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yourtamaki · 4 years ago

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history doesn’t repeat, it rhymes

sakusa x gn!reader

word count: 4.1k

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, elements of depersonalization, non-explicit mentions of sex

dedicated to: @onyxoverride (thank you for beta reading) & @saintdabi

you can’t remember the last time you saw your reflection.

it wasn’t deliberate, the way you turned your back to the full length mirror in your closet every morning when you got dressed, how you usually dodged your reflection coming out of the shower like you did just now. at least, not at first. not until you realized how much better you felt now that you didn’t have to come face to face with a stranger everyday. that was the only word to describe whatever lived in the mirror. a stranger. any recognizable part of you had rotted away long ago. all that remained now was an empty husk with dead eyes and a selfish heart. the same selfish heart that set you on this path in the first place.

was it worth it? you wanted to ask your past self. was his love worth what you did to yourself?

the very first night you met sakusa set the tone for the rest of your relationship. you’re still not entirely sure why you accepted your roommate, hinata’s, invitation to his team’s party to celebrate their record win streak. it probably had something to do with the puppy dog eyes he threw you. regardless, you went, wearing an outfit you were losing confidence in by the second and leaning against a wall as far from the drunk crowd as you could get. you never liked parties like this. too many people, too loud. but for your best friend, you were willing to grit your teeth and bare it.

a part of you, larger than you would ever admit, wishes you never looked to your left that day. wishes that you never spotted the curly haired man looking so sullen despite half his face being covered with a mask, that you didn’t notice the way his eyes flickered from his empty red cup to where you knew the kitchen to be, how he wearily eyed the crowd of people that separated him from it.

“i was about to grab a drink. i can bring something back for you if you’d like?” the first thing you ever said to the love of your life was a lie. you were planning on staying tucked in your corner all night, safe from the dancing drunks who had no concept of personal space until hinata was ready to leave. and yet the words were almost ripped out of you the moment your eyes landed on him, a fierce need to help the man flaring up from nowhere. you could only assume he had separated himself from the party for the same reason you had and it pulled on your heartstrings. no one ever noticed when you needed help so why not extend that courtesy to him instead? he blinked at you as though he had to process your offer before he nodded.

“yes, please i’d appreciate it.” his voice was different than you expected it to be. slow and calm despite the way his fist clenched and unclenched. “just water. a closed bottle if you can find it.”

his brows furrowed for a moment when you held out your hand before letting out a quiet ah and handing you his empty cup. it was endearing how he placed it in your hand, balancing it carefully on your palm.

“be right back.” you shot him a smile and started to make your way across the floor, getting pushed and jostled the entire way there. you made quick work of tossing the garbage into the overflowing trash bag and dug out two water bottles from behind a rack of beer cans in the fridge. the trip back was no easier and you breathed a sigh of relief when you were once again in your small private bubble with the man. the discomfort you endured, the skin crawling sensation of all those bodies too close to you was worth the way his eyes lit up when he saw you’d returned.

he accepted the cool bottle with a murmured thanks, pulling his mask down and tucking it under his chin. handsome was your first thought and his name was your second. the two distinct moles on his brow should’ve given it away that you were talking to sakusa kiyoomi. you’d seen enough of hinata’s games, heard enough stories to put a name to the face. he held your stare as you placed him in your mind, taking a sip from the bottle as he did. an urge to say something, anything to keep those eyes on you bubbled up hot and fast and you said the first thing that came to mind.

“my roommate’s your teammate.”

“is he? which one?”

“hinata. shoyo.” you added as though there was another hinata on the msby roster.

“ah. my condolences.” the corner of his lips quirked up when you snorted. “i’ve seen how he leaves a locker room. i don’t want to imagine what his room looks like.”

“it’s not pretty, that’s for sure.” you said, leaning your shoulder against the wall and taking a moment to regard him. “can i ask why you’re here? shoyo told me you don’t like crowds so a party must be hard on you.”

“would you believe me if i said contractual obligations?”

“nope cause i helped shoyo go through his contract and i don’t remember ragers being a part of the deal.” a small burst of pride bloomed in your chest when he laughed, a quick huff from his nose and amused eyes as though he didn’t expect it.

“you got me.” you waited for him to explain and deflated a bit when he remained silent. that is, until you followed where his eyes had wandered. it was easy to spot hinata from across the party. he sat high above the rest of the crowd on bokuto’s shoulders, leaning back occasionally to test bokuto’s reaction time and giggling every time he was caught at the last moment. meian was trying in vain to pull the ginger down while atsumu seemed to be on facetime with someone recording the whole thing, his loud laughter ringing out clearly over the music.

“you’re here for them?” you said just as the realization dawned on you. sakusa twitched, so small you wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t been watching him so closely.

“spending time with your teammates promotes better gameplay on the court.”

“i’m sure it does. but wanting to hang out with your friends isn’t a crime.”

“we are hanging out. i’m here, aren’t i? if they wanted to talk to me, they know where to find me.” the bitterness in his tone wasn’t enough to mask the acceptance behind his words, of being resigned to his fate as the forgotten one.

“well, i found you.” he looked over at you, something unreadable swimming behind his eyes before they softened.

“yeah. you did. you know, you’ve talked a lot about shoyo but i don’t know anything about you. i don’t even know your name.” he said. heat raced to your cheeks, flustered that he seemed to be paying as much attention to you that you were to him.

“i didn’t even notice, sorry.” you said before offering your name. he repeated it back, once, twice, rolling it around on his tongue and you watched his mouth, mesmerized by how it curled around a word you’ve heard your whole life until it sounded new again. he spoke your name in a soft, hushed whisper and you wondered if his lips would feel just as soft. half-lidded, his gaze flickered downwards like he was wondering the same thing.

the rest of the night was a blur in your mind. all you could recall was that you chatted with sakusa until the others found you and you drove a passed-out hinata home with a new contact saved to your phone.

the reminiscing left you drained, clutching your phone in your hands, the screen frozen on that same contact as you collapsed into bed and yet you couldn’t stop the rest of the memories from flooding through your mind, the truth you’ve been holding off for too long. you’ve picked at a festering wound that was best left alone. if you didn’t think too hard about it, if you ignored how it grew and ate away at you, it wouldn’t hurt as much. right? but it was too late. you’ve pulled the string and now you’re left to deal with your own unraveling.

you scrolled through your texts for what feels like a lifetime, the entirety of your relationship flashing by and disappearing in an instant until you could scroll no higher. of course you sent the first text. a formal message that didn’t look anything like how you actually text with one too many exclamation points in your desperation to come across friendly.

your fingers moved across the screen and when your mind caught up, your thumb was hovering over the button to delete the entire conversation. you never wanted to see evidence of who you used to be ever again. you didn’t want to be reminded of the person you cut and broke and killed until they fit into sakusa’s neat life. but sentimentality stilled your hand, the phone dropping from your limp fingers and crashing to the floor. you didn’t bother reaching for it.

the accursed memories refuse to let you be, another bobbing up to the surface from the murky depths and pulling you under before you could stop it. one that showed what little agency you had in your own life.

it started the way it always did. you noticed him. noticed how tired he was every time you spoke. how you went from going out on dates to always staying in to maybe being lucky enough to say good night over the phone before he crashed for the day. and sure, you were lonely. so starved for him it ached. but that was overshadowed by your worry for him. you would lay awake wondering if he’d remember to eat that day, if he had the energy to clean his apartment and if he didn’t, how much was that adding to his stress?

so you swung by his place the next morning after he had left for practice, spent the day cleaning, restocked his fridge and were nearly done making dinner when he returned. his exhaustion was truly hammered home when he walked straight past the kitchen on autopilot before doubling back, tilting his head at you in confusion.

“what are you doing here, darling?”

“helping out.” you turned back to the stove and busied yourself with mindless stirring, afraid that you’d been too eager and overstepped. “you seemed pretty tired these days so i wanted to do something for you but you’re back earlier than i expected so i can just go if you want to be alone just let me-”

your rambling was cut off when a force barrelled into you and sakusa hugged you tight from behind, head buried in the crook of your shoulder. all at once, whatever anxiety had been growing fled you and you relaxed into his touch.

“thank you.” it wasn’t the words that made your heart leap to your throat. it was the sincerity, the slight crack at the end that told you he had more he wanted to say but didn’t know how.

you fell into a routine of going over to his apartment, looking after things, kissing him when he returned and staying over at night. at first, it was once a week. then over the weekend, then every other day.

“you should move in.” even though you half expected your relationship to take this next step, it still took you by surprise the casual way sakusa brought it up. you weren’t entirely sure if you wanted to move in with him just yet. you built a home with hinata and that apartment meant everything to you, all your happiest memories were made there and oh no sakusa was still waiting for an answer.

“i should?”

“yeah.”

and that was the end of it. you were packed and out of hinata’s apartment (because it was his now. his and atsumu’s. not yours, it’ll never be yours again) by the end of the month. most of your things didn’t come with you but that was fine, right? so what if you still felt like a guest in your home even to this day with none of yourself being reflected in the apartment? you got to wake up to see the love of your life every day and that made everything worth it.

until you started waking up alone.

extra training, he said. the team drafted new players and he had to get used to their play style, he said. and you believed him, trusted that he’d be home with you if he could. so you took the crushing loneliness and swallowed it down like a bitter pill. you smiled wide when he came home late with only the moon to light your bedroom and let him use your body to rid the stress of the day.

the dead of night was the only time you’d have him all to yourself. you could be greedy for his attention when he was buried inside you. it was easy to pretend you clawed up and down his back because you were caught up in the moment and not because you were desperate to keep him close to you. easy to pretend the tears in your eyes were from pleasure and not from how much you missed his voice.

and when he was empty and spent, you would stroke his hair until he fell asleep and then, only then, would you whisper all the things you couldn’t tell him during the day. small, meaningless anecdotes that you knew would earn you a wry smile if he was awake to hear them, the one he used when he didn’t want to let on how close he was to laughing. the stolen moments were a salve on your fractured heart but it was never enough to heal it. in the end, when you were once again alone in your too-wide bed, it only served to remind you just how deep the cracks were.

maybe that’s where you went wrong. you gave away your heart to someone and got nothing in return, nothing to plug up the all-consuming void in your chest. there was nothing left of you. no, that wasn’t quite true. there was nothing good left of you. you gave him your best parts and all you had now was pure resentment that burned hot and fierce in your core, so acidic it ate everything in its path. it burned away the dredges of your soul until all you could do was allow it to climb up and scorch your throat in a silent scream.

another memory. it’s strange what your brain chose to latch onto as you spiralled. on the surface, you remember this to be a happier time. but as it overtook you, you’re reminded almost violently that the edges of this memory are stained with the early decay of your identity.

before the early mornings and late nights, before you got into the habit of staring at your ceiling and wondering how you got to that point, you and sakusa had a tradition. you’d both find something, a story, a movie, that you think the other doesn’t know and share it with them. that day sakusa came to you with the myth of orpheus and eurydice.

he told you the story of a man so in love with his wife he journeys to the underworld after she dies to find her, how hades tells him he can guide her to the land of the living but orpheus must trust that eurydice is following him. if he turns around, eurydice’s fate is sealed. sakusa explained how in every version of the myth, orpheus turned around at the very end out of an uncontrollable, unfiltered love for his wife. whether it was because he was excited to see the end of the tunnel and wanted to share his joy with her or because he feared she got lost, either one stems from the love he has for her. the love that sent him to find her is the same love that doomed her in the end. but the more sakusa spoke about orpheus, the more you wondered about the other protagonist of the story.

“why didn’t eurydice try to let orpheus know she was there? she could’ve held his hand or touched his back or something.” you asked. you were laying your head on sakusa’s chest, letting the low rumble wash over you as he read you the tale. the question had been bugging you as the story came to its conclusion though you couldn’t place your finger as to why.

“she was a spirit. she would pass right through him.”

“yeah but…” you searched for the words to explain your confusion. “she didn’t even try.”

“it wouldn’t have mattered either way.”

you opened your mouth to press the issue further, too stubborn to let it go just yet when you heard sakusa sigh out of his nose. it was enough for any question to die on your tongue and all that came out was a quiet, “i guess so.”

it was a nothing memory. an empty thing to remind you of better times that you’ve had no need to look back on. so why did that moment swirl around your head now, as you crumbled in your lowest moments? scattered pieces start to form together in the recesses of your mind but before you could call them forth to make a full image, the bedroom door swung open and sakusa walked in.

for once, you don’t slip on your well worn porcelain mask. you don’t school your expression and force it to mold into something that couldn’t quite be called happy. instead, you sat up straight in bed, held his gaze and did nothing to hide the maelstrom of hurt that raged inside you. a sick satisfaction shot through your veins when his steps faltered at the force of your stare.

“what’s wrong?” he asked.

what isn’t? you thought but instead said, “nothing. i was just thinking. about us.”

“oh.” his eyes are already sliding away from you, a quiet detachment in his voice that made you grind your teeth in frustration.

“remember that greek story you told me about?”

“mhmm.”

“tell me again why eurydice didn’t reach out.” there it is again. a short, sharp exhale from his nose. he opened his mouth but you spoke before he could. “humour me.”

“she was dead, darling. she couldn’t touch him, he couldn’t hear her so there was no point.”

“no point? there was no point in trying to tell orpheus that she was behind him? he climbed into the underworld for her and she couldn’t try?”

“could you--?” he cut himself off and pinched the bridge of his nose. “it’s late. i’m exhausted and really not in the mood so can we go to bed?”

“doesn’t that sound familiar?” you continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “one person bending heaven and hell for the person they love while the other can’t even meet them halfway. remind you of anything?”

now you had his full attention. his brows scrunched together and you’re not sure if he’s trying to figure out the meaning behind your words or the reason for your hostile tone. you don’t feel like helping him out either and instead watched the gears turn in his head with something akin to glee. it’s his turn to be paranoid, to overthink, to pick apart every moment of your relationship and dissect it piece by rotted piece.

“please don’t be vague. if you’re upset with me, tell me.” it was the most emotion you’ve heard from him in so long, you were taken aback for a moment.

“i’m a bit past ‘upset’, omi.”

“i’m sorry.”

you scoffed. “you don’t even know what you’re apologizing for.”

“you’re hurt and it’s my fault. that's enough for me to say sorry.”

“you don’t understand.” he crossed the room in three large strides, sitting on the edge of the bed to leave space between you.

“then help me understand.”

you floundered for the right words to explain the mountain of revelations you’ve uncovered and settled for, “how do i take my coffee, kiyoomi?”

he took your use of his full name in stride. “black. one sugar.”

“no that’s how you take your coffee. that’s the only way you ever make coffee. i had to learn to like it.”

“what, you’re mad i don’t know how you like your coffee?” you know he didn’t mean anything by it, that’s he's always been more blunt that he means to be but it doesn’t stop you from feeling patronized and the hurt loosened your tongue.

“it’s not about the coffee! it’s not about the fact that eurydice was a ghost. it’s the effort, omi. you haven’t put an ounce of effort into this relationship. i’m the one who has to bend. i’m the one that has to change, it’s never you.”

“i never asked you to.” the truth of the statement knocked the air out of your lungs. because that's the worst part, isn’t it? you have no one to blame your misery on but yourself.

“i don’t know how to love you without sacrificing pieces of myself. and i’m empty, kiyoomi, i've given you all of me. and it feels like you’ve given me nothing in return.”

his head was bowed while he listened but from how tight he laced his fingers together, you know he was fighting to stay calm. “you know i love you, right?”

“do you? do you love me or love that i’m convenient? love that i clean your place and make you food and have a hole you can--”

“stop.” you didn’t know it was possible for so much heartbreak to be packed into a single word. it sobered you of your venom and in its place, shame came rushing in.

“i’m sorry. i'm pissed at myself for letting it get this far and i’m taking it out on you. i don’t regret loving you. but it feels like that’s the only thing living inside me. like i’m not even a person anymore.”

“i should’ve noticed. it shouldn’t have taken you snapping for me to realize what was going on.”

“maybe.”

silence, suffocating silence, stretched and morphed time until it felt like you’ve aged a decade in a moment. and then sakusa spoke.

“you’ll help a stranger just because they look like they might need it and ask for nothing in return. you’ll make someone food just so you can be sure they ate that day. you’ll tell me about your day while i fall asleep and i don’t think i could sleep without hearing your voice. you’re kind and too selfless for your own good and the best person i’ve ever met. it kills me that i’ve been the cause of your pain.”

it was strange hearing those traits spun in a good light when you’ve thought of them negatively for so long. strange knowing where you saw faults he saw things worth admiring. “you hear me at night?”

“and you like focusing on minor details. yes, darling. every night.”

“oh.”

“i understand if you need… space, if you want to spend some time apart. but give me a chance. please. give me a chance to prove how important you are to me. i’m sorry that i’ve failed you. i’m sorry i've been taking you for granted. but that ends now. never again.

“and i can help you, too. i can remind you of all the parts you say you’ve lost. i’ll tell you all about the person i fell in love with everyday if you need it. i’d never run out of things to say. please. you found me once, let me return the favour and help you find yourself. if-if you’ll have me.”

his small speech wasn’t the reason tears stung the back of your eyes. as he finished speaking, sakusa reached out across the space between you and offered you his hand. a lifeline that you took, the lump in your throat to keeping everything you wanted to say stuck inside you. thankfully, you needed no words for sakusa to understand you. he brought your joined fingers to his lips and let out a shaky breath against them. the two of you stayed like that for a small eternity, drifted apart yet holding together with a bridge to link you. you’ve been fueled by resentment and anger for so long, you weren’t sure if you were strong enough to let them go. but you did know that you didn’t want to try without him by your side.

#sakusa x reader #sakusa angst #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu angst #haikyuu imagine #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #sakusa kiyoomi angst #haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu!! angst

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warriorsparked · 2 years ago

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@exitialepulchritudo || cont

Elita is perched rather bird-like amid the statues of the garden space. She had made her token appearance for the sake of this peace that meant so much. But what was peace to a Carcerian? Their home continued to be a stern place, the miasma of its occupant creeping over everything.

Elita was used to it. Basked in it even.

She led her people with honor. Even if outsiders found her somewhere between unsettling and overtly violent.

Being sought out? That's much newer. Certainly the City Speaker had come to her, as had the Prime. But Primes were simply mecha more prone to delusions and mistakes to her. Many millenia had taught her so. She downs the last if her stolen drink.

Twisting to kick her pedes irreverently against the carved Visage of Decimus Prime," My calibre? You would find plenty of those of my calibre anywhere. Though I suppose that's either a rare compliment or a back handed comment. Which should I pick of the two?"

She knows his face and his designation. But she doesn't presume to know him as an individual. Victor's write the story even if the characters within still live. But was it truly victory or simply a cessation of hostilities? Attrition grinding both sides to dust and exhaustion.

She tosses her fine crystal at the face of another prime statue," Do you ever think they get tired of staring at their faces? I can't imagine seeing these all the time." A scoff, a non sequitur. But purposeful.

Megatron’s expression soured for a moment before he took another drag of his cygarette. He had grown in the slums of Kaon, he had made a name for himself in those slums, in those pits, as his brethren died around him, and that was just Kaon, not the Outposts he’d stayed on whilst working the mines. This was nothing to him. Then again, he supposed he didn’t know much about Elita’s personal life, just that she was a stubborn ‘bot, one that he’d admired from afar. Hell, he’d even tried to persuade her to come to the Decepticon side, but... alas... he supposed Cybertronian politics weren’t that important to someone who was not created here.

A shame. She would have made for a good Decepticon.

“Take it as you please, but make no mistake, Elita, I merely thought more highly of you,” he replied, flicking the ash in the nearest tray that was by him. There was a drink beside him as well, but it was not high-grade. He’d given that up, considering his mental state and past abuse of the substance.

His optics looked to the statues, the faces of past heroes and villains, depending on who was gazing upon them. Megatron hadn’t cared much for the Primes. Little good they did, and some of them were outright bastards in his optics. He was glad to see them gone, but a mere shame their statues still remained. Decimus, in particular, he had a distaste for. He wished his axe had have killed him back in those mines, but he’d still gotten what he’d deserved. A cog in the machine. Fuck the machine.

“Perhaps their faces serve as a reminder to never repeat history,” he spoke, his optics turning back to Elita’s. He meant that in more than one way. Not just the government or Cybertron, but the people, as much as Megatron.

#IC #Elita

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violet-knox · 3 years ago

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Opportunities

Year 7 - Chapter 70

Summary: You're anxious for your last Quidditch game, worried about your future and your relationship with Severus

Word count: 1710

Previous Chapter - Chapter 1

You looked so stressed. Even from the stands he could tell you were worried about the outcome of the Quidditch finals. You’d spent the last two weeks training every single day, he barely had a second to say hello. He didn’t blame you though. He knew how important this game was to you, how badly you needed to win, and he supported you. The game had kept the crowd on their toes, likely the most anticipated match in the history of Hogwarts Quidditch. He hadn’t realized how good Hufflepuff had gotten, challenging your skill and leadership on a level he didn’t think was possible. His heartbeat furiously as the score flipped between favouring either team, nearly everyone watching it carefully as they waited for the snitch to be caught. All the action was with the chasers, but everyone’s attention was on the seekers. Even Severus couldn’t help but watch Potter and wonder if he was going to let you down today or make himself useful for once.

This game had gone on for far too long, and the longer it went on, the more stressed you became. Severus could see Potter’s failure seep into you as frustration, but it didn’t surprise him. Of course Potter was someone who couldn’t be trusted, and he tried telling you not to depend on him, but you had to insist he was the best seeker you had. It didn’t matter now, you were both graduating and with any luck, you’d never see Potter again after this game.

The crowd roared as the snitch was finally caught, every player pausing in anticipation for the reveal of which team won. Severus hated himself for hoping it was Potter who’d prevailed, but he didn’t care. He just wanted you to win, to have that final victory to look back on. Gryffindor cheered and he watched as your team landed, ambushing Potter with smiles on your faces. You looked so relieved, so happy and he wanted to be happy for you, but he felt jealous it wasn’t him you were hugging. With everything that has been going on with your relationship, he really needed to find a way to show you how much he truly cared about you.

The stands began to clear out as the teams made their way to the changing rooms, but Severus felt frozen in place. He let everyone leave him behind as he sat there in the growing silence and clear skies. He looked up at the clouds and began to imagine what his life would be like if he hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin, if Malfoy had left him alone in his first year. He could never imagine a life without you, but sometimes he wondered how much easier his life would be if he hadn’t got a taste of both sides, if his life had followed one simple path instead of two. Was it silly to ask such questions? Perhaps it was and perhaps what he should be wondering about is what path he will find himself on after graduation. There were so many things up in the air, so many unknowns and dangers but he knew whatever came his way he’d manage it so long as he had you.

He stood up and began to make his way out of the stadium. The crowd had dispersed into groups, some celebrating, some simply chatting. He could see your team cheering and shouting with a large group of Gryffindors as Potter held the snitch high in the air for all to see. Lily was next to him, smiling like her world was flawless. Lupin, Black and Pettigrew all joining in with the fun as if they had anything to do with Gryffindor’s victory. Severus couldn’t take another step. He couldn’t see you and the thought of trying to mingle with those buffoons made him want to run in the opposite direction and never look back.

Unable to stand another second of his past mocking him, he turned around, scanning the rest of the crowd, his eyes finally landing on you. He stared at you as you spoke with Connor, smiling from ear to ear. Just a few weeks ago, he would have been accepted with open arms if he walked over there, but he felt like an outsider, like he wasn’t welcome to join his girlfriend in celebrating one of the happiest moments of her life.

Your eyes met his and he could see your face drop even from this distance. His shoulders dropped as he considered just walking away. You didn’t need him, you never did. It was him who gained from your relationship, it just took him a while to realize that. You waved goodbye to Connor and began walking towards him, his legs instinctively pushing him to meet you halfway.

“Where’ve you been?” As he got closer to you, he could see just how happy you were, like all that stress had evaporated. You were practically jumping with joy, unable to contain your glee as you walked closer to him. “I was hoping to see you outside the changing room.”

“Sorry.” His voice caught in his throat. He’d been silent all day, the only other words spoken from his lips were ‘good luck’ when he saw you before the game. He clapped for you of course, but he couldn’t find it in him to cheer, not when everyone else around him had much more energy than him. Still, that didn’t mean he couldn't’ support you in his own way. “But maybe I can make it up to you?”

“Oh?” You bit your lip as you took his hands in yours, smiling up at him. Finally, you felt like some of the stress that had been weighing you down ease off your shoulders. Between Quidditch, N.E.W.Ts and all the drama with Severus and Connor, you weren’t sure if you’d be able to make it through to the end of the school year. But here you were, Quidditch champion, your grades were up and you’d managed to maintain your relationships with Connor and Severus. Connor would never likely speak to Severus again, but you didn’t expect to win all your battles this week. For now, you just had to focus on your relationship with Severus.

He’d been so distant these past two weeks. A part of you blamed yourself, your Quidditch schedule completely unaccommodating. But he usually always sat in on your practices if he didn’t have class, yet he’d completely disappeared from them over the last few days. He’d barely said two words to you before your game today, and even now, he looked as if he’d gotten no sleep for a week. You squeezed his hands and stepped as close to him as you could, trying to read his mysterious, dark eyes.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered with a touch of guilt in his voice. Your smile began to fade as you realized just how much work you had to mend your relationship with him. This time apart had not done him well, leaving things up in the air after the incident with Connor like that had clearly impacted him more than you’d realized. You lunged at him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and squeezing him in a tight embrace, hoping to remind him of just how much you cared about him.

“Ms. (Y/L/N)?” You tore yourself from Severus and looked to your side to find a man you’d never seen kindly smiling at you. You stepped back from your interrupted hug and turned towards the man.

“Yes?”

“My name is Odie Elks. I’m a recruiter for The English National Quidditch team.” It took everything you had to keep yourself composed. A recruiter was speaking with you, and not just any recruiter, a recruiter for The English National Quidditch team! “I’ve been told you lead the Gryffindor team to victory, and I must say, I’m impressed by your skill, both as a chaser and a Captain.”

The recruiter had given you a compliment, speaking to you like he was interested in you, and you couldn’t believe this was happening right now. You looked up at Severus just to make sure he could see this man too and sure enough, he wore a happy smirk on his face, his eyes landing on the recruiter.

“Th-thank you!”

“Have you considered playing Quidditch professionally?”

“I-I’ve given it some thought, yes.” You could barely find your words, your eyes wide as your heart pounded with the potential opportunity that had appeared before you. The recruiter opens his jacket and slips a hand in his pocket, taking out a small card and handed it to you.

“Well, perhaps you may consider joining us if that’s the path you decide to take.”

“Thank you! I will!”

“We’ll be in touch.” The recruiter nodded his head and began making his way towards the castle. You bit your tongue, waiting for him to get out of earshot before your internal scream leaked as a squeal. You jumped up and down, your excitement escaping your body, Severus smiling at your glee.

“(Y/N)! That’s amazing! I told you you had the talent!” Severus felt so happy for you, sharing in your excitement and incredible achievement. You inspired him so much with everything you did. Your kindness, your dedication, everything about you made him want to be better, to do better.

“Sev,” you ambushed him, nearly making him fall over as you tossed your arms back around him. “I can’t believe I hold in my hand the card from a recruiter of The English National Quidditch Team. This can’t be real. I’m dreaming!”

Severus smiled, giving you a quick kiss atop your head. “You deserve every bit of this, congratulations (Y/N).”

You smiled, pressing Severus to you as you let out a sigh of contempt. Everything seemed to be falling into place. Things were looking up for life after graduation and Severus’ mood had already begun to lift. This was only the beginning of course. You still had so much work to do. N.E.W.Ts were fast approaching and you couldn’t let anything else eat away at your relationship with Severus any longer. No more excuses, you were going to spend time with your boyfriend and iron out your relationship.

Next Chapter

#severus snape #severus snape x reader #snape x reader #severus x reader #young severus snape #young severus snape x reader #my fic #pro snape #female reader #snapedeom #my writing

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cyclicalaberration · 3 years ago

Text

Naught But A Fool In The Body Of A God

(Gore + existentialism warning) A foolish gamers... character study? I think?

Totems were funny things. Made of gold and emerald, looking both very much and not at all like their creator. You could go your entire life never seeing one of them. It is a rare person who needs to to face a powerful and dangerous raid, or to track down a mansion, all of which are filled to the brim with Illagers, just to get lucky and catch an Evoker off guard.

Totems are particular about who they save, seeming to despise their own holders. Evokers almost always held one, but they couldn’t seem to use them.

They seem almost heretical, as though Death herself is only tolerating their presence. She does not seem the type to let a method of escape slide. Though, she is simply a collector, and totems can only be used once. Perhaps she created them, to give some sense of hope as she waited at the finish line, merely extending the bridge into the void.

That is not the case, however. The creator was a young god then, full of spite and bloodlust. He carved them in his image, gave them to those who followed him through lava and storms, across oceans and land. He was not a god of death but a god of dying, a conglomerate of souls of those slaughtered in his name. He is of much the same stock as gods of war and blood, power growing from violence and destruction.

He was older, though. Older than the concept of war. War implies thought behind destruction, implies plans. Dying is a natural aspect of life. Everyone is dying, ever so slowly. He was an intermediary, an active force on the field of Death, who, for all those who fear her, is quite passive.

You, most likely, do not fear death. You cannot, for you do not know what awaits you in her loving embrace. You fear dying. Your last breath leaving your body, laying still, moving for the very last time, thinking your very last thought. You fear the unknown and the end, the change. You do not know what comes after death and that strikes fear into your heart. You do not know what it is like to take your last breath, and that haunts you.

This young god, so new and so primordial, hunted. If he stopped moving, stopped hunting, stopped killing, he’d fade away and die. He sent his followers to hunt, to pillage, his need for souls insatiable. They hunted, and they warped, skin greying and eyes darkening. They began to shift from human to something else, something other. Infused with his power, they hunted, leading groups to hunt down more sacrifices to their god.

He grew in power, grew in strength. Death herself watched, for he was just like his creations. He was a totem, serving a greater power. He was sculpted from gold, inlaid with emerald eyes, given the wings of all her favored creatures, and he engraved himself with stories of his past, his triumphs, his losses, things he wanted to hold close to him forever.

Blood runs through the canals of those engravings, a trident plunging into the chest of the next breathing mortal, and the god, whose name has been long since lost, laughs. Another one came for him, not learning the lesson of its companion, and a sword is driven through their heart, buried up to the hilt, freed moments later by the golden flames eating at its nervous system, reduced to ash in seconds. He brushes them away as one would brush away eraser shavings.

Bodies lay strewn across the field when he’s finished, a one-sided war, headed by a mortal he’s already forgotten, over some sin he no longer cares to remember.

A chuckle rings out from behind him, and he whirls, sword drawn. “That’s quite the display.”

They were half-buried in a fog, extremities concealed in the mist that he knows for a fact wasn’t there. Their eyes glow with hunger, with spite, with a thousand emotions he couldn’t even begin to untangle. It hurts to look them in the eyes too long.

“A lot of flair for some bodies nobody will even see. Nobody but me, of course.”

“What can I say, I’m an artist.”

“Or a zealot.”

“What’s the difference? You won’t have the breath to tell anyone.” He swings his sword, runes glowing. Whoever they are, they will soon be ash, soaked by their own fog, as fire eats them from the inside out.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. My father wouldn’t be happy, he’s not nearly as forgiving as me.” He whirls again, seeing white eyes and a ruffled shirt, mere feet from his face, leaning back against nothing. He gets the feeling that they’re looking at him, truly looking at him, and he chokes, breaking his gaze away from swirling, dancing white, blank but never empty.

“How-”

“Foolish, that’s what you are. A fool.” The mortal- No, they are not mortal. No mortal stares a god in the eyes and calls him a fool. “Why do you fight?”

His companion smirks at him. He grins right back, rows of teeth glinting in the light of the enchanted blades. Centuries of fighting together made them a well practiced dance, a machine of blood and souls. Three arrows pierce the hearts of the guards, falling wordlessly from their towers. That’s all the warning they get. Before the night is out, blood flows so thick it sits for years, soaking the wood and drowning the now-ashen grass.

His companion’s footsteps wither and rot the wood on which they stand, warping it beyond recognition. They work their way to the center of the fortress, people charging to their deaths, impaled, sometimes, by naught but the thorny whips of their enchanted armor.

The stone crumbles beneath their feet, and the god would feel the effects, if he were not himself a statue, life breathed into him by the very goddess who steals it, made of pure gold, which doesn’t tarnish, doesn’t decay. Tapestries crumble to dust as his companion runs their hand along them. The god tosses a mortal to the side, its body lying crumpled, its soul buzzing as he adds it to his own. Another voice layered over his own, another voice to buzz with every angry word.

His companion grips a guard by their chin and laughs as it crumbles to dust beneath their hands.

The general of the army falls, and they dance in the blood of their enemies, spin in the blood of their victims. The hem of the smaller god’s dress sprays droplets of blood as they twirl, the god of dying laughing as his friend grabs his hands, dancing in victory, in elation, in completion. They propel themself into the air and spin him. They move as a unit, as they did in the heat of battle.

Later, the god will sit, stare at his companion, and say “You once asked me why I fight.” That day is not today. Today they will both fight, dance in the blood of their enemies, and move on, the fortress a shell of its former self, growing over with vines, breaking apart.

Two gods, a god of dying and a god of withering and ash, rest in a small village on the bank of a river. The withering god rests against a tree, long ago struck with lightning, telling a story to the village children, as the god of dying laughs, interrupting them with his own commentary on just how comically wrong they’re telling it.

It has been decades since they drew first blood, traveling for weeks at a time, collecting, remembering, rather than destroying. Fights found them, of course, mobs never learn, but fewer mortals have fallen to their stained hands in the past century than in their best year previous.

They still delight in the occasional bloodbath, if the chance arises, but as the world shifts towards calm, they drift away from senseless slaughter and towards traveling.

They pass by cities, or the ruins of what once were, and they ask themselves, “Was that our doing?” and they do not know, hundreds of civilizations having fallen to their blades, their arrows, and their fire.

But they sit, ancient, immortal warriors, telling stories to children, their hands still caked in more blood than these children will ever see.

