bookshop while the angel is off to Edinburgh, collecting more clues. Did he finish his personal quest off-screen? Did he just give up on it in the whirlwind of matchmaking shenanigans? Remains to be seen.

In the S2 finale our master of disguise in yet another turtleneck proves that he can successfully infiltrate even the universe’s back office. We don’t know where he drives off in the end, but one thing is certain — he’s got a plan. And a world (and his dream) to save, like a superhero he is.

#a turtleneck kind of day #crowley is a superhero #and a master spy #with a plan #good omens #good omens 2 #good omens meta #go2 meta #ineffable husbands #crowley #turtleneck crowley #yuri is doing her thing

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star-girl69 · 1 year

Text

My Heart Never Knows

Jake Sully x Neytiri x Fem!Reader

—-

a/n: ok, we’re finally getting into the romance. i hope you all enjoy this chapter!!

also thank you all so much for all of the kind words!! i try to reply to as many comments as i can, but i apologize if i miss yours. thank you so so so much!

warnings: mentions of death, mentions of sickness, mentions of grief, tell me if i missed anything!!

Chapter Three- I Will Not Fall

—-

When you were much younger, your mother was sick.

She had been despondent on her death bed, while Ronal performed more and more rituals, made more broths, more soups, even when your mother told her it was in vain. She refused to listen.

She didn’t stop trying to save her, right up until your mother’s last breath.

Ronal was already mated with Tonowari, already whispering about children, about what they would name them.

When your mother died, it rained, as if the sky was crying for the loss of her. But the sea was clam- and you were content knowing that Eywa held her, and that she was happy there. She had to be.

—-

You think about that day, the storming sky, the eerily calm water as you look out onto the sea today.

The sky does not cry today, in fact, it shines. Brighter and brighter as the sun climbs, taking the darkness and pushing it away, swallowing it.

It is the water that is still, clear and blue, and you watch as Tsireya, Roxto, and Ao’nung dive into it. They disturbed the stillness, but you find you don’t mind. You appreciate it, in fact, because when you turn towards Jake and Neytiri their faces are blank.

You hear the sound of their own children diving in, laughing excitedly.

Jake meets your eyes, and you swallow, but you push it away. Pulling at that source from under your ribs, forcing yourself to speak.

“Are you settling in well?”

“Yeah…” he sighs, running a hand over his hair. “But it’s tough for the children, you know?”

You nod, putting on your most amenable smile. “Tsireya and Ao’nung are- good kids. I’m sure they’ll all get along.”

When he nods, you can tell he does not quite believe you. But you had decided that it will be better if you do this fast, spend the least amount of time with them as possible.

“Come,” you smile, beckoning your hand towards the two. “Let me show you around.”

—-

“From your mauri, it’s almost a straight path to the main beach. That is where people often gather, lighting a fire, communal space. Just past it- theres the ilu pen, although they mostly roam around free during the day. And here…”

You pause, slightly feeling like a fool for talking so much, while the two simply follow you in silence. If they want to speak, they don’t. If they are bothered by the mothers pulling their children back, they don’t say.

Regardless of the turmoil you feel around them, you do feel slightly bad for them.

Instead, you regain yourself and gesture to your mauri, just a few feet away.

“This is my mauri. You can come to me if you need anything, and Ronal and Tonowari’s is just over there.” You point, then look back at them.

Jake is staring at you the same way Neytiri does, (a fact you adamantly ignore), while Neytiri herself looks past you to your house.

“Uh, it is not much, I know. But it is a roof over my head. Besides, it is all I need.”

Jake tilts his head to the side. “You are not mated?”

Neytiri hisses at him, but you just smile awkwardly. “No, no, it’s alright. I’m not. I suppose Eywa has just not destined me for that, yes?”

Neytiri’s eyes trail up and down again, and you fight the feeling under your ribs, the heat in your cheeks.

“Would you like to learn to ride, Jake Sully?” you suddenly blurt, and he looks surprised for a moment before it fades into a wide smile.

“A tsurak, right?”

You motion for them to follow you, giving him a look.

“If you would like. But I warn you, that is a warriors mount. It took me many years to master.”

“So, you think I can’t do it?”

You smile and tuck your chin to your chest at his clear tease, and he leans around you, smiling brightly. You fumble for words, blushing like a naïve, stupid girl.

“You are Toruk Macto,” you decide after a moment. “But I just hope I will be there to see you fall.”

You gulp at your brave words, not knowing where they came from. (The ache under your ribs flares, and you get the sinking feeling it came from there.) You fret for his reaction, but he only smiles. You feel like you might fall to your knees when he speaks.

“Nah. I’ll do it perfectly- first try- just for you, sweetheart.”

—-

“Y/N,” Tonowari greets as you step into the water, waves from a passing ilu hitting your legs. He is far deeper, turning away from a conversation with a few other men.

Jake follows you, a little cautious, slightly behind you.

Tonowari’s eyes meets yours, and you smile quick before looking away. You cannot look him in the eyes, tell him that everything is fine. Not while your ribs ache, your heart squeezes, your stomach feels ill.

You step past him, diving into the deeper water where the sandbar cuts off.

It hits you like a slap in the face, the lukewarm water resetting your senses. It fills your ears and nose, pressing against your lips, burning against your eyes until your adjust. Below you lies a small patch of coral, winding oranges and reds, a summer sunset, blues and greens, a stormy sky.

You turn in the water, head back towards the sandbar. Your feet sink into it- grounding you to the earth, to Eywa. You feel calmer now in the sea.

When you rise, Neytiri is staring out past you, towards the horizon, the seawall. Jake and Tonowari are facing each other, your sister’s mate’s back to you.

But Jake can see you.

And as you stand from the water, move some hair from over your shoulder, he looks and looks and you feel as if you are the sun. He’ll go blind if he stares at you for too long. And he knows this, but he keeps staring.

When you look away, desperate not to melt under his attention, your eyes meet Neytiri’s. She stares much like her mate, unabashed and ashamed. It makes the ache under your ribs flare, both of them. And that, you know, cannot happen.

So you ignore the pain- that feels suspiciously like pleasure- and climb onto the sandbar, standing next to Tonowari.

You want to hide behind him, have his large frame protect you from them. The fact that you like it, like them staring, like their attention should make you sick.

Yes, same-sex couples are accepted in the Na’vi- The People would never dare to defy the will of Eywa- and triads as they are called, are not unheard of.

You want to fall into the sea, sink away from them and their spark, that threatens to turn the small flame inside you to a wildfire. They hold something in the air about them, in their voices, their gazes, and it does not bode well for any plans you may have.

You think of Eywa, fleetingly. Will you defy her to save your heart? Does your heart even need saving?

Then, suddenly, Tonowari winces.

“That is a warriors mount, Jake Sully.”

