#she has the moon in her mind ; that’s why stars spill off her lips (musings)

[viviennefonseca]

there is a defiance in being a dreamer

the invisible life of addie larue V.E. SCHWAB

[as-mihi]

tags.

[pandorakane]

t a g   d u m p

[kat-beckett]

26: if you could go back in time and change one thing about yourself at any age, what would you do?

"My insatiable need to people please. It's led me to some pretty disappointing and tireless situations and relationships that just make me feel used up and spit out."

[fishbcwls]

tag  dump  !

template by cavalierfou ✨

[rocketbcss]

smol tag drop.

enjoy the pretentiousness

[ashdoesfandomarchieved]

of all i am made of (perhaps you are too)

ao3

Hugo does not believe in soulmates.

To be fair, he doesn’t much believe in anything but the feeling of coin in his pocket and the clever bite of his dagger. What use has he for god and destiny when he carves his own path of lies through time, with a sharp tongue and a cocky smile.

Why should Hugo believe the universe would gift him a soulmate when it already has made it perfectly clear that nothing is free?

Besides soulmates are rarities of the past--legends and folktales on the lips of elders and religious fanatics; the former clinging to superstition from the od era, the latter feeding false promises and hope to the instupid masses.

Soulmates are for hopeless romantics and tiny children. Not for Hugo.

“That does not surprise me,” Nuru says, the beginnings of a smile forming on her face.

She’s lying down in the golden field where they’ve set camp for the night. The contrast of the bright yellow against her dark skin is stunning-particularly in the moonlight, with her dark hair fanning out about her head.

Hugo, who is sitting upright a few paces away and playing with his daggers, frowns.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, unsure if he should be feeling defensive or not.

Nuru folds her arms beneath her head, propping herself up enough to make eye contact with him. “Even if you had a soulmate, you wouldn’t know what to do with them,” she scoffs.

He snorts. “ You believe in soulmates?”

“Is that so surprising?”

“Yes, actually. I thought you were the rational one in this party.”

Nuru gives him an expression that indicates how stupid she thinks he is. “I might be the only person who can keep their head in a crisis, but that doesn’t mean I can’t believe in a higher power, Hugo.”

She rolls over, so that she’s laying on her stomach, facing him. “Burning stars fall in my homeland every year. There are stories of a sun princess who’s tears heal the dead. Varian somehow hasn’t strangled you yet. I think you’d better start believing in a god.”

“Or soulmates apparently,” Hugo mutters.

“Or soulmates,” Nuru says. “Would it really be that far-fetched?”

“Do I believe there’s someone out there who shares my dreams? Or has my name written above their heart? Hard pass, Princess.”

“Alright then, how about sharing the same soul?” Nuru asks, folding her hands together and resting her chin on them. “You’re telling me that doesn’t sound at least a little romantic?”

“I don’t have a soul.”

“Now that,” she says, a grin stretching across her face, “that I can believe.”

___

“I think Anya’s my soulmate,” Yong says dreamily, staring at Varian’s redheaded cousin like she hung the fucking moon.

Hugo, despite secretly adoring the round child, rolls his eyes. Hard. “Do you even know what that means?”

“It means we share the same time threads,” Yong replies distractedly.

Varian and Anya are nerding out over something-something Hugo would find interesting or fun to mock them over, but right now, for some reason, he’s more interested in Yong’s adorable-if not misguided-crush on Varian’s little cousin.

“Time threads,” Hugo laughs, cracking his knuckles. Yong winces at the noise, momentarily taking his eyes off the two babbling alchemists. “Alright, color me curious. What are time threads?”

Yong frowns. “You’ve never heard of time threads? Every child in Koto learns about them.”

Ah, must be some religious poppycock only spread in the fire kingdom.

“Well, I’m not a child living in Koto, am I?” Hugo replies lightly. “Spill, little pyro.” He pokes the kid in the shoulder repeatedly until he gets swatted.

“Her lady, Odiyesi, spins a thread for each person,” Yong recites in a sing-song voice. “This thread contains the beginning, the middle, and the end of our lives. If she so chooses, two threads will be intertwined-maybe even beyond the Snip, if she wills it.”

“The Snip?”

“Oh yeah, that’s when you die,” Yong says, side eyeing Hugo.

Hugo ruffles Yong’s hair. “And you think Anya is your thread partner. That’s so cute .”

Yong ducks out from under his hand, scowling. “Why did you ask if you don’t even believe it?” he mumbles, face pink.

“You know what I think?” Hugo asks, pretending like he doesn’t hear Yong. “I think you should go right up to here and tell her all that. Give her a heads up about your eternally bound souls.”

“Your soul is eternally bound to the underworld,” Yong shoots back, with a surprising amount of fire.

Hugo bursts into laughter. “That,” he says, “is the first thing you’ve said all day that makes sense.”

___

“What do you think about soulmates?” Hugo asks mildly. He has a glass of wine in one hand, but he’s barely tasted it. Instead, he stands, staring out the stained glass window and into the courtyard.

Donella, sitting behind her desk, looks up from Varian’s Ulla’s journal-recently procured by Hugo.

The amount of deception and sneaking around he’d gone through to actually get it out of Varian’s line of sight had been painstakingly difficult. And it had been even harder coming up with an excuse to Nuru why he needed to spend the night somewhere other than their current lodgings.

He doesn’t really remember the lie. Just the trust in the Princess’s face when she’d briefly patted him on the shoulder, telling him to be back by sunrise.

Donella closes the journal with a snap, leaning back in her chair. “What a curious question. And from you, no less.”

When Hugo turns around, she’s smiling that sharp smile-the one that makes his stomach plummet with discomfort. Something in him churns at that dangerous expression now, unsure of what he’s suddenly gotten himself into.

He gives a casual shrug, raising his glass to his lips. “Just making idle conversation, I suppose.” The wine tastes terrible. Still, he takes another sip before setting it down on an end table.

“Hmm.” His mentor eyes him skeptically. “What do I think about soulmates?” she muses, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “I suppose the proper answer would be that I hate them.”

He frowns. “So you don’t believe in them?”

“You can’t hate something you don’t believe in, Hugo. Of course I believe in soulmates.” Donella must see the surprise in his expression because she laughs after a brief pause. “I would be hard pressed not to believe in them after seeing it with my own two eyes.”

Hugo blinks, startled. “You met someone with a soulmate?” he asks, disbelieving.

“You could say that.”

“How do-how did you know they were-”

She opens the stolen journal again, long scared fingers deftly flipping back to her reading place. “Because I could feel when she was in pain. Now shut up, Waif, I still have three quarters of this tedious reading to get through and only five more hours to do it.”

___

Even though Eugene has decided to make the conscious effort not to kill Hugo, the guy still shows mild animosity. And by mild, Hugo-of course-means that he drags him around, making him do tedious tasks and scowls whenever he gets close to Varian.

Whatever. It’s not as if Hugo’s going to complain, considering that it’s mostly his fault there was a demon monster briefly unleashed onto Corona that destroyed most of her capital city. As long as Varian isn’t blaming himself, Hugo calls it a win.

So he lets the Prince Consort drag him around the city and put his alchemy to work.

“You don’t have to stay,” Hugo says, at one point, when it becomes apparent that even though Eugene has no idea how alchemy works , he was still going to hover. “I’m not going to cut and run.”

The man had snorted. “Yeah, I already figured that one out for myself,” he’d muttered and then proceeded to not explain what that meant.

So here Hugo is, with an ever present shadow, hovering like he’s a fucking five year old. Hugo honestly doesn’t see what Varian sees in the guy-or Queen Rapunzel for that matter. She looks at the ex-thief like he hung the moon and all the damn stars in the sky.

“It’s because they’re soulmates,” Eugene’s buddy-Lance, Hugo thinks-had said when he caught him staring.

Hugo had scoffed.

Now, bored and overheated after a long day’s work, Hugo watches Eugene frown over some blueprints in the Queen’s study. Hugo’s not exactly sure why he has to be present for this particular part of the renovation project, but he’s too tired to protest.

“Are you and the queen soulmates?” he hears himself asking.

Eugene lifts his head, eyes alight with surprise. He glances back down at the blueprints once, before leaving the table to join Hugo by the open doors leading to the balcony.

“Weird question, coming from you,” he snorts, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms. “But yes. We are.”

Hugo doesn’t know what to make of that. “How do you know?”

The older man hesitates, something like understanding dawning on the man’s face. A small smile crosses lips. “Have you ever met someone that no matter how many times you tried to walk away, you couldn’t?”

Hugo swallows.

“That’s how I know. Now,” he claps Hugo on the shoulder. “If you’ll stop messing around, I need your opinion on whether Yong’s demolition idea or Varian’s solvent solution is going to work best for the lower district’s avalanche problem.”

___

At the end of all things-or perhaps the beginning-Hugo finds Varian on a rooftop.

It’s not hard to find him, as when Varian is brooding, he likes to perch. It’s a habit that the alchemist has either picked up from spending most of his time in a castle with high roofs or perhaps it’s born of chasing his dumb racoon into precarious positions.

Either way, Hugo learns early into his friendship with the darkhaired boy, that when he’s being introspective, he likes to pick a high roof and perch like a fucking woodland creature.

So when Varian goes missing in the middle of Corona’s lantern festival, it takes precious few minutes to find him.

“You are so predictable,” Hugo says, dropping down next to him. Heights don’t usually bother him, but the castle is impressively tall.

The other alchemist doesn’t really seem to mind, however. He lets his legs dangle over the edge, occasionally swinging in the air.

“Or maybe I wanted you to find me,” Varian replies easily. His head--tilted up, toward the stars that are mirrored in the constellations of freckles on his face-is wearing a peaceful expression.

Something in Hugo’s chest clenches tightly at the sight of it. There was a time, not too long ago, where he was convinced he’d never see Varian happy again.

But now, Varian turns his face toward Hugo and offers him a smile. “Or maybe I’m just predictable to you.”

The tightness in Hugo’s chest dissipates. What is left aches for something he can’t have.

“Or that,” Hugo says, instead of doing something stupid like trying to hold Varian’s hand or kiss the stupid expression off his face.

Varian turns back to the stars.

“You know, they say shooting stars fall in the direction of your soulmate.”

Hugo rolls his eyes. “Not you too,” he groans, eliciting laughter from his friend. “I thought out of everyone, you would be on my side here.”

“Aw, don’t believe in soulmates?” Varian teases, grinning boyishly. “Sun and moon, I should have expected that.”

“Yeah?” Hugo raises his eyebrows. “How so?”

“You’re so cynical. And not in the way Cass is-she’s like realistically -cynical. You’re just oh poor me I could never have a soulmate because my soul is made of garbage -”

Hugo clamps a hand over Varian’s mouth, shrieking when he tries to lick him. “I- stop -I don’t have to listen to this slander -”

“-and if you ever did find your soulmate you would be insufferable about it,” Varian goes on, catching Hugo’s wrist when he tries to silence him again. “You would spend the entire time trying to prove to yourself and everyone else that there was no possible way they could be your soulmate and when you couldn’t you would-”

He stops. Blinks at Hugo with realization dawning across his face.

Hugo’s wonders if Varian can feel his pulse racing where the smaller boy’s fingers wrap around his wrist.

“Yeah? What would I do?”

Varian’s lips purse. “I don’t know what you would do. I’d hope you would be smart about it.”

He lets go of Hugo.

Hugo immediately misses his warmth.

“And what would be the smart thing.”

“Well,” Varian draws out the word thoughtfully. He scoots close enough to Hugo that if the taller boy wanted he could wrap and arm around his shoulder. “Well, an excellent start would be telling them.”

“And how would you tell them? If it were you,” Hugo adds quickly, when Varian shoots him a questioning look.

Varian leans back on his hands, head tipped back, exposing his throat to the sky. “I would tell them my heart started beating at the same time as theirs when we touched. That there’s a silver dagger inked on my shoulder that burns when they’re angry and sings when they’re sad-”

“Varian.” Hugo’s heart clenches so hard he briefly wonders if he’s having a heart attack.

“-I would tell them that I dreamed in color the first night we lay side by side in the forest,” Varian goes on, ignoring him. “I would tell them that when we touch I see every color-even the ones that don’t belong here.”

“Varian.”

Hugo’s hand finds his soulmate's.

Varian turns his head to the side slightly, finally meeting Hugo’s eye. With his free hand, he cups the side of Hugo’s neck, tentatively.