Later, the god of dying will say to his companion: “I fight because destruction is control. Nothing exists that I cannot destroy, nothing exists that I cannot control,” but that day is not today. Today they laugh at incorrect accounts of tales they experienced, true histories lost, new memories formed. Today the god of withering and ash closes their eyes, and the god of dying makes the skies dance with light for the descendants of people they long-ago killed.

Later they will reflect. Today they will reminisce.

Two gods part ways, on a mission from Death. They will meet again, but it will not be the same. The god of dying, of storms, and of the ocean and all that that entails smiles down on his old friend, their white eyes glowing with hundreds of memories.

“I’ll see you soon, Old Pal.”

“See you soon.” They turn down different roads, one a path of explosions, of wars, of power-grabs and monarchies, and one down a path of self-reflection.

Their paths take them to the same destination: Redemption. Neither take the same road there, and neither path is straight, but it never is. And redemption is a place not easily found, but easily lost, easy to slip back into old ways for moments at a time, on a godly timescale.

The god of dying takes the name Foolish, a reminder of his past. He arrives in a strange land, full of holes and trauma and death. The place reeks of hubris. It makes him sick. It makes him hungry. The hunger curls in his stomach and the stench gives him a sickening headache, so he runs. Runs far away, and he builds.

Builds for control, builds for stability. Builds are his one constant, gigantic pyramids and sculptures and he can’t stop. His temple expands. A man, a man he has seen, a man who feels like too much and too little, too much in one body, a vacuum and a black hole, asks him for a kingdom. Simple enough. A child approaches him, telling him to build a mansion, a mansion larger than a country, for him, his husband and their son. He will be paid. He is not paid nearly enough.

A demon, a cat, and a not-quite-human man encroach on his summer home. They reek of vines and death, and Foolish loses his composure. They doubt his power. They threaten his home and he smiles with too many teeth and grows, grows to his full size. His eyes glow. They taunt him, threaten him.

“I’m a peaceful man, Ponk. But if I must defend myself, I can.”

“Defend yourself against this, then, Foolish.” Ponk hurls a trident at him, glancing off him, a mortal not strong enough to pierce his skin. He’s a fool, more a fool than the man who took it as his name. That is his weapon, carved of prismarine and ivory, more his domain than any other. For a moment, the god tastes blood.

“I may be a totem of undying, but in the past, I have been a totem of death.” He calls power to his fingertips, lightning in his eyes. “It’s not just one thing, Ponk. It's never just one thing. Have you ever tasted lightning? Smelt the ozone in the air, seen it dance across your skin before you black out from the pain?”

“Do you see where we are, Foolish?” In Ponk’s mind, the name is fitting. He has never seen a storm called from nothing before. Never seen a storm called at all, only harnessed. He disbelieves.

“It does not matter. A sunny day does not matter.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Let me show you.” He smiles, rows of teeth bloodied with the lives of thousands, millions of mortal souls. His voice layers, thousands of voices, screaming to be heard. The crack of lighting lands mere feet from the three. “Now begone from this place, and I don’t ever want to see you here again, am I clear?”

The vines must be resolved. The egg continues to hunger, but he has hope, hope that there is a piece of mortal soul left in them, a piece of morality that wishes to be free. He does not give up hope.

The gods’ paths cross again in a city, the totem and the king. A city drowning in red, twisting, oozing vines, calling out for blood. They spend hours weeding, burning red vines and laughing. His friend no longer flies, his friend hides their once-beautiful eyes, but they’re the same. They do not remember him, but they are the same.

“Foolish, have I ever shown you my eyes?” Of course they have, and he says as much. “I’m going to show you again, just in case.” Their eyes dance, with confusion and worries, and a deep-seated fear of rejection.

“Yeah, that’s the Eret I’m thinking of! The one with white eyes, the one with the netherite armor!” Foolish looks concerned, but this is nothing that they can’t fix. They’ve fought armies together, a few missing memories aren’t going to make him give up on them.

They attend a banquet. They dance for the first time in centuries, spinning in circles to the music played by that infernal catmaid. They attend a banquet and it goes south, hard, as all parties attended by gods do. It goes south and he makes use of his totem nature, wrapping around their heart, taking their place. They will not die to the monstrous egg before they get to dance together, and reminisce.

Soon, the god will say to his old friend, that he builds to replace. He builds to counteract the destruction he caused, and it will not replace the lives lost, but it adds something new, something beautiful to this harsh reality, but that is not the truth. The truth is, he creates for the same reason he destroyed.

Soon a mortal man in a cardboard mask will tell him that he let him die. Soon, he will be taunted by a mortal man, full of hubris, who says that his builds mean nothing, are nothing, bring nothing to the world, and a part of him will think the mortal man is right. A part of him whispers that he is selfish. That his ways are wrong. That he must pick up the sword once again, bleed mortals for their souls.

He will shove that part deep inside, and he will remind the man that no good comes of blood. He will tell the man that he too once believed that death was the answer, death would give control, but he will tell the man that he was wrong, and that he will be too.

You either die a monster, vengeful and wicked, or you grow. You adapt, you create, you reconcile. Some may never forgive, but many will. Mortals only get one lifetime, he must make the most of it.

He will not say that though. He will sit up against the side of his sphynx and sew hundreds of thousands of tiny dolls, breathing life into each one, giving each one a small hard hat and a job, so he will never be alone. He will build, children safe in the ender cradle, and he will give himself time to think. He will stop moving, for one moment, and he will not die. He may be the god of the seas, but he is not a shark. He keeps moving, a perpetual motion machine, purely out of fear of what his own thoughts bring, and he truly lives up to the name given to him so long ago. Foolish. For he is naught but a fool in the body of a god.

#Foolish Gamers #Foolish G #dsmp foolish #dream smp #dream smp fic #Foolish gamers fic #dsmp #dsmp eret #eret #Eternal duo #ponk #dsmp ponk #Anyway I'd love it if you could reblog? It'd make me really happy #and I love seeing y'all's comments #mic writes #< keep forgetting to use that tag f

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authoressskr · 3 years ago

Text

Ruby Dragon Surprise (i)

Characters: f!Reader, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Clint Barton, Mercy (*previously Y/N in Bucky’s Dragon Soulmate Story*), mentions of Peggy Carter

Warnings: Language and no Beta :: Notes: This particular story will probably be three parts, cause Steve is emotionally constipated :: Word Count: 4849

I went with a dragon!soulmate!au, which I hadn’t seen before, but I did have a nifty dream about it that spawned this whole idea. He’s still an Avenger. Events are basically still the same (not exactly the same...people are alive who died in the mcu), just with dragons. ‘Cause who wouldn’t love a dragon companion?? This will be an ongoing series with different Avengers finding their soulmates with their dragons.

Howlite and Hearts (Bucky)

Please do NOT repost, copy & paste, post or share my works on any other platform without my EXPRESS PERMISSION.

-+- REBLOGGING is fine and very appreciated! -+-

Since men emerged from caves, began using tools and reshaping their environment, they have been intrigued by the draconian terrors of all shapes and sizes that roamed the world. The first records of man and dragon working together are from Mesopotamia, pieces of shattered pottery pieced back together showing a dragon standing beside a woman. Assyrian artifacts depict water dragons helping farmers in the field. Egyptian murals show dragons protecting the Pharaoh and his family, others showing different breeds of dragon fetching books from inside the Library of Alexandria.

History is dotted with famous dragons and their bonded humans; King Arthur and his steel-colored dragon, Excalibur. William Shakespeare and his dragon, Bard. Cleopatra and Bucephalus, named after Alexander the Great’s legendary steed. Abraham Lincoln and his dragon, Crusoe.

Over the centuries, dragons have become smaller from the giants painted in mythology, old texts and wall murals. The biggest dragon these days are about the size of a large crocodile, with the biggest recorded in the last decade almost as big as a hippo. Height varies on the type of dragon - with the tallest one balancing on its tail, hits almost eye level with a giraffe.

Classes have been taught for centuries about dragons and the bond between them with humans. Dragons will sometimes die right after their human counterpart and vice versa. Dragons who have lost their counterpart will sometimes live, seeking out their counterpart’s soulmate to stay with their draconian mates as well. It is not an uncommon thing - especially after times of war - for soulmates to have both dragons if one has died.

Dragon pairs will usually have the same colors and markings, even though they will often not be the same type of dragon. Dragons may look similar to the human eye, but a dragon will know it’s mate no matter what. It has not been determined how the dragons know their mate almost instantaneously, but after millennia humans have begun to follow the dragon counterpart’s knowledge in this area. Marriages of alliance and royalty have often been changed or dropped when one party finds its soulmate. In the same vein, marriages have also been arranged due to this circumstance as well. Cinderella is the most referenced fairy tale of this, with Cinderella having the same sapphire and gold colored dragon as the prince (*Dragon color varies by region and culture).

Soulmate bonds are some of the strongest bonds in our world. Both between a dragon pair and between a human pair. And on the flip side of the Cinderella story, dragons will attempt to push their human partners together if the human counterpart doesn’t seem interested or could result in a rejection.

On the same page, a rejection of this bond - always by the human partner - can have devastating consequences. This broken or unformed bond may result in: at first, flu-like symptoms but can build up to more serious symptoms such as feeling weak or run down, tremors and/or tics, varying weight loss, chest pains and even very mild seizures have been documented. Usually the bond is mended or solidified before it comes to these more serious issues. There are also historic rumors of deaths from broken hearts due to rejections, which has yet to be scientifically proven. The aforementioned symptoms may require hospitalization.

To date no dragon has succumbed to any symptoms from their human counterparts due to the rejection of the bond, which dragon experts seem truly puzzled by due to the strong bonds that can be formed between a human and a dragon. Rejections, however, are rare and scientists aren’t yet sure of all possible symptoms associated with a rejection of a bond. Touch, however, is shown to remedy these symptoms in trials and is known to be a powerful connector between a human and it’s dragon partner as well.

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If there was one thing Steve Rogers knew, it was that Peggy Carter was his soulmate.

He’ll admit he doesn’t think of it as often as when he came out of the ice, but he does still think about it - about Peggy - every few days. More so when Bucky, Sam and himself are out for lunch or when he and Wanda may be grabbing some coffee, because that is when he sees soulmates together.

The way soulmates look at each other is different. Like they don’t just see the person before them, but everything they are and could be; all rolled into everything they love.

And he’s envious of that look.

He knows he hasn’t received it. And he truly believes he hasn’t given it either. Sometimes he chalks it up to not being actual bonded soulmates with Peggy. Because he knows that the love that was blossoming would have turned into that loving, enraptured gaze he always longed for.

It’s the thought that gets interrupted when his cell rings on the way back from their morning run. He quickly switches his coffee cup to his other hand to fish the phone from his pant pocket, revealing Tony’s face on the screen.

“Hey, Tony.”

“Need you, the bird and the metal popsicle back here asap. Got a hit on a Hydra offshoot. Wheels up in 30.”

“Got it. We’re just a few blocks from the Tower now.”

“Pick up the pace then, old man,” And the call ends. He looks at Sam and Bucky before tossing back what’s left of his coffee and throwing it in a nearby trash can.

“Mission. Wheels go up in 30.” Sam sighs at his words.

“Morning calls are rare, man. Must be big.”

“Hydra,” Bucky mutters with a shake of his head before polishing off his own coffee. “Come on. Gonna take most of that time to get the scalies ready.”

“You know,” Sam mutters with a smug grin as they all continue towards the Tower, “You’ve picked up your soulmate’s habit of calling the dragons weird names.” Sam tosses his empty cup and dodges a swat from Bucky.

“Jealousy is an ugly, ugly thing Sam…”

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Steve shifts in his place in the rafters, Rak wiggling on his back in response to peer over his shoulder down at the HYDRA agents. He nods at Bucky, who is perched across the building, just above the exit.

“Where’d you find this one?”

“Get this - a museum.” The blonde HYDRA agent cackles, leaving the brunet nodding, a serious look on his face. A loud clang of the door reveals two more HYDRA agents, dragging another person between them while a third agent follows behind with a tactical machine gun held tightly in his grip. If body shape is anything to go on, it’s a woman. A curvy and buxom one. Bucky quickly types out an update in Morse code to Natasha who is stationed outside with Sam and Tony as the brunet drags a heavy wooden chair into the middle of the room.

They toss the captive into the chair, zip tying their wrists behind them before pulling off the thick bag from their head. If looks could kill…

“Now, Miss, we are going to ask you a series of questions -”

“Fuck. Off.” Steve’s eyebrows shoot up at the venom in her tone.

“You don’t seem to know who we are.” Her jaw clenches as she looks away from the salt and pepper haired man who dragged her in. “Come now. I don’t want to injure you more than necessary…”

“Right.” She snaps, looking down at her lap with a sigh. The tall brunet who helped drag her in shifts to stand behind her, grabbing a fistful of hair and yanking her head back. Her gasp makes Rak hiss in his ear, Steve feeling his claw tips through his suit. He tilts his head to rub it against Rak’s, offering that silent comfort to calm him down.

“Now, Miss, the first question is: You work in the nearby museum, correct?”

“Seeing as that’s where you took me from…” She gasps again as the hand tightens in her hair, bending her head back a little more. That’s when she notices Bucky in the rafters - quickly closing her eyes and sniffles loudly.

“What are you working on there?”

“Paleontology mostly. But when I started there I worked in the geology department. I’m a floater between departments since I don’t have my full degree yet.” The man relaxes his grip a little, pushing her head forward towards its normal position again.

“Rocks and bones.” The older agent chuckles before rubbing his hand over his graying beard. “Do you do anything else in the museum?”

“I assist only in the two departments. The only reason I help the geology is when the woman who regularly helps is gone cause she’s having a rough pregnancy.”

“Now we know that’s a lie. You spend a lot of time in the accounting office.” Her head is pulled back again so she’s looking at the ceiling again.

“I’m not sure you lot are aware that each department has a budget. I have to submit forms every month about the spending. Plus, one of the accountants is my friend.”

“So you are saying our intel is wrong?”

“Look, I’d like my head to stay attached, but yes, your intel is shit. Probably someone just looking not to be in the position I’m currently in.”

“So the museum isn’t looking into the dragons ancestors?”

“If they are, then I don’t know about it. I’m a peon!” She yanks her head from the man’s grasp and struggles in the chair.

“Little cherub, you are a terrible liar.”

“Listen asshat, I am keenly aware I’m a terrible liar. So I tend NOT to lie. Especially to someone who has tied me to a chair and has a fucking gun!!” He sighs, giving a little shake of his head before his hand shoots out and backhands her, making her head snap to the left. Rak’s claws pierce through his suit, smoke curling from his nostrils making Steve tense under him even more. He holds his hand up in a stopping motion, Bucky cocking his head slightly before Steve gestures over his shoulder at Rak.

“Woman, HYDRA has been looking for you for awhile.”

“Seems like a waste of time to me. I can’t have anything HYDRA could possibly want. Except maybe morals.”

“We don’t need morals in HYDRA.” The blonde grunts out from his leaning place against the wall.

“I’m aware. Ya ever think that’s why SHIELD and the Avengers whip your ass? Resign you to the shadows like the phantoms you are.” There is a loud enough explosion that everyone turns towards the exit, the men all tensing. “AND YOU KNOW WHAT? YOUR SIGIL OR WHATEVER IT IS MAKES ABSOLUTELY NO FUCKING SENSE! HYDRA MEANS 5! WHY DOES YOUR SYMBOL HAVE 8? AND DO YOU ALL KNOW THAT THE HYDRA WAS DEFEATED???” Her head is sent sharply to the left again, blood trickling from her lip at the contact.

“WHO FOLLOWED YOU?!” The older agent snaps at the blonde and brunet who they saw first.

“NO ONE, SIR!” Bucky drops down just as Tony comes through the back exit, making Steve shimmy upright before he begins across the beams in the rafters to cut off their retreat.

He drops down with a dull thud, blocking the HYDRA agents as planned but the brunet with the machine gun has it pointed under the woman’s jaw.

“She’s not so sassy now,” The man in charge smirks out, stroking a finger down her cheek. He glances behind, seeing Bucky, Tony and Natasha behind him.

“You know, nasty little fellows such as yourself always get their comeuppance.” Her words loud and clear as her gaze slides towards the older agent, the muzzle of the gun digging harder into her skin at her words.

“Snarky little bitch, isn’t she?”

“I like snark,” Tony mentions, looking to Natasha who just rolls her eyes. “But that’s because I’m just so good at it.”

“Release the girl, unharmed, and we’ll take you alive.” Steve offers, Rak’s nails digging into his shoulder once more as smoke begins to curl out of his nose again.

“How about no?” The agent whom had been silent this entire time speaks with a sneer, his little blue dragon’s head popping from a pocket in his utility pants.

Bucky lets loose a single round to the knee of the agent with the sub machine gun, making him buckle and the gun drop from his grip. That’s when Tony blasts the salt and pepper haired man past Steve as Natasha cuts the woman free, only for the woman to rush past Steve and the other agents deeper into the warehouse. Rak jumps from his shoulder and flys after her, prompting Steve to sigh as Bucky runs past, following after her and Rak.

“Does she realize the exit is the other way?!” Tony yells through the comms, taking a stance by where he’d entered to fend off dozens of incoming HYDRA. Two men run towards Steve only to stutter to the ground as electricity surges through their bodies.

“Thanks Nat.” He grunts before rushing through the doorway to find his best friend, his dragon and the directionally impaired woman.

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You’re trying desperately to remember the turns they’ve dragged you through, looking for the spot where they had separated the two of you and tossed a bag over your head. A man moves to grab you, only to be attacked by an aggressive ruby dragon. It then scrabbles up your legs and perches itself on your shoulder, urging you on with a little grunt. You tread a little more carefully after that, but no less urgent, a scream clogging your throat as someone grabs your shoulder from behind before slipping a hand over your mouth.

“Don’t scream.” You nod as the former Winter Soldier comes into view. “You know, the easy exit was the other way.”

“I’m aware. But they tossed my dragon in a big plastic looking box then I got the bag and drag treatment.”

“This warehouse has two floors in the front half, did they take you upstairs at all?” A shake of your head is all you can manage before the dragon flits from your shoulder and begins running down the hallway. “I guess we follow Rak then. You stay behind me and if I tell you to do something -”

“Consider it done.” You agree before gently pushing at his arm to get him moving.

Rak doesn’t stop until he’s about two hallways off where you all stopped, hissing and sending several fiery breaths towards the small side dock where HYDRA agents were loading up your dragon.

“Velma!” Her answering screech is enough to get you moving, Sgt. Barnes hand shooting out to keep you behind him. He’s got two of them shot and Rak is mauling another when you see a silver blur knock out the other two. It’s only when you turn to your right do you see Captain America snatch his shield, holding it for a beat before turning to look at you. If looks could lecture...you’d be in for a loooong one.

But as he gives you that look all you can think of is that now all the douche HYDRA agents are now k-o’ed, so you rush over to the giant box, sticking your fingers through the big air holes to stroke at her muzzle, Rak chirping at Sgt. Barnes, who steps around your crouched form and snaps the two heavy duty locks off with his metal hand. Your dragon bursts from the cage and tackles you, curling herself around your chest and neck as best she can as you coo reassurances to her.

“We gotta go,” Steve takes hold of your elbow, helping you up as you heft Velma off the ground, her wings wrapping securely around you as you follow Captain America back the way you came. Rak is riding on his shoulder and moving his ruby head back and forth between you and the hallway ahead. The Black Widow joins you halfway back and takes point, an emerald green dragon with beautiful iridescent wings in shades of purples, blacks, greens and a few splashes of a pale yellow shimmer brightly even in the dim lights of the warehouse hallway. You let out a soft grunt, hefting Velma a little higher as your arms start to tire. “Almost there. I can carry her, if you like?” He doesn’t look at you when he offers, simply continues looking forward at his measured pace beside you.

“I can manage,” Your pride answers before your tired arms can get a word in, a smile twitching at his lips at your answer, which just makes your pride suddenly all the more determined to do it yourself. He moves forward when you all get back to where the attack began, Natasha taking his place before Falcon glides in through the hole in the wall.

“It’s all secure to the jet,” He reports as he lands. “Tony is circling the outer gates to make sure they don’t have anything else - hostages or weapons.”

“Alright. Let’s get her on the jet. We’ll look her over and call into the compound for the doctor to be ready when we arrive.”

“Already done,” Natasha confirms and they all move in a protective box around you and Velma, Falcon now on your right and Natasha on your left as the good Captain takes the lead and the Sergeant keeps his place in the rear.

You’re herded - there is no other way to put it really - onto this very expensive, military-looking, and slightly futuristic jet. Falcon gestures to a seat and you kneel in front of it, carefully dislodging your draconian partner before taking the seat. Her scaled head nudges your open hand, reminding you that you’ve both made it.

Safe echoes in your mind and you nod, meeting her light amethyst eyes.

Safe, you reply as she climbs awkwardly into the seat beside yours, laying her head on your thigh.

::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx::

“Baby,” She coos to the dragon, a shiver going up his spine at the softness and care in her tone, her hand sliding easily over it’s red scales as Sam returns to her side with a first aid kit.

“They do anything else besides these?” Sam asks gently, his finger brushing softly over her cheek where it’s already beginning to swell. A shake of her head is all she manages, “Okay, I’m gonna clean it with an alcohol pad.” Sam swipes it across her cheek and around the left side of her mouth to get off the dried blood. When he dabs just under her lip she hisses and so does Rak, her own dragon tensing up and curling it’s upper lip just enough to flash the tips of its teeth.

“Down, kids,” She mumbles out before Tony struts onto the jet.

“All clear. Let’s go home.” Tony sits beside her as the jet begins to ascend, both men’s gazes dropping to her free hand which is gripping the edge of her seat. “I’m Tony.”

“Y/N.”

“Dragon?”

“Velma.”

“Velma,” Tony repeats with a chuckle. “I like it. Suits you both. This is Jericho.”

“‘By faith the walls of Jericho fell’…is that right?”

“Exactly! ‘See, I have delivered Jericho into your hands’. My mother insisted that I know the Bible. I just liked the idea of marching and horns defeating a strong enemy. No bullets, no bombs; just faith.”

“Kind of goes against the initial sort of images of yourself, huh?” Tony leans in slightly, a grin flirting on his lips.

“Have you been talking to my wife?” She leans in too, their foreheads nearly touching.

“I think I’d remember talking to her.”

“She is very memorable.” He agrees, leaning back in the seat before waving his finger at her chest. “Buckle up. We should be there in about twenty or thirty.”

“Do you need anything?” Steve asks, Bucky’s eye popping open from his resting place in the corner and a tiny twitch of his lips making him want to glare at his best friend.

“No, thank you.” Steve nods, moving to the front to talk to Natasha when Rak flits to the floor and scurries over to her, his head tilted to one side with his begging eyes on. Steve moves to turn back to stop Rak from bothering her. “Get up here then,” A smile dancing in her eyes as he chirps happily, leaping easily into her lap and shaking his wings out before carefully settling down, his snout resting beside Velma’s.

::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx::

You’re just nodding off when the jet lands, carefully tapping Velma and then Rak to wake them before stretching, wincing at the soreness in your face and neck.

Steve walks by you as the bay door opens before he whistles, Rak’s head perking up from the seat beside you, but he doesn’t move. This doesn’t seem to sit well with Steve, who glares at his partner like he’s betrayed him.

The dragon begrudgingly jumps down and stands at the Captain’s feet, an outstretched hand drawing you from the curiosity you felt watching Rak and Steve. You’re met with storm blue eyes and a small, easy smile.

“Come on, kid,” Unclicking from your seat, you accept his hand with a hushed thank you. You are hardly off the jet before a white marble blur nearly takes James down, his laughter ringing out before a woman appears just after, helping him up and the two of them disappearing into the building. You’re caught at a crossroads of sorts...Do you follow? Isn’t that a bit presumptuous?

“Are you Y/N?” You’re startled from your thoughts by a woman with thick black hair piled atop her head in a white lab coat.

“Yes?”

“I’m Dr. Hale. Natasha and Tony told us to be expecting you.” She gestures you forward, opposite to where the Avengers disappeared to. You follow obediently, with Velma trailing behind you, also looking to where they’d all gone. “Do you have any medical conditions we should be aware of?”

“No.”

“High blood pressure?”

“No, but if it’s high I was just taken hostage and then backhanded twice before having a gun shoved against my jaw while they tried to take my dragon.” She makes a face, eyebrows raised and fighting back a smile before she manages a big nod.

“Understandable...well let’s check all that. Was your dragon injured?”

“I ran my hands over all of her and she’s not injured that I can tell.” You look down at her, purple eyes alight. “You hurt, baby?” Velma shakes her head, her tail twitching slightly when she does so.

“Perfect. We’ll just check you over and then Tony should come get you.” All you can do is nod, following her into a very white and metallic exam room.

::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx::

Steve’s voice can be heard through the door of his room, he’s sure of it.

Rak has snapped at him twice so far and nearly set his comforter on fire because he ordered him to stay put while he showered. Steve knew where he would wander off to and he told Rak he needs to let the doctor do their job and check them over. He had angrily settled down when Howl had come into the room, the bigger dragon tossing himself down onto Rak’s bed - successfully luring Rak to him and calming the little spitfire down long enough for Steve to get a shower.

Once he was out of the shower, Rak started up again, a stare off ensuing between the two of them while Howl looked on in amusement.

“I said no!” Steve snaps at the wyvern before clenching his jaw so tight he’s sure he hears a pop. Rak opens his mouth, flashing all his teeth only to snap it closed when Bucky’s soulmate sticks her head in.

“Sorry. I knocked, but you must not have heard...I was just looking for Howl.” Howl’s whole body shakes as he wiggles his way happily to her. “Tony just went to get the woman from the infirmary, just to let you know.” Steve scowls at her as Rak begins to follow Howl out the door.

“Hey! Best behavior. And you need to cut the whole hissing, snapping and fire at me, you little gas ball.” Rak snorts, almost giving an eye roll as Steve blocks the door. “Shoulder.” He points for emphasis, his partner huffing as he slowly climbs up onto his shoulder. “And stay there, do you understand?” He turns his ruby head away and Steve’s mind wanders to the impossible...but he quickly shakes that thought from his head.

When she enters the room with her dragon, her cheek and lip swollen a little more than an hour ago when he’d seen her.

Wanda gasps as she enters the room, looking from Rak to Velma, Rak doing the exact fucking opposite as he was told - flinging himself from Steve’s shoulder and running towards you and Velma - before giving a little squeal.

“I’ve never seen a dragon soulmate pair meeting!” Steve looks in confusion from the dragons to Wanda and then to the woman, the room now deadly silent except for the soft, contented growls coming from the pair of ruby dragons curled around each other at Y/N’s feet.

“What - no, that’s not - that’s not possible.” Steve snorts in disbelief after he manages his oh-so eloquent words. “No. She’s not my soulmate,” The words tumble from his lips before he has a chance to really think the situation over but his eyes still see everything.

They see the hope that was blossoming in her soft eyes and they see the confusion flash through those pretty eyes before the hurt makes the light die out in them, her eyes dropping to the floor quickly.

He opens his mouth to refute his own words - to apologize and take it back - when he sees Bucky glaring at him.

After all, hadn’t it been him who had told Bucky to go after his dragon and his soulmate? Who had told Bucky he’d give anything to be in his shoes? And now that he was, he had just rejected his soulmate.

You could hear a pin drop as he stands there gaping like a fish before managing to firmly close his mouth.

She’s staring at their dragons, snouts pressed along side each other with their wings touching, tails twined together before she looks up and blinks rapidly. He knows she’s willing the tears away and it physically hurts him to see her avert her eyes.

Clint steps forward, whispering in her ear before offering her his arm. Clint takes her past him, both of their dragons trailing eagerly after her and both blatantly ignoring his very existence.

“All clear boss,” comes a familiar accented voice, Steve can feel all of his family’s eyes boring into him before Natasha speaks up.

“What the actual hell, you dumbass?”

“My sentiments exactly.” Tony pipes up from behind her.

“Didn’t you say you wish you were in my shoes?” Sam just harrumphs at Bucky’s words from where he’s sitting on the couch by Bucky and his soulmate.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…” Wanda mutters among the other comments, worrying her bottom lip.

“It’s not your fault, Wanda,” Mercy soothes from the couch, hand gently squeezing Bucky’s as her dragon Cloud moves from her shoulder to Bucky’s, sensing his tenseness.

“Clint’s giving her a tour. She’ll be staying here until we can find out specifically why Hydra was after her. That should give you enough time to pull your head out of your ass,” Tony states while shoving his long sleeves up a bit on his forearms, hitting Steve with a “Sweet Jesus” side eye that Steve was all too well acquainted with.

“It just came out!”

“Like diarrhea…” Pietro says loudly from the kitchen, tossing a handful of grapes into his mouth. Steve glares at the male Maximoff, whom he literally didn’t even realize was in the damn kitchen.

“Again, it just came out. I didn’t even think about what I said!”

“That is abundantly clear,” Howl crawls into Bucky’s lap at his words, big eyes pleading to his human dad for pets to calm them both down, tail twacking Mercy who just rolls her eyes playfully at his needy and loving response to Bucky’s mood. Bucky smiling oh so softly at Howl and Mercy, as he strokes the oversized dragon taking up his lap.

Steve watches that and he aches for it. Those knowing looks to share with his soulmate.

But Peggy is gone.

And he doesn’t know where to go from here with this woman. Or the fact that Rak is completely convinced that Velma is his mate.

Because he is pretty sure she isn’t.

‘Pretty sure’ isn’t going to cut it for everyone else though. It definitely won’t be enough for Rak, that little gas ball of betrayal.

Steve was well and truly fucked.

Tagging: @moonbeambucky @thewhiterabbit42 @nobodys-baby-now @unleashthemidnight @stay-frosty-royal-unicorn @chelsea072498 @clockworkmorningglory @sakurablossom4 @marichromatic @blondecoffeecake @ourloveisforthelovely @whinywingedwinchester @feelmyroarrrr

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers au #authoressskr writes #dragon!soulmate!au #marvel fanfiction #steve x reader #part i

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darker-soft-starker · 4 years ago

Photo

Starker High School AU, Pt. 2 (Pt. 1, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5)

-----

Peter will admit that during he took an extended moment during his journey home to grieve the loss of his free afternoon, and indeed the impending headaches.

And the rest of his future, if he was honest.

Not that Peter was prone to melancholy by any means, but with this assignment his fate was officially sealed, there was no misunderstanding. He was going to fail this assignment. He was going to, for the first time in his academic career, be forced to submit garbage of a caliber worthy of Tony Stark. It will forever be a black mark on his academic record.

No respectable college is going to accept him after this. In fact, he might as well drop out of school now and hit up Mr Delmar for a job. All of his prep for his MIT application is as good as useless after this. Extracurriculars? Goodbye.

Because it’s confirmed.

He’s doomed.

Swaying with the motions of the train, Peter types a text to Ned, the only person who might provide him with some much needed sympathy.

> I’m doomed > paired w/stark for an assignment lollllllllll. > help

Maybe Peter could trade with Ned. Maybe he could plead with their teacher, for honest fear of his life and scholastic integrity. He wasn’t even exaggerating. In no known iteration of this universe could Peter amicably work with Tony Stark. It would be like Harry Potter sitting down for tea with Voldemort, or Frodo and Sauron chilling with a pint and a pipe in Bag End.

It was unthinkable. Implausible. Laughable.

And Peter would laugh, were it anyone but him in this situation.

The feeling is unusual. Never had he found reason in his life to truly dislike anybody before, everyone could be redeemed or given the opportunity for penance. Natasha has said more than once that Peter would offer the devil himself a sandwich if he appeared.

Tony Stark on the other hand? No sandwich for him.

Well, maybe a slice of bread. A stale one.

While he waits for Ned to responds he catches sight of his injured reflection in the train window, which is admittedly pretty gnarly. Even with his hood drawn up, there was a noticeable berth allocated to him in the busy carriage between himself and the other passengers.

< sux. can I have ur lego hogwarts if u die?

> dude :( pity me.

< lol. so, can i?

Peter sighs.

> sure. Look after May for me, bro. delete my internet history.

< deal. godspeed

Pocketing his phone, Peter wonders if it’s too late to take up praying.

---

By the time he’s back in his apartment his mood has managed to swing back up.

Tony Stark is not going to be the arbiter of Peter’s fate. Hell no. He’s smart, he’s creative and hardworking - it isn’t up to anybody but Peter to determine his outcomes. If he has to do the assignment with Stark then he will. And he will work his hardest.

If he has to do it sharing the credit with Stark, well, Peter knows a concession when he sees one.

No matter how reluctant he is.

But he powers through it, like ripping off a bandaid. It’s fine! He’s a Parker and he’s come this far in life already against ill, Parker-like odds. What was being paired for one assignment with someone who escaped the nearest hellmouth?

It’ll be fine.

Probably.

Not letting himself linger on his fears, Peter clears out his previous plans of going on a YouTube spiral and eating sour gummies until his teeth stick, instead utilising the time to get his foot in and and begins prepping for the assignment. Cursory, preliminary research at first, before the inevitable deep dive begins.

Neanderthal, Peter scoffs, mad all over again. Who is Stark to call Peter a neanderthal? He’s second in his class. He’s a straight A student. He likes school.

And as much as he is moderately skilled in, and enjoys JV, it’s not like he received his scholarship to study at Midtown based on his physical prowess.

The graze on his cheek that stings every time he yawns is proof of that.

Stark can eat his entire ass and choke on it, he thinks darkly, as he continues his research. He doesn’t know the first thing about Peter.

The data is sobering as he delves into job listings and statistics of his projected salary in a three year margin. This is really what his teachers earn? Wow. Depressing.

The contrast of expected salary versus the forecast of steep student loans is disheartening further still.

Teaching quietly slips from second to third on his list of ideal occupations.

Turning on a playlist on his phone, Peter continues to compile notes, amassing a truly gargantuan amount of tabs on his browser. His computer, old enough to be on its’ last teeth, whirrs loudly in protest.

It’s not until his room goes dark that he thinks to check the time.

Ah, shit. It’s nearly six.

Peter pauses. Should he tidy up the apartment?

...Nah, no point in breaking a sweat for Stark.

He continues typing. Then he hesitates, fingers suspended in mid-air.