“Yeah, I know. Y/N told me. But I can handle it. Promise,” he smiles, tilts his head to the side and it is like he is the sun.

You look away when his eyes meet yours, but you swear you see his smile grow out of the corner of his eye.

If you were to even entertain the idea of that being true, what about Neytiri? Jake Sully, Toruk Macto, did not seem like the type to disrespect his mate like that.

When Tonowari places his hand on your shoulder, you swear you are close to tears. Is it so wrong to not wish to be mislead? You do not want to disrespect Eywa- but could her path for you not be more simple?

“Good?” he asks, slight smile on his face. You are half surprised when you can draw enough strength to stand tall, act like everything is normal.

“Yes. They are nice people,” you say, but he shakes his head.

“No, how are you, sister? I know this is difficult, going against Ronal, but I am most grateful to you.”

“No, Tonowari. It’s fine. I’m fine.” He nods, believing you, and you suck in a sharp breath.

You hope you are breathing in a piece of Eywa, something, anything to help you.

When you step towards Neytiri, she smiles kindly at you, feet barely in the water. You go to speak, to urge her in, but she beats you too it.

“I am not used to the water,” she smiles, almost sheepish.

“It is alright. The sea holds as much darkness as it does light. But here, in the reef, I assure you there is no darkness.”

You wonder faintly if it would be improper to reach for her hand, coax her into the water. But you can tell she is not the type of woman to be coddled, so you refrain.

Instead, she simply steps deeper into the water, until she is next to you. You can faintly see Tonowari and some men holding the tsurak in place, while Jake prepares to climb on.

He holds no fear, you must admit that.

“You really think he will fall?” Neytiri asks, and you suddenly realize how close she is to you.

“Jake Sully is a great warrior, but the tsurak are tough creatures.”

“It is alright. You can say it.” When you look at her, she is already looking at you, smiling slightly.

“Yes,” you relent after a moment. “I do think he will fall.”

She laughs, and you think it is the first time you have seen her truly happy. (You ignore the ache under your ribs at the sound of her voice, something like pebbles hitting the still water, something soothing and familiar.)

You smile as you watch her laugh, until Jake finally makes the tsaheylu and the tsurak seizes in the water, thrashing and swishing it’s tail. It’s long jaw opens and closes, hissing in warning. But Jake Sully does not listen, and climbs on regardless.

You faintly hear Tonowari lecturing him, while Jake ties the wrap around his wrist. Neytiri straightens next to you, and when you look at her out of the corner of your eye, her eyes are fixed on her mate.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and she turns towards you, confused. “You do not have to be scared for him.”

“No,” Neytiri dismisses, looking you up and down again. You cannot decide if you hate or love the feeling of her eyes on you. “No. I am not scared for him. I’m just… thinking.”

Jake shouts, and the tsurak shoots off, level in the water. He manages to stay on this far, but he rides into the horizon quickly.

“Something troubles you?”

“Yes,” she says after a moment, always careful about what she reveals to others, you have realized.

You nod, both of your eyes fixed on Jake. The tsurak lifts into the air, and it is a decent enough ascent. It is messy, but that’s to be expected.

As much as he claims, you know he will not perfect it on his first try.

“You do not know me, but I would always be happy to listen.” You are sinking, falling, but it is your own hands pushing you under. The waves that slam over you are of your own making.

She looks at you, for a long time. You stare back, feeling small and pinned under her gaze. When your ache twists in such a way that almost feels… good… you have no choice but to ignore it.

The show is right there, you want to scream. He will fall soon. Do not look at me, look at him.

But Neytiri cannot read your mind, so she keeps looking. Searching, you realize, for a hint of something you keep out of your words. She seems to like what she finds, because she smiles.

“Thank you, Y/N,” is all she has the chance to whisper before the two of your hear the sound of the tsurak slamming into the water again. He is far away now, and you can just barely see his figure being ripped from the animal.

Neytiri let’s out a small laugh, incisors showing as she smiles. Tonowari winces, while the other men laugh.

While they all look at him falling, they do not see you do the same.

—-

taglist:

@sully-stick-together @corrupt-cadaver420 @jadynchronicle @imthefunniestpersonalive @fangil101 @mashiromochi @rey26 @soothinghummerz @myheartfollower

#jake sully x neytiri #jake sully x reader #neytiri x reader

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 2 years

Text

Younger Gods: II

Younger Gods Master List Dream x fem!reader (unnamed)

Chapter 1

Dream has doubts, questions, and a trespasser without a name. Matthew's rescuer has more problems.

Warnings: language, (non-sexual) child abuse, violence

A/N: First of all, you are awesome, amazing, incredible, and all good things wrapped in sunshine, rainbows, and sweet dreams. Secondly, I almost split this chapter in two. Not sure how I feel about the quality of the latter half, but we'll make due. Thirdly, again - holy shit - thank you so, so much for your support. I've added a tag list at the end of this chapter. If you left a more substantial comment, I will try to reply sometime today after I have slept. Lastly, I'm working on a masterlist to make navigation easier, so... enjoy?

*To like is sweet, but Morpheus smiles when you comment and/or reblog

Chapter 2: Lightning in a Bottle

The door to the little cottage stood bolted fast against them. Matthew’s pecking knocks went unanswered, and Morpheus studied the blank sky as his raven swept around to spy through a window. He suspected what the raven would find as his own eyes combed over the cloudless blue.

“The fire’s out,” Matthew said, returning to his side in a rustle of wings. “I couldn’t see any movement inside, and there were a few things missing. Few things knocked over. Looks like she left in a hurry.”

“Yes.” He’d studied the lands Matthew described as he strode through them. They did not live up to the tales. He found a hollowed, soulless space with wilted grass and browned flowers. Summer foliage crumbled from half-barren trees in the echoing stillness. Not a breath of wind disturbed the gathering detritus, and little cracks in the dust gasped for rain that wouldn’t fall.

A realm abandoned.

“She has fled,” he observed.

It fueled his growing concerns. This wasn’t a place Matthew’s mysterious benefactor just stumbled upon. She’d crafted it, grown it with nothing but her own magic and means. Without its master, it could only die. Although it wasn’t a large realm, it was clearly a realm, one bordering the Dreaming, no less, and if Matthew hadn’t fallen into it, even he might never have known.

Few entities could sustain their own worlds, and now he feared he had turned this creature into an enemy.

Matthew puffed up, shaking his head, and Morpheus looked away, preparing for the inevitable.

“Can’t imagine why.”

“I could not see you,” Morpheus said. He’d said it before, and he’d repeat his reasons until this little drama was resolved. “I thought you were lost. When an entity appeared with you in her arms, broken and bleeding, what was I to think? I could only assume you’d been taken hostage and forced to serve as a guide.”