“I would tell him that our souls are made of the same thing.” He smiles gently. “It’s just science, Hugo.”

Hugo laughs, pressing his forehead into Varian’s. “How is that the most romantic thing you’ve said yet?”

“Because you’re a closet nerd,” Varian says, right before he leans in.

Underneath a starlit sky, Hugo kisses the boy made of the same stuff as him.

___

[ms-lilyluna-archive]

( tag drop. )

[myelocin]

01:39 and the world keeps spinning | hq

synopsis: where you are in the world when the clock clicks to 01:39 in the quiet of the night.

characters:  miya osamu, azumane asahi, bokuto koutarou, sakusa kiyoomi, akaashi keiji

tags/warnings/gen: domestic fluff, dad!sakusa >:3, for linette

-

++click keep reading!

miya osamu:

it’s when you’ve chosen to keep him company when he promised your eight year old neighbor he would help her with coming up with a recipe for her bake sale. you’re sure he’s compared different flours and sifted them at least twenty times by now, but you choose to stay quiet and watch him from the couch you’ve settled into for the past hour. the two of you are still only so young and still in the process of assembling the foundations for your future—but you’re happy that it’s osamu you’re shoulder to shoulder with as you weave through the webs of the real world. he’s seated in the kitchen table dipping his spoon then tasting the fourth variation of the recipe for the filling. you lay your head on your elbows against the back of the couch as you watch his expressions change before shaking your head no when he catches your eye and offers you a taste. “you should head to bed, it’s late,” osamu says as he peeks at the wall clock that shows 01:39, but you shake your head no again saying you don’t mind keeping him company. the wind from outside rattles, the wall on the clock keeps ticking, and the both of you know the sun will rise in just a few hours as your side of the world spins towards the sun—but the at the moment it’s still 01:39 and you’re in apartment with the love of your life as the two of you exchange light laughter that echoes in quiet halls. you think that your love for osamu is much like this moment—timeless in the infinite.

bokuto koutarou: 

you’ve always loved how tokyo thrived best when the night took over the day so you figure that must be the reason why racing through the streets in shibuya with bokuto’s hand steady around yours feels nothing short of what you think movie magic is. the soundtrack to the scene you imagine you’re in changes after every building you pass with him. bokuto’s laughing with you as he tries to sing along to lyrics that linger in the air and you’re grinning, genuinely, from ear to ear because his presence just brings you so much joy. you know that by next week you’ll need to look through job listings again because college is as expensive as living in the city and you’re in that stage of life where being broke and in college goes hand in hand with each other—but those worries fly away momentarily when bokuto’s beaming at you again. you know being out in the streets at 01:39 at night just to eat ramen at the conbini isn’t an ideal date, but you can’t help thinking that moments like these are what you know you’ll treasure the most when you look back at this stage in life 10 years down the road. time will always keep moving and the future is as uncertain as your motivation to finish that lab report still sitting on the back of your folder, but bokuto makes you feel like everything will turn out okay. the moon’s out somewhere behind the buildings and the streets are as bright as they are in the morning thanks to the neon lights in every corner—but bokuto feels like day next to you as he takes the sunshine with him where ever he goes, so you suppose that’s another reason why every moment with him feels like movie magic.

azumane asahi: 

asahi’s as much of a hard worker as you are, so you think that’s one of the reasons why the two of you flowed so naturally with one another. staying up late into the hours of night to finish doing or researching a new project at work wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. the lights everywhere else in the apartment you share with him are clicked off save for the dim lighting your kitchen is providing. you’re laying your head on the crook of your folded elbow on the table as you’re watching asahi flip between the notes in his laptop and notebook across from you. “azumane,” you call out and extend one hand across the table to lightly play with the loose string dangling from his sweater. you watch with mild amusement as he’ll hum his eyes before peering at you through his glasses. he’ll give you a knowing look and push them up because he knows you’re about to tease him by saying he looks like a grandma with his hair tucked back in a loose ponytail and his glasses slipping down his nose. “it’s 01:39,” you say when asahi’s still typing on his laptop. “i know, a few more minutes,” he says and it sounds like a promise because he stops typing to intertwine your hands together and kiss your knuckles. you’re well aware that tomorrow’s your day off and it still may be 01:39 in this part of the world you share with asahi but when you lean forward and let him rest his cheek on your palm, the stubble of his beard scratchy but his cheek baby soft—you can’t help but think that even if staying up this late for work wasn’t a good idea, the two of you make a pretty good team.

sakusa kiyoomi:

 you know your husband is a man who’s always worked with effort. his perseverance and determination was unparalleled so it didn’t surprise you much when he decided to ask for your help in learning how to dance for your daughter’s approaching father daughter dance. you’re biting your lip from laughter when he silently curses from stepping on your foot for the third time that night. the house is quiet while your whispers to each other are hushed because her room is right down the hall and the both of you know how much of a light sleeper she is (much like her father, you muse.) you’re humming a soft tune right by his ear while his hands are soft around your waist, the streetlights from outside trickle into the wooden flooring you and his feet pad over along with the rhythm of your voice. kiyoomi groans in frustration time to time because he realizes even if his whole career is built from his extraordinary coordination—when it comes to dancing he has two left feet. his brows scrunch together and you think for a second he looks hopeless when he steps on your foot again but kiyoomi only mutters a soft sorry that resonates his frustration in the quiet room. the clock ticks to 01:39 when you stop him from his movements and hold his head to face yours as you tell him, “you’re a great father. you’re doing amazing, and i’m proud of you.” It’s still 01:39 when sakusa buries his face on your shoulder and wraps his arms around you in an embrace instead as his thank you while you rub circles on his back because even if he wasn’t around for many of your daughter’s firsts—you know how much effort he’s willing to go through to make sure her first father daughter dance is everything she’d dreamt of. the world will spin into new years, new decades, and will mold her into a new person—but in this snapshot in time at 01:39 AM, you’re in your bedroom teaching a loving father how to dance to a silent tune you hum into his hear.

akaashi keiji: 

he’s as quiet drunk as he is sober, but the way he’s gripping your hands and burying his face on the crook of your shoulder while you walk down the sidewalk speaks differently. akaashi was a man who knew his way around words and still does despite the occasional slur at the end of his sentences. you’re holding his hand and slightly supporting his weight on your left side as you let the heels of your shoes clack slowly on smooth pavement and he’s rubbing his eyes after every yawn that escapes him. akaashi exhales a deep sigh and it puffs out in the winter air (which he giggles at), and tells you, “i really really love you,” as if it’s the ultimate truth that will save the universe from collapsing in itself. and you allow yourself to feel the weight of the truths that spill from his lips at 01:39 AM on a quiet night during your slow walk home. the world’s spinning (much like akaashi’s head), but you’re holding on to a hand whose warmth anchors you in the earth giving you the best views of the stars in the sky. you’re thinking being with akaashi is the most steady you’ve felt in your life even as you’re helping him take step after step in the staircase. when he collapses on the bed and wastes no time in pulling you on top of him you let him press a kiss on your forehead, then your nose, then both cheeks—before you eventually pull away from him laughing and telling him to get ready for bed before crashing. you don’t even recall what time it is anymore but akaashi’s telling you that he really really loves you with a slight slur in his words despite the truth of his message so you sleep pretending it’s still 01:39 because at the moment—you feel a halt in time even as the world continues to spin around you.

[pedropascalssimp]

Beauty and the beast

Darth maul x Fem Princess reader

|part 1|may possibly be a 2nd part.

Summary: when maul takes up a job that benefits the sith, he never expected the unimaginable to happen. But here the princess of the backwater planet is, falling for the monstrous Sith. Who's to say maul isn't quite infatuated with her as well?

Warnings: this takes place before the phantom menac! It probably sucks and I once again made up a planet to fit this little idea better! Slight, BRIEF angst. Fluff.

*Not my gif!*

The Sith watched in awe, lips slightly parted in bewilderment at how she flawlessly moved about the room. Floating like a feather among the palace.

Elegant, the first word to grace his mind as he watched the way she moved across the pristine marble floor. Her scarlet dress was made from the finest silk hugging her body perfectly, Gold trimming woven into the plunging neckline that exposed more of her chest to his golden eyes, the slight spicks of crimson like stares alight in the dark sky as he watches from the shadows. She was truly an angel that graced this planet, her beauty incomparable to anything other than the gorgeous creatures on Iego. her smile radiant, voice a melody that rolled off her tongue like molasses. He had only spotted her earlier into the day, but then he was afraid to stare for too long, afraid he'd get caught by the owners of this palace. Why would the king want a monster such as the sith lord gazing upon the princess?

Maul couldn't help but feel the way his hearts practically long to know if her skin were as soft as it looked beneath the chandeliers golden light, wanting to feel her soft ruby painted lips against his in the lightest of kisses. The appending desire to hold her growing into an intense unbearable need the longer he gazed at her while she spoke with people of her kingdom, the ballroom alive with joy and happiness.

This kingdom wasn't as popular as others, rather a backwater planet that the present kings father had built up from the muddy ground, restoring order among the green humid planet. Giving the world law and order like it desperately needed, peace restored to the people who once killed one another over prized possessions or food. The former king built this very palace and hustled enough to earn a wealthy amount of credits to buy the kingdom food, killing no more among this planet. But since this planet, Ethoria was so peaceful and strict on that fact, many people with bounty on their heads sought a secretary here, meaning many bounty hunters came by and broke the law.

So after finding out about a particular assassin, one highly trained to kill the bounty hunters. The present king began bargaining with an old friend, pledging his allegiance to the sith lord count Dooku and aiding him in whatever needs possible if he could just borrow the sith darth maul, the assassin in question. Like say if the king's people ever bear a force sensitive child, Dooku may train the child in the ways of the sith if desired. Of course Maul agreed to help, given the order to do so by his master Darth Sidious.

Maul thought this mission would be quite boring, waiting around all day for the bounty hunters to enter this system to do their killing. But after meeting the king in the throne room and laying eyes on the princess, a gorgeous woman who made even the brightest of stars seem dull. Maul began to rethink his opinion on this mission, it would indeed be intriguing. Especially after the king gave maul the privilege of sleeping in a spare room among the palace.

Her laugh, the angelic sound is what broke his thoughts. Snapped back into reality, Maul is surprised to see the beauty known as the princess stood before him. Her eyes glued to his as she smiles at him. The sight caused his hearts to beat more rapidly, quite literally taking his breath away with one simple look. It was then, he knew she had been trying to speak with him, only to have him gawking like an idiot.

Clearing his throat, Maul bows in courtesy. “Please forgive me princess, my mind seems to be elsewhere” he smiles at her, hands clasped in front of him as the hood of his black cloak covers the horns atop his head, but the golden hue of the ballrooms light shows a glimpse of the ones on his temple.

The princess only lets out a light chuckle, the sound embedding itself in Maul's memory. “No need to worry yourself. I only came by to offer you my company, you looked awful lonely standing over here in the shadows” she said, voice soft. Her eyes roaming his face with a look one could only describe as admiration. It surprised maul to receive such a look from the gorgeous princess.

“I prefer it that way” the words slip off his tongue with no thought to them, her sparkling vibrant Y/E/C eyes seem to deflate, gaze averted to the marble floor.

“Oh, then I'm sorry to have bothered you” she offered a smaller smile than before, but it still held a friendliness to it as the other more brighter smiles flashed his way.

Having realized his mistake, Maul leans forward in the flash of light and grabs her hand. Soft and delicate, a feeling he had never felt before. It sent shivers down his spine, heart swelling with an unfamiliar feeling as he caught her eyes, framed by dark lashes that fluttered in surprise by his haste to keep her in his company. Her lips had parted as she looked as if she wanted to speak, but no words fell from her mouth as goosebumps arose on her exposed skin. Maul knew that he wasn't the only one affected by the touch shared between him and her once he spotted the bumps on her flesh.

“I would like you to show me around the garden” he spoke almost shyly, afraid she'd recoil from his touch in disgust. Afraid of his menacing appearance as a Zabrak while she was a gorgeous human. But the princess seemed to be full of surprises as she smiled at him sweetly before nodding in agreement to his request.

“Of course, follow me then maul” the way his name rolled off her tongue makes his heart go wild, thumping against his ribcage as if begging to escape and have her take them away so they can beat for her and her alone.