But what if Stark sees his unfolded laundry out on the dining table and publicly shames him for his old-but-comfortable Bulbasaur themed boxer shorts?

Goddamnit.

---

A quick, cursory clean ensues and leaves a relatively orderly Parker apartment. No freshly laundered underwear is in sight.

Peter wraps up just a few minutes before six. Right on time.

Taking a seat at the now clear dining table Peter drums his fingers on the surface and waits.

And waits.

---

He knows when Tony finally arrives when he hears the sound of a car pulling up outside his apartment block. The riffs of a Roxette remix can be heard playing loudly from the ground to the seventh floor of his apartment, the bass so thunderous it reverberates the windows all the way up to his floor.

Drumming his fingers on the kitchen table, Peter checks the wall clock again. It’s nearly seven.

Tony’s late.

Not that Peter is particularly affected with surprise that Tony is incapable of following basic instructions, but still. Really? Really?

By the time there is a knock on his door, Peter is already before it, his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face. Every second between Tony pulling up and his ascent to Peter’s floor has him positively fuming. He can’t believe how this day played out. It started with such promise. He had such innocuous, but high hopes.

Clearly, he miscalculated.

Feeling a touch petty, he waits to answer, listening to Stark knock a second and then a third, more insistent time before he rouses enough calm to open the door.

He instantly regrets it when he does.

Tony’s expression is curious one as he breezes right passed Peter without waiting for further invitation. There’s a smudge of something dark on his brow, his otherwise white undershirt smeared in dark stains.

Peter watches incredulously as the other boy drops his backpack by the door with a thump.

“You’re late.”

He closes the door behind Tony and scowls at the other boys easy posture, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes taking in the apartment.

“I didn’t realise you lived all the way out in fucking Queens. Do you have any idea how bad traffic is at this time of day? Also, your elevator doesn’t work. I just climbed seven flights of stairs, where’s the hospitality?”

“Try earning it.”

The other boy rolls his eyes. “Like it’s worth my time.” He breezes past Peter and slides his leather jacket off his arms, tossing it atop of his backpack in the corner. “Look, I’m here now. Okay? You can unclench now. So, do I get a tour or what?”

“Or what. This wouldn’t have been an issue if we had just started straight after class like I said.”

“Oh I’m sorry,” Tony clutches his hands to his heart before gesturing to the room. “I didn’t realise I was interrupting your busy Friday night, Parker. You got a keg and the rest of the meatheads stashed away somewhere?”

Without waiting for a response, Tony wanders around the living room like a curious child in a new play room. His gaze inspects everything all at once, from peering at up close at the wall mounted photos and hovering his grubby hands over the oddments and knick-knacks speckled throughout the space.

Apprehensive, Peter can’t help but shadow him, afraid he just let loose a hurricane in a china shop.

Without asking, Tony picks up May’s old Magic 8-Ball and gives it a good shake. Peter’s fingers itch to reach over and stop him, but stops himself because then that would require actually making direct skin contact the other boy.

Not worth it.

“Cannot predict now. Huh,” Tony says to himself before placing the ball back in the wrong spot.

They both watch silently as it rolls precariously close to the edge.

“Anyways,” Tony helps himself to an armchair, lounging back and spreading his legs wide. “I know your long-term memory is probably as defective as the rest of you, so don’t strain yourself recalling that I had other priorities.”

“Like what?”

“Like literally anything that isn’t being around you,” the other boy grins. “Now, are we doing this thing, or did you invite me over so you could bitch at me?”

“I didn’t invite you,” Peter grumbles, swiping his notebook from the dining table before sitting on the sofa, as far away from Stark as possible. Shifting, he takes his phone from his pocket and opens the notes he’d taken earlier.

“So, I cross referenced some websites and current job listings,” Peter scrolls through his research, adjusting his glasses as they slip down his nose. “Assuming you have no savings, we’re looking at an average of sixty-thousand per annum based on my salary alone. The average rent in --”

“-- Uh, why are we assuming I have no savings?”

"Because... we’re being realistic?”

Tony springs to his feet and paces across the living room.

“Well,” he says, gesturing to Peter, “if we’re being realistic, does having no savings also that mean I have no debt -- or are you paying off two student loans on your salary?”

“I don’t --”

“Do we have car loans? Health insurance?”

“Wait, slow your roll, Stark. I haven’t yet --”

“-- Of course you haven’t. I mean really, Parker, do you ever think ahead? You should try it, we do have a baby on the way, you know.” Tony clicks his fingers and points at Peter. “Oh, names! I want to call it Molly.”

“As in the drug?”

“No, as in Ringwald. Anyhoo, seeing as only one of us has the intellectual capacity to construct a budget,” Tony gestures to himself, “that would be me, consider maybe that I spent my savings paying off my student loans and bought a car for me and Miss Molly, leaving you with just your own stagnant debt. Happy?”

“Thrilled,” he says through clenched teeth, feeling utterly steamrolled. “But we’re not calling the baby Molly.”

“Yes, we are. Think of all the great nicknames. Hey wait,” Tony pauses in his pacing, “are your parents going to be home soon?”

It was in that moment Peters world narrows down to one, botched cosmic joke.

Turning his gaze heavenwards, Peter prays silently for mercy. What did he do to deserve this. This is all his bad karma come at once. This is the bad place.

“Ah, no,” he replies, eyes widening. “No, my parents are not going to be home soon.”

“Cool. Lucky you.”

Oblivious to Peter’s existential turmoil, Tony resumes his patrol through the living room, picking up a frame on the mantle. It houses an old photo of Ben, May and a young, bespectacled Peter.

It is one of the more embarrassing immortalisations of his younger self, eleven-years old and grinning widely, bearing his silver braces to the camera as he holds up a science fair trophy, curls wild and untamed.

Oh god. That was exactly what Peter needed on this unholy day - Tony Stark in his living room, witnessing Peter in his prepubescent glory.

Quick, create a diversion.

“So, as I was saying,” he says loudly, “rent is reasonably affordable with a sixty-thousand budget in --”

“Who’s the babe?” Tony points to a younger Aunt May in the photo.

Peter gets to his feet and removes the frame from Tony’s grasp. He glowers as he places it back on the mantle.

“No one you would have a chance with. Can you stay focused? Like, are you physically capable of it?”

“Okay, calm down,” Tony holds his hands up in surrender. “You’ve got a lot of anger for someone so vertically challenged, you know that, shortstack?”

“Focus, dumbass.”

“I’m focused! Let’s see, we’ve established that I am excellent at managing my money. You have a shitty job and a shitty salary, and apparently my imaginary future self has terrible taste in men. So. Have I got that right? Where are we living?”

“Queens. LIC has some one bed, one baths that could be affordable.”

“Uh, rewind. Going to have to eighty-six that - I am not living in Queens.”

Peter stares at him.

Tony rubs his hands over his face and sighs. “Fine, whatever. But I want a Pontiac Firebird in this imaginary life if I have to deal with you.”

“For someone so keen on getting away you’re doing your best to prolong this experience. It’s literally painful.”

“Well, I just like to see you get all riled up, Princess,” Tony grins, leaning back against the mantle and folding his arms over his chest. “You have this vein that bulges on your forehead when you’re mad. Makes you look like a pitbull.”

Peter swallows the particularly acidic retort sitting on his tongue and tries not to let Tony’s words sting. Be the bigger man, Ben used to say. As difficult as it is to channel even a modicum of the mans’ eternal patience, Peter takes a deep breath and reminds himself to stay focused. The less he gets sidetracked by Tony’s fuckery, the sooner it’s over.

He mentions the next part with unease.

“...Miss Ahn said that we need references and should do field research. Speak to realtors. Ask people who have a similar lifestyle and budget.”

The look that comes over the other boys face is one of unequivocal revulsion. Peter can relate. The thought of having to spend more time with this guy makes his stomach turn.

“Well, Parker, any bright ideas who we can ask?”

The hinges of the front door squeaks before Peter can respond.

Moments after, Aunt May walks into the living room, placing her bag down on the dining table. She looks between the two boys curiously.

“Hey, Pete,” she comes to his side to squeezes his shoulder. “Who do we have here?”

Tony rushes over with his hand outstretched, an eager grin on his face.

“Tony Stark, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh, ah, okay, well,” May laughs as he enthusiastically shakes her hand. Her eyes are soft as Tony smiles brightly at her. “Nice to meet you too, Tony. I’m May, Peter’s aunt. Are you... friends with Peter?”

Peter snorts.

“Definitely not. We just have an assignment --”

“-- Great friends, actually,” Tony talks over him, taking a seat beside Peter on the sofa. To Peter’s utter disgust, the other boy puts an arm around his shoulders, squeezing his bicep encouragingly. “Aren’t we, Pete? Hmm? Best buds. We go way back.”

Peter freezes, feeling the line of heat from Tony’s against his side, the weight of his arm on his body.

Eyes widening, he feels his skin crawl.

“That’s sweet,” May smiles, putting her hair up in a loose, messy bun. “Well, I don’t know about you boys, but I’m starving. I’m ordering pizza, Friday special. You should stay for dinner, Tony.”

Tony places his free hand on his chest.

“I would be honoured.”

May looks at Tony strangely before retreating to the kitchen to retrieve the menus.

As soon as she’s out of sight Tony takes his arm off Peter and quickly shifts away from him like he’s been burned.

“Dude,” Peter whispers, bewildered. “What the fuck?”

“Oh my god,” Tony whispers, shuddering as his face scrunches up in disgust. “I’m going to have to pour scalding hot water on all the places your skin just touched me. Ugh, I feel like I just touched toe fungus.”

Peter slaps his arm.

“What is wrong with you?”

Tony backhands Peter’s arm in retaliation and then shudders all over again.

“Your aunt is crazy hot, okay, I couldn’t help myself. It was an instinctual reaction. Is she taken? C’mon. Vindicate me.”

“I’ll eviscerate you --”

“-- I mean, clearly she married into the family, she doesn’t share your unfortunate phenotype, but I didn’t see a ring on her finger. So? Yes or no?”

“You’re unbelievable,” Peter hisses as his aunt comes back in. “She’s not available to you. Not now, not ever.”

“But she is available?”

“Don’t even, Stark. You’re like, sixteen. Don’t you have any shame?”

Tony smiles, as she nears. “Not a shred.”

“So,” May waves a menu at them. “You boys happy with pepperoni?”

Closing his eyes, Peter wishes for death.

As fate would have it, he gets pepperoni instead.

-----

If you had ever told Peter that he would be sitting down for dinner with his Aunt and a dirt-streaked Tony Stark, he would have laughed.

And if Peter were outside himself he would probably find the sharing of pizza and soda over their plastic, chequered table-cloth comical -- in that uncanny, Dogs Playing Poker kind of way. But in reality there was nothing funny about the discomfort of having Tony in his personal space or the heavy, suffocating tension that has removed the air from the room.

The entire time Tony has been hamming it up, cracking jokes with his aunt, complimenting her on the decor, asking what she does for work. Peter doesn’t know if he’s being sweet to May for the purpose of buttering her up, or, given the wealth of his family in contrast to the Parkers, if he’s being cruelly facetious.

Nonetheless, Peter has felt on edge. It’s disconcerting, is what it is. Every single movement Tony makes, every time he opens his mouth -- frequently to sweet-talk his aunt -- has Peter’s anxiety standing at attention, hyperaware of everything the other boy does.

He’s beginning to feel like a meerkat whose den has been invaded by a lion.

Through the course of a single meal Peter’s attention moves from the sky to the floor. There is no grace or higher power that is coming to save him from this profound, unusual torture.

So he focuses his hopes to the south, seeing through their tiny, cramped, dinner table, past bargaining. He’s willing to trade his soul to end it all. Surely some wayward being from hell would come to his rescue.

May has Peter’s chin between her fingers. She turns it this way and that, inspecting his injuries.

“What happened this time, bubby?” She frowns, brow furrowing. “You look like you got beat up.”

Peter, very aware of Tony’s amused gaze on them, gently pulls away from her grasp. He smiles placatingly and picks at his pizza slice. God he’s never going to live this down.

“Training accident. It’s okay, I feel fine. ‘Tis but a scratch,” he brings himself to joke.

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

She leans in to kiss his cheek, carefully avoiding the fresh scabs and injured flesh. “God, you bruise like a peach. Be careful, baby, you’re our money maker,” she laughs. “What about you Tony, do you play football?”

Tony, who is mid way through chewing on a mouthful of pizza, momentarily chokes, beating his chest with his fist to swallow down the obstruction.

“Uh, no,” Tony gulps, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Nope. No recreational sports for me. Can’t.” He gestures to his chest and sighs heavily. “Asthma.”

Peter sips his coke and rolls his eyes, knowing full well there’s a half-empty pack of Marlboro Light’s in the pocket of Tony’s jeans. Asthma. What a schmuck.

“That’s a shame. Do you boys have classes together?”

Unfortunately, Peter thinks.

The other boy seems to have the same thought, as he glares at Peter from over the table. When he picks up his can of coke, he gives Peter the finger outside of May’s eye-line.

“That’s why Tony’s here,” Peter twists his napkin in his grip. “We have an econ assignment together on microeconomics. Teach says Tony’s destined to be on welfare.”

Tony leans in, chin rested on his hand. He addresses May but his stare, dark and odious, rests on Peter.

“Not accurate. Stay-at-home parent, actually. One might say that is the most important job of all. Wouldn’t you agree, May?”

She raises her Coke.

“Hear, hear.”

Tony grins roguishly, the same grin he gave the girls at the lockers earlier. “Petey here was just saying that we should ask you about your experience running a household on a single salary. We’d love to have you as a reference.”

“Was I saying that?” Peter narrows his eyes. “I can’t remember.”

Tony kicks him under the table. The hit lands right in his knee cap.

Wincing, Peter kicks back, satisfied when the other boy bites his lip to hold back a pained groan.

“Yeah, well, not surprising,” Tony says airily, waving his hand. “Hit your head today, didn’t you? Maybe you should get all that damage looked into.”

The napkin rips in Peter’s grasp.

“Maybe you should go f--”

“I’d be more than happy to help with your assignment, boys,” May cuts in.

Whatever snide reply he has in his mouth instantly wilts when he looks over to his Aunt. She looks...pleased. Delighted, almost. Her eyes under the dull, yellow kitchen light seem to get warmer, and her smile is small but softens around the edges.

Instantly, Peter feels like the worst person in the world. Of course May would be the best person to ask. She does so much for him, the least he can do is set his pride aside for one moment to make her feel good about how hard she works for their life.

He reaches over to squeeze her hand, smiling as gratitude swells unexpectedly in his chest.

“Thanks, May. That would be great.”

Across the table, a smug Tony looks like the cat who got the cream.

Without warning, Peter’s chest goes hot with contempt, his fingernails dig into his palm. He’s not sure he’s ever met anyone he couldn’t like, until now.

I hate you, Peter mouths while May busies herself with rounding up the pizza boxes.

Kiss my ass, Tony mouths back.

In an instant his expression flips from contemptuous to angelic when he stands and offers to help May clean up.

Peter stands too, sparing a disdainful glance to the floor. Turns out not even the devil was willing to give him a hand.

Natasha was right. It’s going to end in murder.

---

Peter walks Tony to the door after dinner to say goodbye to his ‘friend’. Following him into the hall, Peter closes the door behind them.

“What do you want, Parker?” Tony asks wearily, retrieving a cigarette from his pocket. “I’m trying to make a getaway here.”

Peter crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t do that with my aunt. I’m not joking, asshole. It’s not cool.”

“Relax, princess,” Tony rolls his eyes, fishing for his lighter in his backpack. “I’m not actually interested. Just trying to get under your skin. Worked, see? You’re easy like that. Hey, why do you live with your aunt anyways?”

“None of your business,” he frowns as Tony holds one hand up in surrender and lights his cigarette with the other. “Dude, you can’t smoke in here.”

“Can’t, shouldn’t, gonna. By the way, you’ve got sauce on your chin, it’s very distracting.”

Peter wipes at it without thinking. When he pulls it away there is indeed a smear of red sauce on his hand.

Tony walks backwards down the hall and exhales a cloud of smoke, waving in a sardonic imitation of a farewell.

“See you Monday, bubby.”

Peter doesn’t bother with a response, too tired from the week, exhausted by this whole darn day, and it’s not like the other boy cares what he has to say anyway. He takes a moment to swallow his anger before he heads back inside, sighing.

Well, at least he has an entire weekend free of Stark to look forward to.

May looks at him curiously when he reemerges, but says nothing. He considers for a moment about heading to his bedroom and playing a video game to disassociate - but then, suddenly, remembers her smile earlier, and how alone she looks now. A surge of affection hits him right beneath his breastbone.

He checks his watch and then catches her eye. Tilting his head towards the living room, he says, “Hey. You wanna eat some ice cream and watch some Colbert before bed?”

She smiles just like she did earlier and kisses his cheek. “Sounds nice, Pete.”

Maybe the whole day wasn’t lost.

As May heads to the sofa and switches the TV on, Peter catches sight of the Magic 8-Ball from the corner of his eye. He walks over and gives it a shake.

Outlook good.

----

tagging: @bylerboyfriends @ravens-starker-stuff, @starker-rays, @ironspiderstarker, @notfor-temporaryuse, @tabbycat1220, @sugarfreecult, @rebel13lion39, @muse-of-gods

#starker #ironspider #high school au #enemies to lovers

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sparkkeyper · 4 years ago

Text

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

Word Count: 3,797

Warnings: None

Summary: Old habits die hard. Crowley and Aziraphale’s habits are very, very old. Building their own side is difficult when 6000 years of instincts won’t shut up.

(Originally very loosely-based on the song "Baby, It's Cold Outside" but then it kind of did its own thing, haha. I was originally going to post this for Advent Omens but uhhh you can see that didn’t quite happen. Written as ace but you can read it however you want, really. Guess what fools, it’s Soft Boi hours again!)

(Now on AO3!)

-----------

The snow had started early in the day. When Aziraphale arrived at the Mayfair flat it was just a dusting. But the flurry had become a proper snowfall, and then quickly decided 'go big or go home' and transitioned into a flat-out storm.

This didn't phase the two immortals in the slightest, of course. If anything, the swirling flakes outside made it feel even cozier inside. Crowley's sleek, minimalist flat had grown a fireplace for the occasion, and a very surprised new chimney on the roof of the building found itself venting smoke that somehow managed to bypass three floors.

They sat together on the plush sofa (obtained at Aziraphale's insistence several months prior, on the grounds that he wasn't going to continue coming over if there was nowhere comfortable to sit, and Crowley couldn't have that) and drank wine and talked and laughed and reveled in the feeling of being cozy and warm on a cold, blustery day.

Time had traveled on in the usual manner since Armageddon failed to happen. The two of them were unwinding slowly. Thousands of years of looking over shoulders did not evaporate in an evening, benevolent Antichrist or no, and 'our side' was a concept they were still carefully exploring. But what a glorious exploration it was.

There was no limit to the amount of time they could spend together. It was a dizzying concept that they were both adjusting to, but one that carried a thrill through it all the same. Crowley had been sorely tempted to buy tickets to every concert, play, and musical revue London had to offer and do nothing but attend shows for the foreseeable future, the two of them together. In public. He very well might have done too, if Aziraphale hadn't talked him down amid giddy chuckles. "We have time," Aziraphale had reminded him, and Crowley was ecstatic to realize that it was true.

He had relented to two a week.

It was elating. They stood closer together, they sat beside each other on public transportation rather than one behind the other, they gave each other teasing nudges with elbows.

And sometimes - when they were both at least a bottle in - one of them might even bump their hand against the other's, and fingers might intertwine, and an electric tingle would flood Crowley like a live thing, and most importantly neither would pull away for at least two solid minutes and oh wasn't that alone worth saving the world for?

Crowley spent a previously-unheard-of amount of time at the bookshop and Aziraphale's face always lit up like the sun whenever he walked in. He arrived early, stayed late, sometimes didn't bother going home at all, often showed up with wine or snacks, and they were together and it was wonderful. He had fallen asleep on the bookshop couch in the past, but these months he got the impression that Aziraphale had zoned the piece of furniture as specifically his. There was a permanent place set aside for him in Aziraphale's home, in Aziraphale's life. It made a warmth pool in his stomach to think about it despite the creeping winter chill.

Aziraphale had begun to visit Crowley's flat in return. The angel had never once set foot in the place until the night after the airfield - Crowley had never given him the address, to be fair - but now that permission had been granted Aziraphale was here increasingly often. It was so like the easy evenings at the bookshop, just with more austere surroundings. Music, alcohol, debates and memories and slightly drunken speculation. The occasional temporary twining of fingers. It was good.

It was overwhelming sometimes, this new 'good'.

Aziraphale always left the flat at the end of the evening, usually around ten. He had no reservations whatsoever about chatting until dawn in the bookshop but the flat was a new environment, Crowley supposed. Possibly something to do with propriety.

Possibly something to do with thousands of years of distance that they were both still figuring out how to cross.

But that was Aziraphale, all right: as slow and steady as a glacier when it came to his set, comfortable ways. So much had changed in the past few months and the angel had had to adapt quickly. Crowley didn't begrudge him taking a few things slow. Old habits were hard to break and their habits were very, very old.

Crowley understood well how shadows could linger even in the bright daylight. It was all well and good to say he was off Hell's payroll. It was another thing entirely when instinct crept up on him screaming that he needed to watch his back, to sit a row behind Aziraphale on the bus, to have forty excuses ready for when Dagon came auditing. It took considerable effort to override those instincts and remind himself that 'together' was okay. It was allowed. And still he'd so far only managed to turn the volume down on them, not silence them completely. He didn't know if he ever would. Crowley didn't doubt Aziraphale had similar instincts of his own. If the angel felt better setting himself a curfew, Crowley certainly wasn't going to judge.

But tonight they were here, and warm, and sheltered from the blizzard. As 'retro' had begun to slide back into style, Crowley had picked up a sleek addition to his stereo system that was at once a record turntable, radio, tape deck, and CD player, with added Bluetooth capability for good measure. Strains of Vivaldi swam through the room from a vinyl, mingling with the crackling of the fire and the clinking of wine glasses. Aziraphale was settled deeply into the sofa, his posture several steps short of perfect which was how Crowley knew he was truly relaxed. Crowley, as per usual, was draped over the couch like he'd never seen one before in his life, as though he had too many limbs and didn't know what to do with them all. It was good.

Life was good.

It was a little after ten when Aziraphale spoke up. "It's getting late." His voice was a bit distant as he looked out the window, snow glinting in the reflected light as it fell. "I suppose I ought to be going."

There was a note of regret to his voice, a lack of conviction in his eyes, that Crowley had learned to read over the long years of the Arrangement. A smile pulled at the corner of the demon's mouth, covered up easily by another sip of wine. It was a very old game they played, treading carefully along the outside edges of things that could not or should not be said aloud. Expectations, angelic ones in particular, built a lot of barriers. Aziraphale wanted something that wasn't allowed him - or wasn't supposed to be allowed him - and couldn't bring himself to reach out and grasp it. It was Crowley's job to find ways for him to justify the forbidden something to himself.

In the subtle language they shared, the angel was asking Crowley to tempt him, and how could Crowley pass up a request like that?

"Awfully cold out there," the demon drawled, gesturing languidly toward the window with his wine glass. "Snowing like nobody's business. Wind and ice and subzero chill. Terrible night to be out in."

"I'm sure it's not so bad."

"Not so bad? It's been raging for hours! Look at it! It's knee-high! You expect me to try and drive my poor car out in that mess?"

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at the demon. "Ah yes. Imagine if humans invented other forms of transportation aside from your horrid car."

The demon's argument was all bluff and they both knew it. The Bentley could slice through the snowdrifts like a hot knife through butter if Crowley wanted it to. It wasn't the strength of the argument that mattered - it was whether or not Aziraphale could twist it to bypass the metaphorical roadblocks. Crowley rose to the challenge by sprawling back on the sofa with a smirk. "Other forms of transportation? You mean a bus, in weather like that? And good luck finding a cab out there, angel. City's practically shut down."

Aziraphale stood, giving his back a tentative stretch. "I could walk, of course. I've done it loads of times. It doesn't take much more than twenty minutes, not counting the care that has to be taken for ice."

"Walk, he says!" Crowley tossed back the remainder of his wine like a shot glass. "Think of it - the first angel in history to catch pneumonia! Bad job I'm not working for Hell anymore; they'd give me an award!"

"If doing those temptations in Qashliq for you didn't give me pneumonia, I'm quite sure nothing will."

"Are you ever going to let that go? It was over four hundred years ago!"

"It was February in Siberia, no I will not."

"Suppose you did stay a bit longer," Crowley ventured, changing tactics. It was a risk, coming at the problem from such a direct angle when they were both so used to ghosting along edges. "Bookshop wouldn't go anywhere, would it?"

Aziraphale blinked at the abrupt transition. "Well no, I shouldn't think so. It's just...I mean if I don't return home someone might notice of course and well...people will talk."

Crowley leaned forward over his knees, seriously. "Angel. When, in two hundred years in that bookshop, have you ever given a single fuck what your human neighbours think?"

Aziraphale drew himself up with a huff, and Crowley was delighted to see familiar indignation winning out over nerves. "I am an upstanding member of the community, I'll have you know. And it's not just my neighbours, of course - it's yours as well. That little old lady who lives on the floor below, for example. She always gives me that look when I pass her in the lift."

"What look?"

"You know! That look! Like she thinks she knows what's going on between the two of us."

The demon grinned like a Cheshire cat and gave a suggestive wiggle of his shoulders just for the expression it painted across the angel's face. "You're worried that my neighbours are going to think you and I took a tumble in the sheets?"

"They already suspect! Or at least she suspects." Aziraphale was trying so hard to keep a straight face, but mirth glinted behind his eyes. "Do you know what she said to me as she was getting out of the lift the other day? 'Don't forget to use protection; you don't know where he's been!'"

Crowley howled, leaning so far back in his laughter that he fell off the couch.

"I don't know what's more outlandish, the idea that we're in here having a lurid physical affair or the idea that I don't know exactly where you've been."

Crowley wiped his eyes dry and held out a hand so the angel could help pull him up from the floor. "Remind me to miracle her fridge so that all her milk keeps past its date. 'Don't know where he's been' indeed."

Aziraphale fought to get his own smile under control, for the sake of his argument if nothing else. "Yes, but it just goes to show, Crowley, people do notice. And they will talk, I'm sure of it."

"Let them," he waved it off. "I've seen tissue paper with more durability than human gossip. It'll all get forgotten in a day or two." Crowley leaned over and refilled both glasses.

"Right. I suppose it will." The angel took a tentative sip and sat back into the sofa again. "Silly thing to get worked up about, really."

On a regular night that might have been the end of it. They'd had their verbal tennis, they'd had a laugh, and Aziraphale had accepted another drink. But try as he might, the angel couldn't seem to settle. There was a stiffness, a tension to his spine that would not unwind. He fidgeted with the stemware, shooting furtive glances at the window, the fireplace, the clock.

The ceiling.

The final notes of Vivaldi faded out, leaving the room in silence, and Crowley rose to swap the record. The discomfort radiating off the angel was almost palpable and it made his own spine crawl. "Aziraphale--"

"Only, the wind really looks dreadful," Aziraphale blurted out, jolting to his feet and crossing to the window. "I really ought to go before it gets worse."

"Can't get much worse than it is, I think," Crowley countered carefully. "Best stay where it's warm."

"I don't..." Aziraphale stared out at the London skyline, nearly invisible in the storm. Pale fingers worried absently at the hem of his waistcoat. His mouth was down to a thin line and there was quite a lot behind his eyes. He looked pained. "I shouldn't impose."

"You're not imposing if I'm offering."

"It isn't...it isn't right for me to stay!"

The demon set down the vinyl he was holding, something dangerous layering his words. "Says who?"

"I've been ignoring protocol too much as it is--"

Crowley gritted his teeth, a growl rising in his throat. "There is no protocol on our side!"

"I know!" Aziraphale snapped. There was a beat of silence and the anger in the angel's face melted as suddenly as it had come, leaving his expression frustrated and upset. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes, almost apologetically. "I...I really can't...surely you understand why I can't just..." He ran a hand through his hair helplessly, eyes darting to the ceiling.

The demon set his glass down and moved over to the window.

It was a very old game they played. Crowley was good at his job and Aziraphale was good at the mental gymnastics required to fit through some of the more dubious loopholes. But every now and then they still lost.

He positioned himself in front of the principality, forcing Aziraphale to look at him.

"Angel," he said quietly, as though someone might overhear. "If you want to head home, I'll take you. You know I will. I'd just rather it be because you want to rather than because they would want you to."

Aziraphale looked truly miserable. "Crowley, you've been a marvelous host, you really have, but...I'm so sorry, I..."

Crowley stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. For just a moment the demon's face was soft, genuine. A bit sad but still impossibly fond. "Don't be." He gave the shoulder a gentle squeeze. "It's late. Get your coat, angel, it's cold out there." He doused the fireplace with a wave and stretched his back out. "Give me a moment to sober up and I'll start the car."

Aziraphale sighed, clearly frustrated at a great many things, but headed for the coat rack while the demon forced the alcohol from his system. "It ought to be fine," he muttered as the wine bottles in the corner finished refilling. "It ought to be fine. I can't explain it, I..."

"It's like someone's standing too close inside your personal space," Crowley finished for him quietly, pulling a coat of his own from the ether. "Like you're driving on the motorway and you end up in the blind spot of a lorry. There's no great outward change but all of a sudden the hairs are up on the back of your neck and your skin is crawling. And you just have this overwhelming sense of this is not a good place to be, get out."

"Yes," Aziraphale murmured unsteadily. "Yes, that's it exactly." His eyes found Crowley's, apologetic, searching.

"It is what it is, angel," he assured him softly. "We have time."

A weight seemed to lift from Aziraphale's shoulders. "I...thank you. Truly." There were things unspoken that Crowley could hear beneath that simple phrase. Thank you for understanding. Thank you for being patient with me.

Don't say that, hesitated on the tip of Crowley's tongue. Instinct was, of course, very old and very strong. He swallowed down the words and searched for new ones to replace them.

"You're welcome," he said quietly. The syllables tasted foreign in his mouth.

There was silence in the flat as he buttoned up his coat. Despite the passing months they truly had only moved the barest steps away from where they had been.

They had so very far to go yet.

But it was true. They had time.

"Right." He tried to break the mood as casually as he could, slipping dark glasses on and turning his voice into something light and easy. "Shall we be off then? After you, angel."

The lift ride down was silent, subdued. Something complicated was warring behind the blue eyes and Crowley wasn't going to even begin to touch on it until they were in the car. Aziraphale's steps faltered as he reached the glass doors of the lobby, and Crowley was halfway down the outside stairs before he realized he wasn't following.

"Oi, you coming?"

Aziraphale stared down at the space beyond the door with a peculiar expression: uncertainty and determination and anger and hurt. "I - I don't..." There was a moment of indecision, of frantic debate on his face, then he backed quickly over to the lobby bench and sat down hard.

Crowley pulled his coat tighter about himself as the wind bit through his clothes and ducked back into the building.

Aziraphale held very still, eyes closed and fingers gripping the edge of the bench.

"Angel?"

"Give me a moment. Please."

Crowley paced a cautious half-circle around him, instinctively scanning the principality for damage and the storm beyond the glass wall for threats. Another old habit - nearly useless now but one he wasn't going to be able to drop any time soon. He sat down beside the angel and the lobby was quiet for a very, very long time.

"I think," murmured Aziraphale at last, "if it's all right with you, I'd like to stay."

Crowley studied him closely. "Are you sure?"

"No." Aziraphale met his gaze. "I haven't been sure of much of anything, recently. Not since Tadfield. But I do not want to be forced back to the bookshop tonight."

"Shouldn't force yourself to stay if you're only going to be miserable."

"It's not so bad down here, that's the silly thing. But for some reason the idea of going back upstairs is just..." He laughed wryly. "What a mess I've made of the evening."

"It was a fine evening," Crowley told him earnestly.

"I thought so too, at least until the end there." He straightened, and looked a bit more like himself to Crowley's eyes. "And it's my most sincere hope that, with some more wine and another record, it might be again. Give me a few minutes. I think I can work up to it."

The demon took his glasses off and studied him closely. The determination in those eyes, the set of that jaw, were so familiar they hurt. There was a nervousness there, but there was a stubbornness as well. Like the glacier: slow, steady, but deep down so, so strong.

Crowley reached behind himself and retrieved a pair of full wine glasses that suddenly and thoughtfully decided to exist. "You know, I reckon..." he said quietly, handing one to Aziraphale, "that these will taste just as good right here as they would upstairs."

Aziraphale blinked. Glanced from his glass to the demon to the lift and back again. And his expression softened considerably.

"And if music and wine is what it takes to hang onto your company for a little longer, I s'pose that's the sacrifice I'll have to make, won't I?" He sat his phone down beside him and with a few taps Mozart began to play from its speakers.

Aziraphale stared deep into his wine glass, a smile spreading across his face that he didn't seem quite ready to share with the world yet. "A little unorthodox, isn't it?"

"And?" Crowley shrugged. "Last I checked, there's no protocol on our side."

"So there isn't. Do you know, I think I like that about it."

The demon lowered his voice. "Say the word any time, you know. We'll go, no questions asked."

"I know." Aziraphale let out a long breath and settled back onto cushions that were suddenly far more plush than anything the lobby bench had seen before. "But at the moment I'd rather be here."

The storm howled beyond the glass wall but the central heating vent behind them kept any stray chills at bay. They sat in gentle silence for a long time.

Piano Sonata No. 14 wound through the room, mingling with the warmth and the wine to kindle a sense of calm: a concoction of human magic that miracles, for all their power, could never replicate. Clever things, those humans.

Crowley traced a finger around the rim of his glass. "Can I ask what changed your mind?" he asked softly.

Aziraphale gazed off into the distance for a moment before looking back to his companion. "It was the 'you're welcome', funnily enough. You've always objected so vehemently to being thanked before."

"Yeah, well..." Crowley took another sip of his drink so as not to meet Aziraphale's eyes. "Like being in the blind spot of a lorry."

Aziraphale nodded. "It's..." He trailed off. Took a swig of wine and swallowed it down hard, as though for courage. "It's a comfort," he admitted so quietly that Crowley had to strain to hear him. "To know that it's not just me."