“Well.” The raven flew into a little cherry tree, bereft of flowers, just in his master’s line of sight. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes.” He turned to pass back through the gap in the stone wall with its dry, crumbling moss. “You’ve said.”

“You know you’re kind of terrifying sometimes, right, boss?”

“I am. As I meant to be.”

The raven swooped over his shoulder, gliding just ahead as they walked back towards the border.

“So, what do we do now? Spare my dignity and pretend this never happened?”

“No.”

Wheeling overhead, Matthew squawked, “Why?”

“Because she may return.” Dream would set out the obvious if Matthew could not find it on his own. A misunderstanding instigated this problem, and he would suffer no more of them. “Even if she was not a threat before, she could be now. I must protect the Dreaming.”

After the Vortex, after Burgess, he had grown sensitive to risks. If he suspected a thing was dangerous, he would search down to its roots before agreeing it was safe. None of this seemed safe to him.

Matthew came to land on his shoulder. This was a new level of trust, of intimacy, really. Dream hadn’t let a raven perch on his shoulder since Jessamy, but it filled a corner of his heart he’d thought too broken to beat again when Matthew first dared it. The raven didn’t abuse the privilege. He clutched Dream’s shoulder rarely. He must be very concerned to do so now.

“She didn’t give me that impression at all.” Matthew spoke slowly, carefully, like he could get away with saying something his master didn’t like so long as he delivered it with manners. “I’d hate to see you do something you’d regret later is all, sir.”

Listening to the deep silence of the abandoned sphere, Dream let one hand rise to stroke down Matthew’s ruffled feathers. “I will not.”

Only a moment of peace lingered between them before the bird launched into new questions.

“How are you going to find her? You’re going to keep looking, right?”

Dream nearly sighed, and he felt a frown draw his face into a harder expression as his mood soured. He saw no simple solution to this problem. He had nothing. No name to follow and an empty world his quarry renounced in her haste.

“I will have to buy a favor.”

He followed the stranger’s steps back across her lands, tracing the journey his raven took home. Between the trees, over the hills, through the Void, to the gates. He sent Matthew to look for the missing lady – as the raven called her – in the waking world. If he had a name, he could ask Lucienne to find her book in the library, but he wasn’t sure she’d even brushed against the Dreaming before. Matthew reported the stranger was quite reluctant to even approach the fringes.

Sitting on his throne, he thought of the Fates. To make his ask, he must offer recompense equal to and worthy of his questions. He reached out into his realm to gather the right gifts, pulling the chosen fragments of the Dreaming to rest at his feet.

First, lightning caught in a bottle. A lucky escape, good fortune snatched from peril. Impossible and powerful.

Second, a skein of silver thread. The measure of a life, fragile and bright, a story he’d ask the Fates to unspool.

Third, a fresh branch from an ash tree. A symbol of connection between worlds, a traditional offering of divination.

When he reached the shore at the border of his realm, he found another gift, unsummoned, falling to fill the quiet of early evening. A gentle rain, barely more than a mist. He welcomed it, even if he hadn’t chosen it, and called on the Fates.

“Centuries without word. Now two summons in as many years.” The One Who Is Three spoke with the Mother’s voice. “What have you lost now, dear?”

“Such interesting gifts,” the Maiden said.

The Crone sneered. “You must have quite the favor to ask. Get on with it.”

Morpheus nodded, nearly bowing, acknowledging where he stood and the indignity of his supplication. “There is someone I need to find. I have questions for her.”

“And questions for us.” The Maiden teased. “Ask them, then. One to each, and from each one answer.”

Before he could begin to ask after who found his raven, he must understand what made the little realm next to his.

“My first question: A creature brought my wounded raven to the gates of the Dreaming. What is she?”

The Maiden took the first turn. Her dark eyes drew him into a vision, and he found himself in a sacred grove full of courtly fae. They ringed a man – a god reeking of ozone and singed hair – who held out a bundle.

“Conceived to cheat a debt. Given as payment, hours old.”

The bundle cried as greedy hands snatched it away, and the god laughed and left in a flash of lightning. A blink, and the bundle was a child in golden collar like twisted boughs of ash, thin and frightened with flowers in her hair.

“God-spawned.”

Years stretched through an instant. The girl grew until he could see the shape of the woman she’d become, the one he’d met on the shore. She pulled the blade from the fae king’s belt and thrust it through his heart.

“Kingslayer.”

She turned the sword on herself – on the collar, cutting between gold and flesh as the enchanted boughs twisted tighter. She tore it away with a rush of blood and a growl like thunder. The branches shattered. Lightning struck the sacred ash tree, and the remaining court scattered in newfound fear of their plaything.

“Storm god.”

They stood once again on the shore of the Dreaming, and he blinked carefully, absorbing what he’d seen, what shades of his question the Maiden shone a light over and which she left veiled.

“Thank you.” He looked to the next attribute of the Three. “My second question: What is her name?”

The Mother smiled softly, and Morpheus saw a grave. “Her true name lies dead and buried with her mortal mother.”

“Mortal?”

He asked without thinking, already considering if he might find Matthew’s new friend in her dreams. Even half-mortals must sleep, and her human blood would tie her to the Dreaming.

“One question, dear.”

“Apologies.”

He studied the headstone, memorizing the letters below the usual blessings. If he could not have her name, he would have her mother’s.

The Crone faced him last, and he knew of all the answers given, hers would serve him least.

“Ask your question, King of Dreams.” His title sounded like a taunt from her withered lips, and he drew himself up to answer.

“What intentions does she have for me and mine?”

The third Fate laughed in his face.

“She has no intention but to run from your shadow.”

All three voices rose in chorus, startling Morpheus into taking a step back. Lightning arced out of the bottle, and the misting drizzle swelled into a torrent. The Fates were screaming, laughing, mocking him with a fourth boon he hadn’t requested.

“You each stand at a crossroads, and a path stretches between you. You’ve asked the wrong questions, and you’ve chased her to darker roads, Dream Lord. These are your answers!”

As suddenly as the tempest appeared, it vanished. He stood alone on the empty shore, bewildered.

A crossroads?

It would explain the fourth gift he had not meant to offer, even the Fates’ eager response to his call. If he hadn’t supplicated himself and offered payment first, would they have come to howl over his impending fate regardless?

Matthew cawed in the distance, and the gates of the Dreaming rumbled as they opened to admit him. Morpheus turned towards them, marching back to his domain with far more worries than he’d carried with him to meet the Fates.

A crossroads always led to consequences. He must hunt down Matthew’s lady and find where his would lead.

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

Three months.

She never stayed in one place longer than a week, careful not to make lasting impressions that may creep into anyone’s dreaming life. She made her first two jaunts, from her cottage to Oregon and from Oregon to Florida, by lightning. It wouldn’t attract attention in either stormy state, and it was impossible to track, even for one of the Endless.