And so he followed her, surprised she still held his gloved hand in her own, as she walked him through the palace and out into the crisp night air. Although the mornings on this planet could be humid and hot, the nights were cold. While the princess admired the night sky, gazing at the two moons in the sky accompanied by the stars and planet's hanging in the dark sky with wonder. Maul admired her with the same unfamiliar swelling in his hearts, like a flower blooming for the first time in spring, new to the sunshine that embraced it, surrounding it with warmth in the promise of happiness and life, protection.

Maul stood there like a newly bloomed flower as his sunshine stood beside him holding his hand talking about the stars and moons in the sky while he soaked in her radiance. Perhaps it was love coursing through his veins, embracing his hearts and soul. He knew he shouldn't fall victim to her beauty though, for it were liable he would only be broken once the feelings go unrequited. Why would she love him when her kingdom provides her other souls that can live peacefully while he practices the art of murder?

“What's on you're mind?” she spoke up, yet again breaking his thoughts and snapping him back into reality.

He only sighs and looks around at the garden, many exotic flowers reside in the garden, closed up due to the sun's absence. “It's better left unspoken, princess” he replied to her concern as they walked through the garden. A pond surrounded by stone walls in the middle of the garden cast under a blue hue by the moons above. The princess leads maul over to the pond and they sit on the stone wall keeping the water in.

“Please call me Y/N, there is no need for such formalities out here” she giggled while a burst of wind breezed by, her shiver not going unnoticed by maul.

Ever the gentleman, he takes his cloak off, sadly letting her hand go to do so, revealing his unshadowed face. Crimson skin adorned by inky black tattoos, patterns that make her heart beat quicker by the full view of his face now. Horns small that emerge from his head like a crown, golden eyes surprisingly soft as he offered her his cloak to keep warm. She takes it, slipping it on and wrapping it around herself. His warmth still on it, his scent almost dizzying as she feels her cheeks heat up.

“Thank you maul” she muttered as he offered her a little nod and smile. Nervous under her intense gaze as she admired him, how his crimson and obsidian skin glow beneath the duel moon's light. He was truly a magnificent sight in her eyes, a handsome soul incomparable to anyone else. “Not only a gentleman but a handsome one at that” she compliments him, face flushed.

The zabrak practically snaps his head toward her with a shocked expression. Had he heard her right? Or was his mind playing cruel tricks on him? But one look into her soft enchanting eyes, he saw the awestruck glint in them, how her admiration spills from her own being in waves, detected in the force.

“I think the cold has made you delusional princess -

“I thought we had established to call me by my name?”

“I mean Y/N, and as I was saying -

“Wasn't important because I already know it's nothing but a load of bantha fodder” she cut his words off yet again, already knowing he was about to degrade himself in some form.

“How do you know if you haven't heard what I have to say?” he inquired with an amused smirk, golden eyes sparkling with joy.

“one doesn't need the force to know when someone is about to say something incredibly stupid” she mused with a little shake of her head, her eyes drifting down to her hands folded in her lap. She missed the feeling of his hand in her own, something she didn't know he missed as well.

“Not even known me for an hour and yet you seem to read me well” he lets out a chuckle, “You are quite the character darling” he shakes his head with a fond smile dancing across his lips. His hearts growing attached to her already, despite having only known her for a short period of time.

The wind blew once more, causing fallen leaves to sweep across the garden floor in a swirling dance. Maul watched them but felt the ticklish feeling of one leaf land on his head, his horns keeping the browning thing there. Giggling at the sight, Y/N watches how maul simply gives her a playful glare until his lips tug up in a small grin.

“I'll get it for you, hold still” she slowly leans closer to his side, reaching a delicate hand up to remove the dying leaf from his head. Her fingers letting the leaf go as she kept her hand in place, awestruck by how soft his skin felt beneath her fingertips. Slowly she touched one of his horns as he watched her face display her adoring look, admiring his handsome features as her hand slowly trails down from his horn to press her palm against his cheek, lips parted as she gazed at him with love. The look overwhelming maul almost as he subconsciously leans into her soft touch. The low purr emitting from his chest fueling Y/N to continue, leaning her face closer to his, warm breath gracing his skin, the desire to feel her lips growing stronger as her eyes flutter closed and their noses brush against each other. Lips nearly touch, ghosting over another.

“M'lady Y/N! You're father has been - oh my! I'm sorry to -

Practically pulling away from her faster than a speeder, Maul stood up and glared at the young maid. She showed her fear brought on by his glare as she avoided his eyes. The princess looked disappointed, almost hurt by how he abandoned her side as if she were the most venomous creature in all the galaxy. He ignores her hurt expression and demands his cloak back, brushing off the shatter of his hearts, how they beg him to forget about the kriffing maid and fulfill the need to kiss the princess, to finish what was started. But he gives her one last look, hating how she avoids his eyes and focuses on the younger woman who interrupted the two in the first place.

“Goodnight princess, thank you for showing me around this lovely garden” he bowed and walked away not even awaiting her response. He felt like a fool for how he recoiled from her, how he demanded his cloak back and left in a hurry. But he knew that consequences would be dealt with for the princess if she were spotted kissing the sith assassin paid to rid her home planet of the cold blooded killers destroying the peace her grandfather and father fought hard to keep. Maul knew that he wasn't the right one for her, that he couldn't give in to temptation, it would only break not only his, but her heart as well once he leaves this planet.

But she couldn't help but feel a connection with the sith, her heart yearning to feel his skin again.

His heart yearning to feel her warm delicate touches. The connection he felt growing as he walked away from her, the sight of her eyes already plaguing his mind.

[viviennefonseca]

emptying out of my mother's belly was my first act of disappearance learning to shrink for a family who likes their daughters invisible was the second the art of being empty is simple believe them when they say you are nothing repeat it to yourself like a wish i am nothing i am nothing i am nothing so often the only reason you know you're still alive is from the heaving of your chest

Rupi Kaur, Milk and Honey

[hisakata-resutomoshibi]

So I got to thinking too deeply about origin stories the other day. I wrote this in a frenzy in one day so cut me some slack you guyss~ lol

(here you go @katzkinder @mrskeletondarkness )

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been four days since my last confession." He murmured, eyes fixed on the green velvet drapery only half discernible in the dim lighting filling the claustrophobic confessional box. "I once more lost my temper. It was just a small child but he was lingering in the outer hall and I knew him well. He is Alexander and on kitchen duty this week."

"And what did you do?" The soft voice from beyond the altar asked.

"I lashed out. I do believe he may have cried." There was no response to this but a lingering sigh and he grimaced. "There are more, of course. I was prideful of my position and my duty to oversee the facility in the absence of Father Antonio. I have overslept once and missed the Holy Hour."

"Unbecoming of a deacon."

He bit his lip, fingers curling tightly into his palms. "Yes, Father."

"This is something that I seem to see a pattern of." The voice had grown lighter and almost joking. "Are you perhaps not a morning person?"

"Not at all." He muttered sourly.

"See that that be something you work on."

"Yes, Father." He began sifting through the recent memories for something more inconsequential, struggling to see past the irritation he felt at the call out and finally settled on the most interesting. "I witnessed a marriage the other day. They seemed quite happy."

"And the sin?" The voice lilted up in amusement.

"I took the top most layer of the wedding cake."

There was a desperately concealed snort and then a clearing of the throat and he did his best to hold back a smile. "I think that is enough, don't you? Is it not time for your infirmary rounds?"

"Yes, Father. Ah- this is all I can remember. I am sorry for these and all my sins.” He intoned dutifully, making to stand and dust the loose crushed velvet from his robes.

"For penance you will help the boy Alexander in the kitchens when you have completed your other duties." A pause and then, "And no bread at dinner for the week."

Scowling unseen in the dark, he nodded. "Yes, Father."

"Your Act of Contrition."

Taking a deep breath, he settled back onto the stiff wooden bench and let his mind drift as the familiar words flooded forth. "My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart, in choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned-"

The infirmary that he chose most to visit lay at the edges of the city and he often found himself wondering if it was the walk through the crowded, busy streets, or the lack of elderly patients at that particular institute that he liked about it. It was difficult to say really and bore no real worth in contemplating beyond relishing in the somewhat fresh air that blew in from the smaller subdivisions and off the ever renewing water of the fountains so recently restored.

"You're here again." 

Her voice was gentle and welcoming, clearly biased in her delight at the sight of him, and he struggled to hold back a smile.

"Of course. It is an almost daily occurrence."

"That it is." She smiled, ushering him in and down the hall. "I'm afraid most are sleeping at the moment and not much in need of such a friendly face."

"Then I shall do the rounds with you."

She once more smiled brightly and nodded, turning to gather her jacket. "Please do!"

Their conversations were always varied and pleasant, and he found her to be a relaxing presence; all at once joyful and demure, and yet suggestively combative and interesting. It was of course, he mused somewhat guiltily, a plus when the sun hit her endless golden hair and flashed, star bright, against the darker colors of her dress.

It was something that he was always mocked for. But then, he decided, watching her laugh cheerfully with one of her patients, worth it. 

"They say there was a werewolf spotted not far from here!" Matteo exclaimed, dropping his plate down on the table. It clattered and threatened to spill and he chuckled self consciously.

"Do not be an idiot." He murmured testily, pulling his own plate farther away to protect it from the splattering of gravy off Matteo's. "They will say anything to keep a head up in notoriety."

"You're always so dour and pragmatic!"

"I am not, I am merely-"

"Yeah, yeah! A deacon of the church, bent on becoming pope." Matteo laughed, stabbing his spoon into the lukewarm potatoes they were being served. 

Blowing out a harsh breath, he glared over at his friend. "Don't say things like that!"

"Well it's true, isn't it?"

"You once again demonstrate your enormously empty head."

Matteo only laughed once more, and he looked away again, down into the dregs of his cup and wondered if it were possible. Was it something that he could dare to dream of being worthy of? "Superstitious fancy." He muttered, not expecting an answer.

"You know, Faaver Antonehio claims is all twue." Matteo slurred, mouth full of bread. "He says thas why-" He paused and swallowed loudly, earning another glare. "He says that's why the city shuts down after dark. That and vampires." He wiggled his eyebrows.

"Folly." He scoffed. "Vampires are no more real than ghosts."

"Then what do you think we're so armed against?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You have demonstrated quite a lack of faith."

He spun around, long gown fanning out and creating a rustling against the stone flooring in the otherwise total hush of the hall. "Father!"

"Calm down." Antonio chuckled. "I do not mean in your studies, but in your disbelief in what I'm sure you have been hearing murmurs of in the streets."

Wracking his brain, he could only come up with one common theme, and he struggled to keep his mouth from dropping open. "Do you mean the vampires and werewolves?"

"Exactly that." Glancing up and down the hall, Antonio stepped closer, his candle threatening to go out in the sudden rush of air between them as he approached. "For no other reason than your safety, please try to keep in mind that rumors are all based on something."

Without pausing to think that perhaps he was throwing his friend to the dogs, he snorted. "So all that ilk that Matteo spouts is not just nonsense but true?"

"More so than even he seems to ascribe it, yes." Antonio answered. He hesitated and then placed a hand on his shoulder, resting heavy and warm in the chilly hall. "You have duties in the morning so try to keep your head, alright? And do not let it affect your sleep. But remember this, you are destined for far more than you see before you now."

The innocuous statement seemed more confusing than reassuring and so he merely nodded. "Yes, Father."

Later, as he lay in bed, staring unflinchingly at the dark cavernous ceiling of his room where the moon, long since risen, was casting shadows into the corners, he couldn't help but picture a large wolf running through the streets and found himself hard pressed not to laugh. What a bunch of ridiculous lies. It was all just childish dreams and jokes blown out of proportion by the uneducated masses. And though it may very well be his duty to love and protect those very people, that did not mean he had to fall prey to their hysteria.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was best to focus on the news he had received. Best to not look at the telltale red that was occasionally splattered across his pillows and sheets in the morning. No, it would do no good and so he shoved it far back and to the graveyard of his mind. He would not think of it. Instead he would relish in the knowledge that he would seem to not only be progressing to priesthood but to a place in the College.

He had been warned, months ago now, by Father Antonio, that there were changes in the air, but never would he have dared to imagine something like this.

"Handpicked." He murmured, watching his reflection in the water basin. He was looking impossibly paler and thinner, his already sharp jaw now razor like, and his eyes, such a lively green, now clouded. "For life."