Crowley pursed his lips. "Not by a long shot, no" he confessed, equally quiet.

"I know accepting gratitude doesn't come easy to you. But you managed, tonight."

"It isn't a footrace, angel. I'm not asking you to keep pace with me."

"I know that. And I'm grateful. It's just... seeing you be brave makes me feel like...like I can be as well."

That smile was tugging at the edge of Crowley's mouth again. He reached out and clinked the edge of his glass with Aziraphale's. "Course you can be. Always have been."

The angel smiled back at him, warm and glowing and grateful, just the faintest hint of pink darkening his cheeks. With a daring Crowley had only seen behind the safety of closed doors and wine bottles, he placed a hand on the bench between them, palm up.

Crowley took it.

Meeting him in the middle, as always.

"Careful, angel," the demon murmured in his ear. "Remember, you don't know where I've been."

Aziraphale gave an undignified snort into his wine glass and their laughter echoed throughout the lobby.

The storm raged cold outside, but here, in their own little in-between place, they were warm.

#good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #my fic #my writing #soft husbands all the time #sneaking in under the deadline like a boss #asexual ineffable husbands #Good omens heaven is full of assholes #they'll be okay they just need a little time and practice

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dreamylyfe-x · 4 years ago

Note

of all the things they could make mickey and ian fight over, why are the writers going with 2 so OOC storylines in the final season? the show never framed ian as seeing mickey's illegal income as not "real" work before. and mickey was never the slacker type, so why now? and mickey would never vague about monogamy. i'm so confused. if they gotta fight, why not over something in character and meaningful. this just feels like writers being mean to the fans, making us sit thru all this nonsense

Hey! Thanks for the ask. Made my (very weird and stressful) day.

I’m going to be disappointing right off the jump and say that I don’t actually think any of this is OOC, per say. But. In GENERAL. Shameless is not the show it was. I think this is very normal for long-running shows. Take Friends: When you get into the back half of that show’s extensive catalogue, is starts to feel like the characters are a Xerox of a Xerox. Early season Monica is a bit OCD, and a clean freak who loves to be in charge -- but she’s also warm, and hospitable and emotionally available to her friends. Late season Monica is often a coked-out squirrel-woman who loses her mind if someone moves a pillow. That’s quality isn’t out of character, but it’s no longer being balanced with the warm and supportive woman we initially met. I think a bit of that might be “we already know you either like or hate Monica, so we’re just giving you the stuff that’s funny and/or dramatic. We got 22 minutes and six characters and we don’t have to build that other shit anymore.”

I think that’s happening with Mickey and Gallavich. And I don’t think that’s weird for a) a show that has run this long and b) a character who was gone and then returned. They are giving us a Mickey that has always existed -- unbound by traditional manners, aggressive, blunt and obsessed with Ian Gallagher -- but we aren’t getting much of the Mickey who curls up with Ian at the worst time of his life and kisses his forehead. We aren’t getting all the verbal confirmation of Big Feelings they gave us when he came back in season 7. We aren’t seeing Ian and Mickey as a team, which is a big part of their mid-seasons dynamic. I think that makes people feel like these arguments are OOC, when they’re arguably reasonable issues, but aren’t being given a ton of nuance, or balance.

Aside: There’s some balance in how the actors are playing the intimacy and the physical affection. The little touches and kisses are appreciated by me.

So to dig into the OOC stuff -- first of all, it makes total sense to me that they’d have issues about the role crime plays in their lives together. I love that Ian never gave a damn that Mickey is a straight up criminal. But every time Ian lost Mickey, it was because the law intervened. When Mickey is not incarcerated, he’s with Ian. Ian is no longer 16, no one is a juvenile offender, Mickey was given a devastating sentence in season 6 -- 16 years -- Ian was 18! That was his entire living memory, if not more. They are married now, against considerable odds, and I completely understand why Ian doesn’t want Mickey to risk going back to jail.

Likewise, I get why Mickey doesn’t want to do what Ian is doing. Mickey does not have the temperament for minimum wage jobs. He has a longstanding history of thinking it’s absolute bullshit to work hard for no money. Particularly when he’s smart enough, skilled enough and ballsy enough to make a LOT of money in an afternoon just by spotting an opportunity.

Mickey has never SAID this on the show, but in canon we have seen him go to prison four times. Once, because Ian’s unhinged spurned groomer shot him; once because Mickey CHOSE to headbutt a cop so he could go to prison and avoid his dad; once because Mickey was consumed with a need to avenge Ian; and finally because Ian got himself tossed in prison, so Mickey CHOSE to join him. If Mickey has confidence that he won't go to prison if Ian isn’t a factor... Not the craziest idea.

So -- writers spitballing ideas for Gallavich conflict? I think that’s a pretty good one. Two clear sides that both have merit. I’ve already written a bit about my thoughts on the monogamy issues... first, I’ve always figured they were monogam-ish, to reference Dan Savage. They are faithful to each other while they’re together, and when they are separated (usually by prison!) they aren’t. This isn’t the first time Mickey has voiced a lack of interest in being monogamous -- most notably “Great. Now we’re in a horror movie.” Mickey isn’t a traditionalist and I don’t think he feels like this is a make-or-break issue. But MOSTLY?

MOSTLY.

I really and truly believe what I’m about to say...

Mostly Mickey wanted to do what Ian wanted.

If he legit didn’t want monogamy he wouldn’t have tried to cheat of Ian’s paper. He didn’t like that “write it down and flip the paper” game. He wanted to match Ian’s answer. So he took a guess and he was wrong about what Ian -- who had literally just told him he found the concept of the rest of his life overwhelming -- had written.

This is my head cannon: I think he liked that Ian wrote down monogamy. This is not my head canon: they are SUPER sweet to each other in the next scene. I am not convinced that the monogamy debate is going to be much of a thing beyond that scene. And I understand that, for a lot of people, that scene was extremely unpleasant. To me, personally, it made sense for it to come up. But I think it’s settled. I think they’re done with it.

The one place where I’m like “What is this?” is the slacker stuff. I mean, I can meta why Mickey might be afraid of failure or whatever, but it’d be mostly head cannon. They haven’t given us a ton to build on there. The best we got is “Stop disappointing the people you love!” being what motivated Mickey to do something he didn’t want to do. But Mickey was right, if he thought that interview was going to be a disaster. Mickey knows himself and he is painfully aware of his limitations.

As for why are the writers DOING this? Well. Ok. Here’s what I think it is:

1. Story is conflict. So they needed one. And “struggle to adjust to marriage” really isn’t a bad one. Specifically, figuring out how to be married when you have no role models and have a few social strikes against you is a good one.

2. The writers are amused by Gallavich fighting. They think it’s entertaining. And while there are a lot of people out there for whom Gallavich is EVERYTHING, Shameless’s viewership is also made up of people who think Frank is hilarious. No one ever send me an ask about why Frank is hilarious. I will not be able to figure that one out and the research might kill me. We definitely don’t all agree on what is and is not funny.

3. They’re going somewhere with it. At least a little.

I don’t KNOW three is true, but here’s something I believe about John Welles. I think he’s a biiiiit of a sap. I think he probably wants to leave each Gallagher with something nice. I don't think his plan it to send everyone off on an ice floe to freeze to death. So I think (hope?) that what we’re going to see is three (maybe four?) episodes of Gallavich At Odds and then I think we’re going to move into them trying to work together to make lives together. And they will probably still fight, because that seems to be part of the Xerox of a Xerox of Gallavich. I’m sure many people will find that cringey and problematic and annoying -- but I also bet we get a few moments we love, here and there.

I don’t think they’re trying to be mean to the fans, but I think it’s serving 8 characters ... Nope. 9. (I forgot Frank. I always forget about Frank.) ... and we aren’t going to get the depth and breadth we want. And most of that will be on the side where we see Gallavich loving each other, because at this point they expect us to KNOW that. And some of it’ll be Mickey’s internal life because they tend to focus on the Gallaghers. But I do fervently hope we get a little more of that other side of the coin. Because I absolutely agree that one side is more fun than the other.

#thank you anon!#that was very long #welcome to me #asks #gallavich #shameless season 11

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honeytea8 · 4 years ago

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La Dolce Vita • Risotto Nero/fem!Reader

A/N: I had the pleasure of doing an art trade with my sweet @string-bean-requiem and here it is!!! 💗💗 (it’s written with them in mind, but y’all can enjoy it too)

Word Count: 1.9K

Summary: A fun night on the town offers the rare chance of falling for a handsome stranger...though to be fair, is he really even a stranger?

Warnings: Some kissing💀 and implied spice, nothing explicit.

Italian nightlife had never been something you had the chance to enjoy. The reason being that Passione had taken up so much of your time and each day was spent completely on work-related things. While some of your teammates, namely Formaggio and Melone made it a point to enjoy their weekends off the best they could, you did not. In fact, you seldom had the opportunity to join Napoli’s party-going masses, let alone step foot into a nightclub or bar.

So, naturally, when a wind of change had come to sweep you onto a different course, you were very much inclined to let it. Despite the inkling of trepidation growing in the pit of your stomach, you were also filled with excitement for the night that awaited you. You knew better than to squander this rare moment.

Tonight, you were out of town, miles across the Tyrrhenian sea, on the largest island south of the Italian peninsula—a place called Sicily known for its long history and traditions.

After a successfully completed mission, you choose to reward yourself, on the final night of your trip, by stepping out and enjoying whatever intrigues such a place had to offer. Who knew when you’d ever get the chance again?

A club called Bona Furtuna came highly recommended to you by a certain Sicilian native. It was a simple but newly renovated warehouse on the coast near Palermo. According to the locals, it was the place to be on a night like this.

Although a bit stuffy and filled with smoke swirling in the air like dry ice, bodies continued to fill up the dance floor, moving in tandem with the music. Girls in leotards and heels provided bottle service and cigars—all of which were somewhat of a shock to you. Initially, your carefully honed instincts kept you from enjoying yourself to the fullest, but by your third mojito, you felt yourself loosening up. Following a shot of tequila after that, you could feel the baseline thrumming against your teeth as the bright strobe lights bounced off your skin and hair.

Your hips whirled to the beat, a sheen of sweat on your neck and back. The dress you wore clung to you like second skin. It became easier for you to feed off the atmosphere; your body moved on impulse, responding to the silent cues that played off the swarm of people around you. It was spellbinding. However, the alcohol in your system did little to negate some of your more ingrained senses. The feeling of eyes trained on your back was something like an alarm in your conscience, but you were not in danger, far from it actually.

You kept dancing, swinging along with the beat, bating your silent observer. If he wanted to spectate, he could do just that. But it would be even more fun if he just cut loose and joined you on the dance floor.

In due time, the music shifted to something with a slower tempo; it was then that you felt a warm hand on your waist.

Body to body, you moved against him with practiced ease, rolling against his hips in a way that was titillating, slow, and steady as a river. He guided your movements in time with his own, like he knew your body better than you did. In a way, it didn’t surprise you. You could tell he was getting into it. Feeling impish, you skirted away from him with a spin, tossing a wink over your shoulder and strutting your way to the bar for a little reprieve.

“Water, please.” You called out to the bartender. “Light on the ice.”

Not a moment later, a glass of water was placed in front of you, but before you could reach for it, you caught sight of a mop of violet hair in your peripheral.

Your dance partner had joined you at the bar and with him came the familiar scent of Boucheron cologne and the perfect blend of citrus and spice. Finally able to see him in better light, you considered some of his most notable features. His beautiful aquiline nose; his red irises ringed in black sclera, which was unusual by nature. But held an equally intense and honest quality that made you smile a little. He was lovely to look at, dressed sharply in a crisp button up shirt with a few of them unfastened that gave a nice little peek at his chest.

He leaned against the bar, managing to tower over you still, though you remained undaunted. “Can I buy you a drink?” He asked.

“I’m okay with this.” was your simple but quick-witted reply, all the while, you eyed him sharply over the rim of your glass.

He looked amused, maybe even a little surprised by your quick denial, but not at all discouraged. That was a good sign, maybe he’d prove to be interesting company tonight. You couldn’t deny that he was attractive; the kind of sexy one didn’t have to try for. You decided introductions were in order so you offered him your name and hand, smiling when he took it and kissed it.

“My name is Risotto.” He said with a dimpled half-smile.

“A pleasure to meet you, Risotto.” And although he left you to do most of the talking, your conversation continued without a hitch. Eventually, when you asked what he was doing back in his hometown, Risotto revealed he was just here for business.

“What kind of business?”

He smirked. “Not the kind of thing I can share so easily with you.”

After that admission, you finally allowed him to buy you another drink before you both made your way back to the dance floor. You weren’t as coherent as you were prior. Inhibitions fell to the wayside and you swayed on your feet a bit, but thankfully Risotto held you firm, like an anchor in the sea of alcohol in your system.

You moved like an uncoiled rope, eyes alight with mischief, and a smile on your orange painted lips.

“Come now, Risotto.” You called over the music. “I’m sure you can dance better than that!”

“You’re really gonna keep up this act, cara?” He asked.

You looped an arm around his neck, and guided his hand onto your waist like before. In a golden moment of genuine amusement, Risotto laughed, showing off a row of perfect teeth.

“Yes, I am, even if you keep breaking character!” You carded your fingers through the hair at his nape, smiling as you leaned forward to peck his lips. “Now remember, we have never met!”

Risotto nodded, still smirking. You should’ve known he had something up his sleeve. He took one of your hands and twirled you around, then dipped you low enough that your cleavage was on display for half a second at most before he lifted you and pulled you close to his chest. It was minutes later that you noticed he was doing the tarantella, or a modernized version of this dance. It seemed the warm atmosphere brought out of the Sicilian boy that lived deep within the ever-stoic Risotto.

You and he danced all night until your feet were tender and he was left to carry your heels in one hand while holding you close with the other. His brawny arm was slung over your shoulder, and yours was looped around his waist for support.

“I love you,” you murmured into his armpit; it’s where you had managed to shove your head as he half-carried you back to your shared motel. When he didn’t immediately respond you chanced a peek at him. “Did you hear what I said?” You pouted a little, but all Risotto did was blink at you.

It was around two in the morning and the streets were empty save for the occasional civilian. Risotto pressed your back against the brick wall of a neighboring building. He guided one of your long legs around his waist just as you snaked both arms around his neck. The rough pad of his thumb brushed against your lips, the only warning you received before his mouth was on yours and kissing you deeply. The world and everything with it fell away in that single moment. One of your hands slipped down to fist his shirt. It was odd to feel him wearing one, especially with you being so accustomed to feeling his bare skin.

When he finally released you, Risotto murmured a quiet, “I love you too, always,” against the seam of your mouth before finally scooping you up and carrying you all the way home—where he could truly show you his love privately.

By morning, you were greeted with the heavy weight of an arm slung around your waist and warm breaths ghosting your neck. The sky was still blue, almost black but sounds of birds chirping was enough to confirm that it was indeed early. Groaning, you shifted in bed, feeling the muggy heat in the room and only the stifled breeze filtering in through an open window. Sicily was incredibly hot in the mornings; it was enough to make you sweat even as you slept.

Next to you Risotto’s eyes slowly fluttered open, and he was given a full view of your naked back. He pressed a feather light kiss to your bare shoulder before sitting up from the bed. It never took him long to fully wake up. When it came to vigor and strength, he was seemingly unmatched.

“We should head back in about an hour.” Risotto said, voice slightly hoarse, as he picked up his phone from where it was still charging near his suitcase. “We have a text from Prosciutto and several missed calls from Ghiaccio.” He raked a hand through his dyed hair as he spoke. You couldn’t help but notice that the purple color suited him nicely.

“Hm, that’s fine by me.” You yawned, dragging the sheets over your body, and tucking the excess under your arms.

Whatever meager strength you had was only enough to keep you barely coherent. You were tired from all the drinking and dancing, though you had fun, the morning after was one thing you could do without.

“Did you enjoy yourself last night?” You watched as your boyfriend scrolled through his phone, likely giving the squad a status update.

Risotto looked up from the device, lips parted and eyes wide like a scandalized old man.

“I meant the clubbing,” you corrected. “Did you enjoy our little game?”

He finally shrugged and gave a noncommittal hum; Capo Risotto was back in full effect, it seemed. You gazed at his bare chest, silently admiring the way his muscles flexed underneath his skin. You nearly missed his belated response.

“You were...a bit difficult in the beginning.”

“Oh? I didn’t notice.” You laughed.

Risotto watched as you milled about the hotel room, tossing random articles of clothes into your suitcase. You’d found a clean pair of panties and slipped them on quickly, while discarding the bedsheets in favor of an old t-shirt. When you came over to where he was standing, you held his leather coat in hand.

“I believe this belongs to you.”

He snorted lightly, before leaning in and capturing your lips in a soft kiss as thanks. Together you both dressed, forgoing breakfast so you wouldn't miss your ferry trip back to Naples.

As you gripped Risotto’s hand upon reentering the base, you leaned into him and bumped him tenderly with your hip. You toed off your shoes, suddenly greeted by the telltale sound of several arguing voices. And it was coming straight from the main room. You looked to Risotto with a heavy sigh.

“Will we ever get another night off?”

Risotto glanced down at you, understanding your pain. “We’ll try, tesoro.”

#risotto nero #risotto nero x reader #jjba x reader #jojo x reader #jojo #jojo’s bizarre adventure #la squadra esecuzioni #la squadra #shay.writes

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miceenscene · 4 years ago

Text

Star-Crossed

din djarin/female oc | soulmate AU | pre-canon

wc: 5.3k / 22.3k (so far)

summary: The Way was not supposed to be a solitary one. People, house, clan. And when all else failed, your Match. “Fits like a Mandalorian Match” was the old saying. Though it wasn’t so long ago that it stopped making sense. But what's a lost Match to a man like Din Djarin?

warnings: is it pining if they're a couple now??, fluff, hurt/comfort, Din Is In A Cult, brief flashbacks

Previous Chapter | Masterpost | ao3

Chapter Seven: The Investigation

The physical heft and weight of beskar had long since faded to the background of Din's senses. But he felt the dense barrier for the first time in years putting it all back on the next morning after Nia had been the one to remove it.

The physical heft and weight of beskar had long since faded to the background of Din’s senses. The absence far more noteworthy in his mind than the presence.

But he felt the dense barrier for the first time in years putting it all back on the next morning after Nia had been the one to remove it.

The memory of fingers running through his hair still tingled under his helmet. She’d gently carded as he drifted off to sleep in her arms, the two of them squeezed into a bunk barely meant for one, and she’d resumed the moment she woke up the next morning.

Perhaps he could wait a little longer to cut it.

Her obvious fondness for his curls was more than worth the minor bother.

Her gentle smile was worth a great deal of bother in his mind, though it was completely absent from her face as they worked side by side back in the Vod’oya headquarters.

With precious other leads to follow, they’d decided that returning and thoroughly searching the records was the best place to start.

The records were thorough, organized and diligent. He’d expect nothing less from a Mandalorian school, despite its… eccentricities.

There was a sudden stop in the records about eight months back. No indication as to why.

Though Din had his guess.

However, the discovery of the stop offered some ease. Nia had been on The Razor Crest for just over seven months. At least she hadn’t spent a great deal of time chipped.

Now if they could just find the bastard who put it in her head in the first place, he’d hold her staff while she delivered righteous justice with her bare hands.

But there was a murder to solve first.

They’d been combing through the rest of the records since the morning, and it was now mid-afternoon.

Neither of them truly certain what to look for, or if their needle was even in this particular haystack.

“Found another gap,” Nia said, leaning back and stretching her neck. “Two days, twenty-seven months ago.”

The only thing out of place was the occasional gap in the records, which were otherwise exhaustingly thorough.

She stood to mark it down on the display board on the other side of the room. They’d found eight in total so far, none longer than four days at most or further back than three years ago.

“It might be computer error,” Din pointed out when she returned to her post at the other terminal.

“Probably,” she muttered, scrolling further down the logs. “Very little else survived wholly… intact… wait.”

“What is it?” He leaned over to look at her screen. There was another gap, three days, thirty-one months ago.

She tapped the screen. “There was a mission between these. I remember, we–we went to a warehouse on Florrum before Bardotta. We burnt the place to the ground and–” The corner of her mouth twitched in a small smile. “Ro singed her eyebrows off with a flash grenade. She looked hilarious for weeks afterwards. I wrote about it in my mission log. Phasia said it was unprofessional.”

“And there’s no record of that?”

She shook her head and turned around to look at their collected gaps on the display board. “These could all be missions, they were never too long, travel time on either side…” she mused, finicking with the end of her braid.

“Someone could have come through and scrubbed them,” Din offered, following her logic.

“But only Vod’oya can get in here.” Her gaze rested on the table still surrounded by seven chairs. “Did I delete them?”

“Or Phasia could have… or someone else holding one of you hostage for access if they were desperate enough...”

“It’s so… selective though. It couldn’t have been a rush job.”

The captive theory wasn’t looking like it was going to hold water.

“And why were they scrubbing missions to begin with?”

Unfortunately, he had no more answers than she did.

She groaned and pinched her brow. “We need someone who’s better at computers than us. Someone who can see if the data’s really gone, or just removed. But they have to be trustworthy...”

A persnickety face immediately came to mind. “I think I know someone who can help.”

Which is how they ended up heading to Tatooine with several terminals in tow.

“Nice to see you on your feet this time,” Peli greeted Nia, all jokes and ribbing until it came time to talk shop.

Given that Nia was generally better with people, Din stepped away to closely supervise the droids refuelling, anticipating subterfuge.

Peli said she’d give data recovery a try, but it would take time. “And it’ll cost ya. Extra!”

“We expected nothing less,” Nia replied, tossing a bag of credits Peli’s way. “Half now, half when you’re done?”

Peli weighed the bag in hand and made an impressed face. “I like you. Mando should keep you around.”

Nia grinned. “He’s stuck with me, I’m afraid.”

“Eh, he doesn’t look too bothered.” Peli stepped closer, as if to be secretive but didn’t lower her volume one decibel. “What’s he look like under that helmet?”

“Oh, he’s exceptionally beautiful. That’s why he covers his face. Otherwise, everyone would be after him for entirely different reasons.”

“I can hear you,” he said, looking their way now that the droids had finished. Peli laughed and Nia just winked, making his chest glow in reply.

Though a question hovered at the edge of his mind, but he didn’t voice it till they left and made the jump to hyperspace.

“Does it bother you?” he asked Nia, not looking away from the pulsing glow as he leaned against the back wall of the flight deck.

“Does what bother me?” she replied, finishing her final checks.

“That you’ll never know what I look like?”

She glanced back at him, still typing. “I know what you look like.”

“You know what I mean.”

She finished and then turned the captain’s chair around before standing. Silently for a moment, she regarded him so thoroughly that he could almost believe that she could see him straight through the beskar.

“I don’t need to see your face to know what you look like, Din. Ni kar’taylir… veman.”

The pause pulled his throat tight and made his pulse thunder beneath his cuirass.

Ni kar’taylir veman.

I know you truly.

That’s what he’d said that night to her in the rain.

Ni kar’taylir darasuum.

I will know you eternally.

Or I love you.

And he’d nearly meant that.

Perhaps she had too.

She closed the distance between them, hands brushing over the beskar barrier and resting on his shoulders. His found a perfect spot in the small of her back.

“Does it bother you?” she asked, looking at him intently again. “That I’ll never see your face?”

It shouldn’t, that same cruel voice hissed in the back of his mind.

But he found himself without a truly honest answer, just mixed emotions sloshing about his ankles.

“I… don’t know.”

She nodded and shifted to tiptoe to press a kiss to the cheek of his helmet, somehow adding to and soothing the conflict all at once.

He held her close till the disquiet slowly settled, but it never fully left after that.

Peli wasn’t cheap so they immediately returned to Karga for more bounties while they waited to hear back.

The return to their normal rhythm was welcome, but immensely improved by the addition of Nia’s flirting and Nia’s kissing and Nia’s… everything.

It became a race to be able to yank his helmet off as soon as the quarry was thrown into carbonite. Whether killing the power in the hull, or shutting the door on their tiny bunk, or even just trusting her to keep her eyes closed.

How other Mandalorians had managed it before him, he wasn’t quite sure.

He resolved to ask the Armorer the next time he went to the Covert. They used to populate a whole planet; surely it wasn’t a complete sin to remove his armor for her, his Match?

Nia, true to her word, never seemed to mind the elaborate measures they had to take.

If anything, they appeared to amuse her. And… on a few memorable occasions, she really seemed to enjoy them.

But to him, his Oath got heavier every time he put the helmet back on.

It went beyond the novelty of her skin on his.

Something… deeper, larger than just them seemed to nearly shudder to life every time she touched him.

Sometimes he would lie awake in their bunk, braided with her, running a hand through her hair as she slept peacefully on his chest, wondering if she felt it too.

This… thing hurtling towards both of them.

Perhaps if more of the Mandalorians’ history had survived the Empire, he’d know what it was.

But instead, they’d have to figure it out together. Just the two of them.

Just like everything else.

They’d been tracking their latest quarry across a mountainous planet for the better part of the day. The mountains were rocky, mostly barren, and littered with caves that made very convenient hiding spots.

They were both covered head to toe in a fine layer of dust from the wind blowing through the crags and valleys between the peaks. Where Nia had repeatedly cleared it away from her eyes was now a different color than her cheeks.

Hopefully, they were getting close.

“Din,” Nia’s voice called from a half dozen feet behind him. He looked back at her, but didn’t even need to see where she was pointing to notice the rising storm of dust racing towards them.

“There’s a cave up the ridge.” He reached a hand for her and put her in front of him as they hurried up the slope to the opening.

The storm blew them inside, covering them both in a fresh layer of brownish grey. Nia coughed a few times as she stumbled deeper inside.

They had to move quite deep into the cave to be free of the wind. Hoping for a break, Din checked the tracking fob. No, it appeared they were not any closer to their quarry.

As the storm fully arrived, the weak light of the sun was dimmed, casting the cave in near total dark.

He reached for his helmet lamp, but a soft blue glow from behind them stopped his hand.

“What’s that?” Nia murmured, moving towards the glow without a moment’s hesitation. Din followed after taking enough hesitation for both of them.

There was a narrow crack in the wall, just big enough for them to slide through one at time, that opened into a large cavern, the walls lined with what looked to be some sort of bioluminescent moss.

The visor on Din’s helmet immediately beaded with water from the warm, humid air. In the middle of the cavern was a pool of opaque teal water, steam rising slowly from the surface.

“The nav computer did say something about hot springs,” Nia said, already walking down towards the pool.

“It may be unsafe.”

Nia stopped by the edge and dipped her staff into the water. It didn’t appear to harm the wood, or her palm when she caught a few drops. She knelt down and reached for the water, sighing as the dust washed away from her skin.

“I think it’s okay.” She grinned and splashed a small handful on his boots. Then she dropped her staff and immediately started kicking off her boots as she unfurled her braid.

“What are you doing?” Din asked, accused really, as her jacket went the way of her boots. Out of habit, he turned away as she grabbed the hem of her shirt, making her laugh quietly at him.

Though some part of him was ...interested in looking back over his shoulder, he didn’t move.

“I am generously granting the quarry one more hour of freedom.” There was a sound of a zipper and more fabric rustling.

Make that very interested.

He huffed, still not moving and clinging to stubbornness in lieu of actual self-restraint. “We don’t have time…”

“We can’t go anywhere with that storm outside. Might as well relax.” She poked his side, making him jump slightly and meet her teasing smile before she waded into the water.

Oh, he was a lucky lucky lucky man.

“Nia,” he said because every other word seemed to have flown out of his head.

The opaque water came halfway up her torso, just wetting the ends of her hair before she slipped fully under the surface.

“Ohh…” she sighed as she resurfaced. Her grin returned as she noticed him still waffling on the shore, yet absolutely enraptured.

Yeah, she knew she had him. And he really didn’t mind all that much. The view was quite lovely from up here.

She swam closer, giving tempting peaks of her strong arms pulling herself through the water, before sinking down so just her head was above the surface. “I would invite you in, but I’m afraid you’d rust.”

He smiled slightly. “Beskar does not rust.”

“Your iron will might.”

He looked back to the opening. Anyone who tried to break in would have to scramble through there, enough time for him to get to shore and grab his blaster if he had to. He unbuckled his rifle and set it next to her staff.

Nia’s smile was bright enough to light the cavern before she turned around. “I’ll close my eyes.”

It took him several minutes to remove the weapons and the armor and the padding and the jumpsuit and the underclothes. Nia had taken to floating while she waited.

He was careful to set both his helmet and his blaster within easy reach. Then he waded in, a deep groan falling out of him as the extremely rare luxury of warm water seeped into tired muscles.

She must have heard him as she chuckled. “Told you.”

It was dark enough to obscure the fine details, but he still didn’t want to risk anything. So he swam out to her and pulled her into his arms, her back against his chest.

The universe settled into place as she did.

“One hour,” he said, reminding himself more than anything.

They floated together for a while in restful quiet, fingers intertwined and her head tucked under his chin.

It’d been a long time since he’d felt such Peace. It was… heavy, secure and immoveable.

“Are those your stars?” Nia asked quietly. “The tattoo on your back, is that your stars?”

“Yes.”

“Tal’onidir, right?” He nodded, and she hummed. “I don’t–what’s that one again…”

“Blood struggle.”

“Oh… that’s… apt.”

She laughed lightly, making him smile and chuckle.

He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Yours are the interesting ones.” He could still picture the relief of her and the stars beside it. “The Mythosaur crown...”

She shook her head and stiffened. “I don’t think those are really mine.”

“You don’t think you’re destined for greatness?”

She scoffed. “We. We are destined for greatness, if they’re true.”

“But it’ll be difficult.”

“Yes. Hard… but worthwhile in the end…”

The idea of Greatness seemed too big to understand. What did Greatness even mean for a foundling bounty hunter and a former vigilante?

Maybe… maybe it just had to be Great for them.

A home could be Great. Somewhere safe and peaceful. Somewhere to stay for a long time.

Usually even the idea seemed so far out of possibility that it became just fantasy.

He looked down at the curve of her cheek that he could see. The elusive idea didn’t seem quite so far out of reach when he was holding her.

“Wonder what it means?” she murmured, her thoughts apparently similar to his.

He kissed her cheek. “I don’t really care.”

She smiled as he tilted her head back enough to kiss her, soft and slow. Before the angle could become strenuous for her, he kissed up her jaw and then down her neck, feeling her every last muscle completely relax as he made his leisurely way across her shoulder.

Her thumb traced the small bullseye tattoo he’d given himself decades ago on his hand before dragging up his arm to brush over the Mythosaur on his deltoid.

“Do you have any tattoos?” he asked, not lifting his lips from her skin.

“Just the one.”

“Where?”

She chuckled. “Why don’t you find it, bounty hunter?”

Challenge issued and permission granted, he nipped her strong shoulder, making her gasp slightly, before kissing his way back to her neck.

He lifted her hair, intending to kiss his way to the other shoulder, and found it.

The swooping Vod’oya ‘V’ rested at the nape of her neck.

The placement surprised him, he could have sworn it was on her arm. He leaned in to kiss it, then stopped.

Wait.

Why was he surprised?

Why did he think her tattoo was on her arm?

He lifted her arm from the water, turning it to examine all sides in the dim blue glow. No tattoo, just a few old scars.

“Din?” she asked, sounding concerned.

Something in his memory finally clicked.

“Did all the Vod’oya have the ‘V’ tattooed?” he asked.

“Yeah, we all got one after our first mission on Cantonica.”

His thumb stroked across the skin just below her elbow as shock filled his senses.

“You’re not the first Vod’oya I’ve met.”

“What?”

“I had a quarry… few years back. By the Guild code, the events are technically forgotten, but… it’s hard to forget a fight like that.” Something else unlocked. “And then… Karga had me deliver the quarry directly to the client.”

“What did she look like? The Vod’oya?”

The rain on the rooftop came to mind first. Then the hooded woman, blocking his blaster fire with just a simple sword and making it look all too easy.

“Red hair. Tall, broad, a scar on her cheek. The tattoo on her right arm, right here.” He tapped Nia’s forearm again, the image of the unconscious woman he’d carried to his ship finally clear in his mind.

Nia sucked in a slow breath. “Phasia.”

As soon as the storm cleared, they captured the quarry and got back to the ship to contact Peli.

“Do you know what time it is?” Peli grouched, just her staticky voice coming over the com.

“Peli, we need you to look up some dates for us in the records. Tell us what’s there,” Nia said, fingers drumming on the dashboard. “And yes, we know it’ll cost extra.”

Peli grumped. “Alright, what dates?”

“Check about three years ago. Any mention of a kidnapping,” Din said.

“Or Captain reported missing,” Nia added.

There were several prolonged minutes of static-filled quiet from Peli, till finally, “I’m not seeing anything like either of those.”

“Are you finding gaps?” Nia asked.

“No. There’s no mention of anyone going missing at all. The only thing about Captain at this time is her being on shore leave for a week.”

Nia looked back at Din, the gears turning in her head. “Are you positive it was three years ago?”

“Yes.”

She nodded a few times, still thinking. “Thank you, Peli, let us know if you find anything new.” And she hung up.

“So three years ago, Phasia had a bounty put out on her, and she didn’t tell the rest of us that she’d been captured.” Nia frowned. “Why hide that?”

“Shame?”

“We didn’t keep secrets from each other, not like this. And she came back, why wasn’t she bragging about her heroic escape?”

“Maybe she didn’t escape. Maybe she was set free.”

Nia let out a long breath, twisting the end of her braid between her fingers. “Three years is before all the scrubbed mission gaps we found. Maybe they’re connected somehow.” She looked back at him. “Do you remember where you delivered her?”

“Coruscant. A penthouse above level 5000.” He’d never made it past the landing platform, but he remembered the shape of the building. “I think I know where too.”

Coordinates were set immediately. But even in hyperspace it would still take time to arrive.

They went through the motions of appearing busy. Din taking time to oil every weapon in his armory. Nia continued her work on her staff; she was beginning to run out of room.

Despite the ever building mystery, there was a question that had lived in the back of Din’s mind since Cantonica. Since they were stuck in a mandated wait, now was as good a time as any to ask.