From Florida, she flew to Spain and started working her way north, stopping in youth hostels and poorly-rated Airbnbs as she moved. Sometimes she had to lie in bed, pretending to sleep, so no one in the shared bedroom would pay too much attention. Holding still, trying to rest without relaxing the way her aching body demanded was torture. But she didn’t dare fall asleep.

The Nightmare King would find her, and she didn’t know what he’d do once he had her trapped. A warning to never trespass again would be the kindest outcome, but any entity with even basic knowledge of higher beings knew Dream of the Endless could be terrible. She’d seen it. She never wanted to see him again.

She was approaching her limits, though. Any draught potent enough to keep her awake longer than a few weeks demanded talent and experience. Not to mention a particular kind of magic. She knew a few creatures who would sell her some in the UK. If she could last another week, she’d have the tools in hand to keep the Dream Lord at bay forever.

In the meantime, she had substandard potions, coffee, tea, and energy drinks bought in bulk.

At least she didn’t have to lie down and pretend to be dead for eight hours again. Her current rental offered low water pressure, a dirty kitchen, and a stained bedspread. The bare wooden floors needed refinishing, and she worried about splinters as the boards leeched the feeling from her toes. But it afforded a modicum of privacy, and she valued that most. No roommates. Blinds and heavy curtains. There was even a kettle and three mugs in the dusty cupboards, so when the fridge died on the second night, she didn’t have to resort to warm energy drinks to keep herself going.

Enough green tea could energize an army. It certainly kept one little storm god conscious.

Rain pattered against the window. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine she was home again. No stupid ravens asking for her help. No breathless trips through the Void. No wrathful King of Dreams reaching for her over black sand with cold fury in his eyes.

She could almost hear the fire crackling, feel the gentle weight of a homemade blanket pressing her softly into the couch…

Jerking out of her doze, she sent her mug flying. Hot tea scalded the back of her hand as the ceramic thudded against the floor. She jumped to her feet, slapping herself twice to make absolutely sure she wouldn’t nod off again.

How much longer could she last without help? Maybe she should take the next ferry across the Channel, reach out the minute she landed to make a bargain. The fatigue tugged at her like a ball and chain, slowing her down. Her mother gave her many gifts, but the human need to sleep had always been a curse. Now it wasn’t just unpleasant. It might be deadly.

She picked up the mug and moved it to the sink. With no energy left to clean the mess and no stamina to stay awake if she sat down, she just stopped. Leaned there.

She’d survived worse. She’d survive this. And then she’d start over, and she’d be smarter about it this time.

A branch tapped on the window as she dragged her hand down her face. The rain was slowing down, and she couldn’t hear the wind at all.

So why was a branch tapping against her window? And so regularly.

Chest tight with dread, she looked over her shoulder to see a raven silhouetted against the glass. The streetlight behind it turned the inky bird into a shadow, and her nails pressed deep into her palm as she turned to fully face it.

It pecked the glass again, bobbing to catch her eye.

Her gaze flicked to the shadows, looking for a lean monster ready to deliver justice for her imagined assault. But she found nothing.

The bird tapped again, and she thought she could hear a faint human voice calling over the rain. Of course it couldn’t be a regular raven. Or a crow. And of course the damn thing spoke. It sounded familiar, too.

It took a minute for her drowsy brain to work through the despair to a revelation.

She didn’t really have a choice, did she?

He’d already found her.

So, she forced herself across the room and opened the window with shaking hands. The fading storm breathed in drops of rain, and a gust of wind pushed through with the raven. The curtains fluttered as the bird flew over her shoulder. He perched on the back of the chair she nearly dozed off in, looking over her rented utility flat with beady, judging eyes.

“I take back everything I said about your last place,” Matthew said. “This is a dump.”

She didn’t want to lock the raven inside with her, but she hoped to keep out some of the rain, so she pulled the curtains. It felt like pulling the covers over her head to hide from the boogeyman.

Maybe Matthew hadn’t told his master he’d found her yet. “Is this going to be a thing? You showing up and insulting where I live?”

“Could be.” He cocked his head. “You look awful.”

He didn’t need to tell her about the bruises spreading around her eyes. They greeted her in the mirror every morning. Still rude as fuck of him to point them out, though.

“We weren’t supposed to see each other again, remember?”

“Yeah,” Matthew cleared his throat, “about that.”

She let the long sleeves of her sweater fall down over her hands, pulled her arms close across her chest, defensively comforting herself.

“Does he know? That you found me?”

The raven ducked guiltily, though he twitched to pin her with his gaze again immediately. “He sees what I see. So. Yeah.”

She snapped her head to the side, breaking eye contact. A shudder rolled through her, and she hunched, pulling her sweater taut like a blanket around her shoulders. Fear punched her in the stomach, and she was glad she never got to finish that cup of tea.

“What does he want?” she whispered.

Matthew hopped a little closer, hanging on the edge of the chair, working to persuade her while respecting her distance. “He needs to talk with you, make sure you aren’t planning something that could hurt the Dreaming. I know you’re not. You know you’re not. You’ll be safe, I promise.”

His enthusiasm won a weak effort of a smile. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…”

“He could come to the waking world,” Matthew pointed out. “I think it’ll be easier for everyone if you just take a damn nap. You really do look terrible. Have you really been awake for three months? That can’t be good for you. Even a demi-god needs her beauty sleep.”

“What?” She rushed forward two steps, not exactly aggressive, but panicked beyond caution. “I didn’t tell you that. How do you know that?”

The raven shifted from foot to foot. “Lord Morpheus might have – ah – asked around.”

“Who? Who did he ask?”

“The – uh – the Fates?”

Laughing, frantic, she raked her hand back through her hair. Did the bird not get it? How stupid could a raven be? She looked at him the way he eyed her when she failed to notice the gates to the Dreaming. Had it really been three months ago? It felt like the day before, or a decade back. Nothing in-between.

“I don’t know if I’m really supposed to be telling you all this,” Matthew grumbled. “You okay?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Maybe you’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep?”

“I seriously doubt whatever your master has planned for me will translate into a good night’s anything.” She shook her head, trying to remember the ferry schedule, wondering if she could literally outrun dreams.

“Just give him a chance.” Matthew sounded so earnest. His human voice gave his insistence weight, called to the human half of her own soul. He really believed she’d be safe, but then, he believed she’d be safe last time, too.

She dropped to sit in the corner and let her face fall into her hands. The rush of wings informed her the bird had come to rest on the bed beside her. She kept acting like she had a choice in all this, but she knew the games of kings. Any implication of freedom existed to ease the noose over the chosen victim’s head. He’d have what he wanted from her, no matter how far she ran or how long she stayed awake.

She faced the raven. “Okay.” Head up, hands dangling over her knees, palms glimmering with further evidence she was, in fact, not okay at all. “I’ll go to sleep.”