It was a melancholy thing to hear of a death, but he could see past that and to it's natural place in the order of life. It was simply the way of things. That was true in the most dire of situations and it was true now. Splashing a hand through the water, he let out a breath of relief when his image faded into the ripples and he stepped away to begin his morning routine.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned." He covered a soft cough with a stomp of his foot on the hardwood. "It has been three days since my last confession and I have fallen prey to pride and fear." There was no immediate response and so he continued. "I have lost not faith but trust, and I fear death."

"There is nothing to fear in death."

"No. But early dea-" He cut himself off, wondering how to parse the emotions that were tying him in knots so frequently now. So much so as to be distracting, leading to forgetfulness, spite, impatience. "I wish penance to renew my trust in God."

Faced with the city at dusk, he suddenly couldn't remember the last time he had ventured beyond the halls past midday. It was a colder evening and the wind bit into the hollows of his ribs and forced shivers across his skin. Tugging the cloak tighter around his shoulders, he hurried forward, long legs carrying him past the familiar sights now so strange in the twilight.

The place he had been sent, a seemingly unnoteworthy apothecary, was not far and it wasn't until he was in sight, breath labored and mind fixed on the sign over the doorway, that he first saw the shadow at the edges of the street. It hadn't appeared to have been following him, indeed, it seemed not to notice him at all. But when a second figure lunged forward from the open ended alley and sank a flashing blade into the first's chest, he couldn't stop the strangled sound of surprise from ripping free of his throat and into the night.

It was a mistake.

Both men, for he could see now that they were men, turned to him and he sank back a step. Mind blank in astonishment, he did not at first notice when the second advanced from the dark of the side street and towards him. It was foolishness to think that the glow of his robes would deter the man in any way but he still, for the first moment, held out hope. He just couldn't imagine dying in a place like this.

"Hey!" The first shouted and he for a moment found space in his crowded mind to marvel at the fact that the man was still standing, much less shouting so loudly.

"What are you-" His words were cut off by the fist that connected with the side of his head, and seeing stars, he stumbled back until his calves met a small wooden cart parked nearby. His temper flared, burning away the inky constellations in his mind and he frowned darkly. "You should not have done that."

"Ah man." The first man moaned tiredly. "What do you think you're doing hitting a priest?"

"You should not be hitting any one." He grit, resisting raising a shaking hand to his temple which throbbed more richly with each gust of chill night air.

"Yeah, that's true." The first sighed, leaning languidly back against the building, blood steadily gathering at his feet. "But I think it matters a little less if it's me."

"Shut your fool mouth!" He roared, eyes widening in yet more dread when he felt his own blood gathering in the crevices of his teeth and escaping the confines of his mouth. 

"Hey, you ok?" The man asked, pushing away from the wall, his hair catching the street light and flashing like snow. "You look kind of peaky."

"I'm fine!" He spit, biting down on not just his tongue but the overwhelming, overlapping, paralyzing fear that grew suddenly up from that long buried place, watered with the blood that had, until now, seemed to have been staying where it was supposed to. 

"You have quite a temper there, Father." The man sighed, having finally reached them. He glanced at the second figure who, in seeming disbelief, had not moved since the beginning of their conversation. "I'm tellin' you. It's better if he has his way with me. After all, what do I care?"

"You want to die?!" He exclaimed, livid in both dismay and amazement.

"No." The figure muttered, reaching out now, lightning fast and wrapping an arm around the second's throat. "But even if I did, it's not like I can."

"What in the world do you-" He broke off, watching in incredulity as, with each movement of the mans arms, more blood gushed free and ran like a waterfall down his legs to the cobblestones; he did not seem concerned by this and with what could only be seen as inhuman strength, lifted the second figure over his head and tossed him, light as a child, across the street and into a rubbish pile. The impact rendered the second figure unconscious and the man now turned his ruby gaze back.

"You should probably get home or whatever. Take a long nap."

"Your- eyes are-"

"Red?" The man interrupted, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, well I am a vampire."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was growing harder and harder to ignore, he admitted, as he crept down the deserted hall in search of Matteo. Indeed, most nights now, he found it difficult to sleep for the chills and chest pain. He could feel it digging ever deeper, sinking it's unknown fingers into his lungs and muscles and wracking him with aches and shivers and now even an inability to eat. He was thinner than ever, as Matteo liked to remind him, joking that a strong wind might be enough to loose his feet from the floor and sweep him away and to Heaven. And it would have been an annoying enough joke on its own but for the twinge of real worry he could discern in Matteo's eyes whenever he was looked at too closely or accidentally let out a cough that had been punching at the back of his throat for the last hour.

It should have been nothing. He was a man of God. He was pious and good and atoned. It should have been nothing.

But it wasn't.

There had been no answers for him in the dead of night, or the light of dawn. or in the long watches of desperation every Mass. 

Slamming an already bruised fist against the nearest archway, he winced when the hollowed bones in his hand creaked. Rubbing at the spot, he bit his lip, and tried to ignore the panic that fluttered so like children’s breath at his heart. It would do no good. It would only increase the pain. It would only bring on another of his fits.

Knowing that vampires were real, assuming that he hadn't hallucinated the entirety of the event a couple weeks, wasn't making anything easier. His faith, already on shaking legs, was threatening to topple completely when faced with the truth of such creatures, the Damned, lurking in the night, in the city, and free to prey on those they chose. And if they truly existed, then what did that mean for Matteo's claim of werewolves?

He couldn't afford to wait any longer.

He was about to give up for the night, winded and miserable, when he turned a corner and almost ran head first into Matteo himself. He stumbled back, barely catching himself on his weakened ankles and shrugged off the concerned hand Matteo put forth.

"What are you doing out so late at night, my friend?" Matteo asked, the faux cavalier tone to his voice grating against already raw and bloodied nerves.

"Looking for you." He hissed. Grabbing a handful of the others robes, he gave as mighty of a pull as he could, one so diminished from his usual that he almost broke down in tears. "We need to talk."

"About what?" Matteo whispered cautiously. "Do you feel like you-"

"Not about me." He panted. "About the damn vampires."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was probably the time to go and see Father Antonio, he thought detachedly; there was no coming morning for him. And he would go too, he insisted, argued vehemently to himself, if only he could get up.

"Do you want another drink of water?" The voice next to him asked softly and he turned his head, neck muscles protesting violently. 

The figure there was blurry at best, but he thought he could make out blonde waves. Unsure if he had given a response or not, he blinked, willing the vision to clear. If nothing else, what a sight to be his last.

"Is he-" Matteo's high alto drifted over from the doorway and the blonde blur shook its head.

"Please come in." The soft one answered.

A shaking hand wrapped around one of his, seeming miles away, and Matteo's face slowly materialized. His freckles looked more pronounced than ever and it took him far too long to understand it was the unnatural pallor of Matteo's face that made them so.

"How are you, my friend?"

Summoning every ounce of life left in his body, he scoffed, the sound weak and wet in the otherwise complete silence. "You- demonstrate- your empty head-edness."

A trembling smile wound over Matteo's lips and his grip tightened just a fraction. "What would I be otherwise?"

A priest, he thought sullenly, enviously. It had been his future, his goal and meaning in existence. Now, Matteo would see that Ordainment alone. Perhaps he would even earn his spot in the college, one that he had not even had chance to sit in on. 

There were no answers anywhere.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When next his eyes opened his vision had cleared, was in fact crystal sharp and bright despite the obvious glow of the moon beyond the windows, windows that he did not recognize. Suspiciously, he cast it about the room and recoiled in shock when he met a gaze he had never seen before.

"Feeling better, aren't we?" The stranger asked cheerfully. "Tell me! How is your head? Your lungs? Quite a toll it took on you there! I'm surprised you held on as long as you did. Naught but mush in your chest by the end!"

"What are you talking about?" He demanded, eyes flying wide at the restoration of his deep tenor. It was something that he had not heard in the last month of suffering and wavering delirium and it's sudden reappearance was startling at best and terrifying at worst.

The man grinned, wide and unfettered. "Welcome to your new life!" He stepped back, out of his immediate line of sight, and spread long arms. "How do you feel, be honest."

"I-" He cut off, scowling blackly and sitting up, once more stunned by the ease with which this small motion, before next to impossible, was now accomplished. "Who are you? Where am I?"

"I've already told you." The man tutted. "Doubt Doubt. That is your name now."

"My-" His gaze flew to the small mirror over the sink that was inset into the wall. In it stared back a mad version of his face. Returned were his delicate, high cheekbones and attractively curved forehead, leading back into shining ravens feathers for hair, but his eyes... gone was the green of a spring rain and in place was a sparkling. cold ruby flame. "My name is-" He trailed off distractedly, realizing that he could not seem to remember it. All his memories were intact, strong and full of conviction, even the dread soaked ones of the last few weeks, but this, his name, he couldn't seem to-

"Not any more." The man smiled. "You are Doubt Doubt. Of Envy."

The mention of the sin, one of the last complete, coherent memories that he possessed, knocked the wind from his newly restored lungs and he bolted up, lithe and sure on his feet once more. "Impossible! Where am I?"

"Your friend really should have warned you." The man murmured, looking for all the world as though he were full of pity. "But then, it's entirely possible he did. Many don't seem to remember those last few days."

Without thought, he crossed the room in six staccato steps, his hands already winding around the throat of the man, this tormentor sent to punish his for his dying sacrilege. But even when his fingers, strong now, stronger than ever they were before, dug into his flesh, the man only continued to watch him calmly. Finally, after several moments of blinding rage he forced his grip to go slack, hands falling away from the mans neck, shoulders, back to his own sides, hanging limply.

"You have quite a temper." The man laughed and instantly another memory was summoned to the forefront of his mind. One of a pale, lackluster youth in worn clothing, with a mortal wound in his chest, tossing a grown man twenty feet; a young man with the same burning blood in his eyes.

"Vampire." He murmured, the words falling free in numb disbelief.

"That's right." The man agreed brightly. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was with both fear and hope that Doubt Doubt stopped just before the first step of the ancient stairs that led up to the entrance, a path he had so oft taken without a second thought. But there in lay salvation, or at the very least, an end to this treacherous half life, this stain upon his humanity. Tugging the hood low over his face, making sure that nothing but his thin lips could be seen, he took a step and then another. He was unsure if it was relief or disappointment he felt when, in stepping through the doorway and into the gold gilded opulence, he did not burst into flames or finally fall dead to the floor.

It had been months, long enough that he was sure that even were he recognizable, no one would have the time to think twice. As long as he steered clear of the back quarters, kept to the crowded main halls and rooms, it was going to be fine, there was no one that-

"Oh my god." A voice breathed and Doubt Doubt spun on his heel, anguish pooling in his stomach. "You-" Matteo broke off, wide brown eyes suddenly flooding. "I thought he had spoken lies."

"Who?" Doubt Doubt demanded harshly, forgetting his plan and allowing his feet to follow the pull towards the other.

"T-that man." He stuttered, taking his own step back in response to every one of Doubt Doubt's forward. "He told me that you-"

"That I what?" He insisted, now towering over the smaller man.

He could see the moment that Matteo saw the red of his eyes for his face, already pale in shock, drained further, until he was almost a bleached parchment. "Your-"

"Come with me." Doubt Doubt interrupted swiftly, grabbing Matteo's arm and  dragging him as quickly as he could without drawing attention towards the so familiar halls that led to his room.

The door, as he had hoped, was unlocked and, in pushing it open, he felt a rush of regret wash over him. He should not have come back here. Not when he had for so long agonized over his plan already. Matteo, now following willingly enough, was hovering in the doorway and at Doubt Doubt's sharp look, swallowed a gasp and darted the rest of the way in. He, whether out of habit or a lack of self preservation, pulled the door closed behind him and then they stood, silently studying the other in the swirling dust motes filling the room.

Matteo, as always, was the first to speak; his voice weak and hollow in the gloom. "He said he could help you."

"Who?"

"I saw..." His eyes darted to the window, now shuttered, and back. "I met a boy in the square. He was the one you told me about. I thought nothing of it until I saw his eyes." His gaze fluttered briefly up to Doubt Doubt's before falling back away. "You were right."

"Of course I was." Doubt Doubt muttered flatly.

"When you- you died." Matteo sucked in an unsteady breath, his vision once more clouding over with tears. "My friend, my dear one, you were dead and I- I think I-"

"You lost your mind." Doubt Doubt accused, fingers clenched beneath his sleeves, where they could not be seen.