“When we met Ro… she said that I was ‘one of them’. What did she mean?”

Nia’s hands stilled on her staff for a second, before resuming. “Did you ever go to the Festival of the Frost on the lake?”

Confused at her reply, he answered, “No. We could see the lanterns from up the mountain. When I was young, I tried to sneak out, but I was found breaking curfew.”

She glanced up at him, still working. “That’s what she meant. That you’re part of the– tribe up the mountain.”

Tribe was not the word she was going to use. He could feel it as clearly as her forced casual demeanor.

“What aren’t you telling me?” he asked, calmly. More curious than anything else.

She looked up now, conflicted, and let out a low breath. “Only what you’re not ready to hear.”

He reached for her hand and paused to take off his gloves, wanting to feel the touch of her skin. Pulling her hands off her staff, he held them gently, thumbs brushing over her bruised knuckles.

“Nia. Please.”

She squeezed his hands and was quiet for a few moments, obviously putting her thoughts in order.

“How long were you on Mandalore? Before the Purge?” she asked, searching his visor.

“I finished my training and was sent out a few months before Keldabe fell.”

“Why didn’t you go to the Festival when you were sent out? You were an adult; you could have competed in the tournaments. Or seen the ruins?”

The very idea twisted something in his gut. “…Because… it’s… it was unwise.”

“What was?”

“To…” Why was she asking this? “To spend time with those who were not true Mandalorians.” The old Armorer’s voice still rang clearly in his ear.

She nodded slowly. “What about me? Am I not a true Mandalorian?”

“Of course you are,” he replied, even though something nasty and cruel inside contradicted his own words.

“I went to the festivals,” she said, still conversationally calm. “I saw the tournaments. I was born in Keldabe.” Am I not a true Mandalorian?

Now that she’d laid it out before him, he could see where his own logic wasn’t adding up. He strained to rectify the gap.

“You’re… different,” he insisted.

“How?”

“You’re my Match.”

“What if I wasn’t? What if I was just a woman from Mandalore that you happened to find on Tatooine?” She was studying him closely, not giving him an inch to escape in. “My ancestors rode the Mythosaur. If the Empire had not invaded, I would have worn my mother’s armor. If I wasn’t your Match, would I still be Mandalorian in your eyes?”

The damning truth was that he knew the answer. And in spite of all of his training telling him it was the correct option, he hated it.

“Why does it matter?” he asked, his words heating slightly in his frustration. “It can’t be changed. You are my Match, which makes you Mandalorian.”

“But it doesn’t make me part of your tribe.”

That banked his frustration, concentrating the heat back his way. She’d been allowed in the Covert when she wasn’t in her right mind. But now… even though he considered her Mandalorian, she was barred from entering.

His Match, and possibly someday his chosen partner, forbidden from his community.

How could that be right?

But it was… wasn’t it?

“What happens, exactly, if another living being sees your face?” Nia asked, drawing his attention back to her concentrated study. “If you revealed it, by choice?”

“I could never put my armor back on,” he said in a low voice, his gut twisting for all new reasons. “If… If I chose to break my Oath, I would return it. To the tribe. Let it be melted down and given to a warrior who deserved it.”

She seemed to sense his unease with just talking about it and squeezed his hands tightly. “And would you still be part of the tribe?”

He shook his head, frowning down at their hands. A black pit had opened in his stomach. “No. I would be… as dead—worse. Forgotten.”

“Then what?”

His gaze lifted. “What?”

“You’ve returned your armor, you’re exiled from the tribe, but you still have your life. Then what?”

His mouth opened and shut a few times as he tried to picture something, anything, that would come after That.

It was just darkness. And isolation.

“Then… Nothing. I would have nothing. I would… deserve nothing.”

She let go of his hand to press the control panel on the wall, immediately killing the lights. He was surprised at her clambering into his lap and pulling off his helmet, before wrapping him in a tight embrace. It was tight enough to squeeze the air out of his lungs, but bracing because of it.

She held him tightly for a minute before speaking. “You’d have me,” she whispered fiercely near his ear. He could hear tears in her voice and that made him hold her just as tightly back.

“You’ll always have me,” she promised, letting go just enough to press her forehead to his. “And even… even if you didn’t have me… you have Peli.”

The absurdity of her sentence pulled a laugh out of him. “What?”

“You’re a good man, Din Djarin. And there are more people like you out there in the galaxy than you may think.”

“Point one out next time you see one,” he muttered.

She huffed in amusement, then sobered. “I understand fearing losing your home, more than most. I do.” Foreheads still touching, she shook her head. “But you’ll never have nothing. And you’ll never deserve it either.”

She kissed his forehead, hands cradling his face as if it was beyond precious to her, despite never seeing it.

Something flickered through where his forehead met her lips, deeper than just a star burst.

A loyalty other than his own. A hope so determined it felt like a gift.

A curling wisp of Connection that evaporated so quickly he could almost second guess its existence at all.

So he pulled her down for a kiss, and he didn’t stop kissing her till they arrived at Coruscant.

Despite the entire planet being one metropolis, there still weren’t too many buildings that reached all the way up to level 5000.

Din was piloting as they approached, trying to picture any other landmarks around the twin-spired building from his memory. If he wasn’t mistaken, it wasn’t too far from the old Senate Plaza.

After an hour or two of searching, Nia suddenly gripped his pauldron. “Wait.”

He pulled out of the flow of traffic and then spotted a twin-spired building. That had to be it, right? He flew closer and the octagonal landing platform for the penthouse came into view. Yes, he remembered that too. This was it.

“Stop,” Nia ordered before they got close.

He turned to ask her and found her scrambling back up against the door out of the flight deck, her eyes wide and frozen on the building.

“Nia.” He leapt out of his chair and reached for her, purposefully blocking her view as his bare hand cupped her cheek.

Connection.

Images suddenly flashed in his mind, as if he was remembering but he knew he’d never seen them before.

Dropping off a grappling line onto an octagonal landing platform, exhilaration and rage flowing hotter than blood as she pelts for the door.

Skulking down a dark wide hall, listening intently for anything, hand gripping her blaster tight, and without warning, the lights blaring on, blinding.

Struggling against restraints on a cold table in a white sterile room as a mask is fitted to her face, panic threatening to drown her before gas hisses and everything dims.

Watching a human man in an elaborate suit run a finger along her cheek, wanting desperately to reach out and strangle him and not a single muscle responding. He smiles.

“Thank you for the intel. You’ll make a lovely gift, my dear.”

Din stumbled back for half a breath, the images stopping as soon as he broke contact with her.

What was that?

Nia’s frozen horror kept him from wondering further. He immediately pulled her into a tight embrace, shielding her from everything.

She was shaking, fingers curling under the edges of his armor. “Don’t go in there,” she begged in a wavering voice.

Even if the last time he hadn’t trusted her gut didn’t nearly kill him, her tone would have been more than enough to change his mind.

“We won’t. I promise.”

They parked The Razor Crest in a nearby docking bay and backtracked to the twin-spired building; Nia remaining calm though definitely uneasy on a second viewing. A nearby building was under construction, giving them a perfect place to set up for reconnaissance.

Nia kept watch on the landing pad while Din did his best to try and hack into the computer system. Despite both of them seeing his face, they still didn’t know the name of the man who owned the penthouse and had chipped her.

Unfortunately, Din wasn’t having a lot of success.

“One of us should learn how to work with computers someday,” Nia said, not looking away from the landing platform. As if it might try something if her eyes shifted an inch.

“I nominate you,” he replied as an error code popped up on screen again.

By the time night fell on Coruscant, neither of them had had any luck in cracking into the system.

“We’re going to have to hire a hacker,” Din said as Nia swore under her breath at the error screen’s most recent appearance.

“We can’t afford a hacker. We could barely afford Peli.”

“We could always come back. People that rich don’t abandon their properties. It’ll still be here.”

Nia frowned in the direction of the twin-spires, but before she could respond, the elevator in the middle of the building chimed for the first time since they’d arrived.

They both scrambled for cover, finding some behind support pillars mere seconds before the doors opened.

Din took the safety off his pulse rifle, making eye contact with Nia who had the better vantage. She dared a glance around and then held up a finger.

One person, they could easily take that.

He held up a flat palm before pointing at himself. Wait, me first. She nodded.

He stepped around the pillar, rifle trained on the small, cloaked figure just outside the doors.

“Who are you?” Din demanded, aiming for the shadow of the hood.

The figure walked forward, their gate smooth yet cautious. “What brings a Mandalorian to investigate this place?” the figure asked instead, her voice aged and lightly accented.

“My business is my own. I have no quarrel with you.”

“We will have a quarrel if you do not tell me why you are here, bounty hunter. You and your accomplice behind the pillar.”

Blaster out, Nia stepped around the pillar. “He asked you a question–who are you?”

The figure stared at her, as if in shock, then said, "Niæna?"

The figure pushed her hood back to reveal an older human woman with a head of curly grey hair and a long scar through one eye.

Nia dropped her blaster.

“Anella?”

Chapter 8: The End

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#The Mandalorian #Din Djarin #Pedro Pascal #Din Djarin x ofc #mando x ofc #din djarin x oc #mando x oc #din djarin fanfiction #soulmate au #star crossed #my writing

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magicalforcesau · 3 years ago

Text

Dancing With Ghosts in Your Garden~ Chapter 21 - Year 2: May

(ao3 link)

Palpatine would never expect his morning to start with something as pathetic as tripping over a potted plant upon entering his office. He managed not to fall, and bit back a sneer as he kicked the damned thing over. Someone had been in here… He could tell even if it wasn’t explicitly obvious. Not a single thing seemed out of place, but as he studied his desk it seemed to have been moved. Now that he mentioned it, everything in the room had been moved ever so slightly to the left, just enough to cause suspicion and clearly just enough to cause him to stumble like a newborn deer.

“Maul,” He growled, waving his wand in search of any hidden surprises, but had the madman tried to set any curses, his alarms would surely have been set off. Yes, he’d known he was close and had his suspicions that he was in the building.

A few days ago, the leeches had been let out of the potion storage. The Slytherin students hadn’t been very thrilled when several of them were found in their beds. Palpatine had dealt with it, regardless of how he’d prefer his house learn to deal with such trivial matters themselves.

The Slytherins he went to school with were much braver than the cowards of today.

Such an event he could chalk up to an accident, or a student lurking where they shouldn’t be. Yet even still, he found it unlikely that the leeches found their way into the common room on their own.

Of course he was the only one with such suspicions. The braindead ministry dogs stationed outside of the school had nary a clue to where Maul was at any given time. Maul would have to do nothing short of waltzing up to them in handcuffs before they’d realize what was right in front of them. With the sloppy way Maul was presenting himself, it was even more damning.

Even more useless were the pitiful dementors that couldn’t seem to find him even if he’d announced himself front and center. Though truthfully, Palpatine had some theories on that.

Maul had gotten soft in his time away it seemed, reduced to petty pranks and trickery like the student he’d never fully been. His former apprentice had never been particularly focused, becoming the killing machine of his namesake easily and with little prompting. Now, after many years to stew in the place where most lost their minds if not their souls, he refused to move his sights off of Skywalker.

Palpatine waved his wand again, righting his office to its proper position. He would not fall prey to such a mundane task as moving furniture, not when he had much bigger fish to fry. He walked around his desk staring a hole through the daily prophet left sitting there, Maul’s wanted poster still front and center.

If his former apprentice wanted to waste his time riling him up, he could do as he so pleased. Palpatine had worked too hard and too long to bring his plans into fruition. When he finally got his hands on him, Maul would learn to regret even the slightest action against him.

***

“Did that exam feel…” Satine paused, still in shock as they put greater distance between themselves and the courtyard.

“Short?” Obi-Wan finished for her, clearly still reeling from the same level of unease over the whole matter. They’d all passed- even Hondo- but that hadn’t exactly been hard since despite all of the drills and practices they needed to run, the exam somehow only consisted of a simple apparition across the lawn and back. Such practices were normally not possible at Hogwarts, with the sole exception being when a class was being taught.

“Yeah,” She nodded, confusion still pouring off her in waves.

“Even I thought it was a little too easy,” Cody admitted, which felt like a true testament that Obi-Wan and Satine weren’t simply disappointed that they hadn’t been challenged, “Normally, you’d never hear me say that, but…”

“And this isn’t our typical Charms or History of Magic exam,” Obi-Wan said.

“This is something akin to a driver’s license.” Satine turned to both of them, “And I promise you that while not rocket science by any measure, the driver’s test at least tries to prove that you can do the basics.”

“Hondo fell on his bum when he landed and he still passed.” Obi-Wan added, concern knitting his brow. “Makes me a bit worried what sort of people they’re allowing to apparate.”

“That’s just it, my brothers told me about the apparition exam and they always said they made you run drills like they did in class.”

“I remember Qui-Gon saying something similar,” Satine bit her lip, “Do you think they did this because of everything going on?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Obi-Wan said and they continued walking, “Think about it, we were all out in the open, with a murderer on the loose. I bet they wanted to get it over with and usher us inside as fast as they could.”

“Then delay the test,” Satine shrugged, “I don’t get what the rush was to approve all of us.”

“Maybe it’s a means of escape,” Cody said darkly. “I just hope it doesn’t result in any other consequences. I don’t know if either of you have ever been splinched, but-”

“-It’s not comfortable,” Obi-Wan filled in a bit too quickly for either of his friend’s satisfaction. Particularly Satine looked concerned at how immediate his reaction had been. She’d heard of it, of course, but as a muggle-born, it never happened to her. Most of the time, according to Windu, it was clothes or hair lost to splinching, but there were instances when flesh was wounded.

Obi-Wan cleared his throat before either could comment, “I suppose the bright side is, we passed.”

Neither were so sure how bright it was.

***

Ventress has truly anticipated expulsion or at the very least, suspension, and maybe this would have been the case under Headmaster Yoda’s rule, but whether she deemed it lucky or not, she was receiving no such punishment with Palpatine.

“I hope you understand where you belong, Ventress and see that I have afforded you mercy because of your family.” Palpatine said in that smooth, light voice. His eyes spoke of a different story. Something haunted him or perhaps he was the one who'd done the haunting. He was lauded as the kindly old potions’ professor, but she knew from experience that one didn’t climb so high up the social ladder without breaking backs on one’s way.

Dooku was that way and she’d been one of the backs he’d broken. She wasn’t even a high peg on a ladder to him, just a meager foot stool.

“Did you write them?” She asked, because it was always good to know when she’d be expecting a howler in the mail.

“Not yet,” He tsked, walking around his desk, “Though I suspect I won’t need to. Word travels fast enough.”

Yes, this cursed world did appreciate a show more than anything else. She had never expected hers to be deemed a pitiful tragedy- a failed villainous uprising. She’d hoped that when her story broke that she’d have the support and care of her sisters at either side. Instead, as always, Ventress was alone.

“What are you going to do with me, Headmaster?” She asked, looking up into his eyes. She didn’t feel remorse for her actions, per say, just that they were evidently in vain. Like any true Slytherin, she was willing to do whatever it took to achieve the means to an end.

Part of her wanted expulsion or to be thrown away without the key. Anything, at the moment, seemed better than going back home and groveling and pretending that she was an abused victim. She wanted, with everything in her heavy bones, for this to be her narrative rather than the reality that she was nothing more than a bookend to Dooku’s and his master’s. She loathed the concept of being used, of being the victim, even if she knew her survival would depend on playing that role.

Palpatine watched her with almost serene calmness, like he could sense the way her thoughts bled. Nobody knew Palpatine’s story, because he kept that close to the chest. Ventress wondered if they ever would, even after death.

Everyone had their secrets.

And Ventress missed hers.

“Well, I’m stripping you of all authority, for starters,” He said, walking around his desk to sit behind it again, “Seeing as you are still a minor, I’ve managed to convince the Ministry to not toss you into Azkaban. If and only if-”

If there was one thing Ventress hated more than pretending, it was negotiating, which was a large facet of the pureblood world. People negotiated the terms of courting rituals, business deals, even social events and how they would proceed. It was all one big set of terms and conditions.

Even if she quite possibly still stood solely for her pure hatred for Dooku, she still couldn’t help but agree with some of those ideals. Would she abandon them in an effort to sabotage him? Yes, without hesitance. It was but another means to an end. She’d abandoned so much of what she knew already. It was only icing on the cake.

“What?” She asked, keeping her hands cross in her lap to prevent herself from clawing at the desk between them.

“You must tell the aurors everything you know about Dooku,” He said sagely, but it was clearly rehearsed, quite possibly just before she came in, “And my dear, they will know if you’re lying.”

***

Despite the waning student population and the heightened anxieties surrounding Maul sightings in the area, they were still allowing the Quidditch match between Slytherin and Hufflepuff. It seemed like a desperate grasping for normalcy from the staff members still trying to keep up morale. It didn’t feel very normal, however, when all four houses fit neatly within the bounds of the Gryffindor section of the field. The professors didn’t want everyone spread out and those with friends in other houses welcomed the opportunity to chat outside of class. Satine had positioned herself between Obi-Wan and Cody, they were sitting closest to the exit. She felt almost like she was being watched and kept glancing behind her, but there was no one there. Paranoia certainly.

“I hope Hufflepuff beats Slytherin,” Cody grumbled as he crossed his arms over his chest, “It’s the only way to get Gryffindor back in the running.”

“I think that’s fairly unlikely,” Ben nodded towards the field, a soft glare on his face, “Ventress looks angry.”

“When doesn’t she,” Satine muttered, ignoring Ben as he turned his concerned eyes onto her.

She was willing to put the experience behind her. Though she doubted she’d ever forget what it felt like to be slowly turned to stone. The girl in question had lost her title as Quidditch captain, but had remained on the team. It seemed though, they hadn’t gotten around to choosing a new captain because Ventress still approached Breha to shake hands. So it was simply the matter of losing a title and not really a position. If in fact Headmaster Palpatine didn’t bother to enforce such things.

Then again, she always knew he favored purebloods.

“Shouldn’t even be allowed to play,” Cody crossed his arms, “She shouldn’t even be allowed to be here at all.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t haul her off to Azkaban.”

“Do you really think a child belongs on that foul island?” Because that’s what they were, children. Satine didn’t think that such a horrible punishment would be worth it for someone who likely only recently turned 17. For something so horrible to be done on her account as well? She couldn’t stand for it. She wanted Ventress to find peace and she certainly wouldn’t be able to move past being a pawn for Dooku behind bars.

“It’s starting!” Cody grinned and leaned forward. At least this time since they were stuck in the back she wouldn’t have to worry about keeping him from falling over the ledge.

***

“Hey, Professor! You coming to see the match?” Anakin asked.

Kit Fisto flashed them a bright smile, which came easily for him even with the rumors that it would be cancelled due to Maul’s lingering presence. Anakin found that he was having a more difficult time offering legitimate smiles these days. Never did he ever consider that Maul was capable of drawing so close to the school.

“Just making sure there aren’t any stragglers, Anakin.” He said, “We’ve all got to stick together, after all.”

“Yeah, okay, but make sure you come watch! Gryffindor might not win the cup this year, but it would be pretty cool to see Ventress get beat by Hufflepuff.

“There’s got to be some punishment for what she did to us,” Rex growled with a clenched fist.

“And what’s better than getting demolished by the worst team in Quidditch?” Anakin said cheerily, although Rex didn’t seem so sure that was appropriate. Neither did the few Hufflepuffs that shot him dirty looks as they passed.

In spite of this, Kit Fisto laughed, his long green tentacles wiggling as he did, “Yes, well, I’m sure Headmaster Palpatine won’t let her off completely scot free.”

“I think he just let her play because she’s a good player,” Anakin grumbled.

“Now, now, there’s a lot more that goes on behind the scenes than either you or I are privy to,” Fisto said placatingly, “We’re all doing what we can to keep you guys safe.”

“I know.” Both Anakin and Rex said in unison.

“Even if I do feel like this might be testing fate a bit,” He gestured to the large crowd of people, “I suppose it is nice to see everyone so happy for a change.”

It was, but even Anakin, who had made some bold and sometimes foolish decisions in the name of fun, thought it was a little soon. He’d heard rumors that Palpatine was being pushed by the Ministry to hold the Quidditch matches anyway. Apparently, there was a decent gambling pool that relied on which team would come out on top.

“It would make me happier if Slytherin loses.” Rex said.

He leaned down to their level and winked, “Between you and me? Same.”

“We’ll see you in there?” Anakin laughed.

“I’m right behind you,” Fisto nodded.

***

Breha was never one to underestimate her opponents. Slytherin team may have been without a captain, but she still knew they would be looking to Ventress for plays. They’d been working with her all year after all. It was, however, still something they could take advantage of. A few of the Slytherin players would certainly be willing to try and usurp the queen in order to gain the position next year and that would make their play style much more chaotic than it would otherwise be.

That was excellent for a team like Hufflepuff, who thrived in their teamwork. None of them had the same level of ambition as many of the Slytherin’s she knew. Ambition wasn’t always a bad thing, Breha would be hard pressed to say she didn’t possess some level of it herself, but in a situation like this, she knew her team would flow like a stream whereas their opposition would butt heads like a rockslide.

She knocked away the Quaffle from the golden hoops as she kept a careful eye on the bludgers that were being knocked her way. Her chasers were quick to grab it out from the competitive hands of two Slytherin chasers. Hufflepuff was steadily racking up points and although they were nowhere near to beating them without the snitch, it certainly was quite an embarrassment for the house of green and silver. Normally Hufflepuff would be hard pressed to get the ball through a ring at all.

“Get it together, you useless swine,” Ventress hollered at her team as she skirted dangerously close to their heads. If she likely wasn’t in the mood to get into more trouble, Breha wondered if she might hit them with her bat.

“Good job!” Breha cheered with a smile as her own team scored a point. The cheers erupting from the audience were quieter than they usually were, but loud enough to hear over the wind. Breha frowned, taking her eyes off the game for only a moment to search her surroundings. She almost thought she’d heard a scream.

She turned, around and narrowly managed to catch the Quaffle with her hands rather than her face before tossing it down field. The audience cheered again, but something didn’t feel right. Breha’s hands twitched on the handle of her broom. She could call a timeout, but she would hate to waste something over a feeling.

She glanced around again. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

She raised her hands to make the call when a loud whistle jolted the game to a halt. Breha dodged a bludger as they both went sailing for their holding crate. Professor Tiin was holding up his hands in a desperate T. She descended quickly on her broom and the rest of the students in the sky followed.

“What’s going on?”

***

“They’ve stopped,” Satine was surprised. She’d watched a lot of Quidditch despite her distaste for it and she certainly hadn’t seen anything like this happen before, “A time out?”

“Somethings up,” Cody was the one to respond. He was watching the field with interest, but there was a layer of worry that he normally didn’t have when watching even the most dangerous of crashes, “Ref called for their grounding; there wasn’t anything wrong with the game.”

“No penalties,” Ben nodded. He too looked concerned, eyes flicking around the stadium. Satine found herself looking behind her again. She no longer felt eyes on her, but she certainly felt like the hairs on the back of her neck were beginning to raise. Before either of them could comment further though, Headmaster Palpatine’s voice, amplified, filled the stadium. His tone was less than pleased.

“Students and Faculty,” He started solemnly, “We must immediately return to the castle.”

Chatter filled the stands at once, not just the children either, but Satine caught Professor Plo turning to whisper to Professor Windu. Neither of them looked like they knew anything.

“What about the game?” A fourth year Gryffindor yelled, “It’s against the rules to stop!”

“What’s going on?” A Ravenclaw third year added from a few seats in front of her. Satine felt like her limbs were full of lead as she reached out to clutch the sleeve of Ben’s robe. She had a bad feeling.

“The game is not important,” There was a soft sigh that was barely audible past a few outcries from the student body, “It brings me a terrible sadness to inform you of the passing of Professor Kit Fisto-”

Cries of outrage and of sadness expelled themselves from the student body. The Professors, while schooled better on their emotions, looked just as surprised as they stood, immediately gathering students and shuffling them towards the exits. On the field, Professor Tiin was doing the same with the Quidditch teams.

“It has to be Maul,” Ben hissed at them, “He’s getting bolder.”

Neither she nor Cody could make much of a response though, being swept amongst other panicked students out of the stands and onto the sprawling grounds. Satine only realized she still had a grip on Ben’s sleeve when he tripped and fell, and she narrowly avoided the same fate by letting go.

“Ben-” She started reaching out a hand for him when she noticed he’d tripped over a first year who looked rather shell shocked, wide horrified eyes filling up with tears. He must have fallen first and narrowly avoided being trampled on.

“Oh, hey there, it’s alright,” Ben had noticed too, taking the time to help the boy up off the ground, despite the shouts of professors for them to get back in line, “Come on, we just have to get into the castle, alright? We’ll be safe there.” Satine felt like she was intruding, but refused to leave them there alone. Luckily, the boy took Ben’s hand quickly and the three of them shuffled back into the crowd quickly.

As soon as the last student was through the doors to the castle they slammed shut, latching forcefully behind them. The doors to the Great Hall did similarly.

“Bloody hell, I thought you two had disappeared,” Cody ran up to them, looking relieved. His own brothers fell at ease the second he turned away from them, clearly he’d rounded them up first thing.

“Is Anakin-?” Ben whipped his head around to look and Cody pointed towards where Anakin and Rex were looking pale and shaken, but alive.

All were accounted for it seemed, all but Professor Kit Fisto, who had died at the hands of a mad man while guarding the far side of the pitch, alone.

***

A funeral for Kit Fisto had been held off grounds- somewhere in the middle of the ocean for all of his aquatic friends and family members to properly mourn him in accordance with their traditions. His ashes were sprinkled over the Mariana Trench, where he’d done some of his biggest work.

His absence left the school caught in a limbo of uncertainty. Professors were in a mode of practicality only and it was hardly blameable. Maul had not only gotten within their barrier, but had committed a gruesome act of violence that some students had the horrors of bearing witness to the aftermath of.

Kit Fisto had been treated not like a person, but a sign to be waved on a stick, to show just what Maul intended to do to each of them if they didn’t give him Anakin Skywalker. Classes were taught within the confines of the common rooms to keep students from traveling elsewhere. With the blocked off tunnels, it seemed like the only safe space to keep Maul out.

No longer were even prefects allowed to walk the halls. Patrols were cancelled, and professors and aurors walked every space and brought food to students as well as taught their classes. It was a mess, really, and students were definitely affected by the change. Less and less faces were present, many removed from the castle altogether at the insistence of their parents.

However, those who remained were downcast and gray just like the sky outside their windows. A greedy part of Obi-Wan was thankful that his friends were still here, even if the current circumstances didn’t allow him to see Cody or Anakin. He was surprised Satine’s mother didn’t bring her home, though he had his suspicions of the extent at which she knew. It was hard to tell with the muggle families. They didn’t get the same news as wizards did, but it seemed awfully callous for there to be no warning from the school.

Then again, professors were quite busy working alongside the aurors to track Maul down. Part of him wondered where he could possibly be hiding, but really, there were endless corridors at Hogwarts that he’d never known of- not until the existence of the map, anyway. Even then, the fabled Room of Requirement was still out there untouched. Pure intentions were supposed to unlock it and he had severe doubts that Maul’s qualified.

This castle that they’d once been free to roam had shrunk significantly for all of them. He couldn’t even imagine being in Slytherin house and segmented only to the lightless space near the dungeons.

The news of Kit Fisto’s tragic demise took a while to reach outside outlets, for it wasn’t until an entire week later, shortly after his reported funeral, that they’d received a very dramatic and incoherent Floo call from Aayla. Even in the charcoal embers taking form into her face, he could tell she was blubbering like a baby.

“HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?” She wailed and the other students in the common room, who were a bit piled on top of one another, turned their bodies to try and allow privacy to the fireplace. It wasn’t like Aayla seemed to mind much.

“Er, I know this must be difficult for you,” Obi-Wan tried awkwardly as he searched his eyes through the room. Where was Satine when he needed her? There weren’t too many places to go, after all.

“DIFFICULT? TRY IRREVOCABLY HEARTBROKEN TO THE LARGEST DEGREE? HE WAS SO YOUNG SO KIND SO BEAUTIFUL.” She shook with tears, “Too good for this world, honestly. I don’t… I don’t know how I’ll go on.”

Obi-Wan didn’t think himself a callous person, but he sure as hell didn’t know how to navigate this conversation without further setting her off, “He will be dearly missed as he was a favorite teacher for most.”

“He’s more than that!” She bellowed, but it wasn’t intimidating due to the hiccups she’d recently caught, “He was the kindest soul placed on this earth like an orb of light- and I but a moth drawn to him…”

“Yes, of course!” Obi-Wan panicked, “I didn’t mean to reduce your care for him, I only meant-”

“Aayla?” Satine was suddenly knelt beside him, looking over his shoulder and into the fire.

“Yes, Satine, Aayla heard the unfortunate news regarding Professor Fisto-”

“DON’T SAY HIS NAME IT’S TOO SOON!” She sobbed.

Satine flashed him a scathing look and he shrugged helplessly. Aayla did have a point about there being many extremely crestfallen students over the professor’s death. Beyond simply grieving a good professor and person too. Many of the remaining members of Fisto’s fan club were inconsolably upset, like they’d just lost the love of their young lives. It seemed he’d made a big impression in his short time as a professor, even if not necessarily the way he’d intended to.

Even on that scale, he’d be missed. Although reserved by bureaucratic restrictions, Fisto tried to teach them to fight, to protect themselves. In many ways, Obi-Wan preferred him as a professor to Dooku (even removing the sinister Sith stuff), because of how approachable and charismatic he’d been. Obi-Wan was in a bit of disbelief even still that he was gone.

“Did you see him?” She sniffled.

Satine tensed, but shook her head, “No, and I don’t envy those who did.”

“No, I suppose not.” Aayla said, “You know what my last words were to him?”

“What’s that?” Obi-Wan asked.

She breathed deeply to stabilize herself, “That I’d perfect resistance to the Imperius curse while at home. What kind of goodbye is that?”

“Well, you couldn’t have possibly known, Aayla.” Satine said soothingly and Obi-Wan wondered how she maintained the careful line of logic and empathetic. It would be beautiful to bear witness to under different circumstances that weren’t this depressing.

“Maybe not, but I haven’t even been able to do him justice by practicing my resistance!”

“Everyone’s having a hard time studying in this climate,” Satine said and looked around, “We’re all on top of one another in here.”

“Plus, rumor has it, someone’s fixed up a shrine for Professor Fisto in the girl’s bathroom,” Obi-Wan said.

“I should be there to pay tribute,” She said. “If it weren’t for my parents, I would be.”

“It’s better that you’re not,” Satine assured, “You can properly mourn him when you come back, when everything is safe again.”

If it was safe again. She hadn’t said it that way, but he could tell by her demeanor that she was thinking of it. It had only been a week since they were confined to their common room, but it was starting to feel very much like they were trapped. His only means of asking how Anakin was aside from the fireplace was through Qui-Gon and his daily visits.

“I’LL NEVER LOVE AGAIN!” She cried.

“Erm,” he bit his lip, “There there, he wouldn’t want you to be-”

“-He would never know what I want, because I, like many others, kept my feelings locked within my heart instead of on display. It’s the stupid logical side of me.”

“Well, he was your professor.” This was not the correct thing to say. “You couldn’t possibly pursue a relationship-”

“-Ben, why don’t you referee the first and second year’s game of gobstones, since you like it so,” The edge to her voice queued him into realizing that thankfully, it was not a suggestion.

“You still play that?” Aayla wrinkled her nose, briefly distracted from her woe, “That’s for children!”

“It’s a very tactical game, thank you!” Obi-Wan huffed.

“Kit liked darts.” Aayla remembered that she was supposed to be heartbroken.

Obi-Wan took his opportunity to exit before it was lost on him, feeling a bit guilty for leaving Satine with that mess to clean. As it were, sticking around was only making it worse. He just hoped that the other houses were faring better than they were locked up.

***

If it weren’t for the blanket of loss that stained everything, Anakin probably would have called their mandatory lockdown some sort of break from school. The concept of a “staycation” was lost on Rex and his brothers, but it was even less pleasant given the circumstances. The first day hadn’t been bad, since they all basically hung out and tried to distract themselves with snacks and jokes. Seven days in, however, it was getting tedious and it was even worse by the professors attempting to teach the entire common room at once, which meant that half of it was far too confusing and ahead of the game for even Anakin to grasp.

Plus, he didn’t have Obi-Wan to edit his stuff, which made a big difference. Qui-Gon did offer to deliver any parcels or letters back and forth, but that felt silly when he could always theoretically use the fireplace. Acknowledging that they might be in here for a while was starting to get to him.

“I’d give anything for a game of Quidditch,” Cody sighed as he flipped through a magazine on the very subject, wistfully running a hand on the glossy pictures that depicted summer fun in the most recent digest.

“Quidditch? I’d give anything to do a lap running around the castle,” Rex added with a stretch of his leg, “I’m going stir crazy.”

“Need I remind you all that you lot rejected our suggestion for indoor Aingingein.” Fives piped up from his spot on the floor beside his twin.

“Yeah, and I’ll never be desperate enough to try that inside!” Cody said, “We haven’t even got any barrels to light on fire anyway.”

“We could improvise!” Echo complained. “It doesn’t have to be on fire.”

“With you lot, it’s always on fire.” He said pointedly, “Even if it’s not supposed to be.”

“I have always excelled with pyrotechnic spells,” Echo said smugly, “Definitely a strong suit of mine.”

“Of ours, thank you,” Fives corrected.

“Never thought I’d hear the day where you’re the voice of reason,” Anakin said to Cody, who turned his head lazily with a crooked smile.

“Process of elimination, kid.” He said, though Anakin viewed Cody as more responsible than he gave himself credit for.

He felt guilty for allowing himself to feel monotony. Someone had died, after all, and the only reason they were all stuck here was because Maul wanted to eliminate the Chosen One- a title he couldn’t believe he’d once been proud of. They were all lucky to be safe within their common room and that Maul hadn’t incited anymore violence the day he got Fisto. Even that small consolation felt immediately hollow as Anakin thought of it.

It didn’t stop the darkest crevices of his mind from generating possibilities of Maul picking off each standing professor and auror, leaving them trapped and with no real way of knowing what was happening. It was horrifying. Judging by The Daily Prophet, reports weren’t being as authentic as they could be about the sheer amount of danger they were in.