Matthew sagged in relief. “Thank you. Really, I mean it. And I’m sorry I got you into this mess, but I’ll stay here until you wake up. I’ll keep you safe.”

“You better.” She was too tired to climb into the bed, now that she’d caved to her exhaustion. “If I wake up with a knife in my ribs, I’ll haunt you.”

“I deserve that. Now, how about you get in bed? You can’t be comfortable down there.”

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the wall. She really was fading fast. It wasn’t all passive aggression. Only a little.

Matthew kept talking, probably cajoling her to get a blanket or pillow or change into pajamas or something. She knew she’d wake aching and terrified no matter how comfortable and safe she made herself before drifting off. Dream Lord or no, her sleeping hours were cursed.

The raven’s voice faded with the rest of the world. A softer darkness wrapped around her drifting mind, pulling her into dreams. How could anyone enjoy the feeling? She wanted to kick out, like people did waking from an imagined fall. Infants learned to dream before they learned to walk, following natural instinct as they crossed between realms.

But it was hard to play with an unconscious toy. At night, the creatures who raised her stuffed her full of dangerous magics so she wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t dream. She only learned how after she escaped, and by then any instincts had died. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t peaceful. It felt like jumping off a cliff.

She knew she’d fallen well and truly asleep when the weight settled around her neck. The collar she fought so hard to destroy still hung around her neck when she dreamed. Cold and sharp, it flexed like a muscle, and in the dead silence before the nightmares began, she could swear she felt a pulse.

When she opened her eyes, the Dream Lord stood before her in his helm. As she’d thought, this was no social call. She’d bet her left kidney he wasn’t there for an apology, either.

At least she didn’t have to stare into those damning eyes.

They stood on an endless lake under a dome of stars. The only ripples crept from their feet, and the black water spread to the horizon, an otherwise perfect mirror for the clusters of light and color above.

“Thank you.” The Dream Lord’s quiet voice filled the dreamscape. “For returning my raven.”

He’d chosen the perfect setting. Dark. Endless. She had nowhere to run or hide, like she’d discovered in the waking world.

“If you know I didn’t hurt him,” she said, “why are you still hunting me?”

“I still have questions.”

That sounded… ominous.

“About?”

“About the nameless storm god whose realm abuts my own, who can enter the Dreaming in body because of her immortal father, who can enter the Dreaming in sleep because of her mortal mother.”

He took a step forward. She retreated.

“About a crossroads foretold by the Fates.”

Another step. More space surrendered.

“And now that you stand before me in the Dreaming…”

He vanished. She whirled, turning on her heel, jerking around to peer over her shoulder. Even though she couldn’t see him she could still feel him, and the hairs stood straight on the back of her neck. Motion caught her eye just when long fingers brushed over the collar, and she flinched away. He let her.

“This is not of the Dreaming,” he said, attention still on the golden branches she’d taken out of his reach. “It does not belong here, and I do not like magic that interferes with my domain.”

She put her hand over the collar. She wanted to hide her pain and shame, and it was a familiar torture. It almost comforted her in the face of the enigmatic creature under the helm.

“What do you want?” The damn whisper was back, but she couldn’t find anything besides fear to power her voice.

The helm exaggerated the smallest motions, and when the Dream Lord tilted his head, he looked like a bird of prey choosing the angle of attack.

“To know you. To understand what threats you may bring against me.”

“Then just ask me.” Her dream self wore the same big sweater, and her fists tangled in the loose ends of the sleeves. “I’ll tell you anything.”

“No.” He raised a hand. “You’ll show me.”

The water under her feet remembered the laws of physics, and she plunged straight down into oblivion. Half a yelp escaped before the endless lake pushed into her mouth like a gag. She looked up, clawing for the surface as Dream’s will pulled her deeper, staring into the helm’s soulless gaze, where Dream towered above her. The stars grew distant and dim until she was alone in the dark, only the collar for company.

Invisible hands pulled on the branches around her neck, like brute force could tear if off, and the curse tightened in response, punishing her for the assault with suffocating thorns.

In a blink, the lake disappeared. It tore in half like a curtain, and she found herself sitting in a painfully bright clearing, just outside the shade of an ancient ash tree. Little hands – her hands – combed through the long grass. Her grown thoughts filled her childhood body, helpless to stop the history acting itself out like a play.

She begged in her child’s voice, “I’m so hungry. May I please have something to eat? Please, it hurts.”

King Alberich smiled down at her, the minor fae monarch who accepted her in place of her father’s godly blood. He lifted his hand to her chin. “You shouldn’t eat when your stomach hurts. Are you sure you’re hungry?”

At that age, she hadn’t understood their games. They coddled her when she was small so they could pick apart their careful work in the centuries to come. Their playtime was cut short, but they’d made the most of it.

The king pulled on her chin, and she opened her mouth obediently, expecting some morsel from his hand. Instead, he stuck two fingers in her mouth. She sputtered but couldn’t escape the hand holding her jaw. The fingers grew down her throat, and as her eyes grew wide and she thrashed against his grip, he cooed, “Let’s make sure there’s nothing in your belly making you sick.”

His claw-like nails scratched the bottom of her stomach, and a new pain overshadowed the hunger pangs.

“Empty. Like you said.” His fingers shrank back and he pulled them out of her mouth. He had blood under his nails, ringing his cuticles. As she gagged on air, doubled-over on the ground, he took a piece of bread from his plate. “Try this. See if it settles.”

She was so hungry she did. All but ripping it from his hand, she tore chunks free with her teeth. There wasn’t time to chew. He could take it away again.

But now her tummy really was hurt, and as the bread mixed with the blood in the burning scrapes in her gut, she knew she couldn’t keep down the meal. She coughed it all back up beside the king’s boots, and he pet her hair ever so gently as he said, “I told you not to eat when your stomach hurts.”

Dream was with her. She felt him sharing the space behind her eyes, observing her suffering as a voyeur while warped years of torment unspooled around them. He watched the collar, held onto long moments as the king worked magic and set spells. He had questions only the collar’s maker could answer, she realized, and her memories were his only path to enlightenment. Was that the only motive behind her suffering, or was the past his test of her character?

She knelt before the throne built into the roots of the ash tree. Alberich had tried to trap the half-mortal bard Taliesin in his court, and she’d dared help him slip the net.

“Your clever little hands have betrayed you,” the king said. “So has your smart tongue, but you will keep that. We would miss your conversation. But we treasure you too much to let so many traitorous pieces poison you, so we will take these,” he touched the upturned palms of her hands, “until they are worthy of you again.”

He peeled away the flesh from her wrists to the tips of her fingers with kindly words and a dull blade. She suffered for weeks with bared muscle, tendon, and fat, in agony with every twitch, every breath of wind. When the king returned her skin, she had to thank him for protecting her. For his mercy and wisdom.