"I could not stand to see you like that. I heard, you know. Father Antonio does not keep secrets as well as he thinks. I kept thinking, thinking that if I could only do something you would be able to, to join the College and-"

"I can do no such thing as I am." He snarled, stepping forward and whipping back the hood, letting his hair fall free, eyes flashing in the muted sunlight. 

Matteo's expression grew fearful and awe struck in equal parts as he looked up into Doubt Doubt's face. "God, what have I done?" He whimpered, hands clasping in desperation between them. "That man, he said that he could change it, reverse your death or- God, forgive me. Please. Forgive me."

"I will forgive when you have done something about this." Doubt Doubt whispered, tone dripping in venomous hate. "Find a way to end this suffering or you will only be destined to join me."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned." Doubt Doubt began, foot tapping fretfully against the worn wood of the confessional. "It has been eighteen months since my last confession. I have been consumed with hate and vitriol. I am no longer a man of God."

"Everyone is a child of the lord." The voice beyond the veil was elderly and breathy and Doubt Doubt found himself wondering suddenly how easy it would be to frighten such a man to death.

"Every one, you say?"

"Yes, of course. All of mankind is held in his loving arms."

"I am no man."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Surely, Matteo would have passed by now, Doubt Doubt mused, watching the water in the hold of the ship slosh worryingly. It had been more than a century. Men were not meant to live so long. And so it was that, feeling his sanity degrade further every day, he decided that it best he leave his beloved city. For what was it now but a painful prison? It was no more his city than the ticket he had used to board this ship had been.

Glancing down, he wondered if the tailor he had contracted had found the request strange. Most likely it was not every day that he was instructed to create a bastard priest's robes. Now in jet black, Doubt Doubt was confident that he would not be questioned or accosted, and the drape, the heavy fall of the fabric was, despite the passing years, still a comfort. There was no ornamentation, no rosary or trim; those were things from the past, things that were no longer in his grasp, and the memories it summoned had been far too much. Each new election, each new pope and passing of priests and bishops had left him bereft and sinking further beneath the black waves of his own destruction; Doubt Doubt had realized he had to leave, because he could not die.

The veil he wore now had been a gift oddly enough. A strange girl with sparkling green eyes had given it to him on the street one late evening. Wandering alone past the river, Doubt Doubt had stumbled, hurriedly pulling his hood and thick cotton scarf back up and over in fear when he had noticed the girl and her mother near the water's edge. She had seen though, he could tell by her knowing look, and when, after a brief word to her mother, she turned her steps towards him, he considered running. It would be easy to outrun one so small; he could outrun anything in the world now, after all.

"That looks uncomfortable." She said solemnly when they were within earshot of each other. Holding out her small hand, she presented a thin, delicately made silk veil. "Take this."

Doubt Doubt stared down at the offering in stupefaction and it was only when she huffed impatiently and waved the veil around a bit that he was jolted back into active thought. "I do not need it."

"But you look like you would like it. You'll breathe easier." She insisted, and without warning, crossed the rest of the distance between them and plopped the soft material into his hand, which had reached out of its own accord in habit. "Please take it, Father."

Biting his lip deeply, enough to bring a flash of copper to his tongue, Doubt Doubt curled his fingers over the veil and let all he could think to say fill the void. "I never made it that far."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had become habit to speak lowly, it was far easier to hide his teeth that way. Or at least that's what he told himself. It was more likely that than, though trapped in a never aging body, he was somehow still growing old in mind. Mumbling and hiding and denying were just so much easier. And when one spent his time making little bottled ships, an infuriating hobby that he had picked up from Matteo, one did not really need to speak.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The church in this new city was small, but then, all seemed small in the face of the Vatican, he mused, standing in the street and staring up at the dome. It would accomplish nothing, bring nothing but regret and anger, but he still could seem to stop himself from ascending the stairs and gliding into the atrium. Sister like wall sconces and décor greeted him and he breathed a soft sigh. Letting his fingers trail over the statues lining the alcoves, he worked his way towards the altar and paused, staring up at the swirling scrollwork of the inner bannisters.

"Good day!" A voice called cheerfully, and Doubt Doubt started, his gaze flying to the back of the room. There stood what he could only think was the resident priest, and instantly his heart sank. "Don't worry, you're always welcome!" He added seeing the twist of Doubt Doubt's lips.

"I do not belong here." He said softly, voice carrying in the quiet of the air.

"All belong!" The priest exclaimed, still smiling. "And you have that look. The call of God, it speaks to you."

"I have not heard that voice in years." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was like a long forgotten dream but try as he might, Doubt Doubt could not place his finger on the memory. It sat, hovering at the edges of his mind, winking in and out of sight in frustrating patterns. Something about her long, blonde hair pulled at his empty heart and drew him in, filled him with a sense of ease and happiness that he had not known in lifetimes. She felt like an unfamiliar homecoming.

She was so, so hard to resist.

And so, when she came to him, found him in that dark basement, biding his endless time and pretending not to exist, he did not think twice, did not stop to question why she wanted him. Only rejoiced shallowly in what little feeling he could summon that there was still some reason for his continued presence on this cursed plain, some meaning in his cruel existence.

And now it was too late. She was standing before him, bereft and broken, mad from the hole in her heart, and they were contracted and he had only two options. Both were unthinkable and once more he was left with the clarity of vision that he had never seemed to possess in the moment. Someone, a man he once knew, had joked that his hot head was the reason he had made it to deacon. "You're just too stubborn and scary when angry to say no to!" He had always laughed and Doubt Doubt spent a moment admiring the clarity with which he could recall such words. But what had been his name? 

"You have to." She slurred, leaning forward and draping herself over his shoulders. "You're mine and I say and so you have to."

He remained silent, hoping that she would grow bored and lose interest, but he had no such luck and her anger was too strong, her hate too powerful. 

"You will." She demanded, pulling out a kitchen knife, one that looked pilfered from the family's heritage collection, if he had to hazard a guess. "Use this, it will be so easy. He is so small~" She thrust the knife into his hand and barely looked when, in sliding the blade through her own, she sliced open her lily white palm. "Tomorrow is someone's birthday and I must make a cake. You can think of how you want to do it and then we'll have two reasons for cake!" She used the bloodied hand to swipe back her wild hair, falling in clumps over her forehead and Doubt Doubt almost couldn't resist the urge to jump up and pull her hand away, saving that beautiful color from the sin of her blood. "Figure it out, or I will." 

He was small, though not as small as the one he had come to find, and Doubt Doubt only just saw him in the doorway of the little ones room. Standing there, staring openly into Doubt Doubt's eyes, he seemed to feel no fear, though the flash of the knife was visible in the setting sun's flames through the window. Yes, he had always been an odd one. Doubt Doubt had only talked with him several times, just enough to place his face and name in the great tide of those that resided behind the walls of the mansion he now haunted. Mikuni was his name, yes and he was her son; that much was obvious as he possessed the same silken cornflower hair. 

Neither said anything and, in a fit of determination, Doubt Doubt turned from the doorway, tucking the knife away. He had not intended to use it but between his worried distraction and the siren call of the contract he had found it repeatedly in his hand over the course of the last few hours. 

Mikuni watched him go, he could feel that razor sharp gaze piercing his back, and only when he had once more hidden himself away in the basement, tucked into the darkest corner he could find, the heat of the boiler a comfort to his chilly scales, could he finally breathe a sigh of relief.

Surely, she would not be able to find him here. And without his poisonous presence perhaps she could regain her mind, find once more her love and soul that he had so come to enjoy. The connection sang, even within the limited confines of the building but she was not truly thinking, had not been for months, and so he hoped she would not be able to follow it's call.

When hours later the sound of footsteps roused him from his fugue like doze, fear cramped his lungs, shooting ice into his already frozen veins. How had she-

But the figure that stopped in front of his hiding place was not hers, and he relaxed somewhat. No, it was the boys. Mikuni's. And it was with a piqued interest and vague sense of dread that he wondered how this one could find him when even his own master could not.

"I have a proposal for you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Adjusting the veil, he approached the cold stone steps that he had spent a lifetime treading up and down and now had not seen in decades. The sun was wasting away behind the promenade and yet people still lingered, modern attire and garish colors at odds with the old world design of the building. Jeje took a deep breath and swept up the staircase, attempting to keep his heart rate and back even. There was after all, nothing to fear. He had entered before, many times, in hopes of destruction and atonement, in desperation, and in rage. It was not absolution he sought now, but the simple peace of truth.

The high, arched ceilings, as beautiful as ever, rose above his head and he sighed, feeling that old cloak, once so comfortable and now only a gaudy costume, fall back over his shoulders. It had been his duty, his only desire- a dream no longer within his grasp. All around him, the scrolling designs, checkered framework of paintings, carved bannisters, and painstakingly carved statuaries reflected back the memories he had carefully piled over with dirt in the past hundred years of existence. Flooding back in such a wave they were incomprehensible and he almost lost his step. It was only when he noticed a set of curious eyes on him that he regained his composure and, straightening the shoulders of the priest robes he had donned so fretfully that morning, strode on. They fit just as well, as they should, as he had not changed, and in the ensuing observations he noted the vague curiosity replaced by an awed sort of respect. So it seemed he still looked the part.

Wasting time that he did not have, knowing Mikuni was holed up at their hotel room, most assuredly watching the clock in begrudging silence and counting the minutes, he trailed along the many familiar winding passages and elaborate stairwells, admiring the filter and fall of the sun, like solid beams, from the windows and across the dizzying tile floors. It was all so equally unchanged, he thought in amazement.

Pulling the freshly cleaned fabric left to right, the light petering out as he did so, Jeje sat on the loving, sturdy bench and waited. The sounds of rustling could be heard on the other side and then a polite cough. With a stranglehold on his bewildered emotions, he cleared his throat and began, "Bless me Father, for I have sinned." He hesitated. "It has been eighty-nine years since my last confession." The priest on the other side, whoever he may be, to his credit, managed to tamp down on his noise of shock, no doubt confounded by the voice he was hearing. Supposedly that of an as of that moment at least hundred year old man, it was still as silken and low as the deepest of chime bells. "I have committed the gravest of sins. An accomplishment for my already dark soul."

"God will forgive al-"

"Not this." Jeje interrupted, pushing past the ingrained, resurfacing habits of deference. "Not any more. I have corrupted the young and innocent. I have sullied his family home and life. Ruined it as surely as I am ruined. First through his mother and now through, most detestably, him. She was loving and warm, the love of his life, and because of me she fell into a deep madness. She wanted the worst of things. And now she is dead."

There was a heavy pause, the priest- no, the mortal man- on the other side, pulling in a deep breath, as though in preparation. "Was it an accident?"

"No, Father. It was murder."

[mshermia]

Christmas Eve - At Peace

That holiday-themed story that I will totally blame @superherotiger for making me procrastinate with ;)

###

Just a couple of months after they defeated Thanos, Tony and Pepper throw a Christmas party. Instead of a partying kid, Tony finds his Spiderling outside in the snow at the grave he has been trying to ignore ever exists.

I'm using my own Fix-it to Endgame "Like You'd know how it works" as a basis for the timeline, though the prompt will work fine without having read that story. The important part is, that Tony's not dead.

Baseline: circa 5 months after Tony is brought back from the multiverse.

###

The sky above him was clear. No clouds. No moon. Above him only the stars. The stars, he still avoided looking at too much. It made the night a little colder, a little darker despite the white snowy blanket covering the hills and trees.

It wasn't that Tony minded the solitude, quite the opposite. That had been the idea behind moving out to the cabin after all. Peace and quiet. Less exposure. Privacy. But of all the places on their property, why did the kid have to go there?

In all fairness, there was nothing quiet or peaceful about what was going on at Tony's house right now. There were 13 people gathered in his living room and kitchen, one of them a black-eyed alien who didn't quite understand the concept of Christmas but had been positively eager to experience all the "merriment and joy" that the little Madame Secretary had been promising from afar. Leave it to Tony to have to explain a spaceship landing in his backyard on Christmas Eve and talk down an international response.

"Morgan said it's an important gathering that every family member is obligated to attend." Nebula's eyes were on Tony, unblinking. "You should have told me sooner. I could have been here last year and the year before but I didn't know."

"Not to worry, Smurfette." There was a sense of genuine joy at seeing her again, that let the smile on his lips come quite easily. "You're here now, so that's that."