“What’s the first thing you’re doing when we get out of here?” Rex asked him.

“Oh,” Anakin hadn’t really thought of it, “Probably never complain about having to wake up early for class ever again.”

“I hear that.” Fives said, “Getting up and moving to a different room sounds like a dream. Anything has to be better than sitting here wasting time.”

Anakin glanced over towards the other end of the room, where Padmé was perched near the window, allowing the natural light of the sun to provide an angelic glow on her face as she read the book in her lap. Even though they didn’t have to, she still dressed in Gryffindor robes and had her hair pulled back in two buns that were fanned out at the base of her neck and shimmering with a silver glitter.

In the pocket of his robes was the necklace he’d decorated for her. There were so many moments where he wanted to give it to her, to tell her that he painted it with his hands and that he knew life was short and that meant seizing it while you had it, not isolating him.

He considered standing and approaching her, sitting opposite and inquiring about what she was reading, telling her she looked lovely, and making this anything but wasted time for him.

The thought washed away faster than it appeared and an announcement chimed through the entire room, silencing everyone from the idle chatter that kept them sane thus far.

Anakin didn’t need to hear it before to know who it belonged to.

“Professors and students of Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry,” Maul addressed them all like a king addressing his loyal subjects, “Despite how the Daily Prophet might paint me, I am capable of being reasonable. You see I am not as young as I used to be, so I see no issue in leaving the castle and its occupants unscathed. There is but one thing that I desire.”

Anakin’s heart was pounding in his chest and he felt Rex’s hand on his shoulder immediately. It should have been stabilizing and comforting, but all it really did was serve as a reminder as to why Maul was even here.

“Give me your precious Chosen One, and I will see to it that there is no more bloodshed,” Maul continued, “For it was not long ago that I was in your midst and though I was treated like a feral animal not worthy of teaching, I do have some sentimental nostalgia to this place. After all, every hero requires an origin story.”

“We do not bargain with murderers, Maul.” This time, Anakin truly did know the voice to be Mace Windu’s firm tone.

“A pity, Professor Windu, a pity indeed,” Maul remained completely calm and neutral, which Anakin hadn’t expected. They all watched the ceiling as though they waited with bated breath for him to sink through it. “Because until you submit to my conditions, I will cut through every single person in this school until I get what I want.”

“You will not succeed, Maul.” Palpatine, this time, echoed through the room, even if not physically present.

A long pause, and then, “I’ll be the judge of that, Headmaster.”

And then, a laugh so sinister and cold that Anakin swore his blood was frozen solid. Everyone was watching him as the voices faded and they were only left to the crackling of the fire. He stared straight ahead, burning with an anger and fear so bright that he felt he might physically glow.

“We aren’t going to let him get you, mate.” Rex insisted severely, “You hear me?”

He didn’t doubt that they would do everything in their power to save him, but Anakin already had the guilt of his mother’s disappearance weighing on his conscience. He wasn’t sure he could bear another.

At the thought of his mother, he practically saw stars. This monster had been the reason his family, his home, his protector was gone. He took her and did who knows what with her. And while he knew from deep within him, from the small little voice that told him so in his most horrible dreams, he wasn’t ready for such a threat.

But he also wasn’t ready to lose his mother and he certainly wasn’t ready to allow his friends to take any heroic falls for him. Maul was here for a reason and perhaps, that’s what he needed, to have it handed straight over to him.

“Anakin.” Rex said again and shook his shoulder, “I don’t like that look you’ve got on your face.”

He stared at his friend, memorizing the kindness on his face. He didn’t deserve him. “I’m sorry, Rex.”

“It’s not your fault!” He insisted, scoffing at the idea of it. “He’s a lunatic! He’s gone and murdered a professor because of a stupid poem that was written centuries ago! So what if you’re the Chosen One according to that! Isn’t Qui-Gon always saying the future is always changing?”

He was, but right now was the present, which Anakin could only control his own actions in.

“I am sorry for that… And for this,” He nodded, but then blasted his friend backwards with a swift stupefy spell, and raced out of the room before anyone could grab him. One of the Fett’s nearly succeeded and ripped a piece of his robe, but the door slammed behind him before he could be fully pulled back.

He was going to face Maul.

***

Satine, like every other student in the school, was horrified at the conversation they’d all heard booming in their ears. It felt like an immense invasion of privacy and had intended to have that effect, considering the initial source. They were lucky enough to have Qui-Gon present when it occurred for class, but any comfort that his presence might have offered was swept away when he immediately made for the exit with his wand ready.

“Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan was paler than she’d ever seen him and watching his mentor with a fear they never should have known, “Don’t.”

“I will do what I must, Obi-Wan,” He nodded, “As will you, I’m sure.”

There was a passing secret language between them of which Satine did not understand and was not intended to. Whatever it meant, it caused Obi-Wan to look ready to snap in two right before her eyes.

He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it, not knowing what to say at all under such circumstances. They were under siege by one man, who couldn’t be stopped by aurors or Dementors or even their notable DADA professor. She felt her heart plunge into the pit of her stomach as the severity of this dawned on all of them. For a moment, it felt like there was no one else in the room but the three of them.

“Yes, Professor.” He said instead of what he’d meant to and just like that, Qui-Gon Jinn was gone and the door behind him locked.

Obi-Wan stared at where he’d left for a long moment, fists balled and whether it was the angle of the sun or otherwise, his eyes looked glassy. His lip didn’t tremble and his breathing didn’t change. Instead, he looked rigid beyond repair.

“I’m sure he’s just going to Gryffindor’s common room to check on Anakin.” Satine said as she cautiously approached him to rest a hand on his shoulder blade. He didn’t flinch or jump at her touch, but it did feel like he had transported off to another plane of existence.

“That’s exactly what he’s doing.” He said heavily and finally turned to meet her eyes, “Maul went to this school. Surely, he knows it well enough to know where the Gryffindors sleep.”

That had also occurred to her, but right now, standing in front of him, where they were both so desperately trying to grasp onto some semblance of hope, she didn’t want to voice it. She feared their time for seeking solace was well passed.

“Maul doesn’t know the codes to get in.” She said firmly, “He won’t be able to get in and get Anakin. The Fat Lady wouldn’t allow for it.

He did nod at that, “Yes, it was a security measure from-”

“-The war, I presume.” She raised an eyebrow, “As everything is?”

“Actually from the amount of teen pregnancies occurring from inter-house relations.” He said frankly and it nearly made her laugh if it didn’t sound like such a believably ludicrous solution only thought of by wizards.

Any light quip she was thinking of making disappeared into nothing as the fireplace burst into a hasty shout of, “Kenobi? Are you there? Satine? Anyone?”

They rushed to the fire again, recognizing their best friend’s voice in mind-numbing alarm. Any younger students dove out of the way immediately on instinct to avoid being knocked into the flames.

“Cody, I-” Obi-Wan hadn’t even gotten a word in edgewise before he was promptly cut off by Cody’s furious shout, which was no doubt trying to compete with the noisy background surrounding him.

“ANAKIN’S ESCAPED!”

“What?” It was Obi-Wan who interrupted this time. “What do you mean he escaped?”

“He’s going for Maul!” Rex cried, shoving his brother out of the way, “I tried to stop him, but-”

Anything else Rex said faded to the background, though she suspected it was mostly nonsense judging by how upset he clearly was.

No, that couldn’t be. Her heart was thundering in her ears at the implication. Anakin was giving himself up for slaughter, but she knew in her heart that despite his claims, Maul would not stop there. Violence only begets more violence, especially when from the hand of a bloodthirsty animal.

“Stay put,” Obi-Wan’s voice was almost unrecognizable. It was deeper, commanding, and completely unlike the gentle witticism she’d grown used to (and fond of) over the years. Had she not watched him speak, she might not have believed it at all.

“Kenobi, don’t you even think-” Cody shoved back in.

Obi-Wan didn’t allow him to finish the sentiment, ending the connection and shoving himself off the ground with nearly as much speed as he’d gotten to it, aggressively shoving through a surrounding crowd, knocking Fenn Rau onto his arse when he tried to block him from the exit with tremendous ease. Satine followed through the space he’d left in his wake, desperately trying to reach him with a pounding dread that washed her into a blinding panic.

She caught his hand just before he could leave, in a vice grip that under different circumstances she would not use, but it drew his attention back to her, his eyes blazing with purpose and certainty.

“Let go of me.” He said with strange calm.

“No.” She said, “I won’t let you do this.”

“That’s not up to you!”

“Like hell it isn’t!” She argued, “I won’t have you knocking on death’s door yet again out of some infuriating sense of nobility.”

“Satine,” His eyes softened as he focused on her and looked a little more like the boy who effortlessly stole her breath away, “It’s Anakin.”

She knew that. Her stomach curled and coiled at the vile revelation and what it meant for Obi-Wan, who despite not being the main character of this prophetic narrative, was a true hero despite his own self-doubts. And really, she wouldn’t care for him the way she did if he weren’t the type to run into the fire against his better logic for a boy who had always been chosen to him- prophecy be damned.

There was no one else in the room as she contemplated just how dire this moment was and how pitiful it was.

“Please be careful.” She found herself saying in a voice only he could hear.

“I always try to be.” It wasn’t a promise and she noticed that. He would never make a promise he couldn’t keep. Not to her.

They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity and her mind raced with a flush of memories and regrets- that in this moment the cold reality was drenching them with how little time they likely had left. It seemed he was processing a similar line of thinking, because his eyes scanned her face as though memorizing every detail. Thousands of unsaid words passed between them, though even then she yearned to hear the real thing.

It was now or never, it seemed.

“At Christmas, I-” His breath hitched, “I- Well, I’ve never…”

He seemed quite infuriated with himself. A crash in the distance caused them both to break their spell and Obi-Wan turned back to her, regret swimming in his eyes as well as a fondness that could no longer be debated.

They didn’t have time.

“I’m sorry,” He raised her hand to his lips, pressing a single firm kiss to her knuckles, “Another time, I hope.”

And she watched him go, memorizing with painstaking clarity the feeling of his hand slipping from hers and out of reach as his perfect silhouette danced down the stairs hurriedly, never looking back. Perhaps, because doing so would make him run back to her. That’s what she told herself again.

Her hand burned as she clutched it tightly. She had a duty to uphold too.

***

Anakin ran, assuming logically that the grand staircases would be where Maul awaited. He seemed to be somewhat interested in being dramatic and Anakin could think of no better place to stage an assault. He’d expected to hear someone following behind him, a professor trying to catch him before he did something so stupid or a friend come to his aid, but neither seemed as crazy as he was to face a threat so great.

The closer to the staircase he grew, the more aurors were laid about, Anakin felt his steps falter as he purposely turned his eyes away. They were fine, they had to be, they were just… taking a nap.

Although even his own heart didn’t take the gentle suggestion at face value.

He saw green light reflecting off the wall up ahead. It gave off an eerie strobe effect that made Anakin hesitate. His wand was still gripped in his hand and he did know a fair few spells he was quite good at, but what did he know about going against someone so powerful? Countless aurors were lying about, clearly not able to take him themselves and it certainly didn’t seem like Maul was in the mood to play with his victims.

The thoughts of his own home kept his feet moving forward. His mother’s bedroom, covered with feathers and his mother, missing, possibly worse and it had to be at the hands of Maul. Who else would be trying to draw him out, but the man who was very clear at wanting him dead this entire year? He repeated over and over and over again the stunning spell in his head as he stepped out into the open area of the staircases.

An auror had just caught the end of a green beam and was falling down. Maul looked almost bored as he watched and didn’t flinch as Anakin did as they hit the ground with a thud. Maul had put forth no effort in his spree, but the thought didn’t deter Anakin from hurtling his own spell while he had the element of surprise.

“Stupify,” He tried to be quiet about it, but his spell still missed the man by a few centimeters. Maul had noticed him much sooner, by the way he just stood there, watching him like a predator would its prey.

“So you have the dignity to fight your own battles,” He flicked his wand and Anakin dodged, jumping onto a staircase as it pivoted past him. Maul stepped casually onto his own and they both spun around each other before their stairs clicked into place. Anakin held his ground, aiming to stay as far away as he could from the man. There were things he wanted answered and he surely didn’t come here to lay down and die.

“I want to know what you did to my mum!” Anakin yelled before sending out another stunning spell and missing narrowly. Maul was still unperturbed by this and stepped onto another staircase.

“What would I care about your mother?” Maul asked with a sneer.

Anakin’s heart leapt, he must be lying, “Y-you took her! I know you did!” He shouted, his wand still clutched tightly in his hand. He sent off a quick chain-cast, aiming to disarm Maul, at least then there wasn’t much damage he could do. Maul reflected it like it was a particularly pesky fly and Anakin’s spell slammed into the wall, showering debris all around them.

“I didn’t take your mother, boy,” Maul sent a spell knocking Anakin’s wand out of his hand and causing it to tumble down the steps. He shrunk back as Maul took each step down to him incredibly slowly, “But once you’ve been erased from this earth,” He grinned, sharp teeth grinding together in a hideous display, “I’ll send her to find you.”

Maul’s wand was moving and in a last-ditch attempt at living, Anakin rushed forward, jumping at Maul and trying to rip his wand out of his hand. Maul growled, a low dangerous sound before shoving Anakin off. Anakin stumbled, but managed not to fall just in time for Maul’s foot to come crashing into his chest, sending him tumbling down the stairs.

He landed hard enough to knock the wind out of his lungs, but in the dust kicked up he managed to locate his wand before Maul could aim again and he sent out another desperate spell.

His heart sank as Maul simply stepped aside to dodge such a thing. This wasn’t how he wanted his life to end. He’d thought he’d be avenging his mother, locating her, being a hero. He was the Chosen One, he thought he could live through anything.

Maul raised his wand.

Anakin thought of his friends who he’d come to love like family. He thought of magic and all he had yet to learn. He thought of his mother, out there somewhere waiting for him.

***

There were bodies upon bodies lining the walls, all aurors, and all dead by Maul, presumably. Obi-Wan didn’t look as he went, not needing the horrifying distraction at the moment. These men and women gave themselves over to protect them and were treated like dominos to be knocked over in a chain reaction, all leading to-

-He came to an abrupt halt from his sprint, brain whirring as it tried to catch up to what his eyes saw to the left on the grand staircase. It was a body, and not just any body, but Anakin, small and limp at the bottom, completely unmoving. And just three flights up, completely shrouded in black save for his fiery face, was Maul.

“Stay away from him!” Obi-Wan shouted, drawing his attention immediately. Time only continued when he noticed Anakin’s chest moving up and down where he lay. All hope was not lost yet.

That was not to say that they were anywhere near out of the woods. The dementors had entered the space, but even this offered Obi-Wan no false hope. In fact, by the way they hovered beside him with a slight green glow surrounding their usual complete blackness, it was like they obeyed Maul somehow, serving the very opposite purpose than what was programmed of them.

Maul’s wand was sleek and smooth and undoubtedly did not belong to him originally. Obi-Wan knew enough about the clearances distributed by the Ministry that it belonged to an officer of some kind. He didn’t want to picture what happened to its original owner. Obi-Wan always struggled with conjuring patronuses, but if there was ever a time to learn, there was nothing like the present. He had to force his hand not to shake as he outstretched it, hoping he didn’t look as young as he felt.

He tried to channel happiness and positivity in a moment like this, in order to create the bright light needed to banish these dementors away, but every time a spark felt as though it might kindle, the gravity of their situation snuffed it out.

Maul said nothing, just as he hadn’t in Hogsmeade, but he did bear a full mouthful of yellow-stained teeth that matched the glowing eyes that appeared hollowed out in his skull. There was only hate and suffering behind those eyes, never a day of love or care. If Anakin’s life weren’t on the line, Obi-Wan might have felt sorry for him.

He knew the moment he made a move for the boy, Maul would only charge, but they couldn’t remain in this uneven standoff forever. Literally, they could not, because the stairs would not hold still for anyone, not even for the theatrics of a bloody lunatic. So, while it felt like a longshot, it also seemed like his only shot.

Obi-Wan took the leap, dashing to the end of the stairs, tumbling and grabbing Anakin on the way, just as the stairs moved and swiftly knocked them at an alarming velocity towards another shifting staircase. As predicted, when he moved, Maul moved, but not fast enough and stumbled as the stairs shifted, toppling over a railing in the process.

“Obi-Wan?” Anakin sat up and rubbed his head.

He quickly inspected the boy, satisfied that there was no blood, but there would definitely be a large bump on his head from whatever fall he’d taken. They didn’t have time to dilly dally. They had to go. He grabbed Anakin by the hand and pulled him the rest of the way down the stairs to the ground level, flickering his eyes up to notice the dementors closing in on them like nightfall.

For a brief moment, as the dementor positioned itself ready, Obi-Wan saw the future of Hogwarts as it was to be should Maul truly claim the school. He saw destruction, fire, betrayal, hate. He saw so much hate in the form of enraged yellow eyes. He couldn’t seem to feel his hands or his feet as the tunnel of darkness closed in on him. There was no life, there was no hope, there was no purpose.

All he wanted was for it to be over… Just put him out of his misery.

Why hadn’t Maul claimed them yet?

He saw his friends suffering at his failure. He saw the school itself burning to the ground. Cody was on the ground of the castle, a fiery hole in his chest that hadn’t cooled, unmoving and unblinking. Satine was surely next as she sobbed alongside him. Everything was painted in gray.

In the reflection of the green aura that tainted the dementors’ ragged cloaks, he met Anakin’s equally disillusioned gaze. That spark that refused to ignite earlier dragged like flint on steel and rubbed rapidly, starting to warm him up and remind him not of the bright spots of life, but of what he’d come here to do.

Positioning himself in front of Anakin, Obi-Wan yelled, “Expecto Patronum!”

Only an azure burst of light did not come from the tip of his wand, but somewhere above the dementors, taking the form of a beautiful blue and florid owl before circling and encompassing the dark phantoms with a blinding light. In the process, it knocked Maul backwards up a staircase and bolting forwards towards the person responsible.

He knew that patronus.

“Qui-Gon!” Anakin pointed up even further, where Obi-Wan’s mentor had thoroughly derailed Maul’s plans of following them by engaging in a violent trade of green and red bouts of magic back and forth, dancing along the stairs rhythmically, away from them, as though they were partners in an arranged production. Glass windows shattered and more dementors joined the game, never once standing a chance for Qui-Gon Jinn, though Maul proved himself quite the martial artist.

“We’ve got to help him!” Anakin began to move, which stalled Obi-Wan from his shocked reverie and he grabbed the boy by the collar of his shirt and yanked him back.

“No, you’ve got to get to safety!” Obi-Wan said and held him close to his face, “You are in no shape to be fighting a Sith lord.”

“Neither is he!” Anakin pointed out the obvious, which was that Maul’s aggressively acrobatic fighting style was only going to wear Qui-Gon out should they continue to edge towards a dead end. Qui-Gon would have very little room to maneuver and parry should they corner themselves in a tower or a narrow walkway. “And neither are you.”

“I have to help him.” Obi-Wan said, “It’s the only way.”

He couldn’t explain it too, because it just felt like he needed to push forward. The logical thing to do would be to run back to Ravenclaw tower with Anakin in tow and reunite with his friends in safety, but he was drawn to the fight and not for any sense of bloodlust, but refined purpose.

“I won’t let you!” Anakin cried, “It’s my fault!”

“Like hell it is!” Obi-Wan chastised and shoved him forward, “You are in control of your own actions, not Maul’s. The only action you should be doing is getting the hell out of here.”

“But-”

“No but’s, Anakin! If you never listen to me again, listen to me now: run. Hide. Get help, whatever, but you stay as far away as your little legs can carry you, alright? You are the future of tomorrow. This is only today.”

It wasn’t what he promised Qui-Gon, but if Anakin was away from Maul, he was safe, so if Obi-Wan could help delay that, he would.

“Where?”

“Exactly where you need to be,” He said.

“I can never get those stupid riddles!”

“Trust me, you will.” Obi-Wan said. “Just run.”

“And what about you?”

“I’m right behind you,” Though as they stared at each other, they both knew it was a lie. With tears staining his cheeks, Anakin nodded and ran in the opposite direction. Obi-Wan watched him until he was far enough away before turning and racing back up the steps again. Just as he did, they began moving, knocking Obi-Wan around rather roughly and almost backwards again, but he kept running and even dove forward to catch the next staircase by the hand.

For a moment, he was suspended above by only one hand, forcing himself to use all the strength in his body to lift himself and keep climbing.

Qui-Gon and Maul kept moving, the sound of glass shattering in their wake.

***

Against every fiber of his being that told him to stay and fight, Anakin ran. He aggressively swiped tears from his eyes with his arm as he did so, trying to keep his vision as clear as possible. He didn’t know where to go or what to do. Gryffindor’s common room was the other way and he would never understand the Ravenclaw riddle to get in.

Obi-Wan had only told him to go, but not where, though he’d looked at him with conviction as though he had given him a clue. Anakin was far too distressed to think of any clues. Fear swelled in him, as he considered what his two mentors were sacrificing in order to protect him, to protect the future. They believed in him, but he didn’t quite believe in himself at the moment. Maul was going to tear through this entire school and if there was one thing that was proven, it was just how inescapable that was.

He was supposed to be a hero, but he was trying to escape. It had always been the plan, but he’d never expected to have to do so alone. He was supposed to save them all, but he’d learned the hard way that he was no match for Maul.

His feet rapidly hit the ground, never once breaking stride as he tred onward. There was only so far he could go before he ended up right back where they were. He needed a place where no one would find him. He needed a safe haven.

But between the Zillo Beast, Dooku, and now Maul, he’d learned that there was no real sense of security in this wizarding world. It was fantastic in both the best and worst ways possible, with no room for the mundane quiet of peace. Anakin never typically cared when it didn’t involve a sadist breaking in and trying to murder him.

As he rounded a particularly sharp corner and briefly considered hiding in an empty classroom under a desk or in a chest, his eyes went round as he noticed not one, not two, but three dementors lingering near the dungeons. Slytherin’s common room was nearby, but they’d never let him in.

“Skywalker, what the hell are you doing?” Windu dropped in from seemingly nowhere, banishing the now mob of dementors that were swirling around them like a tornado.

“They’re everywhere!” He yelled.

“How did this happen?” Windu asked.

“Maul turned them against everyone! I don’t know how!”

Windu grimaced as they closed in on them and kept Anakin close as he flipped his cape to the side and valiantly pointed his wand with the lethal confidence of someone who had done it many times before. From Windu’s wand, a glowing blue ram burst through the wall of spinning black to create a pocket just big enough for Anakin.

“Run!” He shouted and once again, Anakin obeyed.

He needed to make sure he paid attention if he got to live to see the day patronuses were taught in school. Clearly, it was going to be an important lesson and one that Obi-Wan didn’t quite grasp yet.

Other professors were on the front lines of this massive fight against dementors whether inside or outside. Anakin leapt around one that was trying to suck the face off of Professor Ki-Adi Mundi, but was immediately banished by the vigilant Professor Shaak Ti. He never received more encouragement to keep pushing forward and away than he did in that moment.

Who would help Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan? Who would save them if all of the other professors were trying to handle the immediate threat of the dementors turning on them? His heart started to rattle as he kept going, approaching a dead end and slinking against the wall. The dementors came quicker than he anticipated even possible. Their long and bony fingers reached for him, ready to pull him into his own worst nightmares imaginable and to make them living realities. He’d snuck many horror movies in his time, but he’d never seen anything worse than them.

Where was it written that the Chosen One would need a soul to save the universe? Nowhere, it would seem, because this didn’t qualify as death, but a fate worse than. He pointed his wand out, hoping he could also learn the patronus charm on the fly, but felt the immediate disconnect between his words and his wand. They were just words in the end.

He pressed himself against the door, never wishing more than to be anywhere but here. He wished he could have found where Obi-Wan was referring. He needed it. He needed that refuge if he was going to be brave and if he was going to fight back one day.

He needed- To open his eyes?

Because once he did so, he realized that he was in a completely different room that he’d never seen before. It wasn’t empty, exactly. There were old books stacked on some rickety tables. Cobwebs lined the portraits on the walls that chatted amongst themselves. They stopped dead in the middle of conversation when they spotted Anakin.

“Er- Sorry for interrupting.” He said with a wave.

“Who the blazes are you?” The dusty portrait of a man with dark hair and light brown skin frowned deeply at Anakin.

“Don’t be rude, Master Ketu.” The hooded man in the portrait opposite to him nodded at Anakin, “Congratulations.”

“Do you even know what’s going on out there? There’s nothing to be congratulated for,” He said.

“Boy, have you no concept of what you have uncovered?” The man called Ketu pressed, his arms crossed over the numerous medals of honor that hung from his neck.

Anakin looked around him, “Uh… A dirty old classroom?”

He pinched his nose, “I swear, these children grow more ungrateful by the years.”

“To be fair, we haven’t seen a new child in over a century.” The other man said placatingly, “And there’s no way he can be worse than him. I am Ters Sendon, archivist and historian and this is Master Ketu, former leader of the old Je’daii order.”

“Je’Daii?”

“He hasn’t even heard of us.” Scoffed Ketu.

“An old group of warrior wizards who used to combat the ancient Sith during the old wars.” Ters said and Anakin gasped when he lifted off his hood to reveal horns protruding from his head just as Maul’s did. “What is it?”

“You’re… You’re like him!” Anakin backed away, nearly stumbling over a stray chair as he did, “You’re like the Sith lord that’s currently taking over our school!”

“I’m no Sith!” He protested.

“You look like him?”

“So? Sith is not a race, it’s a religion.” Ters said, “There are good people that look like me and plenty of bad people that look like you.”

Anakin considered that and realized as he looked at Ters Sendon that he didn’t bear any of the malicious traits that Maul had. There was no hate radiating off of his gaze, no yellow or orange to his eyes, no hostility in his voice. He didn’t even really look like Maul aside from the horns. As opposed to a stark red and black patterned face, Ters was more the color of leather, with beige swirls around his eyes and nose.

Ketu, not nearly as bored as he was before, stroked his black goatee, “You mean, the Sith have returned?”

“I’m supposed to defeat them someday.” Anakin said, “I’m the Chosen One. Or at least… I’m supposed to be, but I’m hiding…”

“Well, you’re much too young to fight a Sith, my boy.” Ketu said.

“Everyone’s been saying that and I know that, but how can I let other people take the fall for me?”

“Take it from someone who has seen plenty of golden haired heroes that were supposed to be chosen for greatness, you must accept that they are not fighting for you.”

“Ketu! How is that helpful?” Ters asked.

“Because it removes the pressure that comes with the position. Everyone has their place in this war, but you… You must survive. You must survive so that many others can live.” He fixed Anakin with a stern look, “That is why the Room summoned you.”

“The room?” Anakin looked around, “This place is special?”

“The Room of Requirement manifests itself only to students who truly need it.” Ters explained, “In your case, it’s to hide from this dastardly foe that breached your school.”

“If only I were alive… I’d bring this Sith to his knees.” Ketu sighed wistfully.

“I can’t just sit in here and wait!” Anakin yelped, his voice echoing around the room.

“Clearly, whatever you were running from had outnumbered you. You were whiter than a ghost.” Ters said, “And I’ve seen many ghosts.”

“Ghosts can come in here?”

“Not here, no.” Ketu shook his head, “We are the only portraits in the school that cannot move, but in our time, there were ghosts too.”

“Why can’t you move?”

“We must protect the integrity of the room,” Ters explained, “And a good thing too, because the last boy would have destroyed the place to prevent anyone else from finding it.”

“The magical enchantments were too powerful for him then, thankfully,” Ketu whistled, “I wonder where he got off to…”

“We need to get more people in here, to protect them!” Anakin said. “How can I let others follow me?”

“I think they may be safer where they are.”

Anakin wasn’t so sure.

***

Qui-Gon had but one clear goal when parrying and deflecting the onslaught of fast green bolts that erupted from Maul’s wand: get him out of the castle. Hopefully, from there, other professors stronger than he could prevent him from entering again. Qui-Gon was no fighter by nature. It took a great deal of strength and focus and connectivity with his inner peace to remain in line with Maul’s attacks. He was definitely no one’s first choice in fighting off a man who murdered countless aurors in his wake.

However, the moment he saw Maul and his possessed dementors hovering over Obi-Wan and Anakin, he knew that this would be his fight after all.

He’d never faced anything like this in his life- growing up in a time of peace was like the beautiful summer and late fall that preambled a harsh winter. Well, the ruthless attempts at his head led by the tenacious Sith was more of enough proof that winter had arrived with the full impact of a blizzard at their heels.

Qui-Gon tried to analyze and predict the Zabrak’s next attack, hoping that his strategic capabilities would balance him against the superior fighting style that was the combination of martial artistry and power. There was much hate that spewed from every fiber of Maul’s being, so personal that Qui-Gon almost took it as such. It was like every person who stood in his way somehow became Maul’s target enemy and it was obvious he wasn’t used to anyone lasting this long.

Well, Qui-Gon did have the high ground when he snuck up on Maul and took him off guard, effectively clipping the wings that the dementors brought him. He wouldn’t even begin to question how he’d did it, save for that it was obviously an ancient magic known to the Sith. As they crossed the archway to the empty Great Hall, veering away from the direction of the student dormitories to Qui-Gon’s relief, and Maul was allotted true space to spew knives and broken shards of glassware towards him at once, Qui-Gon realized why this man hid all year.

He did not hide to feel out their positioning or to even tease them. Any of that had only been a cherry on top for the malignant evil before him. No, Maul waited it out to grow, to improve his strengths, to ready himself for this fight, because regardless of the ease at which he slipped through their clenched fists, he still expected a grave one.

“Protego!” Qui-Gon shouted numerous times in numerous directions, shielding himself from every blow Maul flung at him, but dodging an incoming killing curse as well.

That was going to leave a mark on the walls.

The candles came crashing down, bathing the entire room in a gray hollowness that he wasn’t used to, but didn’t ponder. It was only fitting that a Sith was trying to take everything good about this place with him. Well, he wouldn’t have it, not on his watch, anyway.

Their beams collided, his disarming and Maul’s for the kill, creating the collaboration of blinding green and red at the middle. It resembled a golden snitch at the heart of the contact, but despite having dueled Dooku just last year, Qui-Gon felt his arm, and eventually his whole body by extension, growing weak. Dooku had been going easy on him and he knew it. Maul would do no such thing.

Maul tapped further into his heat, bearing a tight grin as he pushed harder, showing just what the dark side could do, but Qui-Gon did not and would not envy his pain or his suffering that led him to such darkness.

“You were just a child, did you even get to choose?” Qui-Gon asked, trying to possibly tap into any shred of humanity left within the empty cavern that took place of Maul’s soul. That included, bringing up a history Maul did not want to remember.

“You don’t know me.” It only emboldened his opponent’s attack, making the push and pull of their tug of war look a great deal more green than red.

“Perhaps, I do. We were students here once, right? At the same time even.”

Maul remained silent and focused. He would not monologue for Qui-Gon. It seemed he was the sort of foe not worth quarreling with.

“Give me the boy.” Was all he said.

“I cannot do that.” Qui-Gon shook his head.

“Then you will die.” He smiled.

Sweat gathered at his temples as he pushed harder, channeling the peace that existed in harmony at his core, willing the spark to burn brighter than it ever had. If not ever again, now would be the moment.

It was not looking good.

Until, an unprecedented blast of blue sent Maul skidding across the table, sliding into every stray glass and plate that had been left in shambles on the way. He was up and charging within a matter of seconds, which was remarkable on its own right, but this also meant that Qui-Gon didn’t have much of a second to breathe or consider that the wizard that entered the room was not a colleague or auror, but Obi-Wan Kenobi.

“Obi-Wan!” He shouted and moved to jump in front of him to be a last standing shield from Maul, as if that would do anything, but the boy was quick and immediately took to pursuing Maul with his own attacks.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He said.

“But I am, and we can talk about this later, no?” Obi-Wan gritted as Maul whipped out a second wand from his utility belt and let his robe drift to the ground. It seemed he came prepared for this very situation. It was a very unfortunate way to learn Maul was ambidextrous as he was just as proficient with his left hand as he was his right and was able to perform the same spell from two wands.

“We definitely will.” Qui-Gon fired back, but had to concede that the very last thing they needed to be doing to get out of here was arguing with each other. Not to mention, a very small part of him couldn’t help but be proud of Obi-Wan’s prowess for being so young.

He’d never seen him like this before- so sure of himself and so determined, as well as so underdressed. His robe and jumper were completely discarded somewhere along his way here and the sleeves of his collared shirt had been pushed up. While still wearing the tie that symbolized his house with pride, he suddenly looked much older than the boy he knew.

Even more than that, he successfully and quickly reflected Maul’s own curse back on him, sending the Sith dizzily stumbling around, though never once losing speed.

With Obi-Wan at his side, he was able to take Maul on at a more even level, even with the two wands. He and his mentee practiced in sync together. They’d never formally fought alongside each other, but where Qui-Gon moved, Obi-Wan moved, and the two took to dejecting each and every distant move displayed by Maul.

That was not to say it was easy, of course. Between the physicality and ferocity of Maul’s magical and non-magical aggression, it was still throwing the both of them through the ringer. Obi-Wan’s face was red, but laser focused and never relieved with pride if he managed to land some sort of attack.

They left out the doorway they came and through the third floor corridor, only further exhausting themselves the smaller the quarters became. Maul began to literally bounce off the walls, running up them and doing backflips to dodge and alternatively, to gain traction. As his history showed, he wasn’t purely invested in the magical portion of a fight, but the physical combat as well.

Up the stairs they went to the very top, a difficult task when Maul decided to turn the steps into slippery goo in his wake and fire on the railings. Qui-Gon had learned the latter of that sequence on his own the hard way. Obi-Wan charged ahead, more athletic than he gave himself credit for, and twice as brave. It was a lethal combination, though not one Qui-Gon would fool himself into believing would be enough to seizing Maul completely. They needed to distract him until Windu found them.

They needed help.

Maul was quite pressed when Obi-Wan managed a leg-locker spell on him, though it was only one leg by his aim. It wasn’t his fault, since Qui-Gon had to shove him aside to avoid wand arrows that came straight for his head.