She knew time worked differently in dreams. It had worked differently in the sacred grove where Alberich held court, too. That knowledge didn’t prepare her for the years of pain she endured a second time under the Nightmare King’s control.

When the king preferred to keep his silks and velvets clean, he let the collar punish her. She didn’t have to make a mistake. He enjoyed watching her writhe and choke as it dragged her to the brink of death.

Insults and degradation flowed over broken bones and careless poisonings. If she’d really been a mortal child, she would never have survived.

But she had, and she did again.

Finally, she was old enough and trusted enough to fight back. The king beckoned her to his side, praising the songs she’d practiced until her throat and fingers bled to entertain his courtiers. No one had told her to, and he saw it as a sign of devotion.

“What do you wish for?”

He asked expecting something simple and childish, or something clever to flatter him and earn her more praise. Years of playing the good dog, tamed and docile, lulled his caution of her godly half. It left room for his ego to grow unchecked. He’d lost all fear of what she might do, believing there was nothing she could do.

She leaned close and whispered in his ear.

“I wish for my freedom in your death.”

Her hand found the hilt of his sword, she pulled it from the scabbard, and she sheathed it again in his chest. She pierced him five times, and she only stopped when heart went still and his chest fell hollow in the wake of his last breath.

All the while, the collar tightened. Long thorns grew into her skin, seeking to bleed her faster than a crushed windpipe could suffocate her. Blinded by pain, she pushed the blade into the side of her neck. Even if it killed her, she’d get the collar off. She fought it, turning one of the king’s magical tools against another. Black bars crept across her vision, eating the light, and she poured all her strength into a final, twisting stab, angling hard against the golden boughs.

As she fell to her knees, the collar shattered. She sucked in a ragged breath, swallowing blood as a red pool grew around her. Lightning turned the grove white in a brilliant flash. Smoke filled the air. The ash was on fire.

She lay bleeding, closer to death than she’d ever been before, but stronger, too. Her younger eyes closed, and she found herself back on the surface of the cosmic lake, curled on her side.

Gasping.

The collar, as far as she knew, couldn’t kill her in her dreams, but it liked to try. It liked to remind her she hadn’t escaped the curse entirely, that the dead king still had his grip around her neck.

Whimpering, she tried to wedge her fingernails under the gold. It was a habit paired with instinct. No matter how many times it happened, she struggled to pry the thing loose, even when she knew it would do no good. Logic had nothing to do with survival.

As she battled to breathe, black shoes disturbed the water ahead, and the Dream Lord took a knee to better see her face.

Usually, the nightmares came baying once the collar incapacitated her. Fanged shadows and creeping, scaled things dripping venom, some with human faces and some with no faces at all. Now one of the most powerful entities in the universe hovered with nebulous intent. She might prefer the nightmares, though at least the Dream Lord hadn’t bitten her yet.

As if he could read her mind, the Endless said, “The nightmares will hunt you no more. But this…” He touched the collar again, and it seized so hard it nearly snapped her neck. Her eyes rolled up in her head, and he waited until she’d come back to herself before continuing, softly. “This I cannot banish. Not yet.”

She never expected him to. She expected to be banished herself so she’d leave the Dreaming and take her invasive curse with her.

“When next you sleep,” he said, “your dreams will be kinder.”

It wouldn’t matter what he promised if she never slept again.

She gradually realized in her semi-lucid state he wasn’t wearing the helm. Did he like watching her struggle without the filter, or did this mean he’d forgiven her for the trespass she never committed? There was too much pain and not enough air to think.

“This dream is over.”

As she crashed back into her corporeal body, she took a frantic breath, choked on it, and wound up coughing desperately as her lungs came to terms with the fact that she was not actually suffocating. A stabbing pain lanced her neck, and she cradled it through her favorite scarf.

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! It’s okay! Everything’s fine. You’re awake!”

Matthew flew over, landing on her knee so he could look her in the eye.

“Deep breaths, okay? You alright? How did it go? Do you need some water?”

He was perched on the stained bedspread. He must’ve dragged it off the mattress to cover her while she slept. While his master tortured her for the crime of saving the dumb bird.

“I’m – I’m fine,” she croaked. A terrible lie, but she’d say whatever she had to in order to make the bird leave. His eyes were not his own, after all. “I’m fine. Go home, Matthew.”

“I’m not sure about that.” He flapped his wings, agitated. “You don’t look fine. You don’t sound fine.”

“Please.” Her voice cracked. She paused to gather herself, and the bird respected the moment long enough for her to blink away some tears and try again. “Please, Matthew.”

He sighed. He shook his head and his shoulders drooped, but he said, “You want to be alone? I get it. Okay. I’ll go. Just take care of yourself? Please?”

He fluttered to the open window and pushed aside the curtains.

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

She snorted. “Too late.”

His nails tapped on the windowsill. She imagined she could hear the indecision.

When he flapped away with a final caw, the damn broke.

Her next breath caught three times as her chest wrestled with a broken sob. Hands pressed tight over her mouth kept the noise down. The last thing she wanted was someone coming to investigate, and if Matthew was lurking across the road, she didn’t want him to catch anything through the open window.

She curled up tight into the wall with a head full of bad memories and a heart full of fear.

Never again.

She would never sleep again.

When the shaking stopped and she found the stamina to get up, she grabbed her things and left the rental’s keys on the kitchen counter.

She’d be on the next ferry to England.

Chapter 3

*Tag List Discontinued*

#morpheus x reader #dream x reader #dream of the endless x reader #fanfiction #sandman x reader

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tomoleary · 3 months

Text

Jack Kirby & Wallace Wood “Sky Masters of the Space Force” (1959)

Source (29MP)

#jack kirby #wallace wood #Sky Masters of the Space Force #original art

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breannasfluff · 25 days

Text

Sky meets Wild’s gaze steadily. “What did you have in mind for a challenge?”

“First to yield?”

“That’s fair. Weapons?”

“Non-magical; otherwise, whatever you want to use?” Wild is adept at a multitude of weapons, a skill he’s counting on swaying the fight in his favor.

Sky nods and retrieves the sword he’s been using for dueling. “Any combat rules you want to institute?”

“No.” Wild has no qualms about fighting dirty if needed. Keeping to the rules doesn’t keep you alive. As long as he doesn’t go Hyrule’s route of overzealous attack, he should be okay.

“Time, will you count us in?” Sky holds up his sword and steps into the clear area near the trees where he dueled before.

Wild doesn’t move from his spot on the shifting sand. Instead, he taps the pad and withdraws Urbosa’s scimitar and shield. He could try a spear, but the scimitar is a unique shape the other hero likely hasn’t encountered.

Sky frowns—either at the weapon or that Wild hasn’t moved—grabs his shield from the pile of gear, then nods to Time.

“Three, two, one…start!”