It was a sight to be seen how willingly the blue meanie allowed Morgan to put a party hat on her before she was sent off to mingle with the rest of them, studying the mini hot dogs on her plate. That hadn't been the only surprising sight of the evening though. Tony's jaw had equally popped with stunned surprise as he opened the door to a paler and distinctly shorter human version of Bruce Banner. A face Tony hadn't seen on him in years, as he showed up on his doorstep accompanied by a certain master spy that Tony had frankly not been expecting either.

"Making things work then," Tony mused out loud as he hovered next to them while Pepper fetched a welcoming drink.

Bruce cleared his throat. "Just... you know... happy to... to have her back."

"Of course." His head bobbed a short nod with a sincere smile in Natasha's direction. There was no denying that Tony, too, was glad to have her back. Retired or not, he had no illusions that the Avengers would remain anything but a constant in his life one way or another and while Natasha might never be a definite number on his side, she was an ally. Of sorts.

"Well, it's good to see you guys. I know it's quite a drive out here and we had suspected things might be a little more entertaining at the Compound." His thoughts still trailing a little behind, the words had slipped off his tongue before his brain could catch up with what he was saying. He hadn't meant to just straight up mention the Compound, the rest of the team by extension who hadn't received an invite to this particular gathering.

Pepper had wanted to discuss the guest list more than once. Had asked him repeatedly if he wanted to extend an invitation to the others, the team... but Rogers... Steve... no. Christmas was for family and while Bruce and his plus one did count - because Tony wanted him to count - Steve... Steve was not family. When it came down to it, they were hardly even friends. Natasha's eyes were on him and Tony was painfully aware that he was spacing out. No glasses to hide his face, all of a sudden he felt almost too exposed in his own house.

"Oh, we're just splitting the time equally over the holidays." Natasha smiled brightly. "Christmas Eve with one side of the family and then Christmas Day with the other."

Bruce's face fell a little, looking back and forth between them. "It's not sides as much as... just..."

They were saved from more awkwardness as Pepper arrived with the drinks and ushered them further into the house. Bruce was happy to follow along but Natasha hung back, her eyes still on Tony.

"There don't have to be any sides in this." She linked their arms, pushing Tony along, as Bruce shot a glance back at them, just out of earshot. "You can just decide to let it go, Tony."

"I did." It wasn't all that easy to keep the tone light but he was determined not to let this get to him. "I told him, I moved on from all of this years ago."

"We both know that's not the same as solving the real problem." Her voice was low but not unkind. "We both know you never forgave or forget, that he has never earned back your trust."

It didn't matter. He didn't even want to think about how much of that was or wasn't true. Rogers had no place in his thoughts tonight. So the timing was perfect when his eyes came to rest on a brown-haired boy who was creeping closer and closer to the pot of mulled wine. With a lame excuse, he pulled away from Natasha, away from the world he had officially retired from towards the buffet.

"And what do you think you're doing?"

"Me?" The boy's eyes were wide, the cup in his hand already filled to the brim.

"Listen here, squirrel!" His finger poking against Harley's chest, Tony could at least pretend that this was a situation he could actually control. "You take your grabby hands off that mulled wine or so help me..." He snatched the hot drink out of the boy's hands.

"Oh, come on..." His long lashes were blinking at Tony with feigned innocence. "It's not for me."

"That routine might work on some indifferent cater waiter at those benefits but if you think I can't see past your ridiculously lazy—"

"Yeah, yeah..." Harley just waved him off. "Don't be such a killjoy!"

Tony narrowed his eyes at him. "I mean it!" For good measure, he took a healthy gulp from the cup, positively burning his throat in the process. But it wasn't until Harley threw his hands in the air and turned his back in defeat - for now - that Tony allowed his face to cringe at the sting. Those little trouble makers were not helping with his heart condition. Speaking of trouble... "Where is Peter?"

Harley crossed his arms in front of himself, his mind clearly brooding on a new strategy. "No clue."

Tony's next sip of the hot wine was a lot smoother than the first. "What do you mean, no clue?"

"It generally means that the person doesn't have any information about the subject that you are—"

"Alright, short stuff..." Tony's eyes were searching the room but the little spider was nowhere to be seen. "A bit less of the asshole routine please?"

"Listen, if you want me to babysit, same rules apply as they do for Morgan." Brazen in his brattiness, the little shit ladled a good helping of mulled wine into a new cup. "I'll need a heads-up and generous compensation that I'm happy to re-negoti— Hey!"

Harley tried to hold on to the cup that Tony once again just plucked from his hands. "You've had enough of this!"

"That one is for Rhodey," the boy scowled.

"Uh-huh. Sure. I'll get it to him and you can enjoy your night without any errands, hm?"

Tony made a point to stare at the kid until he huffed and finally skedaddled away from the wine pot, possibly in search of his sister, or maybe more likely trying to stay out of her and Morgan's way. Careful not to spill either of the two cups, Tony made his way across the room towards Rhodey who had brought a "friend", a development Tony had been mindful not to comment on all night.

The Colonel's eyes looked him up and down as he made a beeline towards them. "Because one is never enough with you, is it, Tones?"

"You..." he hissed, his lips pursed. "You better not try to quip with me, you enabler!" Tony pushed the second cup he was holding into Carol Danvers' hands instead of Rhodey's. "Are you seriously letting my boy use you as an exit strategy to score a buzz?"

Rhodey's eyes shifted to the cup in his "friend" Carol's hands before he nipped on what was left in his own cup and then gave a shrug. "Which one?"

"That's not funny!"

With a deep sigh, Rhodey exchanged his empty cup with Carol's hot one. "Tony, you need to lay off the mother-hen vibes. The boy is 21 years old, as for Peter—."

"No, he's not," Tony growled. "Not for another 6 days!"

"Geez, daddy, do I really have to remind you how old you were when I 'enabled'," Rhodey air-quoted, "your ass in college?"

He said it like he had a point when that was exactly what Tony was afraid of. "And how did that turn out?"

His eyebrows pulled up, Rhodey made a gesture like that would somehow prove something, but Tony was not in the mood for semantics. His eyes roamed across the room - pointedly ignoring Harley who tried to usher Nebula closer and closer to the pot of hot wine - in search of the other little trouble maker.

Where was the kid? He hadn't seen him since... since he had ducked away from awkwardly shuffling his feet back and forth between May and Happy. Without another word, Tony strode past his friend, checking the kitchen but there was no Peter in there either. Everyone else was happily chatting, eating, enjoying themselves exactly like they were supposed to. Not so the Spiderling.

For a few more minutes, Tony quietly, discreetly wandered around the house. He had a feeling, a feeling that something was up. It didn't take long for him to give up the pretense and outright mutter to FRIDAY, asking in which room Peter was hiding.

"He's not in the house, boss." 

That was how Tony found himself outside, stalking up a snowy hill in the dark. The wind was icy, but it wasn't the cold that made the hair on the back of his neck stand tall. He had avoided this for months. Had avoided even thinking about that spot on the hill where his other-dimensional self had been buried before he ever made it to this timeline. With how loudly his brain was rattling, there was a part of him that couldn't deny that right about now, he appreciated the silence in the dark. They were so far away from what people would call the 'civilized' world out here. Surely, with Peter's senses constantly strained in the city, that was the basic appeal to him as well.

It was also how Peter had heard him coming before Tony even had the chance to call out to him.

"How did you find me?"

A little winded from the slippery ascend to the hilltop, Tony paused a couple of steps behind where the boy was sitting in the snow. "Oh, come on... It's me."

Peter pursed his lips, refusing to turn his head. "So, you questioned every single person at the house about when they had seen me last and then calculated the radius of how far I might have come?"

Tony only blew out a huff.

"Ah," Peter exclaimed and pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Tracking me after all, aren't you."

"Well, duh." Slowly, Tony came closer until he sank to the ground right next to the boy. "Not that I needed it. You're a Spiderling, not an Elf, kid."

"Right." Peter grimaced to himself. "Footprints."

"I keep telling you. Gotta learn how to fly."

The smile that tucked on Peter's lips seemed genuine this time. "You didn't have to come out here."

All of a sudden, Tony contemplated that the boy may have picked this particular spot not because of what it meant to him, but because he had been sure that of all the places, few of the people staying at the house that night would voluntarily wander up here. Tony least of all. There was no denying that the kid had picked up on how much this all freaked Tony out, the fact that there was a dead version of himself buried so close to where he still lived. Silence hung heavy between them before Tony's voice echoed a little quieter, a little hesitant.

"I wasn't sure if I should, but..." He swallowed hard. "I can leave if you want to be alone." 

There was another pause. Wanting to give him room to speak if that was what he wanted, Tony waited but the kid didn't say a thing.

With a shaky exhale, Tony kept his eyes on him. "But then I thought, I'd rather have you send me back than not be here if... if you would need me."

The kid's eyes were still staring straight ahead at the headstone in front of them.

"I know, I'm not him—"

"Of course you are," Peter breathed quietly.

Tony lowered his gaze, faltering. Maybe. "Not really though."

The kid's lip was caught between his teeth, refusing to look over at him. "In... in every way that matters."

"If you want to talk about it—"

"I don't," Peter mumbled.

It had been weeks after he had come back when Tony's curiosity had won out against his anxiety. Late at night on his own in the basement, he had asked FRIDAY to play him the footage of what had happened that day. That day he had died. Pepper, the kid, Rhodey... seeing their agony in the face of what he had done to protect them... it was a memory he just couldn't shake.

"I know, me being here doesn't change what happened. Kid, I know you were there when he..." Tony glanced to the side, searching the kid's face for a reaction. "...when I died."

Peter's head moved in a mixture of a shake and a shrug. "It... it doesn't matter..." His voice shook, possibly trying to convince himself as much as Tony. "You're back. You're... here. It... it's fine..."

"You're sitting at my grave in the freezing cold in the middle of my Christmas Eve party, buddy."

It was as bluntly as he could put it. He could see no benefit in tiptoeing around the demons the kid was battling.

But Peter shook his head more distinctly this time, still denying him. "It was just because... so many people and my senses, they... I just needed a little quiet to... calm down."

"Right. We have about 60 hectares of land out here and still..." Tony blew out a breath and leaned a little closer to the kid. "Still, this is the spot you picked to go." There was no answer from the Spiderling. "It's okay, if it still hurts, buddy."

The humorless chuckle that bubbled out of the kid didn't make things better for either of them.

"Pete, can you look at me?"

He didn't though. His eyes didn't stray from the inscription on the stone. 'A.E.S. - At peace.' A shudder went through Tony at the thought of how his wife had decided on that particular inscription.

"You're here." Peter's eyes dropped further, away from the stone, down to the snowy ground. "You're okay. It... it shouldn't matter..."

Tony grit his teeth then threw caution to the wind. "It's been 5 years and a little more than 8 months since you dusted in my arms, Pete."

The kid visibly shook next, his hands braced against the cold ground as he finally turned to look at Tony. 

"5 years, 8 months, and some odd days." Tony's lower lip was caught between his teeth, his cheeks flushed. The images in his mind were as vivid as they had been on that fateful day on Titan. "You're here now. You're back. You have been back for 6 months and I can still hear your voice in my head pleading how you don't—"

"I'm sorry..." the kid whispered.

Tony huffed out a low chuckle. "Yeah. You said that too."

"I'm sorry that... that you felt responsible," the kid started and Tony had just wanted to protest when the boy stopped him with a wave of his hand. "I am, but it's not the same."

For a brief moment, Tony closed his eyes, trying his best to calm himself and keep the dry bite from his tone. "No. It really isn't the same."

The breath Peter blew out was harsher, angrier. "It's not, because I didn't choose to get dusted," he growled, refusing to look away from Tony now. "I didn't want to die!"

"I know, Pete. I remember." The beat of his heart hurt in his chest. "You think I would have wanted to die?"

Peter shook his head, tearing his gaze away again. "It doesn't matter."

"Kid—"

"Can we just... I don't want to argue about this."

Peter pulled his knees close to his chest and the way his hands were shaking made Tony want to drag him back inside so he could focus on giving him a proper lecture without having to worry about the cold the kid might catch out here. 

Instead, he filed that back for later, deep breaths keeping his own frustration in check. "Maybe we do need to argue about this."

"I just want to move on!"

"And I..." Tony couldn't stop his voice from shaking. "...would really appreciate a chance to argue my side here."

"You don't need to argue your side," the kid hissed at him. "It's not you, I'm mad at, okay?"