Even still, there was no doubt that they were fighting better together.

The ceiling of the pointed tower crumbled, specs of dust and later actual pieces of infrastructure raining down on them and hurrying their pace. When reaching the small bridge that connected the two towers, Maul blasted the center as he ran ahead.

“Where’s he going?”

“The classrooms, it seems.” Qui-Gon answered as he tried to catch his breath. “Anakin-”

“-Is safe.” He said with resounding certainty, his blue eyes sharper than glass as he regarded him with shoulders back and his jaw squared. He was still shorter than Qui-Gon, but it was evident now more than ever that he was a child no longer. Yes, Obi-Wan was ready. Or was it that he had no choice but to be ready?

It pained Qui-Gon’s very soul, because children fighting the battles of adults never soothed him. They leapt over the chasm and through the already crumbling tower that dwindled all the way down, catching Maul at his heels after a few flights of rapidly following suit. He was either leading them to the belly of his trap or he was trying to shake them. Qui-Gon didn’t know how that spoke for their success as his opponents, but was willing to take any wins offered to them.

They were far from finished in their pursuit, as the tower began to physically shake back and forth. Taking this battle to heart, or whatever stood in place of it, Maul turned, charging up the stairs with a sword at hand pointed straight at them.

On instinct rather than through thought, Qui-Gon pushed Obi-Wan hard against the side of the wall, narrowly preventing him from meeting the tip of the blade.

“Stupefy!” He yelled, but missed and Maul went for the younger man again, a tight smile on his lips as he flipped forwards against the current of gravity and spun the sword straight towards them. Obi-Wan, who was stronger than he looked, caught Maul’s wrist before the finality of the attack could be completed. Using his entire body weight, he flung them down, doing his own half-assed little stunt to avoid being stabbed.

Qui-Gon seized his moment to attack, turning the coat of arms by the doorway onto Maul, giving them three fighters on their side. This didn’t stop Maul, who only seemed delighted by the challenge and swung at the ground to encourage it.

Obi-Wan scrambled off the ground in time and trotted alongside Qui-Gon as the knight moved forward and Maul backed himself up to the wall of the rounded tower, clashing his sword with the knight’s, meeting every swing with one of his own caliber. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon, meanwhile, tried to use this brief moment of distraction to their advantage and fired whatever spells could come to their mind.

Obi-Wan had gotten even more creative and used a tongue fattening spell, likely trying to limit his airway.

It didn’t seem he even minded the limited mobility, though it only seemed to anger him that he was wasting his time. Maul had the advantage, being alive, but the knight had nothing to lose. Sometimes, that wasn’t a strength.

In a fit of unbridled rage, which was the only way either Qui-Gon or Obi-Wan could describe what transpired next, lightning rang through the sword and Maul leapt into the air, bringing the blade straight through the empty head of the knight and using the momentum of this force to fling the still sparking helmet towards them, hitting Obi-Wan directly in the stomach and sending him flipping over the railing with the added help of Maul diving forward to punch him square in the face.

“Immobulus!” Qui-Gon hollered, pointing his wand at Obi-Wan’s collapsing body just before he could hit the bottom stone at full-force. He was knocked out, nothing more, or maybe that’s what Qui-Gon needed to convince himself to continue edging through this battle.

The sword came down, achieving not a speck of flesh, but slicing Qui-Gon’s wand clean in two against the marble railing to their right. It was the closest he’d ever been to Maul and he understood why few wanted to approach him. He could feel the turmoil within this shell of a man, who was only driven by his own hate. He was like a walking timebomb who was expected to walk the earth like a person.

“When I’m done with you, I’ll kill the kid too,” Only he wasn’t referring to Anakin, but Obi-Wan.

“You won’t have the chance,” Qui-Gon said and kicked up his foot to toss the former knight’s sword into own hand. He was taught to wield by Count Dooku long ago, adopting many different tactics. It had always been in a gentlemanly fashion before, but Maul knew no such artistry or decency in this field. He was a predator and while he may have been playing with his food, he would still want nothing more than to collect the prize.

They backed out of the exit, Qui-Gon pursuing Maul as their blades clinked and clanked at rapid speed, each performing offensively without any pauses or breaks. Qui-Gon took his first success as they approached the classrooms and he managed to knock one of Maul’s wands free and clattering onto the ground. The Sith swordsman paid no mind, flipping backwards and inviting Qui-Gon to chase him into yet another trapped space.

He knew he was better where he could be afforded more breathing room, but at the moment, this was not a battle where Qui-Gon dictated the rules. Rarely, did the heroes get to do much of that in history. It was all about adaptivity and believing in oneself and the magic that lay within them.

“I am one with magic and the magic is within me.” He chanted on a harmonic loop inside his head, ignoring every fiber of his being that broke apart as they crashed through Professor Palpatine’s office of all places.

Perhaps, he was trying to pay a visit to his favorite professor. He looked disappointed even through the mask of focused disdain that he wasn’t present. He would never have known that Anakin might have been hiding here, after all. He lingered around the castle for a little while, but not long enough to see the students interact.

Thinking a bit like his enemy, Qui-Gon seized the weakness, going in for an elongated stalemate of the inner strengths, bringing them up close and personal.

“Who do you work for?” He asked calmly.

He knew that nothing splintered more than serenity or moreover, when their dastardly deeds took no effect on their desired target. Predictably, Maul clenched his yellow teeth to bare.

“I work for no one.” He scowled and shoved them apart, spinning and beginning a new onslaught of attacks that Qui-Gon met and dodged. The dodged shots ended up as holes that would need to be patched later and each designated attack seemed to chip away at him more and more.

Maul might have possessed an eternal source of energy from the cruelty at his very core, but he did not envy him for it.

They shuffled onto the external viaduct, which stretched back to the courtyard outside the Great Hall again, back towards the common rooms. He couldn’t let that happen. Qui-Gon knew that this was it. This long stretch of smooth stone that expanded over the chasm beneath them, was where this needed to end.

As if reading his mind, Maul closed in on him, making Qui-Gon overshoot a swing and nearly set himself off balance. Maul’s sword came down hard on the stone balustrade to their side, cracking it with the power and magical tenacity it contained, before retracting and kicking Qui-Gon in the sternum.

He rolled, backwards, and landed on his feet just in time to collide blades harshly, feeling like the swords might break if they strike again. This didn’t stop either of them and Qui-Gon desperately tried to seek out a window to take the advantage. And then, he found it. Maul’s gloved finger twitched just as he was reaching for his other wand- a dirty trick in a match of the blades, but Dooku might have done the same in his modern state.

Luckily, Qui-Gon didn’t necessarily need a wand.

He snatched the wand from midair by the sheer willpower of doing so.

“Petrificus Totalus!” And while Maul leapt to the ground, his frame stilled in the air as he caught the end of the charm, hitting the ground hard with his sword stuck frozen in hand.

He let out a heavy breath of relief. He pointed the wand at Maul and tossed the blade to the side and knelt over him. Only the man’s face could move, so he didn’t grow too close at risk of literally being bitten, but Qui-Gon looked at him sternly.

“What business do you have with the boy?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Maul chuckled lightly, “To destroy him.”

“But for what? Because he’s a threat to you?”

“No,” He would have shaken his head if he could, “Because he’s a threat to all of us.”

Qui-Gon frowned, “That- No, he will bring about an end to monsters like yourself and whatever master you refuse to name.”

“Don’t you see?” Maul said, “He is the monster.”

The words trickled through Qui-Gon’s ears like rain hitting the hard sidewalk. That couldn’t be true. He was to bring balance. Though, it was never exactly said how. It couldn’t be. The prophecy spoke of a united world and for the hero, which was Anakin, to prevail at great sacrifice.

Or at least, that’s how he interpreted it after much studying.

“That cannot be.”

“It has been written in fate. I have seen it,” And by the legitimate fear that plagued Maul’s gaze, he could tell the Sith was not lying about having been exposed to a plethora of horror, “He is but the pawn in a greater plan. Just like you and just like me.”

“He’s so much more than either of us,” Qui-Gon shook his head, keeping the wand steady at his throat, poking the skin ever so slightly. “Especially you.”

“I am merely trying to save us all,” Maul begged, “Just as you think you are. We are not that different. Skywalker isn’t either.”

“Anakin is the hero of this story, not you.” Qui-Gon said, determined now, “I will see to that.”

“No,” And just as quick as he fell, he moved too fast for Qui-Gon to even blink and the sword that had seemed frozen in time was thrust right into the pit of Qui-Gon’s stomach. Immeasurable pain soaked through him as he felt blood from all over rush through him and a varying list of parables cross his mind.

Maul brought him so close that their noses touched, “You won’t.”

He unsheathed the sword from the pit of Qui-Gon’s stomach and let him fall backwards, hitting the stone unceremoniously as sound seemed to fall behind in slow, deep motions. The blood rushed from his body and breathing suddenly became labored beyond measure. He was faced with warm sunlight, though he found himself only growing colder by the second. Slowly, the bright blue around the high sun was becoming a tunnel and getting fuzzier. The pain in his stomach was less aching as it was dull and detached from him. He saw stars and galaxies and far more than the human eyes could see.

He saw blackness that occluded the stars and realized strangely that it was a man in a dark cape. This was Vader, he knew somehow, but he couldn’t quite explain why. But there was more and as he looked into the stars that gathered in the eyes of his helmet, he saw the fates for what they were. There was so much loss in this montage of multiple realities that spawned in front of him. There was agony, hate, betrayal, death. So so much death beyond his own.

It was strange, to realize that he was dying and to not really care about the logistics of that. Instead, he cared for what he saw next: happiness, love, family, weddings, babies, revolution against an unjust cause, rebirth.

He saw the back of a man with white hair and a beard to match and while his heart initially spoke to him of his mentor, he found that the eyes that turned to meet him matched another that would grow to be wiser than them all.

He saw the good in the blond boy that everyone else feared. He saw the duality of the young brunette who was capable of far more than her small stature dictated. He saw friends he did and didn’t know. He saw them all come together and he saw them win. It was an imperfect future, full of not one, but many heroes.

Some that were chosen ones merely by their own volition. That fact settled hard and heavy. There was still much obscurity to meet the hope. Nothing, even at these far reaches of the universe, was written in stone. If there was one thing that was clear: Anakin was the key.

And in a flash he was back for a moment, given one last breath of life and to meet the tear stained eyes of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

He failed. But there was still hope.

***

“NO!” His cry was anguished and angry, his vision red like the blood dripping off the blade. He had already been running, hurrying to catch up with his mentor, not willing to leave him alone with that monster for more than a second longer than necessary.

He clearly hadn’t been fast enough.

He sprinted, faster still, wand automatically raised and flourished. A crack was heard as red light burst from his own wand and slammed into Maul, knocking him back a few feet and causing his sword to fly from his hand and over the bridge. He hadn’t even uttered the words, but his wand seemed to read his mind, connect with him and in this brief moment of connection, he hurtled as many spells as he could think of.

It was a dance of light. Maul had managed to pull his own wand out and was doing a fair job at blocking each colorful strike, but had yet to get an opening to counter. Obi-Wan tossed another stupify at Maul and it hit his protective spell so hard sparks flew.

“You’re too late,” Maul kicked a loose stone towards him, managing to distract him long enough that Maul could send a killing curse his way. He just managed to block it, the green spell falling apart just inches from his face. He staggered backwards nearly falling over the edge before launching another volley of attacks.

“I won’t let you hurt him,” Obi-Wan growled, although the pang in his chest reminded him of what he’d seen, what he hadn’t been fast enough to stop. He cast a smoke spell causing them both to be hidden within a dark cloud. Obi-Wan crept silently to the side, the only real chance he had was to catch Maul off guard. Just a few more steps-

A gust of wind kicked up from the center of the cloud blowing away the smoke screen and revealing an almost smug looking Maul. He grinned wildly, his yellow eyes gleaming like a tiger going for the kill.

Obi-Wan just managed to dodge as the spell Maul hurled blew a hole through the already crumbling parapet. He returned the favor with another stunning charm that did little more than knock Maul off balance.

Obi-Wan, however, took the opportunity rushing forwards a curse on the tip of his tongue before Maul fell backwards slamming a foot into Obi-Wan and kicking him back.

He stumbled to regain balance, but his foot slipped and time slowed as he desperately clawed for the edge of the bridge with his free hand. He swung there precariously, heart beating a mile a minute as he tried to think of something, anything. Maul grunted, he could only assume he was standing up again, making his way slowly towards what was surely Obi-Wan’s doom.

He looked to his wand, he couldn’t risk a spell, if he missed and hit the viaduct, he would surely be falling to his death. If he didn’t… Well he didn’t want to think of the terrible fate that would bring him. He swung his arm up, hand still gripping his wand, but allowing for him to pull himself up just high enough to see. Maul was approaching, wand twitching as he surely thought through every nasty spell he had at his disposal.

The dying sun came out from behind the clouds, reflecting its light off of something silver on the edge. A sudden burst of hope filled him as he whispered a series of spells that he hoped Maul took as nothing more than him praying for salvation.

Maul didn’t pause.

Obi-Wan dropped hold of the ledge flicking his wand upwards in order to soar up through the air landing behind Maul, just steady enough he was able to catch the silver sword, sapphires glittered across the bottom, a sight to behold if he weren’t busy lunging with it.

Maul had turned just in time to watch as Obi-Wan used every bit of strength, every bit of magic left in his body to bring the sword clear through his middle. The sadist had the decency to look surprised, shocked that he could be foiled by a scrawny 17 year old when so many had tried and failed before. Obi-Wan brought up his foot and kicked, returning the favor of pushing the Zabrak off the viaduct, he didn’t bother watching him fall.

The clatter of the sword falling out of Obi-Wan’s hand and onto the stone brought him out of his adrenaline induced daze and he turned his head almost robotically to where Qui-Gon still lay. He was breathing, but barely, each breath looked laborious even from afar.

“Qui-Gon!” One moment he was standing over where he committed a high wizarding crime and another he was on his knees next to his mentor. He ripped off his top layer and pressed over the wound desperately trying to stop the bleeding even though he could feel that his trousers were already being soaked through.

“No, no,” Qui-Gon batted his hands away, but it only gave Obi-Wan the determination to press harder.

“It’ll be alright, you’ll be fine,” Obi-Wan repeated to himself as he focused on the task at hand. A shaky hand caught his wrist and he tore his eyes away from the gore and met Qui-Gon’s deep blue eyes. Eyes normally filled with mystery and whimsy were focused just enough to quelm his fast-racing thoughts.

“Obi-Wan,” He pleaded, “Anakin-”

“Anakin’s fine!” Obi-Wan shook his head angrily, “I already told you he’s-”

“I need you to see that Anakin gets his training,” Qui-Gon grasped for his attention again and he gave it though he struggled too, “Anakin must become a wizard, he is the chosen one,” Qui-Gon spoke the words with a strong conviction as if he had been born with this knowledge and hadn’t found out along with the rest of them last year.

“Yes, sure, but Qui-Gon-” Obi-Wan tried, but froze when Qui-Gon struggled for a breath.

“Promise me Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon managed to pant, “Promise me you’ll see to it.”

“I promise,” He answered, they looked into each other’s eyes for a beat more before Obi-Wan returned to his task, wishing quite desperately that he’d gone with Satine to those first aid classes instead of the dueling club, “But don’t worry about that now, I-”

Qui-Gon’s breathing ceased.

There were no other sounds. He couldn’t hear the birds in the sky or the breeze through the trees; it was only silence. He felt his mouth form words, but couldn’t hear them. He moved his hands from Qui-Gon’s middle towards his shoulders shaking him once, twice, three times. He felt tears trailing down his face and he tried to wipe them away, likely just smearing his own face with the blood of both that murderer and of Qui-Gon. Merging the two of their beings together like they were twisted up into some horrifying cycle of fate. He pressed his head, body trembling, to Qui-Gon’s chest, praying to hear even an unsteady heartbeat.

All he could hear was silence.

He stayed there, unable to move and hardly unable to breathe at Qui-Gon’s side, sitting vigil for his mentor, his most trusted ally, the wisest man he knew. Eventually the bubble was bound to break and if it wasn’t Qui-Gon growing cold under him it was the hand that fell on his shoulder.

He flinched, whipping to the side prepared to fight another enemy, but his hands fell at the guarded look of Windu’s eyes. The professor tried to pull him away, but he broke out of his grasp with more strength than he’d thought he had left.

“Where’s Maul?” Windu crouched beside him, gently pressing Qui-Gon’s eyes shut. Obi-Wan couldn’t find it in himself to speak and he shook his head to try and convey that, but Windu just grabbed his shoulders and looked him straight in the eye, “I need to know if he’s still around.”

“I ki-” He tried, voice croaky and ruined in his silence, “He’s gone. Dead.”

Professor Windu said nothing, just placed a hand on his back for a moment more before standing. He swished his wand, brilliant red and gold sparks bursting out and filling the night sky, announcing to all that they were finally safe. However, after the display of colors he did not lower his wand and instead kept it raised, the tip glowing softly in the night’s sky.

Professor Plo Koon was the next to join them, his eyes sad and mournful under the light of their two wands. Then one by one the professors arrived, each taking in the scene and lighting their wands in silence. Obi-Wan felt much too numb sitting there on his own, magic exhausted from the fight, to locate his own wand much less light it in honor. Qui-Gon had never been much for ceremonies anyways, but the thought brought him no comfort.

The unspoken vigil ended as Headmaster Palpatine lowered his own wand, followed by Professor Windu. Obi-Wan was stood up by the latter, this time he found no fight left in him, and escorted towards the castle. He kept an eye on Qui-Gon’s body for as long as he could, but surrounded by the Headmaster and various professors it was impossible to see long before he crossed the threshold into the school.

#anakin skywalker #obi-wan kenobi #obitine #anidala #the clone wars #tcw #star wars #magical forces au #hpau

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doloresrojo · 3 years ago

Text

Hel’s Daughter

Notes: Although I've never read one of his books, I was inspired by Rick Riordan. I also took some elements of different works of fiction, like Francesca Simon's "The Monstrous Child", the History Channel show "Vikings", Neil Gaiman's "Norse Mythology" and other sources. English is not my native language, so there might be mistakes when it comes to grammar and spelling.

Hope you like it.

The word miracle didn’t exist for the old Norsemen; the concept was foreign to them. If you wanted the favor of the gods you had to take it through sacrifice and blood, prayers were not enough. The gods demanded action. Hel, the goddess of the dead, ruler of Helheim, receiver of those who died an unworthy dead, believed this just as much as the Aesir and the Vanir; and yet, she couldn’t think of a better word to describe the baby that was about to come out of her womb. For thousands of years the gods and goddesses had roamed Midgard coupling with mortals leaving offsprings everywhere. So far, Hel had been the only exception when it came to offsprings. Nobody told Hel that she couldn’t conceive, she just assumed it, after all, half of her body was a corpse. She thought that she wasn’t supposed to produce life, it was not her domain. But having a child had always been one of her deepest longings.

Hel was a witch too, her mother the giantess Angrboda was a völva, and a powerful one; Loki had not chosen her only for her beauty and wickedness; power attracted Loki more than anything, and before being separated from her children she had thought her daughter well. Hel could cast a spell for almost anything, but her favorite was the art of illusion. Hel could make the left side of her body, the one that was a corpse, complement the right one. She knew that the other gods disdained her appearance, and she had used that to her advantage, she loved to play with them, but when it came to mortal men she knew that she had to conceal that part of her if she wanted their attention. So she presented herself as a beautiful Nordic woman: fair skin and smooth as the ice, green eyes like a meadow in the spring, scarlet red lips and long blond hair that reached down to her waist. She looked like a princess from a fairy tale, ancient and mysterious.

The father of her baby was a young Irish musician that was living in London, one of her favorite places. He wasn’t particularly ambitious, he hadn’t left Ireland trying to make it big, he was a wanderer and an artist, a good one for that matter. At first Hel had been attracted to his voice, raspy but comforting, like whiskey running through your veins; then as she watched him she realized that he was shy and he was honestly baffled when someone showed interest in him, and it wasn’t an act; she could see it through her left eye, that eye could only see the truth; he knew her as Sigrid and for one night they worshiped each other. Trough sex, Hel was able to feel the rush that only living bodies feel, the feeling that she couldn’t completely have on her own. And this boy was good at what he was doing, despite of his clumsiness and hesitation, once he got confident he became aware of what his partner wanted and delivered. He wanted to see her again and she didn’t oppose the idea, she told him that she would come back; but she didn’t, not because she didn’t want to, she was expecting his baby and she didn’t know what to do. Hel never thought that she would have to deal with such a human and mundane situation.

The pain was excruciating, she had known pain but never like this. The pregnancy had not been an easy one, for the majority of the time she had to stay in bed, more than once the baby tore her left side almost coming out before time. She believed that if the baby was born dead she would be more angry than sad, all that pain for nothing; she longed for a child, yes, but now she felt bitter. The fates had given her so much sorrow: a deformed body, an untrustworthy, narcissistic and negligent father, a family broken by the fear of others, a kingdom that resented her no matter how much she cared of her subjects’ wellbeing. So no, she didn’t believe that the fates will let her have a piece of joy; her own piece of joy. She could have a corpse baby, ready to be put to the ground. A living corpse, cursed to be a living dead. A monster, just like her and her brothers, destined to endure the wrath of the gods.

“Just one more push, daughter, it’s almost here”. Angrboda was assisting her. When Hel arrived to Nifelheim her mother was already waiting for her; she had been killed not long after the gods had come for them.

“Pray to the Bloodmother”. Said Modgud, the giantess that guarded Gjallarbù, and her friend, who was supporting her back and holding her from the armpits.

With a cry that declared war she pushed as if her life depended on it, she felt her left side finally being ripped apart, and she collapsed on Modgud; she felt herself being dragged to unconsciousness, then a memory came out of nowhere: She was back at Jötunheim, with her brothers in her room, she was lying on Fenrir looking at the view from her window- ice mountains and snow being carried away by the wind- Jörmundgandr coiled beside them with Fenrir's tail rubbing him. Her sanctuary. She was brought back to reality by a high pitched baby’s cry. She opened her eyes and saw Angrboda, astonished, looking at the new born. With tears falling down her face she said:

“It is a girl, Hel. A beautiful baby girl”.

Using her remaining strength she sat up and held her arms out for her baby. What she looked was a healthy baby demigoddess, with ten fingers and ten toes, an upturned nose and a lot of hair on her head. Chestnut hair and brown eyes, just like her father.

“Thank you, Bloodmother. She has her father’s looks”.

Hel kissed her daughters forehead and wept; they were tears of happiness, her baby lived. And that was also the problem: No living being could live in Helheim, which meant that she could not stay with her, she had to live in Midgard. Soon she would have to let her go. The fates truly despised her.

***

No matter how much she hated the three dreadful sisters giantesses, they had the answer to her questions. She swaddled her baby and went to pay them a visit at the foot of the tree of life, the Yggdrasil. The sisters were beautiful, three maidens in the prime of their youth, who could believe that they were ancient and feared by gods and mortals alike?

“You took your time, queen”. Said Urd, the Norn that commanded over the past. She was picking up branches and leaves that had felt from above.

“But alas, no one can escape their fate. Not even a god”. Skuld, the one that presided over the future said, she was looking at the well of fate, the Urðarbrunnr.

Hel looked to Verdandi, the one that ruled the present, waiting to see if she had also something to say. She didn’t even acknowledged Hel, she just took a branch out of a basket and snapped it. Hel flinched and held the baby tighter, Verdandi had just terminated someone’s life. Tossing the branch she said:

“Don’t make that face, Hel. You are the queen of Helheim, death shouldn’t make you flinch. It is natural”.

��She is a mother now. Nothing will ever be the same for her”. A smiling Urd said.

Condescending bitch, thought Hel. Maybe it was the nerves but she was feeling mocked by the sisters. Either way, they were talking as if she wasn’t present.

“I am here…”

“Oh, we know”. Verdandi sounded exasperated, bored even. “You want to know what awaits to your child. Put her in the crib”.

A crib appeared at Hel’s feet, carefully she set the sleeping baby in the crib and the sisters stood beside it. They looked at the baby for what to Hel felt like centuries and then stared at each other. Urd was the first to speak:

“Your daughter is not like any other child a god has ever had; she is special, one of a kind. She is the only child you will ever have; she comes from the barest place in the nine worlds and holds so much power. She will be pure magic, she will be the one who will tip the balance when the end of everything comes”.

“You mean?”

“Yes. Ragnarök”. The sisters said in unison.

Ragnarök, the twilight of the gods. The prophecy had done so much damage already to her family. Fenrir was in Asgard, chained with a sword stuck in his mouth and Jörmundgandr was forced to hold the waters of the mortal world with his tale already in his mouth.

“How?”

“That is yet to be seen. Just like you queen, her part in it is yet not defined”. Answered Skuld.

“You wretched… tell me what you know!”

“Hush now. We don’t have all the answers, you already knew that before coming here. And you’d be wise to mind your words, unless you want her to have a similar fate like the rest of your kin”. Verdandi reminded Hel that they could tamper with fate how they saw fit, so it was wise no to offend them so they would be on her side.

Hel took a breath and swallowed her anger.

“Forgive me… I am scared. I don’t know what to do to protect her”.

The sisters softened at Hel’s turmoil. Skuld and Verdandi went back to their places, resuming their work, Urd picked the baby up from the crib and gave her back to her mother.

“You already know what you have to do to protect her, your child is not safe. She is in a very precarious situation. There is only one place were Odin, and Loki, might not find her that easily; your powers will be useful for that. Not to mention your love for her, that’s your greatest weapon against everyone that comes to harm her”.

***

After leaving the sisters Hel realized that she needed to act fast. It was only a matter of time for everyone in the Nine Worlds to find out about her daughter's existence; she had cast an invisibility spell on the baby to prevent Odin from seeing her in his dreams but that wouldn’t last forever. Loki was still bound inside of a cave for what he did to Baldr, but the fates had mentioned him and that didn’t surprise her; the gods didn’t understand the full extent of Loki’s powers; bound to a cave with a venom serpent over his head was not enough to contain him. She knew the place that the sisters meant, the one were her daughter would be safer: Midgard. The world of the mortals had changed and with it also Odin’s ability to see everything there; mortals moved faster in comparison to the old days. A lot of things were happening at the same time in Midgard, it was hard for the All Father to keep his eye on them.

Hel was dreading this, to let the father know of the existence of their child, but she didn’t trust anyone else with her daughter’s safety. She had seen his heart, he was a good person; still, she knew that she was asking for too much. They had been together only once and he was young, clearly not ready to be a father. She had to try though; and if he refused, well, she could force him to do it, but she didn't want to do that, because she wanted her child to be loved. Hel's mother loved her, she loved all her children, but not Loki, he didn't know how to love anyone. She wouldn't let her child to be with an unloving father, that wound never heales. So if he refused, she would find someone else to take care of her child. There was no other way.

***

The father’s name was Ciaran, little dark one. He didn’t usually have nice dreams, he always dreamed of unpleasant or strange situations that left him feeling confused or disturbed. However, this dream was extremely different. He was in a place surrounded by rocky cliffs enveloped in green foliage; there were rows and rows of mountains surrounding the land like a belt or a fortress. The wind was cold but it wasn’t unbearable and even though they were near the sea the wind was dry, it could burn your skin. The land had also sterile patches; this place was a harsh one. He heard a surge of water, even though he was now far from the sea, he thought it was a waterfall but the sound was inconsistent; it was a geyser, there were hot springs too. Amazed, he touched the water, warm, it felt so real. He wished he could stayed there forever. Just when he thought that this place couldn’t mesmerized him more, he saw a volcano, and it was not dormant, smoke came out of it.

He loved this place, wherever it was, and he knew it was real, it had to; he didn’t think his imagination as vivid as it was could produce such a place. His favorite part was the beach, with its soft black sand; he sat there for a long time, seeing the waves come and go, breathing the sea breeze. He felt in so much peace.

Hel had been watching this whole time. She was the one who orchestrated this dream; Iceland had always had a calming effect on her, she hoped that he would feel the same way. She felt guilty, she was about to ruin his good spirits. Ciaran heard footsteps, when he turned he found the most beautiful woman in the world. Sigrid, the lovely Sigrid. He laughed when he saw how she was dressed: A long emerald gown with gold and silver embroidery, a black fur cloak as long as her gown fastened with a small gold chain, a copper choker of a snake that ate its own tail around her neck, her impossibly long hair was braided and on top of her head was a crown made of bones and stones. Now, his dream was getting more usual: Nonsensical.

“What’s so funny?” Hel asked, teasingly.

“Nothing… I’m just being silly”.

They didn’t say anything, they just looked at one another.

“You look beautiful, Sigrid”.

“Thank you. Do you like this place?”

“I do, I have no idea where I am but I love it”.

Hel stood beside him and scooped some of the sand in her hands.

“It’s called Reynisfjara beach”.

Ciaran’s eyebrows shot up to the top of his forehead.

“The what?”

Hel chuckled.

“If it’s better, you may say that you’re in Iceland”.

“Really?” Ciaran asked.

“Yes”.

This was a dream, he knew it; but if that was true then why did everything felt so real. The sand that he took form Sigrid’s hands, the smell of salt, the cold wind on his skin, and her. Specially her. It was just as the last time, so natural and effortless. As if to prove himself that she was in fact real, he cupped her left cheek; being in the land of dreams made him bold. She just stood still.

“Where did you go, Sigrid?”

How she wished that she was Sigrid, that she was a normal human woman that could venture to have a relationship with him. Hear him sing his beautiful songs with his lovely voice and caress his skin to sooth away all of his sorrows. But she wasn’t Sigrid and she’ll never be, and there were more important things to talk about right now.

“My name is not Sigrid, I’m not who you think I am”. She removed his hand off her cheek and took a few steps back. Closing her eyes, she let her glamour drop.

She couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes right away, so she listened. For a long moment he held his breath, he didn’t move, but his heartbeat sped up. When she finally opened them she saw him with his mouth agape and his eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of their sockets. He backed away from her in horror. If you asked anyone, they would tell you that Hel had no heart, because it was in her corpse side, she couldn’t feel anything there. That was not true, in that moment she could feel her heart breaking. Not wanting to hear hateful words from his mouth she broke the silence.

“I am sorry for deceiving you, I promise you I meant no harm. My name is Hel, Norse goddess of the Underworld, of Helheim, daughter of Loki and Angrboda. And I need your help”.

Ciaran looked at her with suspicion but also with interest, when they met he had known that something was different about her, now he knew what was it. She turned so her right side faced him maybe that would make things easier for him. He came closer and turned her so he could see her completely. Hel hated to feel evaluated, normally she would punish on the spot anyone that dared to looked at her like this; still, she let him, she owed him this much. He put both of his trembling hands on both sides of her face, the corpse side didn’t feel as he thought it would; the flesh didn’t come off at his touch, there was no stench, in fact, she smelled sweet, too sweet, it was hard to describe. The air around her was colder and her right side felt unnaturally soft.

“Is this not a dream?” He asked still holding her.

“It is, I used magic to enter your dreams. I brought you here because I love this place, it soothes me. I hoped that it would do the same to you, that made easier what I’m about to tell you”.

“There’s more?”

Hel removed her cloak, revealing that she had been carrying a baby in her arms this whole time. Ciaran looked at the baby and then at Hel, comprehension slowly making way to his mind. He opened his mouth but nothing came out, he just looked at the baby.

“I thought that I couldn’t have children, I had been sleeping with mortal men for centuries and nothing ever happened. I don’t know why it was different with you”.

Ciaran didn’t know what to do. Maybe Hel was being manipulative, she took the opportunity to put the baby over his chest, and luckily he took her, maybe more as a reflex than a conscious move.

“She is in danger. She needs to hide from the other gods and from my father, I talked to the fates before coming to you. Our daughter is meant to bring balance when the end of the world comes; she is not like any demigod that’s ever existed. She will be hunt down if we don’t hid her from them”.

“Did you just say the end of the world?!”

“I know it’s a lot to take. But if you accept to be her guardian I will help you; I will be watching over you both, I will instruct you, my treasure is more abundant than the one that Odin keeps in his halls, I will provide for you. Anything you need”.

Ciaran shook his head, this didn’t make any sense. He was just a regular guy, how in the world was he going to be able to protect a demigoddess?

“I don’t… how will I…” Then the baby opened her eyes. She had his mother’s eyes, his eyes. Fatherhood and motherhood were supposed to be different, or so he was told. Fathers were supposed to take more time to feel a bond with their children, it was normal. But now holding this baby, he felt it, he felt that bond. This was his baby and he was her father, he was certain.

“What’s her name?”

“I haven’t named her. I was hoping you would choose a name for her”.

“I always liked the name Felicity for a girl”.

Felicity meant happiness and joy, everything that Hel was not. It was perfect.

“I love it”.

Ciaran smiled and touched Felicity’s little face.

“Ciaran, do you think you can love her? I want her to be loved not just protected. Do you think you can love her as her father?”

“I already do”. And by the gods he did. It was insane but it was true.

“I’m going to need your help, Hel. You will have to teach me, I don’t understand anything that’s happening and I don’t know how I’ll protect her from gods and such”.

“I will, no matter what. I swear”. Said Hel fiercely. She put on her cloak and took Felicity, hiding her once more.

“It’s not dawn yet in London, go back to sleep, Felicity will be there in the morning. I need to say goodbye first”.

Ciaran nodded, he doubted that he could go back to sleep, but Hel made sure of that with a sleeping spell. He would need all the rest he could get.

***

Back at Helheim, Hel asked her mother and her servants Ganglati and Ganglöt to go to her treasure hall and gather enough jewels and valuable trinkets to secure a substantial income for a year. Angrboda took a look at her daughter and understood what she was about to do; it pained her, but it was the right thing. She kissed Hel and left, Ganglati and Ganglöt behind her, moving at the speed of a snail. Hel adverted her eyes elsewhere and when she looked back at where the siblings were they were gone; most likely, they were already at the hall waiting for Angrboda. They were one of Helheim’s greatest mysteries, to this day Hel doesn’t know where they come from or why they move so slowly as long as they are being watched.

She sat on her bed, Sick-bed, the very same bed where Felicity was born. She retrieved a silver pendant of a rune from a jewelry box. She dangled it over Felicity’s head, the pendant catching the light of the fires illuminating the room, her little brown eyes following it.