Wild stays exactly where he is. Sky raises his sword and shield and paces the hard ground. The Master Sword is long and, while it can be wielded with one hand, two make it easier. To hold it easily as well as a metal shield? Sky’s strength is clear.

Finally, Wild edges a little closer, still sticking to the shifting dune sand. Sky is forced to leave the hard-packed ground to meet him. It’s a good strategy for Wild—he’s trained with the Gerudo and spent a lot of time in the desert.

Sky’s stance is firm, but there’s an uncertainty in how he places his feet that has Wild surging forward. Rather than fight the shifting sand, he lets his body relax into it. The continual shifting is an advantage against the enemy.

Their swords clash and scrape. Sky goes to break away, but stumbles in the sand. Wild is there, pushing his shield against the other hero, trying to throw him back.

Sky might have stumbled, but he’s not so green as to go down under the attack. He holds Wild off with his own shield, shifting to get his footing under him. When they disengage, Sky follows it up immediately with a vicious downward cut.

Wild catches it on his shield, grimacing at the shriek of metal skating off. Sky stays on the offense, raining blows without giving him a chance to counter. The sand is still a slight hindrance, but he adjusts quickly to the terrain, and the tenuous advantage is lost.

Wild skips backward, putting space between himself and Sky. They’ve made it down to the firm-packed sand of the beach. The rest of the group range in a semi-circle; watching, yet not so close as to be a hindrance.

Sky circles Wild and both look for an opening. If the terrain isn’t his advantage, maybe Wild can capitalize on his scimitar.

This time when they clash, Wild focuses more on his swordsmanship. The scimitar is different from a sword and has two hooked arcs at the end. It’s shorter than the Master Sword, forcing him to move in close.

Sky lets him, rather than fending him off with length. It makes his sword harder to control up close. It also means he can lunge forward and slam his shield into Wild.

He goes down with a grunt; rolling to avoid a follow-up blow and coming back to his feet. He turns the motion into a forward lunge, hooking the scimitar of seven against the master sword. With it trapped in the hooks, it only takes a sharp yank to send it flying from Sky’s hand.

Wild doesn’t give Sky time to retrieve his weapon. Dropping the shield, he scoops sand and runs at the other. At the last second, he throws it, blinding Sky before using the flat of the blade to smack into his shoulder.

Sky yelps and goes down.

Read the rest here! Reblogs appreciated.

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miss-celestial-being · 19 days

Text

Tutor

✥﹤┈┈┈┈┈﹥✥

request | masterlist

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𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: eddie munson x gn!reader

𝑠𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠: my life atm + my dreams :')

𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: self-indulgent, probably really bad, not edited, honestly didnt know how to end it, talks about self-worth, fluff

𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 2.5k

𝑎𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑟’𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠:

this is fully, 100% self-indulgent i was gonna stop writing this hallway through but decided to finish it enjoy my emotional baggage <3

✥﹤┈┈┈┈┈﹥✥

The sun is far too hot for spring. The clouds are few and sparse. You look up at the sky and huff at the light shining brightly inhy6jm7u your eyes. You look down at your book again, cursing the giant star for turning your pages a bright white, and silently suffer as you wish you had remembered your sunglasses. You sigh and close your book defeatedly, the corner of the page snagging and folding slightly. Just as you feel this day couldn't get any worse, you look up to find your friend and her boyfriend walking toward you from the cafeteria.

"Hey," Your friend says as she sits across from you. You remember a time when she'd sit beside you as you laughed at something your shared English teacher did, but now your seat is taken by the person forced into your circle. You smile back, squinting through the blinding rays. You pick up your headphones from their spot resting on your shoulders and place them over your ears, pressing play on your walkman as your friend's boyfriend begins droning on about his awesome life and awesome spots game and whatnot, holding your friend far too close to be appropriate for school.

You shield your book with your body, hoping to block the words enough to read them. Every day has been like this since the school year started; like an insufferable cycle that started with your lack of contact with your only friend over the summer. Whilst you were wasting away in your room, barely holding yourself together, your friend started dating the boy she hated the year prior. And on top of that, she only told you when you all went to the campus before school started to pick up your schedules; they had been dating for over a month already.

You look at the ground, your book still open to the same page it had been on thirty minutes ago and your mind wanders. You know this is your fault; if you had made more friends, if you were more likable, if you had kept in touch, if, if, if. The bell rings and you stand robotically. It's become a habit, leaving the moment that deafening sound echoes throughout the school. The sweet relief of leaving the bleachers, of leaving the space that makes you feel like you're worthless or unimportant.

When you pass people you know from class, they wave politely and you put on that same fake smile you've mastered. You stop at your locker and that smile falls, the vandalized metal acting as a shield for your pain. You open your backpack and switch out your textbooks as you do every day before heading to your next and final class. Head down, feet moving rhythmically; left, right, left, right. You stop at your math classroom and close your eyes as you fall into your seat at the back of the class.

The bell rings again a few minutes later and your eyes snap open as your teacher begins class. The seats around you are mostly empty with half the class deciding they'd rather fail than come to this mental health death sentence. You don't blame them, really, but your grades are already bad as it is, and your mom has been riding your ass on fixing them, and if you fail this semester, you won't get the credits you need to leave this heaping pile of shit that is high school, that is your life, that is everything you are in this place.

Your mind goes numb as you put your pencil to your paper and begin copying the equations the teacher wrote. "Shit, sorry," You head from the front of the class and your eyes flick up to find a mess of curls flying through the doorway, "Sorry I'm late. I was all the way across the school when the bell rang." The teacher looks down his nose at the person and sighs as he takes the late slip from their hand, "Go to your seat, Mr. Munson. And watch your language in my class, or that'll be another detention." The boy nods with an apologetic crooked grin and you watch as he walks to the back of the class. He glances at you and you quickly look back to the board, ignoring the shuffling sounds beside you as he sits in the empty seat next to you.

"I'm Eddie," The boy whispers loudly as he leans closer, his eyes trained on you. You look away from the board and turn your head, eyes nearly crossing as you find his face inches from yours. He pulls back with that intoxicating smile and he looks to the front of the class, twirling his pen absentmindedly. You mumble your name and he hums as he looks back at you, "Didn't catch that," He says and you clear your throat as you spot the teacher eyeing you. You look down at your notes and wait a few seconds before repeating, a little louder this time. He--Eddie--repeats it, as though testing it out on his lips, and you watch as his mouth moves to shape each letter, your stomach doing flips with every syllable.

He leans over to glance at your notes, copying them down messily as he attempts to catch up with whatever he missed in the minutes he was late. "Mr. Munson, I suggest you keep your eyes on the board. You've already failed this class once, would you like a repeat of last year?" You frown and will yourself to speak up, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath before saying, "I was just lending him my notes since he was late." The teacher hums, "Well, then, I would prefer if you'd do so on your own time." He continues with the lesson and you continue writing your notes, now adding as much detail and instruction as you can possibly manage, trying your best to ignore the looks you receive from the class, as well as the boy beside you.