Tony studied his boy. He was becoming painfully aware, how strung up the kid really was, how agitated. "It's not a choice anyone wants to make, kid. Sometimes, there is just no other way to —"

"There were like 10 people close by who could have done it." Peter shot him an angry glance. "It didn't have to be you! What about Morgan and Pepper, huh? What about—" He shook his head, eyes back on the snow-covered grave. "Captain Danvers. Thor. King T'Challa. The lady with the flying horse. Strange. Rogers. Barnes. Wanda Maximoff. Me." His head spun back towards Tony. "I could have tried."

Tony's stomach turned at the mere thought of that. "Yeah, there's no way in hell, Pete."

"Why not?" Peter's eyes burned with tears. "Why not! I could have taken it!"

"You have no idea if that's true." His heart was racing, his throat dry. "You might have died."

"So it's fine for you to sacrifice yourself on a whim but for me it—"

"Stop!" The way his hand hit the ground didn't have the grand effect he wanted. "That's not how this will work, kid. Ever. I will always try to keep you safe."

"And what about what I want?" Peter spat at him.

Tony shook his head, his eyebrows knitted close, desperately grasping for control. "I'm here now, am I not?"

"Yeah, for now..."

Any frustrated retort that might have been building up on his tongue died instantly as he watched the boy rub a hand across his face, the way his lower lip was quivering.

 "Kid... come here..." His agitation evaporated and without another beat of hesitation, Tony pulled him close, his arms tightly wrapped around the boy's small frame. "Shh, it'll... it'll be alright."

There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do that would take away the pain of the days when he had seemed lost forever to the people who loved him most. Just like Tony would never be able to quite shake the deep sense of loss he had carried for years when the kid had been dead and gone. 

Peter's hands were clasping the thick fabric of Tony's coat, his face pressed against his chest.

There was nothing he could say, no promises he would make, not the ones the kid wanted to hear right now cause he could never keep any of them. When it came to the kid's safety, his life, he would always put it above his own. No matter how much it might hurt him again, at least the kid would be breathing, would get to live.

"I'm sorry, buddy."

"But... but you're not," he mumbled against Tony's jacket.

He had a hand on the back of the kid's head, holding him tight. "I hate that I hurt you, Pete. I do." He pressed his eyes close, ignoring how the cold was creeping up from underneath him. "But I'll never apologize for trying to keep you safe." The boy shook in his arms, but Tony didn't let him pull away. "I sure as hell won't apologize for succeeding." There was a low tremor in the kid's body that was definitely more than emotions. "You're shaking, buddy. Let's get you back inside."

"I'm not c-cold," Peter hiccoughed.

"Alright, then..." Tony ruffled a hand through the boy's hair, his own digits frozen stiff. "Well, I'm going to get pneumonia and you seem to be very invested in—" He groaned as Peter slapped a hand against his chest.

"It's not f-funny!"

"No, at my age it really isn't something—"

This time, he caught the kid's hand just in time to soften the blow. In the process, Peter sat up straight enough for Tony to squint at his red-rimmed eyes.

"In there, you could watch me bust Harley for sneaking around the mulled wine?" There was a sparkle in the kid's eyes at that. A real sparkle he couldn't quite hide. "Ha! Knew I'd get you with that one."

Peter moved back a bit, shaky fingers rubbing his face. Squinting at the boy, Tony was weighing his words, wondering how many hornet's nest he should be poking at.

"You should get over this, buddy." Tony cringed at the look of utter discomfort on his boy's face. "I mean it. That little power struggle the two of you are going through..?"

"There's no power struggle."

Tony crocked his head at him. "You know what I mean... Kid, I know you want to keep your secrets but Harley can be a great ally to you."

"Right," Peter mumbled. "Can we just like... do this another time?"

He nodded before the kid had even finished the sentence. "Course, buddy." For a moment, Tony held in, his focus never anywhere else but Peter, as he tried to control the tremor in his voice. "So, we should get back inside, right?"

"Yeah. Right." The kid leaned back against him, his voice muffled. "Just... just a couple more minutes?"

Tony swallowed hard, nodding soundlessly. He'd never refuse the kid. Never. How could he ever?

 ###

Merry Christmas and happy holidays wherever and however you guys are celebrating!

Thank you for reading. And thank you even more if you take the time to let me know in the comments what you think about the story and reblog it!

This story is part of my Post-Endgame timeline. More about my Endgame Fix-it and the connected series of stories: “Like You’d Know How It Works” timeline 

[advernia]

of cats, jade, honey, nightingales, and spilled ink — — a compiled assortment of ikerev drabbles i’ve managed to spit out last week during break hours - they're spoiler free + scenes with vague contexts because that's all i can manage to write recently lmao _(:3 」∠)_

stray cat conjuration theory || loki & alice prompt: rain, rain, rain // shady stuff under an open umbrella

her umbrella is a shade of red.

it's shade because you see, it’s hard to be too sure considering the conditions: the umbrella’s cloth is soaked through and through due to its heroic sacrifice of shielding two people from a sudden torrential rain, the sky above them is covered by a thick spread of dark grays and obscure blacks so there’s little to no lighting that equals to harder visibility, then there’s the overgrown trees with their -

- ki, are you listening?

… hmm?

he turns his head - it’s a slow twist of his neck from up, down, then a tilt to his left with a little push forwards; perhaps painfully deliberate - and voila, there she is in all her glory; a face he was getting fond of filling his vision: wide eyes framed by dainty eyelashes, a small nose resembling what a fine-made porcelain doll might have, round lips without a single trace of rogue yet have the natural color of an enticing peach, and… oh -

alice, he says almost in sing-song, your cheeks are red. like apples! are you okay?

the umbrella skews a bit to the right as she shrinks back, grip on the handle tightening - a bit of his arm is left exposed and attacked mercilessly by the rain, dry turning damp in seconds: it’s cold and frankly annoying against his skin, but there’s a quick solution to that, and that is -

w…w-wha… hey, loki?

yes, alice?

uh… do you mind moving back? a little bit? please?

aww, but my shoulder’s gonna get wet!

oh… i wouldn’t want that either, but… don’t you think you’re standing a bit too -

- a bit too what?

a step closer has their shoulders brushing up against each other and his face just a handspan away from hers, and he takes this opportunity to peer much closer at her eyes, and he sees that her irises are a brilliant shade of -

i… i-if you move any closer, i’ll leave you here to get drenched!

a pause. brisk raindrops hitting the umbrella fill it in, dull sounds of tap tap tap tap tap, then -

he breaks into light laughter, a foot moving backwards and upper body retreating, a safe breathing space in between them now visible again.

sorry, alice! I was just kidding… did I take it too far?

really, loki… is this how you treat people who share their umbrellas with you?

nope! it’s not everyday that someone offers to share their umbrella with me… even if their umbrella’s too small to begin with.

… does that mean you want to get drenched after all?

no way!

please speak well of me || ray & alice prompt: in memor(iam)y // a fragment of me on your skin

"now that i think of it, why did you call this necklace a 'collar'?"

the king of spades raises his head briefly, eyes shifting from the wordy official document in his hands to the woman standing in his office. she's by the bookshelves, small hands, lithe fingers intent on relocating the books from their former places to wherever she saw fit. pull out, set aside, dust away, evaluate possible positions, then insert back to the shelf. rinse and repeat, like dance steps: one, two three, four, and five.

around her neck, chain hidden by the collar of her blouse and ribbon, a sparkle of green shone. it showed itself occasionally, peeking out of the ribbon when she would begin to chase the dust away from the books and shelves with a feather duster. it doesn't mix, he muses, that red ribbon against that bright green. to begin with, why was her dress blue and her ribbon red? do they mix? then again, did he really need to know?

she was wearing it, anyway - that's all.

"... i don't get you," he replies, tossing the now-signed document onto one of the many stacks piled on his desk. he gets another document from another stack and tries not to groan when he's greeted by multiple lines of ink, beautifully dull and almost consuming the paper itself. "does it matter?"

"of course it does," she replies, tone and pitch of voice a little bit higher than usual. he can't see her facial expression, but he envisions a frown - or maybe a scowl crossing her features. either way, she's not happy. "a collar is something you would use for pets. or domesticated animals."

"i know."

"so do you see me - or think of me as one?"

his lips quirk upwards, a snort escapes him. "is that your question for the day?"

she stops to glare at him, a thick tome in her hands. "that's just cheating."

"it isn't," his reply comes off as casual.

she doesn't buy it.

"i can see you grinning, ray blackwell."

he laughs when his full name rolls sharply off her tongue.

"are you actually angry, or are you trying to act like my mother?" 

♠ ♠ ♠

the king of spades learns that morning that alice the second can wield a five hundred twenty-three-page book with a thick hardbound leather cover like a training sword of the wooden variety, something that one could find in the black army's barracks.

sturdy and definitely not lethal.

he fails to account lethality for multiple hits straight to the head, though.

to his credit, she does apologize after she'd whacked him thrice. the book goes back to the shelf (without bloodstains), he mournfully clutches his head, she looks at him with worry.

"it's just that a necklace this nice," she says, fingers reaching up to her neck to clasp the jade in her palm, "doesn't deserve to be called a collar. it’s a gift from you, and i intend to treasure it when i get back to london.”

he’s not sure where’s the dull throbbing coming from now: it’s either from the back of his head, his ears, or his chest.

who cares, it hurts.

lather that honey on your tongue || blanc & alice prompt: ye olde pickup lines // romance in the eyes of the full moon

when he finds her, he sees her standing a few paces away from his house's backdoor, her hands set behind her back. her head is tilted upwards and her eyes reflect the moon over their heads: it's a large silver coin shining bright against a blackened sky scattered with stars.

he calls her name once - she turns her head, smiles and waves. moonlight casts a dainty glow on her facial features, making her skin seem softer and the blue of her eyes more vivid. he pauses for a moment before he walks to stand beside her.

"oliver told me you would be here," he says. "it seemed like you two had a pleasant chat before i arrived."

her brows furrow, lips purse themselves together. "i think oliver enjoyed it more than i did."

"oh? i would certainly enjoy myself as well, if i were in the company of such a beautiful lady such as yourself."

a pleasant smile lights up his features. one could not say the same for hers, however - her mouth has gone slightly slack, but she shook her head immediately and turns her head up back to the moon.

"i say, the moon is beautiful tonight," he says as he points to the sky with a gloved finger.

"but not as beautiful as i am, maybe?" she says, a lilt in her voice.

she laughs for a bit until she realizes that his eyes are on her: his eyes are wide open, his mouth slightly agape. heat flushes and colors her cheeks slightly.

"okay, i'm sorry," she splutters, angling her face away from him, "it's just that i mentioned to oliver that i get so flustered when you compliment me, and he said something along the lines of 'then why don't you beat the rabbit in his own game', and - "

" - and you decided to compliment yourself before i would?"

"yes, well - gosh, that sounded really awkward, didn't it? please forget i said anything."

he fixes her with a blank stare for a few seconds before chuckling.

"on the contrary, i can't deny your words."

her breath catches in her throat for a moment before she replies. "which ones?"

"you being far more beautiful than the moon will ever be, of course."

"now you're just exaggerating - i didn't even say half of that!"

"you didn't, which is why i took the honor of doing so."

he leans forward to take a lock of her hair in his fingers, pressing it to his lips with a smile.

sing sweet nightingale || sirius & alice prompt: i’m drowning in siren calls // my own two feet as a compass

that deep tone has engraved itself so distinctively well into her ears and mind that each time she would hear it, even if it was of the softest of murmurs, she would find herself looking for its source. it's almost unbelievable how it's become something like a reflex in such a short amount of time, making her feel quite sheepish. she was no dog, nor did she wish to give off the impression that she was a clingy lover constantly observing her beloved's actions... but time and time again, her body would fail her and she would always end up in another search for him.

whenever she would successfully find him, he'd pause whatever he was doing for a moment to greet her with a smile and a voice that soothes her sudden wanderlust. the sound is oh-so kind and noticeably happy so she smiles back, but somehow there's a lingering feeling of disappointment for herself.

so one day she tries to stop turning his way when she hears him from afar: whether she was at the kitchen and him just outside by the training grounds, she by the flowerbeds and he near the headquarters' entrance, or her in the saloon and him issuing orders by the hallways; she stifles the urge of her feet to drop everything and go to where he was. it's far from easy since she wants to hear more, but she tries her best and it actually works for a while - perhaps three days. it makes her feel a bit better about herself, but -

- it's all for naught when he literally corners her in her own room, back and wrists pinned against the wall. she breathes an inhale of surprise at the sudden action, turning sharp when he lowers his face so it's just inches away from her own. his breathing sounded strained, how strange, like he was in pain - oh dear, did something happen? could she be of help?

worry begins to flood her thoughts, but it's washed out without a care just as quick when his breath tickles her ear and he speaks to her with an urgency, demanding and agitated and frustrated but still so beautiful to hear -

why have you been avoiding me?

oh no, she muses but doesn't say - her body had involuntarily trembled out of sheer delight at the sound of his voice so close, heart singing loud and knees growing weak.

words don't dare crawl out of her parched throat.

trails of sea-foam ink || dean & alice prompt: that i hold dear // the chase for a permanent you

today before he leaves his home he walks over to that one drawer and collects every single letter she sent, keeps all those tiny envelopes complete with their barely torn seals inside a folder that fits snugly into his bag, then goes on his merry way.

when they meet for tea, he shoves the folder - and all those one hundred fifty-seven letters of four seasons - into her hands.