“This is the Hagalaz rune; it’s a rune that is associated with me. It represents the wrath of nature, destruction, trials and testing and crisis that leads to completion. If anything the fates said is true then it represents you well, my love… a god cannot always be everywhere at once, I certainly can’t; this pendant will be my eyes and ears, as long as you wear it I’ll be able to know where you are and if you need my assistance. Never take it off”.

Hel chanted the incantation necessary to bind herself to the pendant, green light poured out of her hand and danced around the pendant settling in the rune. Felicity watched everything with a serene expression, as if magic was already normal to her, as if she hadn’t been born a few days ago.

“Felicity, if only I could let you know how much this hurts me. I dreamed of you for so long, forgive me. This is not what I wanted for you, for the both of us… I don’t know what your father will tell you about me, but rest assured your mother loves you, and I am willing to tear everything apart for you”.

***

Ciaran woke up in the morning feeling rested; it had been a while since he had slept so well. He stretched and savored the feeling before remembering everything. He stood up and looked around his room, and there she was. Felicity, his daughter. A bag was next to her basket on the floor, he knelt and peeked at the basket, she was awake, and in her tiny fist she was holding something, he took a closer look and saw that it was a necklace, a pendant of a rune. Even he had heard of runes, and he knew that this was meant for Felicity to have. He opened the bag and found jewels, golden coins and precious stones, Hel wasn’t kidding when she said that she had treasure. Now it felt truly real. The dream that Hel had called upon felt real enough, but now it had materialized. Last night he was a musician that worked odd jobs to get by and was content with being aimless, and now, he was a father, a father of a demigoddess. Hel had not been very specific about the dangers that followed Felicity, and now him he supposed; how was he going to explain this to his parents? To his friends, he needed help, he had to go back to Ireland. This was not going to be easy, even with Hel’s help and support, but he was up for it. Whatever was coming he would face it, he would be there for his daughter just like his parents were there for him no matter what.

***

Verdandi saw everything as it was happening. Hel resumed her role as the queen of the Underworld, pretending that her heart and mind were there, Loki was struggling and raging in his bonds and Odin was vigilant as always, but still unaware of the existence of Felicity. The father was preparing to go back to his homeland with his kin. He didn’t know what awaited them. Not even her and her sisters knew for sure. The pieces on the board that was Ragnarök were scrambled. Some of the pieces were still set in their rightful place: Fenrir was still going to kill Odin and Odin would kill him in return, Thor and Frey would perish as well, and so would Loki. Hel’s role was still unchanged; she would provide her father with an army of the dead but it seemed that the rest was up to her. After Ragnarök the world will be reborn, a new order will come; that’s were Felicty’s part comes in to action. She will either lead the gods in this new world or she will return to the giants what was taken away from them so long ago, as their ruler. Why was she the one bestowed with so much power? Simple, this girl had inherited the power of Ymir. Everything came from Ymir; the giants, the world as we know it, and even the gods. Odin and his brothers had killed Ymir, little did they know that had Ymir wanted to they could have killed them in the blink of an eye. They were nothing compared to Ymir, but Ymir had chosen to sacrifice themselves so marvelous things were born. Ymir was great, and the greatest thing about they was the purity of their heart. But Felicity was not Ymir, and it was yet to be seen if she possessed the same purity of heart. None of this worried Verdandi, whatever this girl happened to decide to do with her power was… unimportant. As long as the outcome was unchanged, the rest didn’t matter.

#hel norse goddess #norse mythology #helheim #ragnarok #paganism #pagan god #nordic paganism

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tarysande · 4 years ago

Text

Lucifer Fic: Sheet Happens (1/1)

For @thedeckerstarnetwork’s Halloween Challenge. @calia05 asked for “ghost” and “trick,” and said she loved Ella and Azrael. This is the result! <3

Also on AO3

Sheet Happens

Miss Lopez delivered the invitation in typical Miss Lopez fashion: as exuberantly as the world's friendliest golden retriever high on Adderall. Clearly handmade, she’d cut the card into the shape of a cartoonish ghost, white bedsheet and all, and covered it with an absurd amount of silvery glitter. Meaning, of course, that it covered him with an absurd amount of silvery glitter in short order. The sparkles stood out against the black of his suit like snowflakes. Or dandruff. Not that the Devil was in any way personally acquainted with the latter.

“Thank you,” he said gravely, holding the glitter bomb at as close to arm’s length as he could politely get away with.

Miss Lopez wore her every emotion not just on her sleeve, but from the top of her head to the tips of her platformed running shoes. Today’s t-shirt featured a sad ghost with a spilled cup of coffee and the phrase ‘Sheet Happens.’ “So, you’ll come?”

“Ah.” Even as the syllable emerged, Miss Lopez’s face began to fall. “It’s a … popular evening at Lux. I do rather feel I owe my patrons an appearance.”

“Oh,” she said, smacking her forehead with the heel of her hand and leaving ghostly glitter behind. “Duh. I should’ve thought of that.”

The glitter was sentient. He could practically feel it creeping up his fingers. He would have to burn the suit; once infected, recovery was impossible. He could only imagine how infested her home must be. The mind behind the creation of the stuff was truly devious; in the darkest of hellscapes, he’d never come across anything quite so … persistent.

“Would you … prefer to offer the invitation to someone else?” he asked, gesturing slightly with the ghost held between the tips of finger and thumb.

This was, evidently, the wrong thing to have said. She wilted, and when she shook her head, even her ponytail seemed sad. “I made it for you,” she tossed over her shoulder, already fleeing back to her lab as fast as her impractically high shoes would allow.

“You’re going, Lou.”

Lucifer blinked. Though the music and revelry, sin and sensation raged around him at top volume, the words reached his ears as clearly as if they were spoken into utter silence. Beside him, Azrael slouched, wearing the form so clearly influenced by Miss Lopez.

Or perhaps it was the other way around? The Azrael of old hadn’t slouched. She hadn’t worn bizarre spectacles or sported bowl-cut hair and t-shirts with sayings on them. When she glared up at him, hands planted on hips, her cloak parted wide enough for him to make out today’s offering. In the same cute-cartoon style as Ms. Lopez’s, it depicted a Grim Reaper, coffee in hand and wearing the exhausted expression Lucifer had so often seen on human faces after too little sleep or too much alcohol, next to the words ‘I FEEL LIKE DEATH.’

Lucifer sipped his whiskey to give his hands and his mouth something to do besides reply.

“Not just for Ells. Literally every one of your friends is there.”

He sighed, stepping aside as a tipsy angel with crooked wings tried to press up against his side. The cloying scent of her cheap Victoria’s Secret perfume wasn’t as easy to avoid. Neither was her pout.

“But you’re the Devil,” she whined in a voice he wished he heard much less clearly. “And I’m an angel. It’s sexy.”

“More like incestuous,” Azrael murmured, catching Lucifer so off-guard he choked on his drink. The smug grin she shot him was entirely the Rae-Rae of old. She nudged him with her cloaked elbow. “Still got it.”

He inclined his head at the disappointed angel, sidestepped a werewolf and vampire with tongues so deeply down each other’s throats that witnesses would convert to #TeamWhoNeedsBellaWhenYouHaveEdwardAndJacob at the sight of it, and swiped a bottle of whiskey he refused to see poured for anyone with such undiscerning tastes as the Borat who’d just ordered it. Evidently the bouncers had forgotten the longstanding no-neon-green-mankinis rule.

Azrael followed on his heels, and though he bloody well knew no one else could see her, somehow the seething crowds parted more easily for her than they had even for him.

“Why are you here instead of there?”

“I—you see how busy—”

“Uh, I see how you haven’t talked to anyone for longer than two minutes, your piano’s nowhere to be seen, and you’re basically oozing sulking-Devil-do-not-approach vibes.”

“You try my patience, Azrael.”

She shrugged. A trio of sexy nurses—or perhaps maids; it was hard to tell given the lack of fabric—contorted themselves into shapes he should have found pleasing to avoid being too near to her. One attempted to fall toward him, but he slid to the side so she ended up grappling with one of the evening’s nineteen (at last count) Captains America.

“Yeah? Well, you’re bugging me too,” she said, evidently oblivious to the effect her presence was having. “You didn’t even read the card, did you?”

“The … excuse me?”

Azrael’s prodigious eye roll involved every muscle in her face. “From Ella?”

A twinge of something like regret turned the whiskey on his tongue to ashes. He’d dropped disco-ghost into an evidence bag before it could do any more damage and left it at the precinct without sparing it a second thought.

Azrael thrust that same evidence bag into his chest hard enough to send him staggering back half a step. Another angel got partway through a curse Lucifer had a hard time imagining any of his siblings speaking before she realized the Devil to whom that curse was directed. He sensed a new rule for the bouncers brewing.

Of course, the most persistent of the angels presently irritating him didn’t obligingly flit off into the crowd at his glower. He’d no idea how someone so vertically challenged could make him feel small, and yet. The evidence bag and its spectral occupant had fluttered to the ground between them, where it lay like a murder victim bathed in blood glittering red from the overhead lighting. Sheet happens.

He bent from the waist, snatching up the invitation and stalking toward the elevator. The sea of demons and various sexy professionals and animals and … bloody hell, Sexy Donald Trump was infinitely worse than the worst mankinied Borat. Some things couldn’t be unseen.

And then he was in the elevator, and it didn’t matter that Azrael wasn’t with him because she’d be waiting for him with her ridiculous fringe and, beneath it, eyes that always reflected the brother he could have been, perhaps, if he didn’t fail so spectacularly so often.

He scanned the room when the elevator door opened but saw nothing out of place, and when he called out, no one answered. Azrael could creep and hide and lurk as effectively as the angelic purpose over which she held dominion, but rarely from him.

He opened the evidence bag and dumped its contents on the bar, releasing the spirit and its miasma of sparkles. The bloody thing looked so bloody cheerful—and not at all like any of the spirits he’d had occasion to meet over the millennia.

Then again, give the thing a spectral ponytail and a cute t-shirt and maybe—

He silenced the thought by reaching for a bottle. He didn’t, at least for the first burning pull, even bother with a glass.

He poured the second drink. By the third, he was ready to open the damned—ha bloody ha—thing. In the ebullient handwriting so familiar from paperwork and post-it notes, Miss Lopez had written, “My brothers made Halloween more about tricks than treats, usually at my expense. It would be ‘boo’tiful if you could come to my party. COSTUMES MANDATORY.” Instead of her name, she’d drawn a pair of ghosts. One was grinning. It had a ponytail. The other was taller; it held a microphone. It also had devil horns and a tail.

It was grinning, too.

Lucifer closed the invitation and pushed it away with trembling fingertips.

“Why aren’t you there, Lou?”

He gripped the edge of the bar until the moment before the marble would have crumbled. “Surely you know better than anyone, sister.”

The sound she made, caught somewhere between a gasp and a cry, was enough to turn his head. “I’m not—Lucifer, you know I’m not—”

“But you will,” he said. “Because they’re human. Because you’re you. And because you will do as you must. So forgive me for choosing to spend this night of specters and shadows amidst those whose deaths, when they come, will not weigh near so heavily.”

Moments stretched into minutes. Azrael’s jaw worked, and her expression said the words she chewed were bitter ones. Finally, narrowing her eyes, she said, “That’s bullshit.”

Unexpected.

A flush rose in her cheeks and her eyes sparkled not with admiration or sisterly love, but with anger. “You’re sad their time is finite, so you’re wasting what time you do have sitting around feeling sorry for yourself. Listen to yourself, Lou. No, seriously. Like, stop for one minute and actually hear the crap coming out of your mouth.” She glanced down at her hands like she was trying to figure out just how much damage they were capable of inflicting. “You’re so … dumb. Like. Just … dumb.”

And though he wanted to protest, wanted to explain in painful, specific detail just why death and eternity and banishment from Heaven made his situation so much bloody worse … he didn’t.

Because Miss Lopez had drawn them as grinning ghosts. To her, this night was treats and costumes and friends and, as in so many traditions throughout all of bloody human history, defying the coming dark by facing it head-on. Perhaps the current tradition didn’t involve bonfires or sacrifices, but he’d be bloody damned—more damned—if gorging on candy and gathering in friendship and depicting the things humans knew went bump in the night without truly knowing how to name them as cartoons and bad puns wasn’t the very same flavor of ritual.

He released his grip on the bar. His hands glittered.

“Costumes are mandatory,” Rae-Rae reminded him.

When he glanced over his shoulder again, she was gone.

He stood outside, listening to the laughter within, for fifteen minutes. He raised his hand to knock eighteen times. He turned to leave at least seven.

“I’m gonna do it if you don’t, Lou.”

Bloody sisters.

He knocked. Moments stretched into eternities.

The door, decorated with glimmering ghosts and glittering pumpkins, opened, revealing Miss Lopez in all her pool-noodle-turned-double-helix-DNA glory.

For a moment, Miss Lopez’s wide eyes were so like Rae-Rae’s—the same belief in him; the same, dare he say it, love—that Lucifer couldn’t find breath for whatever foolish, nonchalant nonsense he’d usually have opened with. And when those eyes filled with glistening tears to accompany a grin no drawing could possibly capture, he was the first to look away.

“You came! In costume!” Leaning forward, she squinted at him, then reached out and plucked at his costume. “Oh my God, Lucifer, tell me you didn’t cut eyeholes in a freaking silk sheet that probably cost like, a month of paychecks.”

“I do not lie, Miss Lopez, so I can say no such thing.” Though she couldn’t see it, he grinned at the way horror and delight mingled on her features. He brushed close, close enough to give the phantom equivalent of the hugs she handed out so enthusiastically, and pretended not to feel a little teary-eyed himself at how tightly she returned the gesture. “Who am I to defy your command?”

She laughed and punched him on the arm. “Have you met you?”

“Ahh,” he replied gently. “But have you met you?”

This time, the laughter he heard belonged not to Miss Lopez but to his sister. And though she, too, was bound to her commands, as he stepped into the warmth and light and laughter of Miss Lopez’s home, Azrael’s dominion was the very last thing on his mind.

#thedeckerstarnetwork #lucifer morningstar #chloe decker #deckerstar #lucifer on netflix #calia05 #thank you for your prompts #it's still halloween ... in Hawaii?#i'm not in hawaii #but at least it's halloween somewhere #my fic #lucifer fic #HAPPY HALLOWEEN

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xsparklingravenx · 4 years ago

Text

crystalize

Title: crystalize

Fandom: Genshin Impact

Characters: Childe, Zhongli

Rating: T

Word Count: 4126

Summary: When Hydro met Cryo, Freeze occurred. For Tartaglia, who held a Hydro vision, who coated his heart in water’s protection, there was no such shelter from the Tsaritsa.

Or, Zhongli stumbles across Childe and is asked to dinner, all while Childe plans on stealing an unsuspecting Archon's gnosis.

AO3

Across the inky canvas of Teyvat’s evening sky, stars glittered like wishes, the night holding them captive for itself. From the balcony of one of Liyue Harbour’s many inns, a man held onto the railing with knuckles white, regarding them with a careless look that belied the truth held within.

The evening breeze teased past locks of wavy hair, toying with the end of a distressed scarf. It was cooler than during the day, but the city itself was no less bustling, moving about below him as if he wasn’t there. Couples linked themselves arm-in-arm to visit attractive restaurants while sailors made their way to taverns, all while merchants finally packed up their wares to return home for the day, perhaps to partners or children, or to empty rooms that were little more than a place to stay. The world went on, unaware it was being watched.

The man felt a little like one of the stars in that moment, though less powerful. Not in the common sense of the word—he was plenty strong—but more in the metaphysical sense. Unlike those stars, he held no kind of ability to grant a wish within him, but he was an observer from further up, something a little more, a Delusion slung around his head in the form of a mask and a night sky to return to when all was over.

Although Snezhnaya would not welcome him home until his mission was complete.

Not far from the inn, the man could see the Wangshen Funeral Parlour, and it was there that his thoughts drifted away from him, an idle smile playing upon his lips. His target resided there most days, going about his business, his work, making his contracts and assisting the people of Liyue throughout some of their hardest times. Zhongli, or, so he said his name was, but the man knew better.

Dark hair, twisting into that thin pony-tail of his. Amber eyes that only legends spoke of. Broad shoulders and always delectably dressed, with a voice so deep that the man on the balcony could only imagine that hearing it was what drowning felt like. He’d never been afraid of water; it was difficult to be, when it bent and broke at his command.

“Childe?”

The voice made the man jolt, hands falling away from the balcony railing, which was unusual for him because he was so rarely ever startled. So deep in his thoughts that he’d conjured a fantasy? Hardly. He was not that careless. No, instead, when he looked down, he found the object of his wayward musings standing beneath him, still dressed to the nines as he always was, those amber eyes he'd been imagining peering up at him curiously.

The name juddered harshly against his psyche, because for a moment, it was not the right one.

“That is you, isn’t it?” said Zhongli, impatient for an answer even though he must have known that he was correct. If there was enough lamplight for the man on the balcony to see him clearly, then there was enough for Zhongli to see him back. “What a surprise. I had no idea you were staying so close by.”

The man, whose name was not truly Childe, made it so it was. He grinned down at him. “That’s ‘cause I’m always full of surprises. What’s up? So eager to see me that you had to come say hi?”

The edges of Zhongli’s lips quirked up near imperceptibly, but it was a smile all the same. “I was just passing through on my way back to my abode, and thought I would give a quick greeting. Though, I will admit, I do feel guilty for drawing you from your thoughts. I don’t imagine you spend a great deal of time in your head, do you?”

Childe barked a laugh before staggering back from the railing with a look of mock offence, one hand covering his heart. “Ouch! Kind of rude, don’t you think? You wound me!”

Zhongli blinked languidly up at him. “Oh. Then I must apologise. I didn’t mean any offence.”

It was difficult to tell if he was joking. Framed in both the silver tones of the starlight and the warm tones of Liyue’s streetlamps, Childe raked his eyes over his form, black and gold and elegant. He was a god in human disguise, something far more than him, and yet someone he'd come to enjoy the presence of regardless. This was the man who he had to break and bend like the water he enjoyed, and yet, here he was, having fun while wearing the skin of the person he knew he could never be.

Leaning back over the railing, Childe said, “Yeah, I know you didn’t. Are you just going home, or do you want to do something fun before you get there?”

“Something fun?” Zhongli said it slowly, as if he was deliberating it. “And what is fun to you, Childe? You wish to break into a hilichurl’s camp for target practice? Or is a theatre play more your fare? I’ll be truthful, I’m not certain.”

Shooting at hilichurl’s did sound entertaining, especially when he thought of fighting at Zhongli’s side, covering his spear with his bow, learning the ins and outs of his style while searching for the weak points. Then again, he had a feeling that Zhongli would prefer something less violent. He enjoyed history, given his encyclopaedic knowledge of Liyue’s past, and he enjoyed talking about it, given his inability to not drop his explanations on anyone who so much as expressed an interest in it. Something quieter would be to his tastes, of that he was sure.

“So, that’s a yes?” Childe asked.

“To?”

“Doing something with me.”

“Ah.” Zhongli smiled again, so nearly invisible yet still there. “So you want to surprise me? Then yes. I’ve nowhere to be, not tonight, so why not spend it in the presence of a friend?”

Friend. Childe grinned, dipping back into his room for his coin purse before returning to the balcony once more. He’d spent more than enough time with Zhongli by now to know how lackadaisical he was when it came to Mora, so it was better to come prepared than be caught short. He was well-stocked, the Fatui’s coffers helping immensely with his (many) expenditures.

“Hey, Zhongli.” He tossed the small bag once into the air before letting it land in his waiting palm. “Catch me?”

Without waiting for an answer, he leapt over the balcony’s edge, delighting in how Zhongli started forward as if he really was going to humour Childe’s request. Still, the fall was not great—he’d traversed Liyue’s cliffsides and mountains enough by now to know when something was too much for him. He landed in a crouch before him, half bow, half flourish, and remained there a moment before straightening to his full height.

“Shame,” he said, planting his hands on his hips. “You nearly made it.”

Zhongli raised his brow. “Indeed, although I fear that if I had tried to catch you, you would have bowled us both over.”

“Would that really have been so bad?” Childe asked. “To fall with me, I mean.”

Zhongli considered this a moment, the way he always tended to do, giving Childe’s inane questions more thought than they deserved. The Tsaritsa was not so patient, but he pushed her out of her mind almost as quickly as she entered it.

“Perhaps not,” he answered finally. “So, might I ask, where do you intend for us to go?”

Childe hummed, and then set off ahead of him, linking his hands behind his back as he took large strides. “That’s for me to know, and you to find out.”

***

When Hydro met Cryo, Freeze occurred.

It was common knowledge throughout Teyvat, elemental compositions were taught to every child at the same time they were taught to read, and so all knew. To be caught in a rainstorm when a frozen slime dared approach was sure to spell death, and so travellers oft sought shelter when clouds covered the sky, not so foolish to afford such a fate.

For Tartaglia, who held a Hydro vision, who coated his heart in water’s protection, there was no such shelter from the Tsaritsa. Water was such a malleable element; it could be burned and turned to vapour. It could be caught up in Ameno’s gusts and wielded as a weapon. Electro used it for its own, turning it into a catalyst of death, and beneath Cryo’s touch, it was shaped into something unbreakable and immovable.

Maybe he had been weak once, a time long ago before the Tsaritsa put her hands on him and fashioned him into the frozen thing he was now. It was not worth remembering. He knelt before her and took her orders, and the ice that surrounded his heart helped him in carrying them out. To spy, to interrogate, to kill—that was the life he had chosen in standing at her side, and so, it was the life he had to live out.

“You wear your masks so easily, Tartaglia,” La Signora commented once, just before they left on their concurrent assignments. He was to leave for Liyue to track down the Geo Archon, while she was destined for Mondstadt and its deity of Ameno. “Why, I often find myself wondering if I’m ever looking at the truth.”

She was as frozen as the Tsaritsa, wielding her frost like gloves as her fingers caressed his face, tipping his chin so he would look up into her eyes of ice. Body frozen beneath her touch, he made himself grin, though he was hardly entertained by her display of dominance.

“Says you, when you’ve always got your face half-covered,” he replied, reaching up to grasp her wrist, fingers tight against her pale skin. “What secrets are you hiding, La Signora? Care to spill?”

“Deflecting? How childish a move.” La Signora chuckled, her fingers still about his face, freezing impressions left behind as she used her fingertip to trace his skin. “Such dull eyes you have, Tartaglia. No light left in there at all. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were little more than a living corpse, something brought back from the dead.”

“Still alive, sorry to say,” Tartaglia said, finally pulling her hand from his face. When he let go, she sneered at him, a delightful expression on her haughty face. “You came to find me here for a reason, and somehow I don’t think it was to insult me, so why not say what you came to say?”

Haughty and cold, a favourite of the Tsaritsa, La Signora couldn’t resist her biting words and frozen tones. He already knew why she was before him. She was an extension of their Cryo Archon, a god's words often sitting on her poison tongue.

She reached out again, though this time she touched not his face, but the real, physical mask that sat on the side of his head. There was power in that mask, Electro sparks sealed within it, Electro sparks that would take control and use his Hydro vision for its own should he choose to wear it. Her smile was a bladed thing, and she said, “I trust you’re showing me your true face now, right, Tartaglia?”

He smiled. It was easy enough to put one on his face. “Naturally.”

“You understand how important this mission is, do you not?” La Signora said, still caressing the mask. “And you understand what it is you will face? The Geo Archon will not show himself so easily to someone as tricky and deceptive as yourself, Tartaglia, and there will be no help from the other Harbingers either. You are on your own, little boy, and your punishment will not be kind, should you fail.”

She pulled back from him and walked away, each footstep crashing hard against the stone floor of the Fatui’s base. Tartaglia watched her go, still feeling her ice in his soul. It had not been this way, once. He had not been Fatui, and he had not been a Harbinger. He had not been shackled to this destiny, and he had not enjoyed his fate.

But now? He had been shaped to someone else’s will, taken beneath someone’s wing, given a place to belong and a position that required only his best. He was Fatui. He was a Harbinger. He was shackled to his destiny, and yet he did enjoy it.

When Hydro met Cryo, Freeze occurred.

When Tartaglia encountered the Tsaritsa, he’d been made hers.

***

On their way through the streets, not long after he’d begun leading the way, Childe did what he was best at. He overstepped ordinary boundaries, slowing down to let Zhongli catch up with him, and then linking his arm with his.

Zhongli didn’t seem all that surprised at the action, but he did look over. “What are you doing?”

“Trying something out,” Childe replied with a grin, testing him by pulling a little. Zhongli let him, but didn’t allow him to go free entirely. “Yeah, this is fun. Now it really seems like a night out, huh?”

He was mostly teasing, even if there was a small, fragmented part of him where the Tsaritsa’s ice hadn’t touched that wanted Zhongli to agree. The stars still watched them overhead, still caught up in the night sky’s hold, yet he felt freer than usual beneath their gaze.

“I don’t usually see friends this close,” Zhongli observed. “I’m certain this is something that lovers do.”

“Is it, now?” Childe asked, deliberately playing ignorant. Zhongli must have realised that, given his tone, yet still he let it pass, and still, he didn’t move away. Perfect. This was how one got close to a mark—he had to make their relationship, whether that was friendship or something more, as legitimate as he could. It was swapping masks for masks, looking for quirks and delights, picking apart at the person he was to betray to find out what made them tick. It wasn’t real, and it never would be, but it had to feel that way, to both him, and the mark too.

“Something tells me,” Zhongli said, all smooth tones and raised brows, “that you’re intending for this to look that way.”

With a chuckle, Childe leaned into him, still leading the way to the destination in mind. “Is that a problem?”

Zhongli was quiet a moment, once again deliberating, taking Childe seriously when he really didn’t have to. “No. No problem at all.”

Childe ignored how his heart skipped over a beat, glancing up at the curve of Zhongli’s jaw, at the glittering amber of his eyes. A thought came to him then, one he really shouldn’t have been entertaining, and he said, as a way of leading onto the topic he desired, “You know, I’ve always thought that your eyes look pretty…well. Bright.”

“Please, save me your comparisons to Cor Lapis, or what have you. I can assure you, I’ve heard it all before.”

“So modest!” Childe snickered, shaking his head. “Wasn’t intending on it. They sure are something though. What about me? What would you compare mine too?”

“If I’d known you’d asked me to go out just so you could fish for compliments, I would have driven a harder bargain initially,” Zhongli said. “You can pay for the food tonight, if that’s acceptable.”

“I was gonna pay for it anyway. You think I’d trust you to bring your own bag of Mora?” Childe shook his head in disbelief. “Anyway, I’m waiting.”

La Signora’s words resided in his ears, echoed sounds that he was ashamed to say had cut a little too deeply. Such dull eyes you have, Tartaglia. How part of him wished to rip hers from her sockets for saying such a thing.

Zhongli thought on it long enough that Childe thought he wasn’t to get an answer, but eventually, he spoke. “There are pools in the mountains here, Childe, where fish swim beneath the surface, that shimmer delightfully in the sunlight. When the sun shines here in Liyue, your eyes look remarkably the same, although there are no fish, I’m pleased to say. That would be quite odd.”

It was a thoughtful answer. Painfully so. Struck silent, Childe could do nothing but ruminate on it, on how it contrasted with La Signora’s frozen insult, how it clashed with the ice about his heart.

“Thanks,” he whispered after a moment, a little touched, perhaps, enough to quieten his inner-voice that always pushed him to make light of a situation. Shining lights ahead alerted him that they were nearing their destination, a restaurant that served Snezhnayan cuisine. “Hey, we’re here. Check out this place, you’re going to try something new!”

“New?” Zhongli snorted. “Childe, if you think this is new, then you’re quite mistaken. I once shared meals with a friend from Snezhnaya quite a few many years ago—”

“And I’m sure that was great and all, but I bet it’s changed since then.” Childe was well aware of what he was speaking of, even if Zhongli didn’t realise that. “Now this is my treat, so I’m ordering.”

Zhongli hummed, one hand at his chin in thought. “Do you really think we’ll get a table without a reservation?”

Childe dragged him forward. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Now, let’s go!”

***

In reality, it was all a ruse.

Encountering Zhongli tonight was a happy accident, but the invitation to the restaurant was nothing more than an attempt to get him to let his guard down. When dinner was done, Childe planned to get him alone in some quiet area of town, reach his hand beneath skin, and rip out the thing that made him more than mortal.

For Zhongli was Rex Lapis, the Geo Archon, and Childe was the eleventh Harbinger of the Fatui, and he’d been sent to retrieve his gnosis.

The table had been easy, once Childe had replaced his mask with that of Tartaglia and spoken to the owner in his Snezhnayan tongue. As fortune would have it, the owner was Snezhnaya born and bred, and he had much love for his motherland. Perhaps more than Childe did.

“Your grasp of language is impressive, Childe,” Zhongli said once they were seated and champagne was poured before them. He picked up his glass and swirled the liquid within, gazing into it. “You never fail to surprise me. It’s perhaps my favourite thing about you.”

Unbeknownst to him, his words, though coated in honey, were like a dagger to the ribs. I’ll be surprising you even more, once this is through, thought Tartaglia, but it was Childe who said, “Oh? That’s a loaded statement. Okay, so tell me, what else do you like?”

“And you say I’m immodest!” Zhongli sipped at his drink and laughed around it. “I enjoy your company, though, if I must say something. And your bag of Mora. It's always at hand to assist me in a pinch.”

“That’s a joke, right? It’d better be a joke.” Childe reached forward, though he didn’t grab for his own glass of champagne. Instead, he went for the water beside it. Alcohol would distort his mind and muddy his aim when he went for the gnosis. “C’mon, you can’t just like me for my Mora, right?”

“It was a joke,” Zhongli clarified, taking another sip, and Childe couldn’t help but feel a little proud that he was enjoying one of his home’s beverages. He’d have to order vodka next time—

No. Not next time, because it wouldn’t come to be.

“Regardless, if you’re that desperate for another compliment…” Zhongli carried on as if Childe’s mind wasn’t running away with itself. “The colour of your hair is rather delicate, even if I can’t tell precisely which colour it is. In some lights, I daresay it’s more the colour of Cor Lapis than even my eyes. In other, it resembles more earthen stone.”

Despite having not taken a sip of alcohol, Childe felt warm, his cheeks heated. “Wow, you really lay it on thick, don’t you? Stone, though? Got to say, don’t think I’ve ever really been compared with Geo structures before.”

“Understandably. It seems we are often drawn to the colours and concepts that our Visions invite.” Zhongli glanced up. “Might I ask what food we are to sample tonight?”

“You can wait and see on that too,” Childe said, leaning back in his seat, and before long they were greeted by a waiter holding red soups in large bowls. Zhongli tilted his head as his was placed before him, and Childe rose to answer his question before he even asked it. “It’s called Borscht. This looks pretty good, actually. Thick and stodgy.”

Zhongli, eager to sample it, took his spoon and went for it. He remained quiet for a moment while he experienced the flavour, and then said, “Hm. Rather sour.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of what to expect. It’s good though!” Childe took his own mouthful, and then another sip of water. “Oh, yeah, this is how it should be. Real sour. But good. What do you think?”

Zhongli went in for another spoonful, which was promising. “Unusual, but something I could get used to. A little bit like you, I suppose.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, promise,” Childe laughed, making himself slow down as he ate, not wanting this moment to be over too quickly. The end of the evening would bring the end to this thing he’d been building here in Liyue, and there was no need to rush it. Zhongli would be merry by the end of it, and Childe would finish it there, before escaping into the night, never to be seen by him again. Quick. Easy. A soulless end to a not-so-soulless mission. He’d return to the Tsaritsa and let her put her hands on him again, refreeze his heart and mould himself back to her will.

And so the meal carried on, their chatter a murmur against the warm buzz of the restaurant, another pair amidst many.

***

The stars still glittered when Childe led Zhongli from the establishment, his head clear despite how his heart beat hard in his chest. The moon hung between them, a silver curve nestled amongst a thousand lights, the only witness of what was to pass.

“I should return home,” Zhongli said, not muzzy in the slightest despite how much he’d drank. He’d made work of the entire bottle, Childe’s share and his own, and then he’d gone on for another, apparently not caring for the dent it made in Childe’s bag of Mora. “As pleasant as the night has been, I do have work in the morning. The funeral parlour will not excuse lateness, not even from me.”

“Hold on,” Childe said, linking their arms anew, pulling him around the side of the building. “You’re gonna leave, just like that? C’mon, don’t I warrant a couple more minutes?”

It was dark, behind the restaurant, cool and shadowed, the moonlight not quite reaching. Childe shuddered, uncharacteristically cold, and Zhongli frowned. “Everything alright there, Childe?”

“Just fine,” Childe replied, pulling away and turning to face him. Zhongli peered at him with a bemused expression. “Stop looking at me like that. Hey, listen, close your eyes for me, just a sec.”

Zhongli considered his request as he did everything else, slowly and thoughtfully, but he complied. Easier than expected, Tartaglia thought, but Childe’s heart smashed into his ribs with renewed anger. There was no coming back from this. This was the end of his mission.

He pressed his hand to Zhongli’s chest, pushing aside his jacket, and Zhongli tensed beneath his touch. He could feel him breathing, chest moving, and how odd it was, for something so godly to draw breath. It was human. Just like him. Just like anyone.

He curled his fingers, ready to dive beneath-and Childe, inexplicably, hesitated.

“Do it,” whispered Zhongli, cracking one eye open, a glint of amber in the dark “if you can.”

It was a dare. Or was it a challenge? Childe’s voice broke in his throat as he closed in, as he felt Geo crash against him, warm and inviting. This was his mission, he told himself. This was what the Tsaritsa wanted. This was his role as a Harbinger.

Yet he did not reach beneath skin. Instead, he reached up, and pressed his lips to Zhongli’s in a kiss.

Another night, Tartaglia told himself.

When Geo met Hydro, Crystalize occurred. A crystal that provided a safeguard, a defensive property, something to keep a person safe.

When Childe’s touch met with Zhongli’s, the ice about his heart melted away, replaced with a shield for the future.

#Genshin Impact #Zhongli #Childe #Tartaglia #chile #My Writing

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