The bell rings again an hour later and you jump slightly as your papers fall out of your folder; the cardstock has nearly disintegrated after years of putting it through the works. "Shit," You mumble as you bend down to pick them up, praying to whatever deity will listen that you don't start crying in front of everybody. You find yourself accompanied on the floor and you look up through your unshed tears. "Here," Eddie says as he hands you a stack of crumpled papers. You thank him quietly and take the worksheets from his calloused hands, your fingers brushing his, sending a chill down your spine.

"If you need those notes," You say after shoving your things into your backpack, "I would lend them to you." He smiles, "I don't think notes are gonna help me much at this point, but thanks for the offer." Silence falls over you as you walk through the halls toward the exit of the school until you finally break it, "I could help you," You mumble, "If you're struggling. I don't have the best grades to prove it, but I understand the concepts." "That'd be great," His grin reaches his eyes and it lights up the room, and, deep down, you wonder what it feels like to smile for real, despite having felt it at some point. He continues, "I have my club on Tuesday nights, but I'm free every other day after school. Or if you want, we could work in the library at lunch?" You nod almost too quickly at the opportunity to spend lunches anywhere but the bleachers. "I can do lunch," You reply and his grin widens, "Great, do you wanna start tomorrow?" You nod in response as you look down at the ground, watching as your feet move left, right, left, right, left, right.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then," Eddie waves as he walks in the direction of his van; the brown vehicle sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the slew of Mustangs and BMWs. You wave back just as he turns and your hand drops in time with your faint smile as you begin your walk home.

"Hey," Eddie calls out, gaining a dirty look from the librarian. You're cheeks grow hot as you wave and sit beside him. You look down at the stacked textbooks and notebooks and you frown, "I'm sorry," You say, "I didn't mean to keep you waiting." He shakes his head, "No, no, no, I got here early. Figured I could catch up on some work for other classes while I waited. So far I've finished half of one assignment in the last hour, but progress is progress." You exhale through your nose amusedly as you take a seat beside him. "Did you skip class?" "Nah," He replies, "I have a free period. They only make you retake Gym so many times," He leans in close, "I'm not exactly the most athletic person if you hadn't noticed." "I hadn't," You say under your breath, gaze glued to his lips before you turn your head away just as his lips twitch with a small smile.

You talk him through a few formulas and help him work through some problems before the bell cuts you off with a deafening shriek. "Whelp," Eddie sighs, "That's time. This was fun-- which is something I never thought I'd say about math," He snickers at his own words and you smile fondly at his expression. "I had fun too," You smile at your shoes as you walk side-by-side to the door. "I'll see you tomorrow? We have a test, right? Maybe you could tutor me again during lunch so I'm prepared." You agree before you part ways, your smile finally reaching your eyes in a way that feels foreign yet so, so right.

"Hey," Eddie calls out just like yesterday, and, just like yesterday, the librarian sends him a dirty look, although it has softened just a smidge. "How was your day?" The boy asks and you reply with a simple 'good'. He groans, "That's not an answer, sweetheart." "It was, though," You reply, shrugging. "Tell me about it," He prompts, "Did you do anything fun? Did everyone absolutely suck like they always do in this prison?" You laugh, "It was just kinda boring." "'Was', So it's not anymore?" Your eyes lock with his and your smile remains as you shake your head, "Not in the slightest." "You flatter me, really."

With your chairs scooted just barely closer than yesterday, you try to ignore the butterflies in your stomach at the feeling of his arm brushing yours.

"That's just about as much as I know," You finally say with another thirty minutes before the bell, "If you fail, we both fail." "Maybe it'll be more fun with you." You smile bashfully as you close your textbook. "You should hang out at my table at lunch. It's usually just for club members, but we could make an exception." You freeze. Your body immediately goes to decline, your head shaking involuntarily. "I don't want to intrude," You sputter as you watch his face fall in disappointment.

You do this to every good thing; ruin it. You wash away any good, wipe away the smiles of those around you with your presence. You're a hazard, a threat to any joy in a person. You don't deserve this happiness if all you do is ruin it for others, if all you do is ruin everything.

Eddie shakes his head in protest, "You wouldn't be intruding. I want you there. I'm sure the others would like you." His breathtaking smile graces your soul once again and your thoughts fade into nothing but giddiness as your gaze locks onto his lips. "Okay," You hear yourself whisper before you can register what that means for you, for Eddie and his friends, for your friend--if she could still be called that. Eddie's smile grows again and your worries disappear as a twin smile forms on your own face.

The bell cuts off the force that seemed to be pulling you closer to the boy before you and you clear your throat as you pack up your things. Your hand brushes his as you walk to Math class, the two of you are both immensely unprepared for the test, but none of that matters.

After you turn in the test to the front, you sit down next to Eddie and he quickly scribbles something down on a torn piece of paper.

'want to go a ride home after school?'

You look up at his anxious smile and nod as you hand the paper back, the word 'yes' written beneath his own sloppy writing. He takes it back before the teacher yells at the class, "There will be no passing of notes during a test." You and Eddie share a look, hiding your laugh behind your hand as you await the bell.

"I know it's a little unconventional, but she gets the job done," Eddie says as he taps on the dented metal on the side of his van after helping you into the passenger seat. "Thanks for driving me," You say as you pull the seatbelt across your body. "No problem, sweetheart," You want to kiss him senseless whenever he calls you that. Your heart races and your palms go sweaty, and if you weren't in high school, you'd fear it were a heart attack with the way your heart skips a beat.

You tell him your address and lean against your hand with your arm resting on the center console. "Do you wanna make a small detour?" Eddie asks after a quiet moment. You shrug, "Sure, where to?" "I thought we could stop at this one place near Lover's Lake." Your eyebrows furrow, "You mean the town hookup spot?" You ask and he nearly chokes as he finds his words, "No, I--" He clears his throat, "It's a small beach just outside the trailer park." You hum, "Never been." "I found it when I was younger. Never seen anyone there when I go, so I don't think many people know about it."

He stops at the next stop sign and turns to you, awaiting your answer before he continues. You look into his eyes, nodding as you smile softly, and he skips the turn to your neighborhood as he keeps straight. He drives for a few minutes more before turning into a narrow path that was definitely not made for cars. You now understand the scratches in the paint.

"We're here," He says as he stops the car and you look at the water run over the pebble-filled sand through the windshield. You smile at the peaceful view and look to your left to speak when you're cut off with lips pressing to yours, a hand resting on your cheek. You close your eyes and lean into the kiss, smiling softly and you silently reassure yourself that you won't ruin this; not when you have him to distract you from your faults with one lopsided smile.

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