“you should do something about your penmanship,” he says like the professor he really was, and that just makes her frown. what - was her alphabet too round, the edges too curved? were the words, sentences, and paragraph alignments all wrong on each and every line, like how music notes would dance on staves?  

“i’m sorry,” she says, but she’s not even sure what she’s apologizing for. maybe it was better to ask. “... is my writing too small for you to read?”

“i would’ve told you immediately if that were the case, rather than subjecting myself to eye strain.”

“is it too large?”

he holds himself from clicking his tongue. “it’s not an issue about size.”

“oh. then is it about how i write everything in a slanting manner?”

“no - you aren’t the first and perhaps the last person i would see whose penmanship presents itself in such a script-like fashion and objectively speaking, you are one of the agreeable examples of those writing in such a style.”

“uh-huh,” her head tilts to the side, she frowns. “then can i ask you what... well, you don’t like about my handwriting?”

he raises the teacup up to his lips. what i don’t like, he muses, is how light you write. what i don’t like is how the ink you used to write all those letters is dark enough to leave its mark on the paper but light enough for me to think that its fading, like touches of moonlight on a cloudy night. it reminds me of you and how you came to be in this world in the first place, and how easy it is for you to go back if you firmly decided on it. but what i dislike the most is the fact that i still have lingering thoughts of the possibility of you leaving when every single letter you have sent me has told me otherwise, all because your penmanship is as light and dainty as yourself.

“dean?” she calls out, voice something small.

unease unable to quell itself, he allows an amount of pure black tea to hold his tongue.

[honestsycrets]

Irreplaceable IV: Not Anymore

A/N: Le eyeroll. Gif to goodatgoodbyes.

The boys, on either side of their father, have nerves on edge. Their ships land coast side when the round moon barely kisses its light across the land. They are met by another landing party’s campground but those there were not entirely unfamiliar. Their tongue have a familiar twang, slackening the boy’s shoulders from their strain instantaneously.

“Is it Sverri?” Hvitserk asks breaching the measly gates of the anomalous site. Sverri’s normal campsite raised the forest green flags of Yggradsil while these flags were darker in shade. The grey raised flags bore three interlocked triangles– the Valknut. It could not have been Sverri’s camp for those reasons. Besides, he is sure that Sverri made himself well in his home with you and your body. The seer told him so.

“No doubt it is Faksi who has come.” Ivar scoffs.

“Grandfather?” Veifnr chirps and skips ahead, darting within despite Ivar’s bellow out to him to come back.

Uxi shouts, “Brother WAIT!” as he darts after his younger brother. The two swerve ahead stopping as their grandfather and a man they somewhat recognize chat idly over a pitcher of mead and a conversation of battle stratagem. They look out in the dark of the night toward a dark catapult. Ivar’s walls guarding Kattegat have fallen at long last.

“HAHA! Those are my boys! Veifnr! Uxi!” The boom of their grandfather’s voice spills out of the tent where the men spoke. Faksi was a broad built man, sporting a beard as white as spun thread and hair that had turned just the same. His hair waves in tightly knit braids on his head. The boys ran forward, clustering about his legs like ashy pups.

“Hello boys, I am King Sverri.” The man lowers to their eye level, looking between the two. His voice caramelizes with deep admiration. The boys give jarred smiles glancing between one another to him. They had met many kings. It was not the first time they met Sverri either, what with the mess he made between Kitta and you. But individually they had not talked much to him. Often they would play on their own or be sent off by any of their parents.

“I remember you.” Says Uxi folding his arms with a flat lipped expression.

Veifnr moves closer. “Hi.”

The King gives a wide shark like grin. Uxi’s words bear the threat of an impending cruel statement lurking behind them. Rather than engage Uxi he decides to speak to Veifnr, the quiet one.

“You must be Veifnr, because your mother said Uxi would be the more critical one.” He shakes his ringed finger at Uxi, his armband jiggling on his arm.

“You’ve seen mother? Is she alive?” Uxi turns with a wet gleam in his eyes. Tears that Veifnr doesn’t pay any mind to. Instead he is eager with excitement to find his mother and bring her back to their family. Somehow, he misses the fact that Sverri is the one who took their home.

As the flaps waver again, Ivar came in. The King however hardly spared him a glance. His eyes are stolen by stars in young Veifnr’s eyes. He could tell how much the young man adored his mother.

“Yes.” He assures the young boys. “I’ve kept her safe. Would you like to come see her for a late dinner?” The King invites and while Faksi grins in agreement, Ivar lurches forward. His hand sets on Veifnr’s shoulder, pushing him behind Hvitserk. Veifnr flops onto the ground with a thud and a pained grunt.

“Why would I let my sons go with you? Bring her here.” Ivar spits out in a voice lacking amusement. It could have been strategic. Whom knew what was lying in wait for them in Kattegat? If it were here, he could control whom came in and whom came out.

“I knew you would say that. Very well, let us call her. Avarr! ” He shakes his head. A messenger peeps in past Uxi who moved not to Ivar but to stand by his grandfather.

“Yes, my king?” The messenger stands upright.

Without wavering his eyes from Ivar, he addresses the messenger. “Have my Queen and her thralls set for dinner. Her husband is home.” He says. The young messenger sputters something akin to a yes, though it was strained when Ivar’s snaps his face towards him.

“Your Queen?” Ivar asks the messenger, finding that all the man could do was to nod. The messenger quickly makes himself scarce.

The King stood with no small amount of pleasure filling his heart, taking a step forward into Ivar’s personal space. His beard prickled Ivar’s clean cut face. The young king didn’t just enjoy the way that Ivar looked at him. He enjoyed the way Ivar squirms with every notion of affection given to you by his lips.

“Yes.” He gives a ragged but pleased breath in the words he says. “My Queen.”

Ivar’s glare promises not only heat but retribution. He stalks closer, scrunching his nose in distaste for this man– this king, calling his wife his own queen. After killing his Kitta whose remains were probably deep in the ocean by now if he gave her a proper funeral.

Rather than engage the fallen king, Sverri pivots on his heel past Ivar when he stops. A sharp exhale flits from his lips, audibly so. “Did I miss something?” Your voice refreshes the tone of a room full of men. When Ivar turned on his crutch to glance at what he is looking at, his eyes are stricken by sight of you.

A finely knit gown, tailored tight to your curves with the aid of a sole cincher. The furs that bundled around your neck, tickling your ears that were clipped by dangling jewels. It reminded him so strongly of his mother, his eyes could not tear away from your bodice. Not to look at the finely tuned braids that bundled into a sole larger one– or meet your soul striking kohl lined eyes.

“Mother!” Uxi barrels through first followed by Veifner who rams himself into the delicate sides of your dress. You laugh, winding your arms around both boys tightly. You lift them off the ground although be it so slightly and twist around in circles.

“My precious boys!” You whirl around, laughing almost too excitedly for a woman that has seen her sister-wife burned by the very man standing in front of him. When you finally stop, you glance between the younger kings in the room. Both boys are set on the floor and remain nestled against your skirts. You move to unclip your furs and hand them off to a thrall beside Sverri.

“Husband.” You address Ivar without regard for how he sailed in a hurry back for Kattegat. He knows what you are thinking. That this trip was intended only for Kattegat. Perhaps a large part of it was. You look at him as if he is nothing. As if he was amber in comparison to garnet.

“Father!” You push past Ivar to wind your arm through the tight one of your father’s firm biceps. Faksi wears a sheepish smile.

“How have you been, has this man treated you well?” Your father sets his hand atop of yours, moving out of the room with the boys locked on your skirts like worms on a leaf.

“Oh perfectly fine. Ivar has always been good to me. And Sverri behaved. ” You lie.

“He better have.” Faksi says. The conversation becomes more and more distant with the tail of your skirts draping across the ground. Then you were gone. You ran him over and left and of course you would. Perhaps he deserves as much for neglecting you so many of the days that Kitta claimed to be in need of him.

At dinner, you finally relinquish hold of your father to join Ivar’s side. He notices your affection slowly returning to him. Your hand finds its place on his thigh. Shyly though– as if you were cautious of something. King Sverri is talking, glorifying you for being such a good wife.

“I wanted to take her myself, but she is stubborn.” Sverri says. You spare him a slight mused smile, pulling your hands back to your lap in slight thought of the kiss you shared with him. Ivar didn’t know about that. If he had– he would have blown his shit then and there.

“She knows who her real husband is.” He says. “Tell me the real reason you invaded my land. It was not just to take my beautiful wives. You burned my Kitta.” Ivar’s words prick your ear disdainfully. His Kitta, his poor, poor Kitta. Your drank to the thought bitterly, almost sure that he came for his revenge. Yes, you were remourseful for what happened. But… after so many years of being second to her, you grow sick of hearing his affection for his burned queen.

“But it is. You blocked me from her. I want more of her kisses and so much more. Kitta was a disturbance to her. It is why she had to go.” Sverri says. You drop your utensil from your fingers when Ivar’s head snaps to look at you.

Ivar turns in his chair to you. “More?”

“He means the kiss I gave him before you banished him.” You cover, lying directly to his face. Lucky for you, he seems to buy such words this time. He turns back to Sverri, squeezing his nose tight.

“If you wanted my woman, the fight was with me.” Ivar hisses.

Sverri loses his smile. “Now that I’ve taken care of the source of her anguish it is.”

Kitta could be pleasant. She truly loved your boys, even if she was jealous of their genetic make up, and would watch them. The issue in fact lied when you were about to give birth.

“Why can’t you stay with me? She always has you. It is my night.” She complained with a high pitch as Ivar set the blanket around the swell of your stomach. His eyes were almost caught in his eyelids with the amount of rolling he was doing today, while you lowered your eyes down to the threads of your bedding waiting the birth of your second son.

“(Y/N) is going to give birth soon. I would drop anything for my family. Even you, if you must push the choice on me.” He replied coldly. He dropped on his ass beside you. Your heart raced a million miles at a time, stricken by the claims that your husband made. Kitta stomped out of the door.

“Please don’t pin this on me.” You address Sverri, glancing off to the side.

“My apologies, my queen. On top of your wife, I also want an increase in land. If this is an alliance, we should share equally. Otherwise, no agreements may be met.” The King Sverri says. Your eyes drift across the table of goods across to your father. He raises his eyebrows, jerking the corner of his lips down as if to say ‘too late for that.’ If King Sverri wanted peace– it was too late for that. You plead your father to hush with your eyes.

“First my wife, now my lands. What else? Do you want my sons too?” Ivar says, stretching his arm behind your head. Ivar’s fingers tickle your earrings as if to mock Sverri, drawing his fingers down your jaw as if presenting a rare gift.

“Surely you understand that we, as a people, should advocate for peace.” He insists.

“You have a peculiar way of showing advocacy by burning my wife. You’re not taking her. I know how long you’ve been after her.” Ivar sneers at the man, flicking his fingers in disregard for his words. The subsequent words are a bit distant to him, eyes caught up with the angle of your jaw. You flinch when Ivar’s thick fingers slide down over your jaw, stroking across your throat.

“Why did you think I would not come for you?” Ivar pulls you in, hand tight on your throat. Despite the stare of Sverri, Ivar’s dry lips tease your dangling earrings. “You belong to me.”

At a flinch of head back, you brave the words that had been on your tongue for years. “No, I belong to no one anymore.”

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[velvctmotel-a-blog]

tag dump, blog addition.